He replied very courteously, “I have asked permission to enter here to gratify my curiosity as a stranger.  I hope it is no offence.”

“Take off your hat!” rejoined the rude man.  “If you don’t, I’ll take it off for you.”

Friend Hopper leaned on his cane, looked him full in the face, and answered very coolly, “If thou dost, I hope thou wilt send it to my lodgings; for I shall have need of it this afternoon.  I lodge at No. 35, Lower Crescent, Clifton.”  The place designated was about a mile from the Cathedral.  The man stared at him, as if puzzled to decide whether he were talking to an insane person, or not.  When the imperturbable Quaker had seen all he cared to see, he deliberately walked away.

At Westminster Abbey he paid the customary fee of two shillings sixpence for admission.  The door-keeper followed him, saying, “You must uncover yourself, sir.”

“Uncover myself!” exclaimed the Friend, with an affectation of ignorant simplicity.  “What dost thou mean?  Must I take off my coat?”

“Your coat!” responded the man, smiling.  “No indeed.  I mean your hat.”

“And what should I take off my hat for?” he inquired.

“Because you are in a church, sir,” answered the door-keeper.

“I see no church here,” rejoined the Quaker.  “Perhaps thou meanest the house where the church assembles.  I suppose thou art aware that it is the people, not the building, that constitutes a church?”

The idea seemed new to the man, but he merely repeated, “You must take off your hat, sir.”

But the Friend again inquired, “What for?  On account of these images?  Thou knowest Scripture commands us not to worship graven images.”

The man persisted in saying that no person could be permitted to pass through the church without uncovering his head.  “Well friend,” rejoined Isaac, “I have some conscientious scruples on that subject; so give me back my money, and I will go out.”

The reverential habits of the door-keeper were not quite strong enough to compel him to that sacrifice; and he walked away, without saying anything more on the subject.

When Friend Hopper visited the House of Lords, he asked the sergeant-at-arms if he might sit upon the throne.  He replied, “No, sir.  No one but his majesty sits there.”

“Wherein does his majesty differ from other men?” inquired he.  “If his head were cut off, wouldn’t he die?”

“Certainly he would,” replied the officer.

“So would an American,” rejoined Friend Hopper.  As he spoke, he stepped up to the gilded railing that surrounded the throne, and tried to open the gate.  The officer told him it was locked.  “Well won’t the same key that locked it unlock it?” inquired he.  “Is this the key hanging here?”

Being informed that it was, he took it down and unlocked the gate.  He removed the satin covering from the throne, carefully dusted the railing with his handkerchief, before he hung the satin over it, and then seated himself in the royal chair.  “Well,” said he, “do I look anything like his majesty?”