He left the
luncheon table before I did. He began this. I did steal his hat, but he
began by taking mine. I make that interjection because I would not
accuse Archdeacon Wilberforce of stealing my hat--I should not think of
it. I confine that phrase to myself. He merely took my hat.
And with good judgment, too--it was a better hat than his. He came out
before the luncheon was over, and sorted the hats in the hall, and
selected one which suited. It happened to be mine. He went off with it.
When I came out by-and-by there was no hat there which would go on my
head except his, which was left behind. My head was not the customary
size just at that time. I had been receiving a good many very nice and
complimentary attentions, and my head was a couple of sizes larger than
usual, and his hat just suited me. The bumps and corners were all right
intellectually. There were results pleasing to me--possibly so to him.
He found out whose hat it was, and wrote me saying it was pleasant that
all the way home, whenever he met anybody his gravities, his solemnities,
his deep thoughts, his eloquent remarks were all snatched up by the
people he met, and mistaken for brilliant humorisms.
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