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