"Come from Smyrna, and bound to Boston, where I hope to be to-morrow morning, by the blessing of God, and a good conscience."
From this answer, I perceived that he was unacquainted with the war, and I therefore determined to play with him a little before I gave him the fatal news.
"And pray," said I, "what might your cargo consist of? you appear to be light."
"Not so light neither, I guess," said the man; "we have sweet oil, raisins, and what we calls notions."
"I have no notion," said I, "what they might be. Pray explain yourself."
"Why, you see, notions is what we call a little of all sorts like. Some likes one thing, you know, and some another: some likes sweet almonds, and some likes silk, and some likes opium, and some" (he added, with a cunning grin) "likes dollars."
"And are these the notions with which you are loaded?" said I.
"I guess they are," replied Jonathan.
"And what might your outward cargo have been?" said I.
"Salt fish, flour, and tobacco," was his answer.