An English traveller in Ireland, greedy for information and always
fingering the note-book in his breast pocket, got into the same railway
carriage with a certain Roman Catholic archbishop. Ignorant of his rank,
and only perceiving that he was a divine, he questioned him pretty
closely about the state of the country, whisky drinking, etc. At last he
said, “You are a parish priest, yourself, of course.” His grace drew
himself up. “I _was_ one, sir,” he answered, with icy gravity. “Dear,
dear,” was the sympathizing rejoinder. “That accursed drink, I suppose.”