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the way; we asked him if he knew anything about the cross,—who restored it, and when? We were not prepared for the outburst that followed this innocent query. "That popish thing," he exclaimed savagely and contemptuously, "we want another Cromwell, that's about what's the matter, and the sooner he comes the better. I'm a Protestant, and my forefathers were Protestants afore me. Now it's bad enough to have popery inside a church, as has crept in of late years,—lights, incense, vestments, banners, processions; but to boldly bring their cursed popery outside, well" and he could find no words strong enough to express his detestation of such proceedings, but he looked unutterable things. "I just feel as how I'd like to swear," he exclaimed, "only it's wicked." We sympathised with him, and tried to calm his injured feelings. We prided ourselves on our successful diplomacy; we said, "Now, if Cromwell were only here he would soon have that cross down." This in no way compromised us, but it served somewhat to soothe the stranger's anger. "Ay! that's true," responded he, and regardless of grammar went on, "mighty quick too, he'd mighty soon clear the country of all the popish nonsense. Why, in my young days, we used to have parsons, now we've got priests." He then paused to light his pipe, at which he drew furiously—our question never got answered after all, but, under the circumstances, we thought perhaps it would be well not to repeat it, we did not want a religious declamation—we were pleasure-touring! The lighting of the pipe broke the thread of the discourse for the moment,