The Press Commissioner has been trying by a strained exercise of his
prerogative to make me spend this day with the Bishop, and not with
the Archdeacon; but I disregard the Press Commissioner; I make light
of him; I treat his authority as a joke. What authority has a pump? Is
a pump an analyst and a coroner?

Why should I spend a day with the Bishop? What claim has the Bishop on
my improving conversation? I am not his sponsor. Besides, he might do
me harm--I am not quite sure of his claret. I admit his superior
ecclesiastical birth; I recollect his connection with St. Peter; and I
am conscious of the more potent spells and effluences of his
shovel-hat and apron; but I find the atmosphere of his heights cold,
and the rarefied air he breathes does not feed my lungs. Up yonder,
above the clouds of human weakness, my vertebræ become unhinged, my
bones inarticulate, and I collapse. I meet missionaries, and I hear
the music of the spheres; and I long to descend again to the circles
of the everyday inferno where my friends are.

"These distant stars I can forego;
This kind, warm earth, is all I know."

I am sorry for it. I really have upward tendencies; but I have never
been able to fix upon a balloon. The High Church balloon always seems
to me too light; and the Low Church balloon too heavy; while no
experienced aeronaut can tell me where the Broad Church balloon is
bound for; thus, though a feather-weight sinner, here I am upon the
firm earth. So come along, my dear Archdeacon, let us have a stroll
down the Mall, and a chat about Temporalities, Fabrics, "Mean Whites,"
and little Mrs. Lollipop, "the joy of wild asses."