Once at a Methodist love feast, when there was a lull in the program and the minister asked “And is there not just one more who is willing to add a word of testimony?” I felt a slight cold feeling go over me and knew at once that the Unknown was rising to his feet behind. I heard him clear his throat and begin with “My friends, I have been thinking while sitting here,” in a low, musical voice—a voice all a-tremble with fervor. He spoke for fully fifteen minutes—spoke with ease, and to the point. At first there was a craning of necks and whispered questions as to who he was; but this was soon lost in admiration. After the service he shook hands with many, then disappeared, none knew where. This mysterious being often helps to carry in the piano, and in crowded street cars he has been known to supply the necessary nickle when ladies could not find their pockets. When old gentlemen fall in a fit on the street, he is on hand. Should a woman faint in church, he gently carries her out. He opens the windows in cars, and looks after the ventilator at all times, and at barbecues and outdoor public meetings he calls up the stranger to the feast, introducing shy countrymen to others still more shy, thus thawing the social ice and making all secure. When church debts are to be raised he sometimes arises in his seat and subscribes a large amount. At mass meetings where volunteers are called for to pass the hat he always responds. He greets you cordially on the railway train, shaking hands as he passes; asks after the wife and babies and shames you into smirking idiocy because you cannot call him by name, and as he departs he waves his hand and charges you thus: “Take care yourself, old man!” He is always large, usually stout, and the true type has a dun colored chin whisker. At least he should have. He carries a glow of good nature that warms like wine; he is never cast down, nor is his heart dismayed. At country funerals he often appears, consoles the friends, takes care of the flowers, and arranges the chairs in a column circle against the wall. At the churchyard he walks with uncovered head by the side of the clergyman, fetches the reins from the nearest team to lower the coffin, and handles the shovel with an unction that savors of joy. Surely, the Sons of Melchizedek, although not Philistines, are Peculiar Persons. * * * * * SHE—“Don’t you think him rather thick-headed?” HE—(Who has lately been presented with a book of Familiar Quotations) “Yes, indeed: his head is as thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.” * * * * * The most biting bit of irony that passes as a current coin is that reference to Boston as a city of culture—or it would be, were it not for the insight shown in _Paragraphs_. * * * * *