"If that last is the case, Farquhar, I'll do my best to fight against my besetting sin. You'll admit I've been very tender of your feelings with them."
"How's your foot now?"
"Oh, splendid! This stick of yours is a powerful help to it.
Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Shakespeare's songs remind me of young Witherspoon. There was a party at old Tylor's, and a lady was singing 'Tell me where is fancy bred?' when young Witherspoon comes up to the piano in a hurry, and says: 'Why, don't you know?—at Nasmith's and Webb's.'
"Lord! how savage old Tylor was! I thought he would have kicked the young ass out."
"That is just what we lovers of literature have to endure from the Philistines. But, Corry, my dear fellow, here is the rain!"