Dr. Pitcairn had one Sunday stumbled into a Presbyterian church, probably to beguile a few idle moments (for few will accuse that gentleman of having been a warm admirer of Calvinism), and seeing the parson apparently overwhelmed by the importance of his subject: "What makes the man greet?" said Pitcairn to a fellow that stood near him. "By my faith, sir," answered the other, "you would perhaps greet, too, if you were in his place, and had as little to say."—"Come along with me, friend, and let's have a glass together; you are too good a fellow to be here," said Pitcairn, delighted with the man's repartee.
XXII.—A WONDERFUL WOMAN.
When a late Duchess of Bedford was last at Buxton, and then in her eighty-fifth year, it was the medical farce of the day for the faculty to resolve every complaint of whim and caprice into "a shock of the nervous system." Her grace, after inquiring of many of her friends in the rooms what brought them there, and being generally answered for a nervous complaint, was asked in her turn, "What brought her to Buxton?"—"I came only for pleasure," answered the healthy duchess; "for, thank God, I was born before nerves came into fashion."
XXIII.—A WISE SON WHO KNEW HIS OWN FATHER.
Sheridan was very desirous that his son Tom should marry a young woman of large fortune, but knew that Miss Callander had won his son's heart. Sheridan, expatiating on the folly of his son, at length exclaimed, "Tom, if you marry Caroline Callander, I'll cut you off with a shilling!" Tom could not resist the opportunity of replying, and looking archly at his father said, "Then, sir, you must borrow it." Sheridan was tickled at the wit, and dropped the subject.
XXIV.—A WRITTEN CHARACTER.
George III. having purchased a horse, the dealer put into his hands a large sheet of paper, completely written over. "What's this?" said his majesty. "The pedigree of the horse, sire, which you have just bought," was the answer. "Take it back, take it back," said the king, laughing; "it will do very well for the next horse you sell."
XXV.—WELL MATCHED.
Dr. Busby, whose figure was beneath the common size, was one day accosted in a public coffee-room by an Irish baronet of colossal stature, with, "May I pass to my seat, O Giant?" When the doctor, politely making way, replied, "Pass, O Pigmy!"—"O, sir," said the baronet, "my expression alluded to the size of your intellect."—"And my expression, sir," said the doctor, "to the size of yours."