The famous Rochester one day met Dr. Barrow in the Park, and being determined, as he said, to put down the rusty piece of divinity, accosted him by taking off his hat, and with a profound bow, exclaimed: “Doctor, I am yours to my shoe-tie.” The Doctor, perceiving his aim, returned the salute with equal ceremony: “My Lord, I am yours to the ground.” His lordship then made a deeper salam, and said: “Doctor, I am yours to the centre.” Barrow replied, “My Lord, I am yours to the antipodes,” on which Rochester made another attempt by exclaiming. “I am yours to the lowest pit.” “There, my Lord, I leave you,” replied Barrow.
A windy M. P., in the midst of a tedious speech, stopped to imbibe a glass of water.
“I rise,” said Sheridan, “to a point of order.”
Everybody started, wondering what the point of order was.
“What is it?” said the speaker.
“I think, sir,” said Sheridan, “it is out of order for a windmill to go by water.”
At Oxford, some twenty years ago, a tutor in one of the colleges limped in his walk. Stopping one day last summer at a railroad station, he was accosted by a well-known politician, who recognized him, and asked him if he was not the chaplain at the college at such a time, naming the year. The doctor replied that he was. “I was there,” said the interrogator, “and I know you by your limp.” “Well,” said the doctor, “it seems that my limping made a deeper impression on you than my preaching.” “Ah, doctor,” was the ready reply, “it is the highest compliment we can pay a minister to say that he is known by his walk, rather than by his conversation.”