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Updated: May 18, 2025
"What whimwhams!" decreed the great Mr. Pope, aloud. "Verse-making is at best only the affair of idle men who write in their closets and of idle men who read there. And as for him who polishes phrases, whatever be his fate in poetry, it is ten to one but he must give up all the reasonable aims of life for it." No, he would have no more of loneliness.
Caught up she knew not whence, harboured in the mind she knew not how, the bitter words of an old Scots song tasted salt upon her lips: There dwelt a man into the West, And O gin he was cruel; For on his bridal night at e'en He up and grat for gruel. They brought him in a gude sheepshead, A bason and a towel. "Gar take thae whimwhams far frae me, I winna want my gruel!"
Flam, who had never been known to be so silent, or so attentive; "true enough, I have not heard so much sense for a long time. I am sure 'tis sense, because 'tis exactly my own way of thinking. There is my Bell now. I have spent seven hundred pounds, and more money, for her to learn music and whimwhams, which all put together are not worth sixpence.
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