brought down to the family vault in St. Michael, Penkivil, to be interred. She resided at Richmond, in the house of Thompson, the poet, where she had carefully cherished every memorial of him. As the vault had been disused many years, and it contained the earliest branches of the Boscawen family, I had the curiosity to descend into it. One coffin was of enormous size, large enough for big Bright. Upon it was placed a pigmy coffin in comparison, of a very singular form to my youthful eyes. A small hole or crack had emitted so noisome a smell, that it was some time before the vault was cleared of it. "That coffin," said the sexton, "came from the West Indies thirtytwo years ago, and contains the body of a son of Admiral Boscawen." Sitting with Wolcot at Somers Town, some years subsequently, and mentioning the incident, he sighed deeply, "Ah, that poor fellow went out with myself and Trelawny to Jamaica, and was drowned swimming in Port Royal harbour. His body was brought to England by Lady Trelawny and myself, when we returned after the Governor's death. They make the coffins there of that form."

Wolcot was promised the secretaryship of the island, in case of a vacancy occurring, for he was not fond of his profession. The secretary died, but the governor did not fulfil his promise, offering Wolcot a living of £800. per annum value in lieu of it. The doctor was dis

satisfied, but all in vain. He was no hypocrite, and he could not at that time easily pass over many obligations that seem imperious on the consciences of those who undertake the office, but which few or none who do take it make much scruple about, declaring them matters of form. Yet it seemed his only trust for a future provision in life. He set out for England accordingly, and was ordained both deacon and priest by the Bishop of London. He then returned to Jamaica, and officiated for a short time in his parish church, it is said effectively, for he was an excellent reader and emphatic speaker. The appointment sat ill upon his mind, and he soon resigned it. He used to say, that while thus officiating in a black gown, twice too large for him, an earthquake shook the church, and his congregation all ran out as fast as possible. He could not clear himself of his gown, nor get on with it upon his back. In this dilemma, he grappled his clerk with both hands. The poor official shook with terror. Wolcot declared he would not let him go if he did not assist him out of the incumbrance. Poor "Amen" obeyed; "and by that time," said the doctor, we had the race out all to ourselves."

The governor's sister, Miss Anne Trelawny died in Jamaica, as well as her brother. She was exceedingly credulous, and the doctor used to mystify her continually. Among other things he persuaded her that a cherub had been caught in the Blue Mountains and brought into the town. "Well and what did they do with it doctor?" "They put it in a cage with a parrot." "And what then doctor?" Why before the morning the parrot had picked out both its eyes.' "You don't say so doctor!"

This lady had many amiable qualities, and the doctor wrote an Elegy upon her death, inserted in the Annual Register for 1773, under the title of the "Nymph of Tauris." It formed part of a series called Persian Love Elegies," never, I believe, published together. The idea was taken from the Oriental Eclogues of Collins; neither would suit the modern taste, but in that day they were much admired.

"How could you write such a beautiful Elegy upon Miss Anne Trelawny," said a captious old maid to Wolcot. "Madam, I could write such another upon you or a broomstick," was the poet's reply.

Coming back to England with Lady Trelawny they soon afterwards were on the point of making a matrimonial union; in fact, everything was arranged with a view to the marriage, when death stepped in and carried off the widow, much to the doctor's disappointment. He now commenced medical practice at Truro, where he had a house upon the Green. He bore the character of an able and benevolent physician, particularly in cases of fever. In these, to the great horror of the surrounding practitioners, he permitted his patients to take as much cold water as they liked. This was stark heresy in medicine at that time, but the doctor cared as little for the censures of his brethren as for their opinions. He provoked the apothecaries too, for he frequently analized the medicines they made up before he would suffer his patients to swallow them. This they considered an interference with vested interests, but they dreaded the doctor's satirical pen, and in most cases were content to pocket the affront. Of his severity upon one esculapian professor, I well remember hearing. He was a parsimonious, ignorant personage, a surgeon apothecary. The doctor, whose numerous satires on such subjects would form a curious collection, advised the man of drugs not to buy up the cast off gloves at the Truro assemblies to spread his plasters upon, and not to overbleed his patients as everybody was aware he kept pigs.

It was in the same town that attending a lady patient of advanced age, she complained of being hurt by the crumbs of bread getting among the clothes. It recalled, she said, the story of the Pilgrims and the Peas" to her recollection. Wolcot made her relate it, and hence came his excellent version of the tale so well known to the world. I have already said he was not fond of his profession though successful. "Physic," he said to me one day, "is a very uncertain affair. I often picked people's pockets. I could not go away from a patient and not prescribe, so in such cases I prescribed what would neither do good nor harm. A physician can only watch nature, and when she is going right give her a shove behind."

Full of lively conversation, and delighted to expose presumption and folly at any risk, especially if they appeared with high pretensions; he was, on the other hand, exceedingly attached to genius wherever he found it, and kind in imparting instruction. Verse, music, and painting, were his luxuries, and he was a proficient in all three. At Truro he lived simply, his fare being plain and frugal. The same was the case to the last of his life. He would sometimes, when visiting patients in the country and being detained, go into the kitchen and cook his own beefstake, in order to show a country cook how they did it in London, out of which, he would contend, no beef-stake was ever properly dressed. He was a welcome visitor everywhere among the country gentlemen. He had many good stories to tell, and told them well. The ladies too were fond of his society, and he was fond of theirs; but there were some exceptions in those who, would insist on his writing verses about them, a request he always deemed an annoyance. At Croftwest, the seat of Thomas Mitchell, Esq., he was one day assailed by a lady of this class for the tenth time. "Do write some verses about me doctor." Nettled little at the interruption, it was just after dinner, he took out his

pencil and wrote on a letter cover the following lines. It must be observed that the lady had a brilliant complexion, but squinted intolerably, and that the doctor's complexion was mahogany colour.

"O sweet Nancy Spencer, those beautiful eyes

Were made for the downfall of man,

At the sight of their fire thy true lover fries,
And whizzes like fish in a pan :

O gemini father! how nature would quake
Were you gifted with every perfection,

I tremble to think what a havoc you'd make

Were you blest with my air and complexion!"

It was at Truro, after his return from Jamaica, that he found a schoolboy attempting to render the beautiful latin lines "To sleep, &c." (somne levis) into English. He rendered them nearly off hand thus exquisitely they have been before printed, but will bear repetition :— "Come gentle sleep attend thy votary's prayer, And though death's image to my couch repairHow sweet, thus living, without life to lie, Thus, without dying, O how sweet to die!"

There was an individual at Truro, who by dint of good luck in mines and boroughmongering, arose from an obscure beginning to a seat in parliament. He was illiterate, and for some reason not known, became one of the doctor's butts. Wolcot composed a satire in the way of a Christmas carol, appended the town crier's name as the composer, and circulated it. This personage having invited a distinguished party to dinner, among whom were Lord B., Sir C. D., and similar "great volk" of the neighbourhood, the doctor heard of it, and determined to mortify the pride of their host, the complexion of whose mind he well understood. The M. P. entertainer had an aunt, whose position in life was little better than that of a washerwoman, and she was equally vulgar in mind. Wolcot wrote her an invitation to dine in her nephew's name, on the day and hour fixed to receive the great people. It turned out to be so well-timed, that as the noble guests were entering the dinner-room, the old lady appeared in all the finery she had of her own, or could borrow for the occasion, and a most grotesque figure she cut. The donor of the feast was in all the horrors that low minds feel upon such occasions, and the tale with numerous additions was soon bruited all over the town. The carol consisted of eighteen or twenty stanzas. Of these only three or four are yet extant I believe. Speaking of the hon. member it ran--it is the crier speaks

"Folk say that his speeches are terrible stuff

False grammar, false English, and nonsense enough;
But if Richard tells truth, I shall ne'er believe that,
As Tom Tub made them all for the pole of his hat.
I have heard that he hath not the soul of a cat-
In the country I grant it—but what of all that?
In the Parliament, look ye, he stands like a steeple,
And roars like a bull for the good of the people.

And then in the church we must surely declare,
That nobody ever saw such a fine mayor:
Even the bagmen did never a finer cast eye on,
When he read like a bishop, and look'd like a lion !"

It was but natural that as the doctor lashed some of the individuals who held corporate offices in the boroughs of Truro and Helston, for he practised at both places, they should seek to be even with him, by

"How could you write such a beautiful Elegy upon Miss Anne Trelawny," said a captious old maid to Wolcot. Madam, I could write such another upon you or a broomstick," was the poet's reply. Coming back to England with Lady Trelawny they soon afterwards were on the point of making a matrimonial union; in fact, everything was arranged with a view to the marriage, when death stepped in and carried off the widow, much to the doctor's disappointment. He now commenced medical practice at Truro, where he had a house upon the Green. He bore the character of an able and benevolent physician, particularly in cases of fever. In these, to the great horror of the surrounding practitioners, he permitted his patients to take as much cold water as they liked. This was stark heresy in medicine at that time, but the doctor cared as little for the censures of his brethren as for their opinions. He provoked the apothecaries too, for he frequently analized the medicines they made up before he would suffer his patients to swallow them. This they considered an interference with vested interests, but they dreaded the doctor's satirical pen, and in most cases were content to pocket the affront. Of his severity upon one esculapian professor, I well remember hearing. He was a parsimonious, ignorant personage, a surgeon apothecary. The doctor, whose numerous satires on such subjects would form a curious collection, advised the man of drugs not to buy up the cast off gloves at the Truro assemblies to spread his plasters upon, and not to overbleed his patients as everybody was aware he kept pigs.

It was in the same town that attending a lady patient of advanced age, she complained of being hurt by the crumbs of bread getting among the clothes. It recalled, she said, the story of the "Pilgrims and the Peas" to her recollection. Wolcot made her relate it, and hence came his excellent version of the tale so well known to the world. I have already said he was not fond of his profession though successful. "Physic," he said to me one day, "is a very uncertain affair. I often picked people's pockets. I could not go away from a patient and not prescribe, so in such cases I prescribed what would neither do good nor harm. A physician can only watch nature, and when she is going right give her a shove behind."

Full of lively conversation, and delighted to expose presumption and folly at any risk, especially if they appeared with high pretensions; he was, on the other hand, exceedingly attached to genius wherever he found it, and kind in imparting instruction. Verse, music, and painting, were his luxuries, and he was a proficient in all three. At Truro he lived simply, his fare being plain and frugal. The same was the case to the last of his life. He would sometimes, when visiting patients in the country and being detained, go into the kitchen and cook his own beefstake, in order to show a country cook how they did it in London, out of which, he would contend, no beef-stake was ever properly dressed. He was a welcome visitor everywhere among the country gentlemen. He had many good stories to tell, and told them well. The ladies too were fond of his society, and he was fond of theirs; but there were some exceptions in those who, would insist on his writing verses about them, a request he always deemed an annoyance. At Croftwest, the seat of Thomas Mitchell, Esq., he was one day assailed by a lady of this class for the tenth time. "Do write some verses about me doctor." Nettled a little at the interruption, it was just after dinner, he took out his

pencil and wrote on a letter cover the following lines.

It must be

observed that the lady had a brilliant complexion, but squinted intolerably, and that the doctor's complexion was mahogany colour.

"O sweet Nancy Spencer, those beautiful eyes

Were made for the downfall of man,

At the sight of their fire thy true lover fries,
And whizzes like fish in a pan :

O gemini father! how nature would quake
Were you gifted with every perfection,

I tremble to think what a havoc you'd make

Were you blest with my air and complexion!"

It was at Truro, after his return from Jamaica, that he found a schoolboy attempting to render the beautiful latin lines "To sleep, &c." (somne levis) into English. He rendered them nearly off hand thus exquisitely they have been before printed, but will bear repetition :"Come gentle sleep attend thy votary's prayer, And though death's image to my couch repairHow sweet, thus living, without life to lie, Thus, without dying, O how sweet to die!"

There was an individual at Truro, who by dint of good luck in mines and boroughmongering, arose from an obscure beginning to a seat in parliament. He was illiterate, and for some reason not known, became one of the doctor's butts. Wolcot composed a satire in the way of a Christmas carol, appended the town crier's name as the composer, and circulated it. This personage having invited a distinguished party to dinner, among whom were Lord B., Sir C. D., and similar "great volk" of the neighbourhood, the doctor heard of it, and determined to mortify the pride of their host, the complexion of whose mind he well understood. The M. P. entertainer had an aunt, whose position in life was little better than that of a washerwoman, and she was equally vulgar in mind. Wolcot wrote her an invitation to dine in her nephew's name, on the day and hour fixed to receive the great people. It turned out to be so well-timed, that as the noble guests were entering the dinner-room, the old lady appeared in all the finery she had of her own, or could borrow for the occasion, and a most grotesque figure she cut. The donor of the feast was in all the horrors that low minds feel upon such occasions, and the tale with numerous additions was soon bruited all over the town. The carol consisted of eighteen or twenty stanzas. Of these only three or four are yet extant I believe. Speaking of the hon, member it ran-i n-it is the crier speaks

"Folk say that his speeches are terrible stuff

False grammar, false English, and nonsense enough;
But if Richard tells truth, I shall ne'er believe that,
As Tom Tub made them all for the pole of his hat.
I have heard that he hath not the soul of a cat-
In the country I grant it—but what of all that?
In the Parliament, look ye, he stands like a steeple,
And roars like a bull for the good of the people.

And then in the church we must surely declare,
That nobody ever saw such a fine mayor:
Even the bagmen did never a finer cast eye on,
When he read like a bishop, and look'd like a lion !"

It was but natural that as the doctor lashed some of the individuals who held corporate offices in the boroughs of Truro and Helston, for he practised at both places, they should seek to be even with him, by