One old negro, more cunning than the rest, and who discovered that the parson’s interest was rather in the discharge of his fowling-piece than the discharge of his priestly duties, used to present himself punctually every Sunday at church.
“What brings you here, blackie?” asked the parson.
“To hear de prayer for sinners, and de sarmon, masser.”
“Wouldn’t a bit or two serve you as well?” asked the rector, with a wink.
“Well, masser, dis chile lub de good sarmon ob yer rev’rence, but dis time de money might do,” was the reply, with a significant scratch of his woolly head.
The parson would then pay the price, the negro would grin his thanks, and, chuckling to himself, retire; and for a year or more this sort of black-mailing was continued.
Tiring of acting as priest, Wolcot returned to London, and vainly endeavored to establish himself in practice. Neither preaching nor practising physic was his forte, and he resorted to the pen. Here he discovered his genius. Adopting the nom de plume of “Peter Pindar,” he became famous as a political satirist, and the author of numerous popular works. He died in London in 1819. Wolcot possessed a kindly heart, and a benevolence deeper than his pockets.
Policemen as Doctors and Surgeons.
Some very laughable scenes, as well as very touching and painful ones, might be recorded, had we space, where policemen have necessarily been unceremoniously summoned to act as physician or surgeon in absence of a “regular.”
In Portland, the police have to turn their hand to most everything. Circumstances beyond his control compelled one Mr. J. S. to act the part of midwife to a strapping Irish woman at the station-house, one evening, he being the sole “committee of reception” to a bouncing baby that came along somewhat precipitately. The account, which is well authenticated, closes by saying,—