Rarely has a whole family proved so able—and, what is more, proved the excellence of a home education, where the father is competent to give it. Samuel Budd, the surgeon of North Tawton, managed to teach his nine sons himself in the intervals of his professional calls; and he taught them so well that not one of his sons but made his mark in the world.
Samuel, the eldest son, was born in 1806. He was one of the seven who embraced the medical profession. He became a member of the College of Physicians in 1859. He died, aged seventy-nine, in 1885. George was born in February, 1808, and became a Fellow of the College in 1841. He died in March, 1882. Richard was born in April, 1809, became a Fellow of the College of Physicians in 1863, and died in February, 1896. William has been already mentioned.
John Wreford, the subject of this memoir, was born in 1813, practised at Plymouth, and died 11 November, 1873. The other sons were Charles Octavius, Fellow of Pembroke College, Cambridge; Dr. Christian Budd, of North Tawton; and Francis Nonus, born 1823, became eighth Wrangler in 1846, Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, called to the Bar, Lincoln’s Inn, 1848, practised as barrister for many years at Bristol, bought a little property at Batworthy, Chagford, on the Teign, where he made a fine collection of flint weapons and tools found in his fields, where was once a “station” for their manufacture.
Doctor John Wreford Budd, as already said, practised in Plymouth. He was a man of rough manners, blunt and to the point in all he said. When Roundell Palmer was electioneering in Plymouth in 1847 he stayed with Budd, who was very proud of his guest. Meeting Mr. William Collier in the street, he stopped him, and without any preliminaries said: “Can your cook make soup as clear as sherry? Mine can, sir—soup like that every day, whilst Mr. Palmer was staying with me.”
Another time, when he had some friends to lunch, there was some delay. He took out his watch, placed it before him on the table, and turning to Mrs. Budd, said: “What a thing this onpunctuality is! If it be not brought to table in two minutes, I’ll dra’e it all out at the window,” spoken in the broadest Devonian dialect.
A gentleman writes: “An excellent cook came to us from the service of Dr. Budd. She was epileptic, and the Doctor’s violence increased her trouble. With us she remained for many years until age made her unfit for work. She told me that once preparations were well advanced for a dinner party, when the Doctor came down to the kitchen, as was his wont. She had been plucking a brace of pheasants, and some blood from the beaks had stained her apron. This defilement roused the Doctor to such frenzy that he seized and flung out of the window or smashed up all the prepared dishes. As the guests were due to arrive very shortly, Mrs. Budd, in a state of distraction, sent all over the town for such cold joints, sweets, etc., as could be obtained from hotels, confectioners, and other caterers. With this scratch meal she was obliged to regale her guests, without being able to explain the reason of the novelty. But some inkling of the truth came to be known or was guessed by her visitors.
“Dr. Stewart, of Plymouth, told me one day that a friend of his passing Dr. Budd’s house was startled by the sudden descent of a leg of mutton in the street, flung out of the window by the irate Doctor because either somewhat over-or underdone.
“Dr. Budd would often, when giving a dinner party, rise at the conclusion of the first courses, saying ‘I shan’t take any sweets,’ would go to the fireside and fill a long ‘churchwarden’ clay, then, leaning against the mantelpiece, calmly smoke and join in the conversation of the guests as they continued at table.