in business. The tradesman had applied to his master to assist him, a fine delicate woman's man," who trembled at a breath of wind: he generously lent him twenty pounds, which, however, he made him repay in a fortnight. This "bug with gilded wings," as the doctor used to style him, would lavish treble the sum on some squeaking eunuch, or on some new furniture for his phaeton, in which, by the bye, he was often afraid to ride. "Nature certainly at first designed him for a woman," said Mounsey, in one of his peevish moments, "but was unwilling to disgrace the sex.” During a prevailing sickness in the doctor's neighbourhood, all intercourse with his family was interdicted by a serious letter sent to him. A correspondence by post, however, was admitted; but the billet-doux was obliged to pass quarantine for a night and a day, or, as the doctor termed it, to be bleached. If he met them in his post chaise, on the road, the glasses of the coach were carefully and closely shut up, and a waving of hands was the only personal civility that passed between himself and his intimate friends for seven months. "We are afraid of you, doctor, you come from a sick room," exclaimed the petit maitre. "You often make me sick,” replied Mounsey, "but never afraid.” The windows of Dr. Mounsey's apartment looked upon the college court and walls. When he had arrived at a very advanced age, many members of the faculty, who thought this situation extremely desirable, and the doctor literally an encumbent, most naturally looked forward to the termination of his existence; and the applications to the minister to succeed Dr. Mounsey were innumerable. In consequence of their ardent hopes of the place, the court of Chelsea Hospital used to be the favourite walk of the medical candidates. Here they used to enjoy themselves in the contemplation of the advantages of the situation, its vicinity to the metropolis, and the beauty of the surrounding scenery. Coach-houses gratis, and an hundred other agreeable anticipations, had certainly their due weight, while the doctor, sitting at his window, used to enjoy his own thoughts, and smile at their presumption. One day this humorist saw, from his observatory, a physician, accompanied by his friend, who were taking a survey of the spot. The friend was pointing out to the candidate the pleasant situation of the medical apartments, and enumerating the various advantages of the college residence. As Mounsey was fond of teasing, he immediately descended. A few words served for his introduction; when turning to the physician, he said, "So, sir, I find you are one of the candidates to succeed me!" The physician bowed, and proceeded: "But you will be confoundedly disappointed." "Disappointed!" said the physician, with quivering lips. "Yes," returned Mounsey, "you expect to outlive me; but I discern from your countenance, and other concomitant circumstances, that you are deceiving yourself you will certainly die first: though as I have nothing to expect from that event, I shall not rejoice at your death, as I am persuaded you would at mine." same manner. This was actually the case: the candidate lived but a short time, and Dr. Mounsey was so diverted with checking the aspiring hopes of his brethren of the faculty, that whenever he saw a physician on the look out, he used to go down and confront them in the He did so to several, and what is singularly extraordinary, his prognostications were in every instance verified. The medical speculators shrunk aghast from Chelsea; so that at the death of the doctor, the minister was not engaged by a single promise, nor had he for some time a single application for the place of physician to the college. Taylor in his Records relates the following anecdote of Mounsey :-"The doctor told me that he was once in company with another physician and an eminent farrier. The physician stated that, among the difficulties of his profession, was that of discovering the maladies of children, because they could not explain the symptoms of their disorder. 'Well,' said the farrier, 'your difficulties are not greater than mine, for my patients, the horses, are equally unable to explain their complaints.' 'Ah!' rejoined the physician, 'my brother doctor must conquer me, as he has brought his cavalry against my infantry."" With regard to religion, after long study, and much reading Dr. M. was a staunch supporter of the Unitarian doctrine, and early imbibed an unconquerable aversion to bishops and church establishments. He denounced the Athanasian doctrine in no measured language; in fact, whenever the subject was mentioned, he burst into the most vehement expression of abhorrence and disgust. During his abode at Lord Godolphin's, he was one day riding in Hyde Park with a Mr. Robinson, a well-meaning man, who was lamenting the deplorable state of the times, and concluded his harangue with saying, "and doctor, I talk with people who believe there is no God." "And I," Mr. Robinson, returned the doctor, "talk with people who believe there are three." The alarmed Trinitarian immediately set spurs to his horse, and would never after speak to the author of so profane a reply. Dr. Mounsey was a man of strong passions, pointed wit, and lively imagination. His wit was ardent, insatiable, and often troublesome; but then his communication was rapid, copious, and interesting; he possessed a vein of humour, rich, luxuriant, and, like the nature of all humours, sometimes gross, and inelegant. His wit was not the keen, shining, welltempered weapon of a Sheridan, a Beauclerck, or a Burke; it partook rather of the nature of the irresistible massy sabre of a Cossack, which at the time it cuts down by the sharpness of its edge, demolishes by the weight of the blow. To these qualities were added deep penetration, and an incredible memory, which poured forth in an inexhaustible flow of words, the treasures of past years, which at times, like other treasures, were not without their dross. He was a storehouse of anecdote, a reservoir of good things, and a chronicle of past times. His faults he either would not, or could not, conceal; they were prominent to all :-a vitiated taste, a neglected dress, unseemly deportment, and disgusting language, formed the marked characteristics of this singular man; who even on his death bed, maintained all the force of his singularity, by bequeathing his body for dissection, an old velvet coat to one friend, and the buttons of it to another. In his will he inveighs bitterly against bishops, deans, and chapters; and leaves annuities to two clergymen who had resigned their preferment on account of the Athanasian doetrine. Dr. Mounsey died, at his apartments in Chelsea Hospital, December 26th, 1788, at the advanced age of ninety-five. The following epitaph was written by himself, after having been much teazed by visitors who were anxious to succeed him. "Here lie my old bones: my vexation now ends : I have liv'd much too long for myself and my friends. Mounsey contributed nothing to the literature of his profession. He is represented as having been a |