The death of this wretch was hastened only a few days by his assassination, for he was already consumed by a disgusting disease, and it is melancholy to add that he was adored after his death, and his remains deposited in the Pantheon with national honors, and an altar erected to his memory in the club of the Cordeliers. "I killed one man to save a hundred thousand!" exclaimed the magnificent Charlotte Corday to her judges; "a villain to save innocents, a furious wild beast, to give repose to my country!" Thus the "horse doctor" ignominiously perished at the hands of a woman,--a woman who immortalized herself by killing a "villain." PETER PINDAR, THE PREACHER. We find many cases where ministers have turned doctors, and _vice versa_. "PETER PINDAR" is here worthy of a passing notice. His true name was Wolcot. Descended from a family of doctors for several generations, he nevertheless himself failed to gain a living practice. When King George III. sent Sir William Trelawney out as governor of Jamaica, about 1760, he took young Dr. Wolcot with him, who acted in the treble capacity of physician, private secretary, and chaplain to the governor's household. Dr. Wolcot's professional knowledge had been acquired somewhat "irregularly," and it is very doubtful whether he ever received ordination at the hands of the bishops. It is true, however, that he acted as rector for the colony, reading prayers and preaching whenever a congregation of ten presented itself, which occurred only semi-occasionally. The doctor was fond of shooting, and 'tis gravely reported that he and his clerk used to amuse themselves on the way to church by shooting pigeons and other wild game, with which the wood abounded. Having shot their way to the sacred edifice, the merry parson and jolly clerk would wait ten minutes for the congregation to convene, and if, at the expiration of that time, the quota had not arrived, the few were dismissed with a blessing, and the pair shot their way back home. If but a few negroes presented themselves, the rector ordered his clerk to give them a bit of silver, with which to buy them off. [Illustration: THE PARSON BUYING OFF THE "CONGREGATION."] 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.