Dr. Fothergill, when Provost of Queen's College, Oxford, was a
singular as well as a learned man, and would not have been seen abroad
minus his wig and gown for a dukedom. One night a fire broke out in
the lodge, which spread with such rapidity, that it was with
difficulty Mrs. F. and family escaped the fury of the flames; and this
she no sooner did than, naturally enough, the question was, "Where is
the Doctor?" No Doctor was to be found; and the cry was he had
probably perished in the flames. All was bustle, and consternation,
and tears, till suddenly, to the delight of all, he emerged from the
burning pile, full-dressed, as usual, his wig something the worse for
being nearly 'done to a turn;' but he deemed it indecorous for him to
appear otherwise, though he stayed to _robe_ at the risk of his life.
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