Part 20

_Peter Pindar_ also called his favourite productions odes. We have them before us in bulky quartos as originally published, and in numerous volumes of pocket size as collected in 1816 by Walker. They were written in Cornwall, Devon, the West Indies, Bath and London, and covered a very wide range of subjects. He approached the realm of poetry as George Morland did that of pictorial art, refusing no subject on account of its coarseness, and yet with his fidelity of treatment in describing both rustic and town life, has often shown a fine appreciation of truth and of the beautiful.

Like George Morland he was spoiled by moral laxity, and like him always gives us a sad impression of what he might have been and might have done, if his clever genius had been kept within bounds by moral restraint. But, alas! even as an old man, he retained a taste for the follies which corrupted his youth, and continued to reflect too faithfully the spirit of those immoral days when the scandalous manners of the court were injurious alike to the Church and the State. It would have been better for him to have taken the advice he gives in one of his odes:—

Build not, alas! your popularity On that beast’s back ycleped Vulgarity, A beast that many a booby takes a pride in, A beast beneath the noble Peter’s riding.

. . . . . .

Envy not such as have surpast ye, ’Tis very, very easy to be nasty.

The name of the classic Pindar has been associated with other writers than Dr. Wolcot, who probably have better claims to use it than ever he had.

Thomas Gray (1716–1771), whose monument in Westminster Abbey bears these lines:

No more the Grecian muse unrivalled reigns, To Britain let the nations homage pay: She felt a Homer’s fire in Milton’s strains, A Pindar’s rapture in the lyre of Gray.

Jean Dorot (1507–1588) and Pouce Denis Debrun (1729–1807), have each worn the title of French Pindar, whilst Gabriello Cluobrera (1552–1637) was the acknowledged Italian Pindar. Peter’s work has been translated into most of the continental tongues, and has been appreciated in Germany especially but not in France, his Francophobia being all too evident in many allusions to the French people. His poetry is too full of the localisms of his native county to be fully appreciated by any but Devonians, and too full of personal and political references and allusions to persons about the court and in the London society of that day to appeal successfully to readers of the present generation.

Our Dr. John Wolcot was the fourth child of Dr. Alexander Wolcot, himself a surgeon’s son residing at Kingsbridge, on the bank of the estuary at the foot of the town. The grounds of the family dwelling extended from the old Dartmouth Road at the back down to the water’s edge, and the house, though much altered, still retains its name of Pindar Lodge. His baptismal register, preserved at the Church of St. Thomas à Becket, Dodbrooke, is dated May 9th, 1738. Of his mother we have not been able to gather much information beyond her name—Mary Ryder—and that she belonged to a local family. The Ryders are still numerously represented in the townships both of Kingsbridge and Dodbrooke.

The Grammar School of Kingsbridge, erected at the cost of the old Puritan, Thomas Crispin, Merchant of Exeter, and endowed by him in 1670, was the place where he commenced his education under the mastership of John Morris. It is to be regretted that no roll of scholars earlier than 1830 is extant, so that we have to depend upon indirect though undoubted evidence as to his connection with this school, but there are lively legends of his school days preserved in the folk-lore of the district, one of which is too characteristic to be omitted.

A certain cobbler whose shop was in the street leading to the Grammar School, a man disliked by the boys, and specially so by young Wolcot, was, to the amazement and horror of the whole township, reported to have been cruelly murdered whilst sitting at his stall. The neighbours, on looking in, were terror-stricken to find the man and his shop from floor to ceiling bespattered with blood. The cobbler was certainly living, but too terrified to speak of the nature of his wounds, his features being covered with gore. He was not, however, seriously injured; indeed he was much frightened and little hurt. What had happened was this. Young Wolcot, whose threats of vengeance against the offender had been somewhat mysterious for several days, had procured an old blunderbuss from his father’s house and had duly charged it with powder, but instead of shot had loaded it with _bullock’s blood_, and deliberately fired it in the cobbler’s face; of course in one moment transforming the whole appearance of things, and creating in the peaceful neighbourhood a great sensation.

Such escapades no doubt made it desirable that he should change his quarters, and he was presently transferred to the care of an uncle practising as a surgeon at Fowey, in Cornwall. He attended the Grammar School for awhile at Liskeard, and after that at Bodmin, under the mastership of a clergyman named Fisher.

After this he spent one year in completion of his education in France (1760). He failed to appreciate the French, and the dislike was quite mutual. Of them he said in one of his odes:—

I hate the shrugging dogs, I’ve lived among them, ate their frogs. —_Coll. Works_, Vol. I., p. 107.

On his return to England he became his uncle’s pupil and medical student for seven years. A reflection of his duties is cleverly given in one of his lyrics, apparently addressed to Opie, his pupil in art:—

The lad who would a ’Pothecary shine, Should powder Claws of Crabs and Jalap fine, Keep the shop clean, and watch it like a Porter, Learn to boil glysters—nay, to give them too, If blinking nurses can’t the business do: Write well the labels, and wipe well the Mortar. —_Odes to Royal Academicians_, Ode iii., p. 8.

Drawing, painting, and classical reading seem, however, to have claimed too much of his time, and his verse-making occupations were no doubt hindrances to his professional progress, for in them he was quite industrious, and from Fowey, in 1756, he sent his poem on the elder “Pitt’s recovery from Gout” to _Martin’s Magazine_.

His apprenticeship over, he spent a short time in the medical schools of London; then he returned to Devon, where Dr. Huxham, a celebrated Plymouth physician, did him the good service of examining him as to his competency in medicine and surgery, and recommended him to a northern university—that of Aberdeen—for a degree by diploma, which he was fortunate enough to get conferred upon him, receiving his M.D. in September, 1767.

In the same year came an opportunity for foreign travel, of which he eagerly availed himself. Sir William Trelawney, a connection of the family on his mother’s side, and a patient of his uncle’s in Cornwall, was that same year appointed Governor of the island of Jamaica, and taking young Wolcot with him, in a short time made the new-fledged doctor Physician General to the Forces in the island.

Whilst there, in 1769, the idea seems to have occurred to his patron rather than to himself that if he could give his young friend nothing more in the way of official promotion, there was yet the hopeful field of Church preferment, which, in the West Indies, he was able to command. The rich living of St. Ann’s, Jamaica, then enjoyed by an invalid clergyman, was likely to be soon vacant by his demise. Sir William was the patron, and without sufficient thought, as it seems to us, of Wolcot’s unfitness for such a solemn responsibility, urged him to go at once to England and qualify by ordination for the post.

This curious candidate for holy orders was actually ordained deacon on June 24th, 1769, and the following day priest, but he did not on his return secure the living of St. Ann’s, as the incumbent recovered his health and lived on for years. He was, however, solaced by the inferior living of Vere, a parish for which Wolcot procured the services of a curate, himself continuing to reside in the Government House at Spanish Town. The history of this transaction and the profanity of the language in which it is recorded are alike scandalous.

“Go,” said Sir William, “and get japanned. You may safely say that you have an inward call, for a hungry stomach can speak as loudly as a hungry soul!” _O tempora, O mores!_ How very few persons ever imagine Peter Pindar in clerical guise. Sir William Trelawney died, Wolcot returned to England in company with his widow, who died on the voyage. Once more in England, he showed his good sense by reverting, despite the axiom “once a clerk always a clerk,” for his future occupation to medicine, letters, or the fine arts, leaving the sacred office to others.

As a medical man Peter Pindar was a modified failure at the best. He was cordially disliked by his brother practitioners in the Truro district, who in the end drove him out of it. His treatment of fever patients with copious libations of cold water roused their wrath, and they utterly despised the theory expressed in his own words that “a physician can do little more than watch Dame Nature and give her a shove on the back when he sees her inclined to do right.”

In letters he was far more successful, and was undoubtedly the most popular satirical poet of the Georgian period. Whether he lampooned individuals, or public bodies, the Royal Academicians, or Royalty itself, his versatile genius displayed such a wide range of accomplishments that he attracted hosts of readers, and his books commanded a prodigious sale. All the world has read of the King’s visit to Whitbread’s Brewery, and his wondering how the apples got into the apple dumplings, and not a few readers have felt for Sir Joseph Banks, James Boswell, and Benjamin West, as they came in turn under his stinging lash.

His principal poems were issued from time to time as shilling or half-crown pamphlets. They were written in irregular, rollicking metre, the most important of them in the form of odes. In these he shines as a critic of music, painting, and literature. In all these directions he was, as he describes himself, “the most merciless Mohawk that ever scalped.” By such an expression he puts himself out of court as a safe and equitable judge. His appreciations of Wilson, of Gainsborough, of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and of J. M. W. Turner, have been endorsed by the foremost art writers of our time. Of Turner he said:—

Turner, whatever strikes thy mind, Is painted well, and well designed.

Perhaps his least-known verses are those written for music and published from Exeter in the time of Jackson, the Cathedral organist, who was responsible for the airs to which they were sung. His own musical accomplishments were undoubtedly varied and sound.

Dr. Wolcot had much of the Bohemian in his constitution. He lived in a town where to this day a Puritan simplicity of manners marks the habits of the middle-class people. Quakers, Baptists, and Independents of the early Presbyterian type were numerous in the Kingsbridge of his day. If the old barn to which he addressed some of his odes could speak, it would tell of the visits of strolling players who, anathematised elsewhere, but welcomed by Peter Pindar, were allowed there to perform their bloodcurdling tragedies and questionable farces, to the scandal of the “unco guid.” And besides all this, old Richard Stanley, the king of the gipsies, grandfather of the present Romany patriarch of that name, was welcomed year by year to a shake-down in the straw when he came horse-dealing to Kingsbridge or to Dodbrooke Fair. Wolcot stoutly maintained that he never lost an egg or a chicken by his hospitality to the gipsies. We have heard the Bucklands, the Stanleys, and the Lees speak of his memory as of one who was kind to their fathers, and we have conversed with old people who have spoken of the building, which now stands almost unaltered, as the only theatre in Kingsbridge. Its interior is wonderfully like the picture of Hogarth’s called the “Strolling Players.” The fact that Bamfield Moore Carew, the king of the beggars, frequently lodged in it, adds historical interest to the picturesque and venerable shanty.

Dr. Wolcot’s real kindness to John Opie, whom he discovered as a lad working in a saw pit; his industrious endeavours to educate and refine him; and his generous assumption of fullest responsibility for his maintenance, together with his introduction of him to the world in London, form a creditable chapter in his history which ought never to be omitted from Peter’s life story. In Dugdale’s _British Traveller_ will be found the copy of a written contract made by Opie in favour of his patron and friend. It begins—

I promise to paint for Dr. Wolcot any picture or pictures he may demand, as long as I live; otherwise I desire the world will consider me as an ungrateful son of a ——. [The words are unquotable.]

Opie stood to this obligation, but always made his friend pay eighteenpence for the canvas!

Opie is said to have paid great deference to Dr. Wolcot’s instructions. Whilst that gentleman was painting, he would sometimes lean over him and exclaim, “Ah! if I could ever paint like you!” to which Pindar replied, “If I thought thou wouldst not exceed me, John, I would not take such pains with thee.” For two years he never painted a single picture without the judgment of his friend.

It was at the Doctor’s suggestion that his name was changed from Hoppy to Opie, a name worn by a good family in Cornwall, and more likely to attract favourable notice in London, whither they both went together in 1780, their joint expenses being supplied from one purse. Out of this last circumstance grew a dispute and estrangement, never fully settled. The communistic arrangement lasted for a short time only. One morning, when Sir Joshua Reynolds was breakfasting with Wolcot and Opie, Sir Joshua remarked of Opie, “Why, this boy begins his art where other people leave off!” Very numerous are the portraits of his patron which Opie has left behind, representing Pindar in different stages of his career, most of them having been engraved and published in various editions of his works, or in miscellanies containing contributions from his pen.

If a watchful editor did not restrict us for space, we should have liked to show how that facile pen of Peter’s could run on “from grave to gay, and from lively to severe.” Perhaps there may be room for a sample of each. We wish he had given us a little more of such quiet and pathetic writing as

THE OLD SHEPHERD’S DOG.

The old shepherd’s dog like his master was gray, His teeth all departed and feeble his tongue, Yet where’er Corin went, he was followed by Tray; Thus happy through life did they hobble along.

When fatigued on the grass the shepherd would lie For a nap in the sun—’midst his labours so sweet, His faithful companion crawled constantly nigh, Plac’d his head on his lap or lay down at his feet.

When winter was heard on the hill and the plain, And torrents descended and cold was the wind, If Corin went forth ’midst the tempests and rain, Tray scorned to be left in the chimney behind.

At length in the straw Tray made his last bed; For vain against death is the stoutest endeavour— To lick Corin’s hand, he rear’d up his weak head, Then fell back, closed his eyes, and, ah! clos’d them for ever.

Not long after Tray did the shepherd remain, Who oft o’er his grave in true sorrow would bend; And when dying, thus feebly was heard the poor swain, “Oh! bury me, neighbour, beside my old friend.”

Is not that a genuine piece of pure pastoral writing—grave and truthful? Of his gay writing there is more than enough, and much of it is as unfit for modern quotation as some of the classics in whom he delighted. As Thomas Bewick could not be persuaded that anything he actually saw was unsuited for pictorial representation, however vulgar, if the drawing were true to nature, so Pindar shocks our sense of propriety continually and without apology. He could, however, play on the whole gamut of the soul’s passions, as witness his touching threnody on “Julia, or the Victim of Love,” in his _Smiles and Tears_, a piece no man without a tender heart could ever have written.

Many jocular little pieces like the following are strewn among his verses:—

=ODE (_Introductory_).=

Simplicity, I dote upon thy tongue; And thee, O white-rob’d _Truth_, I’ve reverenced long— I’m fond too of that flashy varlet wit, Who skims earth, sea, heav’n, hell, existence o’er To put the merry table in a roar, And shake the sides with laugh-convulsing fit.

O yes! in sweet simplicity I glory— To _her_ we owe a charming little story.

=WILLIAM PENN, NATHAN, AND THE BAILIFF.= A Tale.

As well as I can recollect, It is a story of fam’d _William Penn_, By bailiffs oft beset, without effect, Like numbers of our Lords and Gentlemen.

William had got a private hole to spy The folks who came with writs, or “How d’ye do?” Possessing too a penetrating eye Friends from his foes the Quaker quickly knew.

A bailiff in disguise, one day, Though not disguised to our friend Will, Came, to Will’s shoulder compliments to pay, Concealed, the catchpole thought, with wondrous skill.

Boldly he knocked at William’s door, Drest like a gentleman from top to toe, Expecting quick admittance, to be sure, But no!

WILL’S servant NATHAN, with a strait-hair’d head Unto the window gravely stalked, not _ran_. “Master at home?” the Bailiff sweetly said— “Thou canst not speak to him,” replied the man.

“What,” quoth the Bailiff, “won’t he see me then?” “Nay,” snuffled Nathan, “let it not thus strike thee; Know, verily, that WILLIAM PENN _Hath seen_ thee, but he doth not _like_ thee.”

A Kingsbridge gentleman having recently come across the original manuscript of one of the characteristic pieces written by Peter Pindar, has kindly allowed its publication. It will be seen that the rhyme describes in his forceful and not over polite style the outcome of a magistrates’ meeting at Morleigh after the passing of the law against poaching. It is in the Devonshire dialect:—

=EPISTLE.=

From Deggony Dolt, farmer, of Stanborough; to John Tolt, waggoner, of Clannaborough.

Lord Jan! hast thee heer’d that at leet Morleigh Town, Where Just Asses often rag w——e, rogue and clown, A learge drove of Passons and Tomies and Squires Met lately to ruin the Poachers and Buyers? How vierce and how vine they came scampering in, Zome dreiving, zome riding, zome vat and zome thin; This mounted on Pony and that Rozinante, Zome Galloways shodded, zome whisky, zome jaunty.

Mum Doubtful, Tom Guzzle, Jack Jaw, and Ned Tilly, Dick Doubty, Jan Numskull, and Blockheaded Billy, Jan Clod from the vield, Janny Jumps from the Shop, His father sells Incle, woll buy and woll zwop; Young Nincompoop Simpkins, the son of Jan Huffer, Wat Windy, Soft Stephen, and Peter the Puffer, Like mazed men were eager their plans to express, Tho’ as to their reasons they cou’d not be less, Where brains are but little and Tyranny’s found Much bother and bluster most times do abound.

Our Squires of those yet but a few by the bye War zich; as to their others, that’s all in my eye, Our Squires and Parsons and limbs of the Law Determined strong rules and resolves for to draw, And then in the Papers the whole advertise, Sure most as they thaut you’d be acting more wise, All Game must in future to none else belong, Their Rerts were so clear, their powers so strong.

To dinner they went, where they grinned and they sneer’d; The Bottle pushed round till with drink their eyes glared, All speakers at once, nort but d—m—ie was plain, Ev’n Parsons took roundly the Lord’s name in vain; The Reckoning discharged yet at this zome looked bluff, And grudged the expense tho’ ’twas reasonable enough; Zome gallopped away, zome halted at ease, Zome mounted their ponies and two wheeled post chaise. Not far howsomever went Mum Doubtful ’twas zed When he tumbled and luckily valled on his head; Tom Guzzle over zit in a Ditch on the road, And eased his gorged Stomach of part of its load. Jan Clod lodged his bones where bars grow in clumps, And under a hen roost sprawled leet Janny Jumps, Reversed lay Soft Staphen his heels only zeed, The rest was concealed in the Briers and Weed; Here plunged in a Buddle roll’d Parson Jack Daw, There bald pate Dick Doubty was emptying his Maw, Wat Windy proceeded, but at length came to ground, Zome say that his nose in a Cow Dung was found; But Nort’s ne’er in danger who’s born to be hung, Will never meet death till on gallows he’s slung. Jan Numscull, a Mushroom that’s lately arose, Now stretched on a Dunghill had fuming repose; Young Nincompoop Simpkin lay speechless hard by, A large Dap of Cow Dung had closed his left eye, And Peter the Puffer, he could not tell how, In spite of his boasting rode into a slough, While snug in a hogstie got Parson Ned Tilly, And under a Vuz bush snored Blockheaded Billy, Thus ended the meeting that made Poachers tremble. The next thee shall hear when again they assemble.

The late Rev. Treasurer Hawker, M.A., in his sketch of Wolcot, written for the Devonshire Association in 1877 and published in their _Transactions_, describes most accurately Pindar’s very humorous account of George the Third’s visit to Exeter in _Brother Jan’s Epistle to Zester Naw_. He says:—

The humour is irresistible. It is impossible not to laugh.... There is a rollicking swing about the description which keeps the whole narrative going like the steady onward pace of a racing eight-oar, or the _vis vivida_ of a fast four-horse coach.

He quotes these stanzas as characteristic alike of the humour and the dialect. Introducing the Royal entry:—

Well, in a come _King George_ to town With doust and zweat as nutmeg brown, The hosses all in smoke: Huzzain, trumpetin, and dringin, Red colours vleein, roarin, zingin, So mad seemed all the voke.

The King was not entertained at the Palace, but was sent to the Dean. Peter says:—

Becaze the Bishop sent mun word _A hadn’t got the means_. A could not meat and drink afford.

Peter affected to have heard the King’s remarks about the cathedral:—

Zo, said, “Neat, neat; clean, very clean; D’ye mop it, mop it, Measter Dean, Mop, mop it every week?”

The unhappy reference of Farmer Tab to the King’s mental condition, though concealed by his dialect, was simply cruel, and, of course, was carefully preserved by Peter:—

And, Varmer Tab, I understand, Drode his legs vore and catched the hand And shaked wey might and main. “I’m glad your Medjesty to zee, And hope your Medjesty,” quoth he, “Wull ne’er be _mazed_ again.”

The King is befogged by the Devonshire word:—