under Mr. Haydon, and thence to the Rev. Mr. Fisher, Bodmin; after this he went to Normandy, where he remained a year, and where, according to one of his biographers, "although he did not imbibe a relish for elegant demeanour and graceful attitudes, he at least acquired a knowledge of the vernacular tongue of that country, which proved highly servicable to him in after life." On his return, he was bound apprentice to his uncle above mentioned, who was a surgeon with a good practice. Whilst here, the poetic muse with him, too, began her usual pranks, led him on to many an escapade from his duty, and got him many a lecture from his unsophisticated uncle; so that he used frequently to steal away to an old ruined tower, situated on a rock close by the sea, and there, early and late, give way to his inspirations. The following is one of his odes at this time:

O lovely flood, on whose fair banks

I played, in early youth, my pranks,

And often sailed thy clear expanse along,
And from thy bosom hook'd up fish,
Pollock and bream, a dainty dish,

Salmon and mackarel, worthy epic song;

Lobster, turbot, and john dory,

As nice as e'er were put before ye,

O epicures! and plaice and mullet,
Fit to descend a royal gullet.

Thy margin green, and castles hoar,
Where heroes dwelt and fought of yore,

And smote the daring Gaul with dread,
Boast not a muse to sing their praise,
The tribute of immortal lays,

And cast a glory round their head.

Full oft, in summer's golden hour,
We made in boats a happy tour,

Full many a nymph and swain :
And frequent on a verdant bank
Our tea and well-cream'd coffee drank,
While music pour'd her strain,
Loud on the zephyr's pinions borne,
The triumph of the echoing horn.

The walks of Graham and Trefry,
The walks of Hall delight mine eye,
And pleasant valley of Lewire ;
With villas on the winding stream,
That rather look of fancy's dream,
And claim the muse's loudest lyre.

Though Britain's King and Britain's Queen,
Are every year at Weymouth seen,

Thy spirits let me cheer:

For hark! this instant on the breeze,

In sounds of thunder from the seas,

A voice salutes mine ear!

The majesty of ocean speaks!
And thus the God sublimely breaks :
Ye rivers list around!

Though some of ye on Britain's coast,
May many a beauty justly boast,

And much with fish abound;

Though far and wide may fly your name,
Yet it shall be your harbour's lot,
That pretty yet neglected spot,
To fill the largest trump of Fame.

Should Amphitrite and her maids,
Sigh for the shore and rural shades,
Variety t' enjoy ;

I'd swear by all my brine and fish,
If such should be the lady's wish,
I'll take a house at Foy.

He was next sent to town, for hospital practice, and again returned to Fowey. Shortly after, in 1767, he was chosen as the medical attendant of Sir William Trelawny, just nominated governor of Jamaica; but, before going, he applied for, and obtained, an м.D. ship from one of the Scotch Universities, for which a certificate was signed by Dr. Huxham, then residing at Plymouth.

In sailing to the island of Jamaica, he touched at Madeira, where his muse inspired him with one or two nicely-written pieces, characterized by elegant simplicity. Indeed, many of the little pieces he then produced, show that he was sensibly and poetically affected by the new beauties rising continually around him, and still further increasing in his voyage onwards. However, on arriving at Spanish Town, it appears, he felt miserably dissappointed, as there was no chance of reaping a golden harvest, or even a comfortable competency, from the few whites then inhabiting the town. Complaining of his disappointment, Sir William gave him a small living in the island, to which the Bishop of London ordained him. However, it cannot be supposed that he was very attentive to his duties, particularly as there were scarcely any whites, or any one else who went to church; and it is said that he used to go out on the Sunday mornings hunting ring-tailed pigeons with his clerk. One of his black congregation, discovering this, laid him under contribution by pretending a great wish to go to church, and Wolcot was obliged to buy him off with a bit or two every Sunday. His patron dying within a short time, Wolcot determined to return to his native country, and on his arrival in England, after an absence of two years, repaired to the residence of his kind and affectionate uncle. On the death of this dear relative, which happened shortly after, Wolcot inherited a sum of about £2000, with which he commenced as a physician at Truro, in 1770. Here he remained four years, composed satires, drew caricatures, teased his neighbours, and litigated with the municipality on account of a parish apprentice being placed to his charge. On losing the law-suit, he withdrew to Helston, and shortly after to Exeter. Many of his better pieces, however, were composed during his residence at the first-mentioned town, and amongst others an Ode to Innocence, which cannot fail being duly appreciated.

ODE TO INNOCENCE.

O nymph of meek and blushful mien,

Lone wanderer of the rural scene,

Who lovest not the city's bustling sound,

But in the still and simple vale

Art pleased to hear the turtle's tale,

'Mid the gay minstrelsy that floats around.

Now on the bank, amid the sunny beam,
I see thee mark the natives of the stream,

That break the dimpling surface with delight;
Now see thee pitying a poor captive fly,
Snapp'd from the loved companions of his joy,
And swallow'd, sink beneath the gulf of night.
Now see thee in the humming golden hour,
Observant of the bee, from flower to flower,

That loads with varied balm his little thighs,
To guard against chill winter's famished day,
When rains descend, and clouds obscure the ray,
And tempests pour the thunder through the skies.
Now see thee happy, with the sweetest smile,
Attentive stretched along the fragrant soil,

Beholding the small myriads of the plain,
The pismires: some upon their sunny hills;
Some thirsty, wandering to the crystal rills;

Some loaded, bringing back the snowy grain.
Now see thee playful chase the child of spring,
The winnowing butterfly, with painted wing,

That, busy flickers on from bloom to bloom;
Pursuing wildly now a favourite fair,
Circling amid the golden realms of air,

And leaving, all for love, the pea's perfume.

Now see thee peeping on the secret nest,
Where sits the parent wren in patient rest;

While at her side her feathered partner sings,
Chaunts his short note, to charm her nursing day:
Now for his loves pursues his airy way,

And now with food returns on cheerful wings.
Pleased could I sit with thee, a nymph so sweet,
And hear the happy flocks around thee bleat,

And mark their skipping sports along the land;
Now hear thee to a favourite lambkin speak,
Who wanton stretches forth his woolly neck,

And plucks a fragrant herbage from thy hand.

It was here also he discovered and brought into notice, a young carpenter, John Opie, who had a good taste for drawing, and who afterwards became a talented and famous portrait painter. Wolcot's account of his first acquaintance is characteristic and descriptive, but we must defer it until speaking of Opie himself. It appears that it was in reality to produce this young artist to the world, that he went to Exeter, and afterwards to London, where Opie's fame was very soon established. Wolcot, however, complains of his ingratitude in not making him a return for the loss of practice, &c. he had suffered, although Opie was making large sums of money. The quarrel is hardly worth entering into, and we do not like to accuse a man of ingratitude, without full means of proving it.

In London they both soon attained high eminence, and Wolcot having chosen satire for his occupation, for which he was by nature eminently qualified, quickly found the wherewithal to employ himself, and a public to purchase. His first attempt of importance was "Lyric Odes to the Royal Academicians, by Peter Pindar, esq., a distant relation to the poet of Thebes, and Laureate to the Academy." His own good know

ledge of art materially assisted him in this production, in which there is a sound criticism, and many good hits. We extract a line or two for our readers' amusement.

In his third ode, he shows how painting must be learnt :—

People must mount by slow degrees to glory.

We young writers and aspirants to fame stand in the same position. True, cock-throwing and brickbats are out of date; but cavilling and carping are as much in the fashion as ever. So we add another line or two from our hero worth consideration :—

Praise, like the balm which evening's dewy star

Sheds on the drooping herb and fainting flower,
Lifts modest, pining merit from despair,
And gives her clouded eye a golden hour.

He himself, however, arrogating superior powers, makes a smart hit at Gainsborough:

And now, O muse, with song so big,

Turn round to Gainsborough's girl and pig,

Or pig and girl I rather should have said;

The pig in white I must allow,

Is really a well painted sow;

I wish to say the same thing of the maid.

Yet Gainsborough has great merit too,

Would he his charming forte pursue,

To mind his landscape, have the modest grace;
Yet there sometimes are nature's tints despised;

I wish them more attended to and prized,
Instead of trumpery that usurps the place.

Good criticism, and repeated in after times. To those who know Chamberlin and Loutherberg, the following is also good:

Thy portraits, Chamberlin, may be

A likeness, far as I can see;

But faith I cannot praise a single feature:
Yet when it so shall please the Lord,
To make his people out of board,

Thy pictures will be tolerable nature.

And Loutherberg, when Heaven so wills
To make brass skies and golden hills,

With marble bullocks in glass pastures grazing,
Thy reputation, too, will rise,

And people, gaping with surprise,

Cry Monsieur Loutherberg is most amazing.

Wilson, of course, gets a good word from him; but, as usual, impregnated with the bitterness of his craft.

But honest Wilson, never mind,

Immortal praises thou shalt find,

And for a dinner have no cause to fear.

Thou star'st at my prophetic rhymes,

Don't be impatient for these times;

Wait till thou hast been dead a hundred years.

Sir Joshua Reynolds escapes scatheless; but Sir Joshua's happy pencil had produced a host of copyists, much of the same feature, on whom he falls with dreadful violence, using similies and expressions we cannot repeat. The gentle males of Angelica Kauffman, are also hit rather too hard; and from speaking of her he launches into the general way of judging art by the fair sex :

"Oh the dear man," cried one; "lork, here's a bonnet,

He shall paint me; I am determined on it.

Lord, cousin, see how beautiful the gown!

What charming colours! here's fine lace, here's gauze !
What pretty sprigs the fellow draws;

Lord, cousin, he's the cleverest man in town."

A manner of judging not obsolete even at the present moment.
West is thus apostrophized :-

Don't be cast down; instead of gall,
Molasses from my pen shall fall :

And yet I fear thy gullet it is such,
That could I pour all Niagara down,

Were Niagara praise, thou would'st not frown,

Nor think the thundering gulf one drop too much.

Showing what self-esteem can swallow,—a simile we have many times had a laugh at.

We were then at war with the French, and Peter must needs have a fling at them, of course. So, after a severe attack on French painting, he says,—

Think not I wantonly the French attack;

I never will put merit on the rack:

No; yet, I own, I hate the shrugging dogs-
I've lived among them, eat their frogs,

And vomited them up again;

So that I am able now to say,

I carried naught of theirs away,

Which otherwise had made the puppies vain.