The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Peter puffeth away—Displayeth his Learning— Praiseth the Reviewers—Describeth himself most pathetically—Consoleth himself—Disliketh the Road to the Temple of Fame by Means of a Pistol, Poison, or a Rope—Addresseth great Folks—Giveth the King a broad Hint— Asketh a queer Question—Maketh as queer an Apostrophe to Genius.

Sons of the brush, I'm here again!
At times a Pindar, and Fontaine,
Casting poetic pearl (I fear) to swine!
For hang me if my last year's odes
Paid rent for lodgings near the gods,
Or put one sprat into this mouth divine.

For odes, my cousin had rump-steaks to eat!
So says Pausanias—loads of dainty meat!
And this the towns of Greece, to give, thought fit:
The best historians, one and all, declare,
With the most solemn air,
The poet might have guttled till he split.

How different far, alas! my worship's fate!
To sooth the horrors of an empty plate,
The grave possessors of the critic throne,
Gave me, in truth, a pretty treat—
Of flattery, mind me, not of meat;
For they, poor souls, like me, are skin and bone.

No, no! with all my lyric pow'rs,
I'm not like Mrs. Cosway's Hours,
Red as cock-turkeys, plump as barn-door chicken:
Merit and I are miserably off:
We both have got a most consumptive cough;
Hunger hath long our harmless bones been picking.

Merit and I, so innocent, so good,
Are like the little children in the wood—
And soon, like them, shall lay us down and die?
May some good Christian bard, in pity strong,
Turn redbreast kind, and with the sweetest song
Bewail our hapless fate with wat'ry eye!

Poor Chatterton was starv'd—with all his art!
Some consolation this to my lean heart—
Like him, in holes too, spider-like, I mope;
And there my rev'rence may remain, alas!
The world will not discover it, the ass!
Until I scrape acquaintance with a rope.

Then up your Walpoles, Bryants, mount like bees;
Then each my pow'rs with adoration sees—
Nothing their kind civilities can hinder—
When, like an Otho, I am found;
Like Jacob's sons, they'll look one t'other round,
And cry, ‘Who would have thought this a young Pindar?’

Hanging's a dismal road to fame—
Pistols and poison just the same—
And what is worse, one can't come back again—
Soon as the beauteous gem we find,
We can't display it to mankind,
Tho' won with such wry mouths and wriggling pain.

Ye lords and dukes so clever, say
(For you have much to give away,
And much your gentle patronage I lack),
Speak, is it not a crying sin,
That Folly's guts are to his chin,
Whilst mine are slunk a mile into my back?

Oft as his sacred Majesty I see,
Ah! George (I sigh) thou hast good things with thee,
Would make me sportive as a youthful cat;
It is not that my soul so loyal
Would wish to wed the Princess Royal,
Or be archbishop—no! I'm not for that.

Nor really have I got the grace
To wish for laureat Whitehead's place;
Whose odes Cibberian—sweet, yet very manly,
Are set with equal strength by Mr. Stanley.

Would not one swear that Heav'n lov'd fools,
There's such a number of them made;
Bum-proof to all the flogging of the schools,
No ray of knowledge could their skulls pervade?
Yet, take a peep into those fellows' breeches,
We stare like congers, to observe their riches.

O Genius; what a wretch art thou,
Thou canst not keep a mare nor cow,
With all thy compliment of wit so frisky!
Whilst Folly, as a mill-horse blind,
Beside his compter, gold can find,
And Sundays sport a strumpet and a whisky!

The attic story, or, according to the vulgar phrase, garret.

See the Reviews for last year.

A sublime picture this! the expression is truly Homerical. The fair artist hath, in the most surprising manner, communicated to canvass the old bard's idea of the brandy-fac'd hours.—See the Iliad.

ODE II.

Peter beginneth to criticise—Addresseth the British Raphael—Promiseth Mr. West great things, and like great Folks breaks his Word—Laugheth at the Figure of King Charles—Lasheth that of Oliver Cromwell; and ridiculeth the Picture of Peter and John galloping to the Sepulchre— Understandeth plain-work, and justly condemneth the Shortness of the Shirts of Mr. West's Angels—Concludeth with making that Artist a handsome Offer of an American Immortality.

Now for my criticism on paints,
Where bull-dogs, heroes, sinners, saints,
Flames, thunder, lightning, in confusion meet!—
Behold the works of Mr. West!—
That artist first shall be addrest—
His pencil with due reverence I greet—

Still bleeding from his last year's wound,
Which from my doughty lance he found;
Methinks I hear the trembling painter bawl,
‘Why dost thou persecute me, Saul?’

West, let me whisper in thy ear—
Snug as a thief within a mill,
From me thou hast no cause to fear,
To panegyric will I turn my skill;
And if thy picture I am forc'd to blame,
I'll say most handsome things about the frame.

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 wouldst not frown.
Nor think the thund'ring gulf one drop too much.

Ye gods! the portrait of the King!
A very Saracen! a glorious thing!
It shows a flaming pencil, let me tell ye—
Methinks I see the people stare,
And, anxious for his life, declare,
‘King George hath got a fireship in his belly.’

Thy Charles!—what must I say to that?
Each face unmeaning, and so flat!—
Indeed, first cousin to a piece of board—
But, Muse, we've promis'd in our lays,
To give our Yankey painter praise;
So, madam, 'tis but fair to keep your word.

Well then, the Charles of Mr. West,
And Oliver, I do protest,
And eke the witnesses of resurrection ;
Will stop a hole, keep out the wind,
And make a properer window-blind,
Than great Correggio's, us'd for horse-protection .

They'll make good floor-cloths, tailors' measures,
For table coverings, be treasures,
With butchers, form for flies most charming flappers;
And Monday mornings at the tub,
When queens of suds their linen scrub,
Make for the blue-nos'd nymphs delightful wrappers.

West, I forgot last year to say,
Thy Angels did my delicacy hurt;
Their linen so much coarseness did display:
What's worse, each had not above half a shirt.
I tell thee, cambric fine as webs of spiders,
Ought to have deck'd that brace of heavenly riders.

Could not their saddle-bags, pray, jump
To something longer for each rump?
I'd buy much better at a Wapping shop,
By vulgar tongues baptiz'd a slop!
Do mind, my friend, thy hits another time,
And thou shalt cut a figure in my rhime.
Sublimely tow'ring 'midst th' Atlantic roar,
I'll waft thy praises to thy native shore ;
Where Liberty's brave sons their pœans sing,
And every scoundrel convict is a king.

Peter and John.

Correggio's best pictures were actually made use of in the royal stables in the North, to keep the wind from the tails of the horses.

America.

ODE III.

The Poet addresseth Mr. Gainsborough—Exhibiteth great Scripture Erudition—Condemneth Mr. Gainsborough's Plagiarism—Giveth the Artist wholesome Advice—Praiseth the Cornish Boy; and sayeth fine things to Jackson.

Now, Gainsborough, let me view thy shining labours,
Who, mounted on thy painting throne,
On other brushmen look'st contemptuous down,
Like our great admirals on a gang of swabbers.

My eyes broad-staring wonder leads
To yon dear nest of royal heads !
How each the soul of my attention pulls!
Suppose, my friend, thou giv'st the frame
A pretty little Bible name,
And call'st it Golgotha, the place of skulls?

Say, didst thou really paint 'em? (to be free)
An angel finish'd Luke's transcendent line—
Perchance that civil angel was with thee—
For let me perish if I think them thine.

Thy dogs are good!—but yet, to make thee stare,
The piece hath gain'd a number of deriders—
They tell thee, Genius in it had no share,
But that thou foully stol'st the curs from Snyders.

I do not blame thy borrowing a hint,
For, to be plain, there's nothing in't—
The man who scorns to do it, is a log:
An eye, an ear, a tail, a nose,
Were modesty, one might suppose;
But, z---ds! thou must not smuggle the whole dog.

O Gainsborough! Nature 'plaineth sore,
That thou hast kick'd her out of door,
Who in her bounteous gifts hath been so free,
To cull such genius out for thee—
Lo! all thy efforts without her are vain!
Go find her, kiss her, and be friends again.

Speak, Muse, who form'd that matchless head,
The Cornish Boy , in tin mines bred;
Whose native genius, like his diamonds, shone
In secret, till chance gave him to the sun?
'Tis Jackson's portrait—put the laurel on it,
Whilst to that tuneful swan I pour a sonnet.

A frame full of heads, in most humble imitation of the royal family.

A picture of boys setting dogs to fight.

Opie.

SONNET,

TO JACKSON, OF EXETER.

Enchanting harmonist! the art is thine,
Unmatch'd, to pour the soul-dissolving air
That seems poor weeping Virtue's hymn divine,
Soothing the wounded bosom of despair!

O say, what minstrel of the sky hath given
To swell the dirge, so musically lorn?
Declare, hath dove-ey'd Pity left her heaven,
And lent thy happy hand her lyre to mourn?

So sad—thy songs of hopeless hearts complain,
Love, from his Cyprian isle, prepares to fly;
He hastes to listen to thy tender strain,
And learn from thee to breathe a sweeter sigh.

ODE IV.

The great Peter, by a bold Pindaric Jump, leapeth from Sonnet to Gull-catching.

Reader, dost know the mode of catching gulls?
If not, I will inform thee—Take a board,
And place a fish upon it for the fools—
A sprat, or any fish by gulls ador'd:

Those birds, who love a lofty flight,
And sometimes bid the sun good night;
Spying the glittering bait that floats below;
Sans céremonie, down they rush
(For gulls have got no manners), on they push;
And what's the pretty consequence, I trow?
They strike their gentle jobbernowls of lead
Plump on the board—then lie like boobies dead.

Reader, thou need'st not beat thy brains about,
To make so plain an application out—
There's many a painting puppy, take my word,
Who knocks his silly head against a board—
That might have help'd the state—made a good jailor,
A nightman, or a tolerable tailor.

ODE V.

Peter discovereth more scriptural Erudition— Groweth sarcastic on the Exhibition—Giveth a wonderful Account of St. Dennis—Blusheth for the Honour of his Country—Talketh sensibly of the Duc de Chartres and the French King.

‘Find me in Sodom out,’ (exclaim'd the Lord)
‘Ten gentlemen, the place sha'n't be untown'd—
That is, I will not burn it ev'ry board:’
The dev'l a gentleman was to be found!
But this was rather hard, since Heav'n well knew
That every fellow in it was a Jew.

This house is nearly in the same condition—
Scarce are good things amid those wide abodes—
Find me ten pictures in this Exhibition,
That ought not to be d---n'd, I'll burn my Odes!
And then the world will be in fits and vapours,
Just as it was for poor Lord Mansfield's papers .

St. Dennis, when his jowl was taken off,
Hugg'd it, and kiss'd it—carried it a mile—
This was a pleasant miracle enough,
That maketh many an unbeliever smile.

‘'Sblood! 'tis a lie!’ you roar—Pray do not swear,
You may believe the wondrous tale indeed!
Speak, hav'n't you said that many a picture here
Was really done by folks without a head?

And hav'n't you sworn this instant, with surprise,
That he who did that thing, had neither hands nor eyes?

How is it that such miserable stuff
The walls of this stupendous building stains?
The council's ears with pleasure I could cuff;
Mind me—I don't say, batter out their brains.
What will Duke Chartres say when he goes home
And tells King Lewis all about the room?

Why, viewing such a set of red-hot heads,
Our Exhibition he will liken Hell to;
Then to the Monarch, who both writes and reads
Give hand-bills of the wonderous Katterfelto.
Swearing th' Academy was all so flat,
He'd rather see the wizard and his cat.

To the irreparable loss of the public, and that great law expounder, burnt! burnt in Lord George Gordon's religious conflagration.—The newspapers howled for months over their ashes.—Ohe jam satis est.

ODE VI.

The British Peter elegantly and happily depicteth his great Cousin of Thebes—Talketh of Fame —Horsewhippeth the Painters for turning their own Trumpeters.

A Desultory way of writing,
A hop and step and jump mode of inditing,
My great and wise relation Pindar, boasted:
Or (for I love the bard to flatter)
By jerks, like boar-pigs making water,
Whatever first came in his sconce,
Bounce, out it flew, like bottled ale, at once,
A cock, a bull, a whale, a soldier roasted.

What sharks we mortals are for fame!
How poacher-like we hunt the game!
No matter, for it, how we play the fool—
And yet, 'tis pleasing our own laud to hear,
And really very natural to prefer
One grain of praise to pounds of ridicule.

I've lost all patience with the trade—
I mean the painters—who can't stay
To see their works by criticism display'd
And hear what others have to say;
But calling Fame a vile old lazy strumpet,
Sound their own praise from their own penny trumpet.

Amidst the hurly-burly of my brain,
Where the mad Lyric muse, with pain
Hammering hard verse her skill employs,
And beats a tinman's shop in noise;
Catching wild tropes and similies,
That hop about like swarms of fleas—
We've lost Sir Joshua—Ah! that charming elf,
I'm griev'd to say, hath this year lost himself.

Oh! Richard, thy St. George so brave,
Wisdom and Prudence could not save
From being foully murder'd, my good friend;
Some weep to see the woful figure;
Whilst others laugh, and many snigger,
As if their mirth would never have an end.

Prithee accept th' advice I give with sorrow—
Of poor St. George the useless armour borrow
To guard thy own poor corpse—don't be a mule—
Take it—e'en now thou'rt like a hedgehog, quill'd
(Richard, I hope in God thou art not kill'd)
By the dire shafts of merc'less ridicule.

Pity it is! 'tis true 'tis pity!
As Shakspeare lamentably says,
That thou, in this observing city,
Thus runn'st a wh*r*ng after PRAISE:

With strong desires I really think thee fraught;
But, Dick, the nymph, so coy, will not be caught.

Yet, for thy consolation, mind!
In this thy wounded pride may refuge find—
Think of the sage who wanted a fine piece:
Who went, in vain, five hundred miles at least,
On Laïs, a sweet fille de joie, to feast—
The Mrs. Robinson of Greece.

Prithee give up, and save the paints and oil,
And don't whole acres of good canvass spoil:
Thou'lt say, ‘Lord! many hundreds do like me.’
Lord! so have fellows robb'd—nay, further,
Hundreds of villains have committed murther;
But, Richard, are these precedents for thee?

At the beginning of the Exhibition, the public papers swarmed with those self-adulators.

See Mr. Cosway's picture of Prudence, Wisdom, and Valour arming St. George.

ODE VII.

Peter groweth ironically facetious.

Nature's a coarse, vile, daubing jade—
I've said it often, and repeat it—
She doth not understand her trade—
Artists, ne'er mind her work, I hope you'll beat it.

Look now, for Heav'n's sake, at her skies!
What are they?—Smoke, for certainty, I know;
From chimney-tops, behold! they rise,
Made by some sweating cooks below.

Look at her dirt in lanes, from whence it comes—
From hogs, and ducks, and geese, and horses' bums.
Then tell me, decency, I must request,
Who'd copy such a dev'lish nasty beast?

Paint by the yard—your canvass spread,
Broad as the main-sail of a man of war—
Your whale shall eat up ev'ry other head,
Ev'n as the sun licks up each sneaking star!

I do assure you, bulk is no bad trick—
By bulky things both men and maids are taken—
Mind, too, to lay the paints like the mortar thick,
And make your picture look as red as bacon.
All folks love size; believe my rhime;
Burke says, 'tis part of the sublime.

A Dutchman, I forget his name—Van Grout,
Van Slabberchops, Van Stink, Van Swab,—
No matter, though I cannot make it out—
At calling names I never was a dab:

This Dutchman, then, a man of taste,
Holding a cheese that weigh'd a hundred pound,
Thus, like a Burgomaster, spoke with judgment vast
‘No poet like my broder step de ground:

He be de bestest poet, look!
Dat all de world must please;
For he heb vrite von book,
So big as all dis cheese!’

If at a distance you would paint a pig,
Make out each single bristle on his back:
Or if your meaner subject be a wig,
Let not the caxon a distinctness lack;
Else, all the lady critics will so stare,
And, angry vow, ‘'Tis not a bit like hair!’

Be smooth as glass—like Denner finish high;
Then every tongue commends—
For people judge not only by the eye,
But feel your merit by their finger ends:
Nay! closely nosing, o'er the picture dwell,
As if to try the goodness by the smell.

Claude's distances are too confus'd—
One floating scene—nothing made out—
For which he ought to be abus'd,
Whose works have been so cry'd about.

Give me the pencil, whose amazing style
Makes a bird's beak appear at twenty mile;

And to my view, eyes, legs, and claws will bring,
With ev'ry feather of his tail and wing.

Make all your trees alike, for nature's wild—
Fond of variety, a wayward child—
To blame your taste some blockheads may presume;
But mind that every one be like a broom.
Of steel and purest silver form your waters,
And make your clouds like rocks and alligators.

Whene'er you paint the moon, if you are willing
To gain applause—why paint her like a shilling:
Or Sol's bright orb—be sure to make him glow
Precisely like a guinea or a jo.
In short, to get your pictures prais'd and sold
Convert, like Midas, every thing to gold.

I see, at excellence, you'll come at last—
Your clouds are made of very brilliant stuff;
The blue on China mugs are now surpass'd,
Your sun-sets yield not to brick walls, nor buff.

In stumps of trees your art so finely thrives,
They really look like golden-hafted knives!
Go on, my lads—leave Nature's dismal hue,
And she, ere long, will come and copy you.

A Portugal coin, vulgarly called a Johannes.

ODE VIII.

The sublime Peter concludeth in a Sweat.

Thus have I finish'd, for this time,
My odes, a little wild and rambling—
May people bite like gudgeons at my rhime!
I long to see them scrambling—
Then very soon I'll give 'em more (God willing)
But this is full sufficient for a shilling.
For such a trifle, such a heap!
Indeed I sell my goods too cheap.

‘Finish'd!’ a disappointed artist cries,
With open mouth, and straining eyes;
Gaping for praise, like a young crow for meat—
‘Lord! why you have not mentioned me?’
Mention thee!
Thy impudence hath put me in a sweat—
What rage for fame attends both great and small!
Better be d**n'd, than mention'd not at all!