The other distinguished person who found a resting-place so near him, also a satirist and an accomplished genius with many and varied gifts, was Dr. John Wolcot, a Devonian, born at Kingsbridge, or, more accurately, Dodbrooke, who is better known as PETER PINDAR, whose lively writings were most popular in the time of the later Georges, and who then enjoyed a large measure of favour with society, whose questionable manners he so fearlessly portrayed, and for a while at least with the Court, every one of whom in turn, from the King and Prince Regent down to the royal kitchen maids and cooks, he mercilessly, cleverly, and continuously lampooned. It is with this latter curious and cosmopolitan poet and satirist that we have to do. We shall be obliged to tread carefully as we follow the track of his life and his literature, for at the very outset we must remember that the times in which he lived were coarse and in many ways objectionable, and that he was, if not a product, at least a reflection of them. We may wonder why he took upon himself the name of _Pindar_ with the added apostolic difference—_Peter_. Was it done playfully or satirically, as was usual with him? Perhaps it was a joke at the expense of his neighbours, whose talk was so seldom on literature and art, but so often on _oves et boves_. Turning to the _Biographia Classica_, which he very possibly used, we read:—“_Pindar_, the first of the lyric poets born in Bœotia.... He quitted his native country, which was proverbial for the stupidity of its inhabitants, and went to Athens, where the greatest honours were bestowed upon him.... Such was the respect paid to his memory that when the Lacedemonians took Thebes, they spared his house, as also did Alexander the Great.” To this historical fact Wolcot frequently alluded, as, for instance, in the clever poem entitled— AN ODE TO MY BARN. By Lacedæmon men attack’d, When Thebes in days of yore was sack’d, And naught the fury of the troops could hinder; What’s true yet marv’lous to rehearse, So well the common soldiers relish’d verse, They scorn’d to burn the dwelling-house of Pindar. With awe did Alexander view The house of my great cousin too, And gazing on the building, thus he sigh’d— “General Parmenio, mark that house before ye! That lodging tells a melancholy story: There Pindar liv’d (great Bard!) and there he died. “The king of Syracuse, all nations know it, Was celebrated by this lofty poet, And made immortal by his strains: Ah! could I find like him, a bard to sing me; Would any man like him a poet bring me; I’d give him a good pension for his pains.