"What do you come here for, blackee?" the parson would exclaim.
"Why, massa, to hear your good sermon and all de prayer ob de church."
"Would not a bit or two do you more good?"
"Yes, massa doctor—me lub prayer much, but me lub money too."
The "bit or two" would then be paid, and the devotee would retire speedily from the scene. For an entire twelve-month was this black-mail exacted.
On his return to England, Wolcot, after a few unsuccessful attempts to establish himself in practice, relinquished the profession of physic as well as that of divinity, and, settling himself in London, made both fame and a good income by his writings. As a political satirist he was in his day almost without a rival, and the popularity of his numerous works would have placed a prudent man in lasting affluence. Improvidence, however, necessitated him to sell the copyright of his works to Messrs. Robinson, Golding, and Walker for an annuity of £250, payable half-yearly, during the remainder of his life. Loose agreements have always been the fashion between authors and publishers, and in the present case it was not clearly stated what "copyright of his works" meant. The publishers interpreted it as the copyright of both what the author had written at the time of making the agreement, and also of what he should subsequently write. Wolcot, however, declared that he had in the transaction only had regard to his prior productions. After some litigation and more squabbling, the publishers consented to take Wolcot's view of the case; but he never forgave them the discomfort they had caused him. His rancour against "the trade" increased with time, and inspired some of his most violent and unjust verses:—
"Fired with the love of rhyme, and, let me say,
Or virtue, too, I sound the moral lay;
Much like St. Paul (who solemnly protests
He battled hard at Ephesus with beasts),
I've fought with lions, monkeys, bulls, and bears,
And got half Noah's ark about my ears;
Nay, more (which all the courts of justice know),
Fought with the brutes of Paternoster Row."
For medicine Peter Pindar had even less respect than Garth had. He used to say "that he did not like the practice of it as an art. He was entirely ignorant, indeed, whether the patient was cured by the vis medicatrix naturæ, or the administration of a little pill, which was either directly or indirectly to reach the part affected." And for the practitioners of the art held in such low esteem, he cherished a contempt that he would at times display with true Pindaric warmth. In his two-act farce, "Physic and Delusion; or Jezebel and the Doctors," the dialogue is carried on in the following strain:—
"Blister.— By God, old prig!
Another word, and by my wig——
"Bolus.—Thy wig? Great accoucheur, well said,
'Tis of more value than thy head;
And 'mongst thy customers—poor ninnies!
Has helped thee much to bag thy guineas."