Devonshire Characters and Strange Events

Lo, here the brutal sot! who drench’d with gin,
Lashes his wither’d nerves to tasteless sin;
Squeals out (with oaths and blasphemies between)
The impious song, the tale, the jest obscene;
And careless views, amidst the barbarous roar,
His few grey hairs strew, one by one, the floor.

Oh! check, a moment check, the obstreperous din
Of guilty joy, and hear the voice within;
The small, still voice of Conscience, hear it cry:
An atheist thou mayst live, but canst not die.

For me – why shouldst thou with abortive toil,
Waste the poor remnant of thy spluttering oil
In filth and falsehood? Ignorant and absurd!
Pause from thy pains, and take my closing word;
Thou canst not think, nor have I power to tell,
How much I scorn and loathe thee – so – Farewell.

Wolcot was so infuriated that he sought to meet Gifford. They happened to meet in Wright’s shop in Piccadilly in the same year in which the epistle had appeared. A scuffle ensued, in which Wolcot was the aggressor, and got the worst of it. Peter retaliated with “A Cut at a Cobbler,” but it fell flat.

The Prince of Wales, that “First Gentleman in Europe,” had encouraged Peter, and is said to have had the poet’s proof sheets forwarded to him before publication. Peter had licked the Prince’s dirty boots, and hoped for his reward. But when the Prince became Regent he cooled towards the savage yet servile poet, and the indignant Peter gave vent to his feelings of disappointment and resentment in a poem in 1811, “Carlton House, or the Disappointed Bard.”

In Wolcot’s later years his sight was affected, and in May, 1811, he was almost totally blind. He still, however, continued to write and publish. Four volumes of his works had been published by Walker in 1794, a fifth was added in 1801. He died 14 January, 1819, in Somerstown, and was buried 21 January, in S. Paul’s Church, Covent Garden. By his own expressed wish, his coffin was placed beside that of Samuel Butler, author of Hudibras.

In appearance Wolcot was “a thick, squat man, with a large dark and flat face, and no speculation in his eye.” His portrait, by Opie, is in the National Portrait Gallery, where is also a miniature of him by Lethbridge.

He was never married. Indeed, he flouted at marriage. He was a sensualist. In an “Apology for Keeping Mistresses” he wrote: —

O Love! for heaven’s sake, never leave my heart;
No! thou and I will never, never part:
Go, Wedlock, to the men of leaden brains,
Who hate variety, and sigh for chains.

When Wolcot sought to be sentimental, he was unreal. One piece does show real tenderness of feeling, and that must be given in conclusion, to show that he had a glimmering now and then of better feelings than spite, envy, and resentment.

The old shepherd’s dog, like his master, was gray;
His teeth all departed, and feeble his tongue;
Yet where’er Colin went, he was follow’d 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 slumbers so sweet,
His faithful companion crawl’d constantly nigh,
Placed his head on his lap, and lay down at his feet.

When winter was heard on the hill and the plain,
And torrents descended, and cold was the wind,
If Colin 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 Colin’s hand he rear’d up his weak head,
Then fell back, clos’d his eyes, and, ah! clos’d them for ever.

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

DR. J. W. BUDD

The Budd family was one of tenants under the earls of Bedford in Goodleigh, Landkey, and Swymbridge parishes. Parkham and Newton St. Petrock also contained Budds, the name occurring in the registers as far back as 1563. The name does not occur in the Heralds’ Visitation of Devon as of a family possessing a right to bear arms. Nor does the name occur in Lysons’ Devon. A Budd was Master of Caius College in the time of James I. John Turnarine Budd lived at Tancreek, in the parish of St. Columb Minor. His father before him, the Rev. Richard Budd, was perpetual curate of St. Columb Minor, and married Gertrude, daughter of John Turnarine. He died in 1787. John Turnarine Budd was the father of Samuel Budd, educated at Truro Grammar School. Samuel settled as a doctor at North Tawton, and there brought up his nine sons, all intended by him for the medical profession. Five of them went to Cambridge, every one of whom became a Wrangler, and four obtained fellowships. The most famous of these was William Budd, born in 1811, who died in 1880. On one occasion typhoid fever broke out in North Tawton, and caused many deaths. Dr. Budd at once divined the cause; indeed, he was the first man thoroughly to trace the fever to its source, and he persisted in his urgency to have the water supply thoroughly overhauled, and, succeeding, put a stop to the fever. He published a work on typhoid fever in 1873, and proved beyond dispute how it originated, how it was communicated, and how alone it could be arrested. When the terrible rinderpest broke out in England in 1866, Budd was loud in his recommendations of “a poleaxe and a pit of quicklime” as the true solution of the difficulty, and although derided at first, this view was ultimately and successfully adopted.

Rarely has a whole family proved so able – and, what is more, proved the excellence of a home education, where the father is competent to give it. Samuel Budd, the surgeon of North Tawton, managed to teach his nine sons himself in the intervals of his professional calls; and he taught them so well that not one of his sons but made his mark in the world.

Samuel, the eldest son, was born in 1806. He was one of the seven who embraced the medical profession. He became a member of the College of Physicians in 1859. He died, aged seventy-nine, in 1885. George was born in February, 1808, and became a Fellow of the College in 1841. He died in March, 1882. Richard was born in April, 1809, became a Fellow of the College of Physicians in 1863, and died in February, 1896. William has been already mentioned.

John Wreford, the subject of this memoir, was born in 1813, practised at Plymouth, and died 11 November, 1873. The other sons were Charles Octavius, Fellow of Pembroke College, Cambridge; Dr. Christian Budd, of North Tawton; and Francis Nonus, born 1823, became eighth Wrangler in 1846, Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, called to the Bar, Lincoln’s Inn, 1848, practised as barrister for many years at Bristol, bought a little property at Batworthy, Chagford, on the Teign, where he made a fine collection of flint weapons and tools found in his fields, where was once a “station” for their manufacture.

Doctor John Wreford Budd, as already said, practised in Plymouth. He was a man of rough manners, blunt and to the point in all he said. When Roundell Palmer was electioneering in Plymouth in 1847 he stayed with Budd, who was very proud of his guest. Meeting Mr. William Collier in the street, he stopped him, and without any preliminaries said: “Can your cook make soup as clear as sherry? Mine can, sir – soup like that every day, whilst Mr. Palmer was staying with me.”

Another time, when he had some friends to lunch, there was some delay. He took out his watch, placed it before him on the table, and turning to Mrs. Budd, said: “What a thing this onpunctuality is! If it be not brought to table in two minutes, I’ll dra’e it all out at the window,” spoken in the broadest Devonian dialect.

A gentleman writes: “An excellent cook came to us from the service of Dr. Budd. She was epileptic, and the Doctor’s violence increased her trouble. With us she remained for many years until age made her unfit for work. She told me that once preparations were well advanced for a dinner party, when the Doctor came down to the kitchen, as was his wont. She had been plucking a brace of pheasants, and some blood from the beaks had stained her apron. This defilement roused the Doctor to such frenzy that he seized and flung out of the window or smashed up all the prepared dishes. As the guests were due to arrive very shortly, Mrs. Budd, in a state of distraction, sent all over the town for such cold joints, sweets, etc., as could be obtained from hotels, confectioners, and other caterers. With this scratch meal she was obliged to regale her guests, without being able to explain the reason of the novelty. But some inkling of the truth came to be known or was guessed by her visitors.

“Dr. Stewart, of Plymouth, told me one day that a friend of his passing Dr. Budd’s house was startled by the sudden descent of a leg of mutton in the street, flung out of the window by the irate Doctor because either somewhat over-or underdone.

“Dr. Budd would often, when giving a dinner party, rise at the conclusion of the first courses, saying ‘I shan’t take any sweets,’ would go to the fireside and fill a long ‘churchwarden’ clay, then, leaning against the mantelpiece, calmly smoke and join in the conversation of the guests as they continued at table.

“He was a tall, heavily-built man, with a full, high-coloured face, not intellectual in appearance, and with warm brown hair and side whiskers.”

He was out shooting one day with Mr. Calmady. A pheasant rose, and both men raised their guns, and the bird came down like lead.

“That’s my burd,” shouted Budd.

“I really think not; I am sure I brought it down,” said Mr. Calmady.

“It’s my burd, I zay. I’ll swear to it. Never missed in my life, any more than blundered in my profession. It’s mine.”

“Very well. Yours it shall be.”

Up rose another pheasant. Each hastened to load, when it turned out that the Doctor’s gun had not been discharged at all.

A gentleman writes me: “My mother remembers travelling by train in the same carriage with the Doctor. Two other men also got in; and one, who may have been the worse for liquor, began grossly to insult the other; whereupon the Doctor interfered and took the part of the insulted man. ‘What business is this of yours?’ shouted the offender. At this moment the train drew up in the Plymouth station. Dr. Budd jumped out, turned up his sleeves, squared his fists, and shouted, ‘Now then, you blackguard, I’ll show you what I have to do with it,’ and knocked him down on the platform.”

A friend took Budd out in his yacht. As the vessel skimmed through the smooth waters of the Sound – “He’s a fool, a cursed fool,” said Budd, “he who has the means and don’t keep a yacht.”