This is the seventeenth item from Robert Dymond's book: "Things New and Old Concerning the Parish of Widecombe-in-the-Moor and its Neighbourhood" (1876)

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JONAS COAKER, THE DARTMOOR POET.

NO description of Dartmoor would be complete without a mention of Jonas Coaker, the Dartmoor poet, - for there is a real living Dartmoor poet ; not one of the many authors who have extolled the beauties of the moor in prose or verse, knew it better than the poet whose character and writings are so favourably known to all who are truly familiar with that wild region. Felicia Hemans wrote a prize poem on Dartmoor, rich in graceful sentiment and musical rhythm, but betraying so faint an appreciation of its true spirit as to suggest a doubt whether the gifted authoress ever saw the “wild and wondrous” subject of her verse. Carrington’s vivid word pictures of its scenery, and keen sense of its solemn grandeur, have given him high rank amongst the poets of the “West Countrie,” but though his verse will endure, Carrington, alas! has long since passed away. The poet, from whose lonely home, near Bellaford Tor, there issues in our own day full many a rhyme, may not be quite so widely known. Of himself, Jonas Coaker tells us in his poem on Dartmoor:

“ I drew my breath first on this moor;

There my forefathers dwell’d ;

Its hills and dales I’ve traversed o'er

Its desert parts beheld.”

He proceeds to describe its hoary hills, round which so many storms have raged in vain, its soft rivers,” and its “ granite piles.” Something, too, of its climate he tells us. -

“It ’s oft enveloped in a fog-—

Because it ’s up so high.”

Another verse displays the amount of historical knowledge which has penetrated to this far-away “ poets’ corner,” and describes a feature of the moor, which, though we may criticise the use of the word “ornament,” as applied to it, has lately had its interest enhanced by becoming the abode for a space of a very celebrated.and truly great man.

“ Another ornament we find

Stands on this dreary moor,

Which was first built and designed

For Prisoners of War.

But now it ’s turned to other use,

And convicts are put there,

Whose labours make the land produce

Much better than before.

Hundreds of convicts now are placed

To cultivate the land,

Which ever was a desert waste,

Untouched by human hand.”

Jonas Coaker is the rate collector for the parish of Lydford! A somewhat astounding statement, perchance, to anyone who happens to know the wide extent of what is supposed to be the largest parish in England. Dr. Johnson was pleased to define a tax collector as ‘ a wretch hired to collect a hateful impost.” Had he known our genial poet, he had thought better of his class, and would, perhaps, like many another, have gladly joined company with him and his red bag, as they pursued their rounds together. The great doctor might have heard, in the quaint language of Devon, many a strange tale of moor and fen, and might, possibly, have modified many of his opinions of things in general.

In a modest apology prefixed to a poetical “ Sketch of the several Denominations of Religion,’-’ Jonas Coaker informs his reader that “ he is of a penetrating and enquiring mind,” and that he has read “the most intelligent books and histories,” so that his conversation must naturally prove not only entertaining, but instructive. In the summer of 1873, Jonas Coaker had much stirring of spirit anent the Dartmoor Manoeuvres. Happily the rain which damped valour did not wash away genius, for our poet has given us a description of the manoeuvres, that offers a lively contrast to the more hackneyed and technical efforts of mere newspaper correspondents. We are enabled to present a fair sample of our poet’s quality in the following “Poem on Widecombe,” written expressly for this work, and to the recital of which by himself we have enjoyed the singular advantage of listening. The reader will rejoice with us in knowing that Jonas Coaker still reads and writes in his obscure dwelling on Dartmoor, and will cordially echo the words (slightly parodied) of another celebrated poet :—

Now let us sing, long live the Queen

And Jonas, long live he;

And when he next shall verses write,

Oh, send them unto me.

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