The History of Johnny Quæ Genus, the Little Foundling of the Late Doctor Syntax.
by William Combe · English · Gutenberg #42299 · 357,346 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The History of Johnny Quæ Genus, the Little Foundling of the Late Doctor Syntax.
Author: William Combe
Illustrator: Thomas Rowlandson
Release date: March 10, 2013 [eBook #42299]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORY OF JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS, THE LITTLE FOUNDLING OF THE LATE DOCTOR SYNTAX. ***
THE ILLUSTRATED POCKET LIBRARY
OF PLAIN AND COLOURED BOOKS
THE HISTORY OF
JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS
What various views of our uncertain State
These playful, unassuming Rhymes relate!
ANON.
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
QUÆ GENUS on his JOURNEY To LONDON.]
THE HISTORY
OF
JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS
THE LITTLE FOUNDLING OF
THE LATE DOCTOR SYNTAX
A POEM BY THE AUTHOR OF
THE THREE TOURS
WITH TWENTY-FOUR
COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
BY THOMAS ROWLANDSON
A NEW EDITION
METHUEN & CO.
LONDON
1903
NOTE
This Issue is founded on the Edition published by R. Ackermann in the
year 1822
HISTORY
OF
QUÆ GENUS, ETC.
The favour which has been bestowed on the different TOURS OF DOCTOR
SYNTAX, has encouraged the Writer of them to give a HISTORY OF THE
FOUNDLING, who has been thought an interesting Object in the latter of
those Volumes; and it is written in the same style and manner, with a
view to connect it with them.
This Child of Chance, it is presumed, is led through a track of Life
not unsuited to the peculiarity of his Condition and Character, while
its varieties, as in the former Works, are represented by the Pencil
of MR. ROWLANDSON with its accustomed characteristic Felicity.
The Idea of an English GIL BLAS predominated through the whole of this
Volume; which must be considered as fortunate in no common degree, if
its readers, in the course of their perusal, should be disposed to
acknowledge even a remote Similitude to the incomparable Work of _Le
Sage_.
The AUTHOR.
PREFACE
This prolonged work is, at length, brought to a close.--It has grown
to this size, under rare and continuing marks of public favour; while
the same mode of Composition has been employed in the last, as in the
former Volumes. They are all equally indebted to MR. ROWLANDSON'S
talents.
It may, perhaps, be considered as presumption in me, and at my age, to
sport even with my own Dowdy Muse, but, from the extensive patronage
which DOCTOR SYNTAX has received, it may be presumed that, more or
less, he has continued to amuse: And I, surely, have no reason to be
dissatisfied, when Time points at my eightieth Year, that I can still
afford some pleasure to those who are disposed to be pleased.
The AUTHOR.
_May 1, 1821._
LIST OF THE PLATES
Journey to London _To face the Title_
In search of Service _To face p._ 13
Relating his History to Sir Jeffery " 17
At Oxford " 42
Conflict with Lawyer Gripe-all " 44
With the Sheep-Shearers " 59
Assisting a Traveller " 63
In the Sports of the Kitchen " 75
In the Service of Sir Jeffery Gourmand " 81
With a Quack Doctor " 139
With a Spendthrift " 150
Attending on a Sporting Finale " 162
In the Service of a Miser " 174
With the Money Lenders " 179
Officiating at a Gaming Table " 180
With a Portrait Painter " 188
Gives a Grand Party " 201
Interrupts a Tête à Tête " 203
Committed with a riotous Dancing Party
to the Watch-House " 212
Engaged with Jovial Friends,
or who sings best " 214
The Party breaking up and
QUÆ GENUS breaking down " 220
Turned out of a House which
he mistakes for his own " 222
With Creditors " 229
Discovers his Father " 248
THE HISTORY
OF
JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS
OR
The Foundling of Doctor Syntax
CANTO I
Johnny Quæ Genus! what a name
To offer to the voice of Fame!
(Though she 'tis hop'd may condescend
To act as Little Johnny's friend)
This may be said, when first the eye
Does, by a careless glance, descry
The striking range of marshall'd words
Which a gay TITLE-PAGE affords.
But what's a name, as SHAKESPEARE says,
It neither gives nor lessens praise;
Adds no fresh odour to the rose,
Nor any other flower that blows:
Whether with rare or common name
The fragrance will be just the same.
'Tis not a title can confer
The good or ill of character,
_HOWARDS_ have been both beat and bang'd,
And some with ancient names been hang'd:
Look at a ship with convicts stor'd
What noble names are oft on board!
It is the living, current course
Or of the better or the worse,
That stamps, whate'er may be the name,
Or with a good or evil fame.
But howsoe'er the thing we view
Our little Johnny's title's new:
Or for the child or for the man,
In an old phrase, 'tis _spick_ and _span_.
Besides, as most folk do agree
To find a charm in novelty,
'Tis the first time that Grammar rule
Which makes boys tremble when at school,
Did with the name an union crave
Which at the font a sponsor gave.
But whether 'twas in hum'rous mood
Or by some classic whim pursued,
Or as, in Eton's Grammar known,
It bore relation to his own,
Syntax, it was at Whitsuntide,
And a short time before he died,
In pleasant humour, after dinner,
Surnam'd, in wine, the little sinner.
And thus, amid the table's roar, }
Gave him from good, old _Lilly's_ store, }
A name which none e'er had before. }
--'Squire Worthy, who, perchance was there,
Promis'd the Doctor's wish to share,
That want, at least might not annoy
The progress of the Foundling Boy.
"--Syntax," He said, "We'll try between us
To make the fortune of QUÆ GENUS:
You feed his mind with learning's food,
And I'll protect him if he's good."
"While I," said smiling _Dickey Bend_,
"Will add my mite as _Johnny's_ friend;
Nor shall he want the scraps of knowledge
Which he can pick up at my College."
--Thus, as they did the bumper ply
To Johnny's future destiny,
The warm, almost parental heart
Of Mrs. Syntax bore its part;
And her cheek wore a smile of joy
As she beheld th' unconscious boy,
Who, careless of the kind debate,
Play'd with the cherries on his plate.
But such is life's uncertain hour,
And such is fate's tyrannic power,
That while our comforts smile around
The fatal dart inflicts the wound:
Thus e'er another month was past
Syntax, alas! had breath'd his last.
Whene'er he heard the widow sigh
QUÆ GENUS wept he scarce knew why:
Of a kind friend fate had bereft him,
And an odd name was all he left him.
His urchin fancy only thought
As his enquiring mind was taught,
That his adopted sire was gone
Where the good go to worlds unknown,
To happy regions plac'd on high
Above the blue and starry sky,
Where, he was with the hope endued,
That he should go, if he were good.
But the good lady took him home
And kept him many a year to come;
When he grew up a charming youth,
In whom simplicity and truth
Did o'er his ev'ry thought preside;
While, with such an anxious guide,
Life smil'd and seem'd to promise fair,
That it would answer to the care
Which her affection had bestow'd,
To set him on his future road:
But when she died poor John was hurl'd
Into a bustling, tricking world.
He had, 'tis true, all she could leave;
She gave him all there was to give;
Of all she had she made him heir,
But left it to a lawyer's care:
No wonder then that he was cheated
And her fond anxious hopes defeated:
So that instead of his possessing
The fruits of her last, dying blessing;
He had, as it turn'd out, to rue }
What foul rascality could do; }
And his own wild vagaries too. }
Here, gentle reader, here begins
The account of our young Hero's sins:
But all which thus far form'd his fate,
QUÆ GENUS will himself relate,
And what truth bids him to rehearse,
My hum-strum Muse records in verse.
Thus I proceed,--my humble strain }
Has hap'ly pleas'd.----I may be vain,-- }
But still it hopes to please again. }
* * * * *
In this great overwhelming town,
Certain receptacles are known,
Where both the sexes shew their faces
To boast their talents and get places:
Not such as kings and courts can give,
Not such as noble folk receive,
But those which yield their useful aid
To common wants or gen'ral trade,
Or finely furbish out the show
That fashion does on life bestow.
Here those who want them may apply
For toiling powers and industry,
On whom the nervous strength's bestow'd
To urge the wheel or bear the load.
Here all who want, may pick and chuse
Each service of domestic use:
The laundry, kitchen, chamber, dairy,
May always find an Ann or Mary,
While in th' accommodating room,
He who wants coachman, footman, groom,
Or butler staid, may come and have,
With such as know to dress and shave.
--The art and skill may here be sought
In ev'ry thing that's sold and bought,
In all the well spread counter tells
Of knowledge keen in yards and ells;
Adepts in selling and in buying
And perfect in the modes of lying;
Who flatter misses in their teens,
And harangue over bombazeens,
Can, in glib words, nor fear detection,
Arrange each colour to complexion:
Can teach the beau the neckcloth's tie,
With most becoming gravity;
Or with a consequential air,
Turn up the collar to a hair.
--Besides, your nice shop-women too,
May at a call be brought to view,
Who, with swift fingers, so bewitching,
Are skill'd in ev'ry kind of stitching;
Can trim the hat, arrange the bonnet,
And place the tasty ribbon on it.
In short, here all to service bound,
May in their various shapes be found.
--From such who may display their charms,
By smirking looks and active arms,
To those in kitchen under ground
Amid black pots and kettles found:
From such as teach the early rules,
Or in the male or female schools,
To those of an inferior breed,
Who ne'er have known to write or read:
From those who do the laws perplex
In toil at an attorney's desk,
To such as pass their busy lives
In cleaning shoes or cleaning knives.
To these, perhaps, an added score }
Might swell the tiresome list or more, }
But here description says, "give o'er." }
In such enregistering shop
One morn a figure chanc'd to pop;
(But here I beg it may be guess'd,
Of these same shops it was the best,
His hat was rather worse for wear, }
His clothing, too, was somewhat bare, }
His boots might say, "we've travell'd far." }
His left hand an umbrella bore
And something like a glove he wore:
Clean was his very sun-burnt skin
Without a long hair on his chin,
While his lank face, in ev'ry feature,
Proclaim'd a keen, discerning nature;
And when he spoke there was an air }
Of something not quite common there: }
His manner good, his language fair. }
A double cape of curious make,
Fell from his shoulders down his back,
As if art did the folds provide
A very awkward hump to hide;
But, if 'twere so, the cunning fail'd,
For still the treach'rous bunch prevail'd.
By chatting here and talking there,
He did his curious mind prepare
With all the means by which to gain
The end his wishes would obtain;--
Then with half-humble, solemn face,
He sought the ruler of the place,
Who boasted an establish'd fame,
And _Sharpsight_ was his well-known name.
But ere we in our way proceed
To tell of many a future deed,
It may, we doubt not, be as well,
To save all guess-work, just to tell,
Of the part now upon the stage
QUÆ GENUS was the personage.
Fortune's dark clouds, for some time past
That learned title had o'ercast,
And he had borrow'd names in plenty,
He might have gone by more than twenty;
But now arriv'd in this great town }
Without a fear of being known }
He thought he might assume his own: }
And he had weighty reasons too
For what he was about to do,
Which, we believe, a future page
Will reconcile as reasons sage.
At length his statement he began,
When thus the conversation ran.
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
QUÆ GENUS, IN SEARCH OF SERVICE.]
QUÆ GENUS.
"'Tis the first time I e'er applied
To ask your counsel for my guide:
But strange events have brought me here,
And at your desk I now appear,
But not without the means to pay,
For all you do and all you say.
And here, good Sir, there's no concealing
We must be cautious in our dealing:
I want employment that will give
Means to be honest and to live.
Such is my warm, heart-felt desire,
Such is the boon I now require,--
And if you do my wishes aid,
I tell you Sir,--_you shall be PAID_."
Sticking his pen behind his ear
And with a keen enquiring leer,
_Sharpsight_ the curious figure view'd,
And thus the important talk pursued.
SHARPSIGHT.
"In answer to your just desire,
Permit me fairly to enquire,
Which to my ledger is transmitted,
For what your qualities are fitted?
And, in good faith, I wish to know,
What you have done, and what can do?
Nay, to whose word I may refer
For your good name and character.
Such is essential to the case,
Such are the first steps to a place,
Of whate'er kind that place may be,
Whether of high or low degree;
Without them no access to station,
No character, no situation.
--What you assert, you say is true,
I'm sure, my friend, I wish so too:
For what you ask, as you describe,
Is ask'd by all the serving tribe:
'Tis that to which they all pretend,
But those I never can commend
In honour to my own good name, }
And to this room's establish'd fame, }
But what the rigid truth may claim. }
Though as you look this place around,
But common folk are to be found:
Coachmen who sit without a whip;
Footmen, without a call to skip;
Gardeners who have lost their spade,
And Journeymen without a trade;
Clerks whose pens have long been idle;
With grooms quite dull, who ask a bridle;
Cooks who exclaim for roast and boil'd,
And nurs'ry-maids without a child;
Young, sprightly girls who long to clamber
From drawing-rooms to upper chamber,
Ready the drudg'ry to assail
Of scrubbing-brush, and mop and pail;
Stout porters who for places tarry,
Whose shoulders ache for loads to carry;
But character they must maintain,
Or here they come, and pay in vain.
In short, were I to count them o'er,
I could name twenty kinds or more,
Who patient and impatient wait
About this busy, crowded gate.
--But you might higher claimants see
Within this crowded registry,
Who do not at the desk appear,
Nor e'er are seen in person here;
But they are charged a larger fee,
Both for success and secrecy.
Thus you must see how much depends,
To gain your object and your ends,
That you should truly let me know
What you have done,--what you can do;
And I, once more, beg to refer
To your good name and character."
QUÆ GENUS.
"I do profess I can engage
With noble, simple, and with sage.
Though young as yet, I've been so hurl'd
About what you would call the world,
That well I know it, yet 'tis true,
I can be very honest too.
--Of the good name which you demand,
I tell you--I've not one at hand.
Of friends, I once had ample store,
But those fair, prosp'rous days are o'er,
And I must mourn it to my cost
That friends are dead, and gone, and lost;
But if to conscience 'tis referr'd,
My conscience says, Sir, take his word.
--Of character, though I have none,
Perhaps, Sir, I can purchase one:
I, from a corner of my coat,
May just pluck out a pretty note;
Which, with a view to gain an end,
Might, in an urgent want, befriend.
Now, if to place me, you contrive, }
Where I may have a chance to thrive; }
I'll give this note, if I'm alive. }
It may be rather worth your while;
Perhaps it may awake a smile."
_Sharpsight_ appear'd to look astray,
But still he took a glance that way.
"I'm not," he said, "to be beguil'd;"
Though when he glanc'd that way, he _smil'd_,
And, turning to the other side,
In a calm, soften'd tone replied.
SHARPSIGHT.
"Here money is not that way earn'd,
My reputation is concern'd;
But still I can my duty do,
And strive to be a friend to you.
_Sir Jeff'ry Gourmand_ you may suit;
A Knight renown'd, of high repute,
As all who know his name can tell,
For being rich and living well;
A gen'rous man, but full of whim,
And you may be the thing for him:
In such a way your case I'll mention
As shall awaken his attention.
And now, my worthy friend, I pray,
Mind well what I'm about to say:
Without a creature to refer
Or for good name or character,
And in a state which seems to be
Involv'd in awkward mystery;
And I shall add, with your excuse
For the remark which I must use,
That either accident or nature
Has, on your back, plac'd such a feature,
That were you e'en my dearest friend,
I dare not such an one commend
To any lady worth a groat,
Unless to serve the dame for nought.
--Just turn around, and you may see
A Lady in deep scrutiny,
With a nice quizzing-glass in hand,
Glancing across a liv'ried band;
And once a month she does appear
On this domestic errand here.
If of a maid she wants the use,
Her woman comes to pick and chuse;
But if a man,--she is so nice,
She comes herself to make the choice.
A widow rich, who gives high wages,
If they should please, whom she engages:
But he must be of such a size,
And look so well in her keen eyes,
That she scarce one in twenty sees
Fit to wear her rich liveries.
There's one who has a squinting eye--
I know full well she'll pass him by;
On one poor rogue she'll turn her back
Because his frightful beard is black;
Another will not eat her bread
Because his frizzled crop is red;
These are too weak,--and those too strong,
And some an inch too short or long:
She'll take the best-made of the bunch,
But would be fainting at a hunch.
--Thus then, according to my plan,
_Sir Jeff'ry Gourmand_ is the man;
But to his questions pray reply
Without the veil of mystery:
Your story from your very youth,
If he should ask it--tell the truth;
Your errors fail not to unfold--
In telling them be firm, be bold;
While you your better virtues own,
E'en let your mischiefs all be known,
But let not folly blazen forth
Whate'er you have of conscious worth;
Express the ill with down-cast eye,
And veil the good with modesty;
Though, if you can with prudence poke
Into your tale a funny joke,
Fear not, 'tis what his humour loves,
As his own daily chit-chat proves;
And while he does his bev'rage quaff,
At what he says--be sure you laugh.
But should you not his service suit,
He will not play the churlish brute;
And if not gone too far astray,
May serve you in some other way.
Thus you must see I do my best--
To Fortune I shall leave the rest:
But now I see _Sir Jeff'ry_ enter,
And I must leave you to your venture."
_Sharpsight_ then after humbly greeting
This huge man-mountain of good eating,
For a few minutes in his ear,
Told that which he alone could hear.
The Knight then cast a curious eye
On Johnny, who was standing by,
And just enquir'd from whence he came,
What was his age, and what his name;
Whom he had serv'd, and why he left
The place of which he was bereft?
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
QUÆ GENUS READING TO SIR JEFFERY GOURMAND.]
QUÆ GENUS.
"If, Sir, it were not thought too free,
If I might take the liberty,
I would not wish you here to wait
While I my strange condition state,
As it would take an hour or more,
My various story to explore;
Tho' 'tis not such, that I should
fear The tale to tell or you to hear:
You, who will kind allowance make
For wants that press, and hearts that ache,
And passions that restraint disdain
When justice sues, and sues in vain;
And 'tis to that tale I refer
For name, for age and character,
Whom I have serv'd, and what the scene
Where my frail manhood's years have been:
And if you will but condescend
To my young hist'ry to attend,
And will not the fond hope deny me,
That you, good Sir, will take and try me,
And let my rude, misgotten shape
From your observance to escape,
You will command,--I will obey;
When you may see from day to day,
How far, Sir, I may make pretence
To your good grace and confidence."
"Then be it so," the Knight replied,
"I trust I may be satisfied.
I'm told there's something droll about you,
But droll'ry will not make me scout you;
Nor do I mind, my friend, the pack,
Which you now wear upon your back:
We're rather equal on that score--
Your's is behind, and mine's before;
Nay, when of both I take a view,
Mine is the larger of the two."
QUÆ GENUS, with a ready grace,
Lifted his hat to hide his face;
But still he so arrang'd the screen
That his gay visage might be seen;
Which seem'd to burst as from the hit
Of the fat Knight's spontaneous wit,
Who chuckled first, and then made known
His further will to laughing John.
SIR JEFFERY.
"Be punctual;--at the hour of ten
We will, to-morrow, meet again;
When I will hear, without delay,
The whole which you have got to say:
But know, you will offend my feeling
If you should shuffle from plain dealing.
I'm serious now:--on that depends,
How far we may continue friends."
QUÆ GENUS fail'd not, at the hour,
To pass _Sir Jeff'ry's_ chamber door;
Where, seated in a cushion'd chair
As large as some post-chaises are,
And though it may be strange to tell,
The Knight contriv'd to fill it well;
He seem'd attentive to peruse
The pages of the daily news:
When, with a look and with a loll,
As if he thought on something droll,
And in a sort of pleasant glee,
He thus commenc'd the colloquy.--
SIR JEFFERY.
"First, I must ask to know your name,
Your parentage, and whence you came;
And when these trifling things are past,
The master whom you liv'd with last."
QUÆ GENUS.
"QUÆ GENUS, is the name I bear."
SIR JEFFERY.
"QUÆ GENUS? 'tis a name so rare,
It never met my ear or eye,
If I can trust my memory.
I mean the surname that you own,
By which your family is known:
Not what your sponsor's pedant hammer
Beat into use from Lilly's grammar.
I want your father's name."--
QUÆ GENUS.
"'Twere well!
If I that honour'd name could tell;
I must suppose that such a creature
Was form'd in her own way, by Nature!
That I had parents must be true;
A father and a mother too,
But who they were I never heard,
Nor has the secret yet appear'd:
They're known to Heaven,--but to me
My birth's a perfect mystery:
Though this I'm sure that I can tell--
It was not worth a miracle."
SIR JEFFERY.
"By whom, then, was QUÆ GENUS given?"
QUÆ GENUS.
"By one who is a saint in Heaven;
If ever mortal beings go
To bliss above, from ills below:
This I believe, nay I would swear,
That such is his allotment there;
And I would kiss the book I trow,
The holy book that tells me so.
A Grammar Title was his own,
And therefore 'twas--he gave me one:
'Twas DOCTOR SYNTAX, and I'm proud
That 'tis to him the name I ow'd."
SIR JEFFERY.
"I knew him not, but this I know,
What pleasure to his works I owe;
And you will meet my partial whim--
Prove that you e'er belong'd to him.
Treasur'd within that curtain'd case,
His works possess a favour'd place;
And if the binding aught can tell,
They show that I respect them well.
Go, take a volume down, and look--
Perhaps, my friend, you know the book."
QUÆ GENUS.
"I know it well, as you will see,
It tells my infant history:
This leaf will partly save the task
Of answ'ring what you're pleas'd to ask.
That little infant whom you see }
In basket laid,--that, Sir, is me, }
Now grown to sad maturity. }
--It was within an Inn of Court,
Where busy Lawyers plead and sport;
Upon those stairs and thus enclos'd,
My new-born figure was expos'd.
Of mercy they had little share }
Whose cruel purpose plac'd me there, }
And left me to the Lawyer's care; }
For, had th' Attorney been in town,
Who did those very chambers own,
I doubt what might have been my fate:
The thing was strange--the hour was late;
The work-house might be distant far,
And dubious been the nursings there.
But one, perchance, possess'd the floor
When I was laid beside the door,
Who would have felt a crying sin
Had he not ta'en the stranger in.
When I this pictur'd figure view,
So innocent--so helpless too,
A smile's contending with a tear,
On seeing what I now appear:
A pretty figure for a casket,--
A little Falstaff in the basket."
SIR JEFFERY.
"Further of this you need not tell,
I know the curious story well;
At least as far as there appears
In what regards your infant years,
And all that did your fate betide,
Till your good friend the Doctor died.
--But now,--Of _Masters_ name the last
Whom you have serv'd for some time past."
QUÆ GENUS.
"_Masters_, an' please you, I had none,
And _Mistresses_, I had but one:
Indeed, Sir, it may not be civil,
But O, she is a very devil,
Which I am sure you will allow
Soon as you come her name to know,
Tho' oft and oft, and o'er and o'er,
You must have heard it spoke before,
But not in any pressing hour
Have you been subject to her power.
It might not be a thing of course
But I her servant was perforce,
For sure as my name is QUÆ GENUS
There seem'd a contract made between us;
And her sad service I must rue,
If I come not to live with you;
With her I must continue still,
If it proves not your gen'rous will,
To receive me, Sir, from her
With what she gives of character,
For she sometimes can make pretence
To ask heart-felt benevolence."
SIR JEFFERY.
"This is most strange, I do declare! }
But pray what figure did she bear }
While you th' unwilling servant were?" }
QUÆ GENUS.
"An ever-varying form she wore,
As ever changeful Proteus bore:
But or in motion she, or still;
Her ev'ry hour is mark'd with ill.
She looks best pleas'd when sorrow flows,
She can disdain when virtue bows:
Labour and penury and pain
And sad disease compose her train,
While vain complaint and discontent
Form her pale-fac'd establishment."
SIR JEFF'RY now let loose a smile
As if some fancy did beguile
And play upon his easy thought,
With light, amusive mischief fraught;
And this sarcastic question prov'd
The pleasantry _Sir Jeff'ry_ lov'd.
"When she was in a spiteful humour,
What said she of that _pretty tumour_?
The which without a wish to pry,
Must sometimes meet her wand'ring eye.
Did she ne'er stroke your circling back,
Nor e'er salute it with a smack;
Or when she was dispos'd to sneer
Compare it to a Hemisphere,
Deck it with sun and moon and stars,
With Venus, Mercury and Mars,
Or cover with her liv'ry's robe
The Continents of half the Globe;
Or like an Atlas, did she flout you
As you bore half the world about you,
When you might show it as a sight,
And gain no common profit by't;
Blend with the Panorama's skill,
In all the pride of printed bill,
Deliver'd with a ready hand
Through Leic'ster-fields or in the Strand."
The Knight's loud laughter then succeeded,--
And Johnny laughing too, proceeded.
"How happy you who thus can joke
And wrap me in your funny cloak,
Nay, when your mirth, Sir, may think fit,
Can fill my crooked back with wit;
Can even make me almost proud,
Of that self-same prepost'rous load.
You may, perhaps, be not aware,
But 'tis the truth which I declare,
I would serve you for half the wages
Which common servitude engages,
Provided you would pay the rest
In such nice puns and merry jest;
I would with joy sign the receipt,
For half in cash, and half in wit."
"Well, well, go on," _Sir Jeff'ry_ said,
While his glad, twinkling eyes betray'd,
How much QUÆ GENUS pleas'd his fancy
At this so flatt'ring necromancy.
--While the Knight his cold coffee quaffing,
But still at his own fancies laughing,
Exclaim'd, "proceed, but be it known, }
I wish the lady's hist'ry done, }
And then you will conclude your own." }
QUÆ GENUS.
"When she first knew me she could see
A form as strait as poplar tree,
Then I was ruddy, fair and plump,
Nor was my back crown'd with a hump,
Of which you may not be aware,
For hang the hag, she plac'd it there,
And you, good Sir, shall shortly know,
How to her power the gift I owe."
SIR JEFFERY.
"The more I hear, the more I see,
The more you deal in mystery.
This Mistress, sure, of which you tell,
Is an INCOMPREHENSIBLE!
A widow she, or is she wedded?
Or e'er by blushing Hymen bedded?"
QUÆ GENUS.
"O no, Sir, no.--She is more common
Than is the worst street-walking woman.
There's scarce a mortal about town
To whom this Mistress is not known;
And if the track I should pursue,
I might add in the country too.
But 'tis a keen wit that unravels
The wide extent of all her travels;
Nor time nor space has she to spare,
She's here and there and ev'ry where.
Though if I at a guess may venture
Beneath this roof she will not enter,
Unless, as you the chance may see,
The saucy minx comes here with me."
SIR JEFFERY.
"But one more question I've to ask,
Ere you perform your promis'd task,
And tell me from all shuffling free,
The items of your history,
Up to the moment when you stand
A candidate for my command.
And now QUÆ GENUS tell the name
Of this same universal dame,
Whom you, poor fellow, have been serving,
And, as you state it, almost starving.
--If in your tale she does agree,
It is a tale of mystery;
Some fairy fable, I suppose,
That paints, in emblems, human woes,
And does in figur'd words, apply
To your peculiar history.
It is not in the usual way
That such as you their state display;
It is not in such borrow'd guise
That they unfold their histories,
With here and there a little bit
Of droll'ry to shew off their wit;
It is not in this form I see
Those who may wear my livery;
But your's I feel a diff'rent case
From those who come to seek a place;
Or when the register may send him,
With, 'Sir, we beg to recommend him.'
I now bethink me of the sage
Who lov'd you in your tender age;
And when I see you have a claim }
To share the page that marks his fame, }
SYNTAX, that highly honour'd name }
A passport is, my good QUÆ GENUS,
To the familiar talk between us.
From that relation which you share,
No longer stand, but take a chair,
And now proceed, without delay,
To close the tale in your own way.
"And once again, I ask the name
Of this so universal dame;
What is her fortune,--where she lives,
And the strange means by which she thrives?
Where she acquires her wond'rous power,
Which you describe, o'er ev'ry hour?
Where it began, my curious friend;
Then tell me, pray, when it will end."
With due respect, as was requir'd,
He took the chair for he was tir'd,
And calling truth to be his guide,
He thus in solemn tone replied.
QUÆ GENUS.
"MISS-FORTUNE is the name she bears,
Her rent-roll's form'd of sighs and tears:
She doth not live or here or there,
I fear, Sir, she lives ev'ry where.
I'm sure that I know not the ground
Where her sad influence is not found;
But if a circle should appear }
Beyond her arbitrary sphere, }
I feel and hope, Sir, it is here. }
--This worn-out coat, Sir, which you see,
Is the kind Lady's livery:
I once was fat, but now am thin,
Made up of nought but bone and skin;
I once was large but now am small,
From feeding in her servants'-hall,
And the hump I shall ever bear
Is an example of her care.
As for the blessed Dame's beginning,
I've heard that it began in sinning,
And I have learn'd that she will end
When this vile world has learn'd to mend;
But if we guess when that may be,
We may guess to eternity."
"MISS-FORTUNE!! Heav'ns! O thus she's nam'd,"
The Knight, with uplift eyes exclaim'd.
"O the dull head, not to have seen
What the _Finale_ must have been!"
Then clasping hands and chuckling first
Into a bellowing laugh he burst,
Though not to his broad face confin'd,
But on each side, before, behind,
It seem'd as if his whimsies bound him,
In a joyous circle round him:
His belly trembles, his sides ache,
And the great-chair scarce stands the shake.
'Twas a hoarse, deep bass, note of mirth,
To which his fancy thus gave birth;
And Johnny fail'd not to come after
An octave higher in his laughter,
While his delight appear'd to speak
In somewhat of a treble squeak.--
Thus, for some minutes they enjoy'd
The _Duo_ which their nerves employ'd.
_Sir Jeff'ry_ shook his head awhile,
Then spoke with a complacent smile.
"Though in a diff'ring point of view, }
I know her just as well as you; }
And hang the hag she plagues me too. }
Need I, good fellow, need I tell ye,
She deck'd me out with this great belly;
'Tis she, by way of friendly treat,
Has given this pair of gouty feet;
Nay sometimes when her whim commands
_Miss-Fortune_ robs me of my hands:
'Tis she with her intention vile
That makes me overflow with bile;
And tho' my table's spread with plenty
Of ev'ry nice and costly dainty,
She sometimes envies me a bite,
And takes away my appetite.
She does not meddle with my wealth,
But then she undermines my health;
She never in my strong box looks,
Nor pries into my banker's books;
My ample fortune I contrive
To guard with care and make it thrive,
I check her power to destroy it,
But then she says, 'you sha'n't enjoy it;
I will take care you shall endure
The ills and pains gold cannot cure.'
Or leagu'd with wrinkled age at least,
She strives to interrupt the feast.
--But with her malice I contend,
Where she's a foe, I'm oft a friend,
And, with the weapons I can wield,
I sometimes drive her from the field.
Nay when she does the victim clasp,
I snatch it from her cruel grasp.
And thus you see, or more or less,
I make her prove my happiness."
QUÆ GENUS.
"There was indeed a time when I
Knew her but by warm sympathy
With those who did her burthen bear,
Which I have since been forc'd to share;
But this, at least, I'm pleas'd to own,
And 'tis a truth to you well known,
Nay, this I'll say, in others' breast,
Where'er the virtue is possess'd,
She does, as I have felt, and see,
Awake benign Humanity."
SIR JEFFERY.
"And she shall 'wake it now, QUÆ GENUS!
An instant contract's made between us.
I break that which she made with you,
And gladly you abjure it too.
I have no doubt, my friend, to venture;
Into my service you shall enter,
Your ills at present shall be o'er,
_Miss-Fortune_ you shall serve no more.
At least, I say, while you contrive
By your good deeds with me to live:
I'll save you from your late disaster
And change your mistress for a master.
I want no bowings, no grimaces,
No blessings that I've chang'd your places.
--I now remind you to relate
All that has been your various fate,
Nay, all that you have ever known,
Since time and freedom were your own.
--I tell you, _Johnny_, speak the truth;
I know what follies wait on youth:
I know where erring passion leads,
On what a slipp'ry ground it treads:
I can remember that I fail'd
When the gay, tempting world prevail'd;
Nor shall I now the thought conceal,
Which reason tells me to reveal.
What Heaven forgives should be forgiven
By all who look with hope tow'rds Heaven:
But I expect not faults alone, }
I trust in what you may have done, }
There may work out a little fun. }
--If I guess right your lively eye }
Was not exactly made to cry, }
But sometimes call forth pleasantry; }
Of diff'ring thoughts to ope the vein,
Let pleasure forth or lessen pain.
But still do not your mischiefs hide,
Throughout your tale, be truth your guide;
Nor make _Miss-Fortune_ though she starves,
Worse, by the bye, than she deserves,
For after all her misdeeds past,
The Dame may do you good at last.
--Deceive me, and you will offend,
Deceive me, and you lose a friend:
Try to deceive me and again
You'll join _Miss-Fortune's_ pale-fac'd train.
Proceed then, and, without a fear, }
Pour thy misdoings in my ear }
And I will with indulgence hear. }
I'll not discard you for the evil,
Though you should prove a little devil,
Though to your hump you should not fail,
To add your horns and hoofs and tail;
Though you should prove a bag of sin,
And hump'd without be hump'd within,
Here you shall have your home, your food;
Kick at _Miss-Fortune_, and be good."
He spoke, then rang the shrill-ton'd bell,
Which did its well-known message tell.--
A tray appear'd, and well prepar'd,
Which _Johnny_ with _Sir Jeff'ry_ shar'd.
When, waving his beflannell'd hand,
The knight thus utter'd his command.
"And now, thou little Imp of Sin,
Without a compliment begin."
QUÆ GENUS.
"The Volume that now lies before ye,
Tells you thus far, Sir, of my story;
Which would be upon this occasion
A work of supererogation;
Though I shall beg leave to repeat,
I'm not the new-born of the street;
But as it never yet appear'd,
At least, as I have ever heard,
To such unknown, unfather'd heirs,
I am a Foundling of _the stairs_,
Without a mark upon the dress,
By which there might be form'd a guess,
Whether I should the offspring prove
Of noble or of vulgar love;
Whether thus left in Inn of Court
Where Lawyers live of ev'ry sort;
Love in a deep full-bottom clad,
Gave me a grave black-letter'd dad,
Who, if 'twere so, might not agree
To have a child without a fee;
And, therefore, would not plead my cause,
But left me to the vagrant laws
Of chance, who did not do amiss,
But sued in _Formâ Pauperis_,
And, in a Court where Mercy reign'd,
The little Foundling's cause was gain'd:
SYNTAX was judge, and pity's power
Sav'd me in that forsaken hour.
He with that truly Christian spirit,
Which Heaven gave him to inherit,
Fondly embrac'd me as his own;
But ere three transient years were gone,
I lost my friend, but found another,
A father he, and she, a mother;
For such at least they both have prov'd,
And as their child the stranger lov'd.
O, rest her soul!--to her 'tis given
To share his happy lot in Heaven.
I seem'd to be her utmost pride,
And Johnny trotting by her side,
Fill'd with delight her glancing eye
In warm affection's sympathy.
This fond, this kind, this fost'ring friend
Did to my ev'ry want attend;
Her only fault, she rather spoil'd
As he grew up, the darling child;
But though her care was not confin'd
Or to his body, or his mind,
Though, with a fond parental view,
She gave to both th' attention due,
Ne'er would she her displeasure fix
On his most wild, unlucky tricks.
So that at church he held grave airs,
Pronounc'd Amen, and said his pray'rs,
And on a Sunday evening read
A sermon ere they went to bed,
Throughout the week, he was quite free
For mischief with impunity.
--If on the folk I squirted water,
How she would shake her sides with laughter;
If the long-rotten eggs were thrown
At Mary, Sally, or at Joan;
If any stinging stuff was put
Into the hasty trav'ller's boot;
If the sly movement of the heel
Should overturn the spinning-wheel.
--If holly plac'd beside the rose
Should wound the gay sheep-shearer's nose,
Or 'neath the tail a thorn-bush pricking,
Should set Dame Dobbins' mare a kicking,
And overthrow the market load,
While beans and peas o'erspread the road,
If the poor injur'd made complaint
To Madam of her wily saint,
She would reply, 'pray cease your noise,
These are the tricks of clever boys,
It is my pleasant Johnny's fun,
Tell me the damage, and have done.'
--When I became a rosy boy,
My growth encreas'd her growing joy;
But now such gamesome hours were o'er
I play'd my childish tricks no more.
My little heart 'gan to beat high,
And with heroic ardor try
The tempting danger to pursue,
And do what others could not do:
I sought to climb the highest tree,
Where none would dare to follow me,
Or the gay sporting horse to ride,
Which no school-fellow dare bestride.
My feats were sometimes rather scaring,
But the Dame lov'd to see me daring;
As by my running, leaping, walking,
I us'd to set the parish talking,
And, to the good old women's wonder,
I fear'd not lightning nor thunder.
She thought, in future time, my name }
By some achievement bold, might claim }
A loud blast in the trump of fame. }
"When, as a youth, how great the charm
To lean upon his willing arm,
Or when she wish'd to take the air,
To guide her poney in the chair;
To fetch her book, to place her stool,
Or bear the _laden ridicule:_
To chat, to laugh, to sing, to read,
As whims or wishes might succeed:
And I am proud to make it known
Her ev'ry pleasure was my own;
And all to please her I could do,
Was joy, as it was duty too.
"Here now my better story ends--
So far, I trust, Sir, we are friends:
But I could almost wish me dumb,
When I must tell of what's to come."
_Sir Jeffery_, half-laughing, said,
"_Johnny_, I pray, be not afraid,
Whate'er your luckless wit has done,
I swear I will set down in fun;
By me, your sins shall be forgiven
As sure as Mercy is in Heaven."
QUÆ GENUS.
"Then, at your pleasure I proceed,
Nor will I hide a single deed;
There is but one I doubt to own,
But that to you shall be made known,
And will with you securely rest
As in my own uneasy breast;
Though I'm afraid of vengeful laws
As I believe without a cause.
Indeed, I have contriv'd to play
The very fool for many a day,
But brief, be sure, I'll strive to be
In this my early history.
"And here, an' please you, Sir, begins
The tale of my mishaps--the chapter of my sins."
CANTO II
It may seem queer when 'tis the will
Of Fate, its wishes to fulfil,
To call the culprit to the bar,
One born beneath a luckless star,
And from his urging conscience tell
The truths that on his mem'ry dwell,
When, like a checquer they display
The black and white to open day.
Thus, as the truth he's bound to state,
The former may preponderate;
While, in a happy moment bold,
He may some conscious good unfold,
Nor can the awkward task refuse
Both to applaud and to accuse.
--Such thoughts as these might be the cause,
Why poor QUÆ GENUS made a pause.
"Well," said _Sir Jeff'ry_, "pray go on,
Or never will your tale have done:
I've told you, and you must attend;
You tell your story to a friend,
Who will, whatever may appear,
With kindness and compassion hear."
QUÆ GENUS.
"Your pardon, Sir, I will proceed,
Nor stop till I've perform'd the deed.
--Thus, so far Fortune deck'd with smiles
The season which our youth beguiles,
And gave the hope of added measure
To gay delight and solid pleasure:
But while the merry song went round,
And to the tabor's lively sound,
The village did in cadence beat,
With all its many twinkling feet,
Pale Fate appear'd, in cypress wreath,
And call'd out for the DANCE OF DEATH:
When my dear friend, who gave the feast,
And cheer'd with smiles each happy guest,
Was borne away, I scarce knew why,
But I was told,--it was to die.
And soon, alas! I wond'ring saw
All govern'd by a man of law,
With whom she seldom converse held,
But when her private cares compell'd
Some petty, trifling, legal aid,
Which coolly she discharg'd and paid.
'Twas by this man's exulting side
I walk'd along and sobb'd and sigh'd
When she was carried to the bourne
From whence we mortals ne'er return.
--I was by all around approv'd,
And by the better neighbours lov'd,
While I in ev'ry eye could see
The pity that was felt for me.
By her death-bed he held the quill
That made him master of her will,
While a round sum was written there
To pay him for the tender care
Which he of her sweet boy would take,
For her's and her dear husband's sake.
Husband! whom this same man of law,
This forging rascal never saw:
Indeed by many it was thought
He put his name where he ought not.
It much surpriz'd each curious friend,
And quite astonish'd _Doctor Bend_,
Whose rev'rend titles should have been
Where the foul lawyer's name was seen.
Wrong was suspected, Counsel had,
But no objection could be made,
And by all forms of law allied,
The will was shap'd and testified:
The attorney to his duties swore,
So he became Executor.
'Tis true she left her all to me,
But here and there a legacy;
Though, such were this strange will's commands
Through _Lawyer Gripe-all's_ grasping hands,
All was to pass and there remain
Till I the age of man attain;
And if I chanc'd to die before,--
The lawyer was to take the store.
All saw, or all believ'd the cheat,
But the law veil'd the base deceit,
And when the doctor came to see
How justice might be done to me,
On due reflection, thought it fit,
As things were order'd, to submit;
Told me, at present, to be quiet,
To seem content, nor breed a riot,
But when I truely crav'd a friend,
I knew the home of _Dickey Bend_;
Then with affection's warmth caress'd me,
And, with a parent's blessing, bless'd me.
"From that dear cottage now I mov'd,
Where I such tender fondness prov'd;
From a calm scene of taste refin'd,
And all that could improve the mind;
Where daily blessings were bestow'd
From all the humble neighbourhood;
Where heart-felt goodness was employ'd,
And social harmony enjoy'd;--
From these QUÆ GENUS was transferr'd
To where the daily curse was heard,
Where the law's promise was delay'd,
And money for injustice paid;
Or a loud, base, malignant joy,
Which the law's triumphs might employ;--
To an old house that stood alone,
With ivy and with moss o'ergrown,
And where the practiser of laws
Did his foul deeds 'mid bats and daws;
Nay, which, as fame reports, was worse,
The house was saddled with a curse,
That _Gripe-all_, in the law's despite,
Had robb'd some widow of her right,
And, by his cutting and his carving,
Had got the house--and left her starving.
"Oft I my loss, in secret, wept,
And when my eyelids should have slept,
Nay, when those eyelids should have clos'd
And I in strength'ning sleep repos'd,
They remain'd wakeful oft and shed
Their dews upon my troubled bed.
Though Master _Gripe-all_, it was known
Shew'd me a kindness not his own;
And did with all indulgence treat me,
As the best means, at length, to cheat me.
He strove my early grief to soothe,
Call'd me his dear, delightful youth;
Gave me a pretty horse to ride,
With money in my purse beside;
Let me employ the taylor's art
To deck me out and make me smart,
Let me just study when I pleas'd,
Nor e'er my mind with learning teas'd.
But still a gnawing discontent
Prey'd on me wheresoe'er I went.
--Of Phillis too I was bereft,
One real pleasure that was left:
A fav'rite spaniel of my friend,
That did on all my steps attend,
At eve was frisking, fond and gay, }
But on the sad succeeding day, }
A poison'd, swollen form it lay. }
It might be chance, but while I griev'd,
The following letter I received,
Which was thrown o'er a hedge the while
I sat half weeping on a stile.
The writer I could never tell;
But he who wrote it meant me well;
And I've no doubt that it contain'd
The thoughts which through the country reign'd."
LETTER.
"_I'm a poor man, but yet can spell, }
And I lov'd Madam SYNTAX well: }
--But I've a sorry tale to tell. }
Young 'Squire you're in the Devil's hands,
Or one who yields to his commands,
And who, I'm certain, would be bold
In bloody deeds, if 'tis for gold.
Halters he fears, but the base wretch
Fears no one mortal but JACK KETCH:
Yet what with quirks and such like flaws,
He can contrive to cheat the laws_:
_Though Madam's hand the will might sign,
It is no more her will than mine.
Some say, as she lay on her bed,
The deed was sign'd when she was dead,
And I've heard some one say, whose name
I must not give to common fame,
He'd lay ten pounds and say, 'have done,'
You liv'd not on to twenty-one;
And if you die before, 'tis known,
That Madam's money's all his own.
Nay, how he did the will compose,
'Tis Beelzebub alone who knows!
He in a lonely mansion lives,
But there the cunning villain thrives:
Yes, he gets on, as it appears,
By setting people by the ears:
Though I have heard NAN MIDWIFE say,
Who sometimes travels late that way,
That 'neath the yew, near the house wall,
Where the dark ivy's seen to crawl,
A cat she once saw which was half
As big as any full-grown calf,
And with her tail beat down the bushes,
As if they were but slender rushes;
Has often felt sulphureous steam,
And seen bright lines of lightning gleam.
These things the good, old woman, swears
She sometimes smells and sees and hears,
While thus all trembling with affright,
She scarce can get her bald mare by't.
--Run off, young 'Squire, for much I fear
You'll be cut off, if you stay here.
My service thus I do commend,
From, Sir, your very humble friend:
And hope you will take in good part,
What comes from poor but honest heart!_"
"This plain epistle told no more
Than had been hinted at before;
But though I was too bold to fear
That danger of such kind was near,
Yet still the honest counsel brought
My mind to a new range of thought.
"One day as I was riding out,
Prowling the country round about,
A guide-post stood, in letter'd pride,
Close by the dusty high-road side:
With many towns for passage fam'd,
_Oxford_ upon its points was nam'd,
Which instant call'd me to attend
To my kind patron _Doctor Bend_:
And then there 'rose within my breast
A thought that reason did suggest,
And not th' effect of boyish whim,
'_Th' Attorney quit and fly to him_.'--
--Soon after, by a lucky chance,
I heard what made my heart to dance,
That _Cerberus_ would be from home,
At least for sev'ral days to come,
Though, when of me he took his leave,
He said, 'expect me home at eve,
But, as talk may the way beguile,'
He added, 'ride with me a mile.'
--This was the very thing I wish'd,
For now I felt the fox was dish'd.
He rode on first and bade me follow,
'Twas then that I began to hollow;
I had but one _white lie_ to tell
And all things would be going well.
I said it was my guardian's whim
That I should make the tour with him,
And ask'd for a clean shirt or so
As I had such a way to go.
Thus my great-coat, most closely roll'd,
Did all the useful package hold,
And to the saddle strongly tied
I was completely satisfied,
As nought appear'd, thus pack'd together,
But a protection from the weather,
So that the lawyer's lynx's eye
Was clos'd on curiosity:
For Madam Gripe-all's ready care
Did, to my wish, the whole prepare.
Indeed, whatever she might be,
Her kindness never fail'd to me.
She frequently would call me son,
And say she lov'd me as her own;
Nay, when the clock struck, she would say,
'Kiss me as often, dear, I pray
As that same clock is heard to strike,
And oft'ner, dearest, if you like.'
Though such favour ne'er was shown, }
But when we both were quite alone, }
And seldom when the clock struck one. }
Her fondness I could well have stinted,
For, to say truth, she smelt and squinted:
But I remember'd that she cried,
When my poor, little Phillis died.
"I felt my airing rather droll,
Jogging with _Gripe-all_ cheek-by-jowl,
And hearing him, with no great awe,
Expound the secrets of the law.
--When arriv'd at seven miles' end
He smil'd and said, 'Good bye, my friend:
Now homewards you will turn and tell,
That thus far you have left me well.'
I left him with a hope, how vain!
I ne'er might see his face again.
My spur did sprightly poney goad
Till I had got into the road
Which did to Oxford's city lead,
When I restrain'd my foaming steed,
And, calmly pacing on my way,
Ere _Great Tom_ toll'd the following day,
I had embrac'd my rev'rend friend
And kindest patron, _Doctor Bend_.
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
QUÆ GENUS AT OXFORD.]
"I told a simple, artless tale,
That seem'd completely to prevail,
As I beheld his face the while
Beam with a kind, approving smile.
''Tis a bold trick,' the Doctor said,
'Which you, my lively spark, have play'd,
But since to College you are come,
I'll try to make the place your home;
Where I should hope you need not fear
To be cut short in your career;
I think, at least, we may engage
To keep you safe till you're of age,
When I shall leave you to the struggling
With _Gripe-all's_ artifice and juggling:
But still the cunning lawyer knows
I have good friends 'mong some of those
Who lead the bar or have a seat
Where the keen eye detects a cheat.
He will, I doubt not, swear and curse,
Nay, he may say you've stole his horse;
But if he meets with no disaster,
In two days he shall see his master,
And John will have a strict command
To give a letter to his hand
Which I shall with due caution write
Before I seek my bed to-night,
And if my mental eye sees clear
Will fix my friend QUÆ GENUS here.'
John met the lawyer on the road,
Just as he reach'd his own abode,
And ere at home he could have heard
Of my escape a single word:
Told him at once all he could tell,
That I at Oxford was, and well,
Where as I stay'd, I had of course,
With many thanks return'd his horse,
John said, he rather look'd confus'd
As the epistle he perus'd.
--Whether it bore a kind request
I should with ALMA MATER rest,
Or any hint that might apply
To the High Court of Chancery:
If soothing it contain'd or threat, }
I never knew or I forget,-- }
With all submission it was met. }
To all it ask'd he did agree,
And sent his kind regards to me,
While he his counsel did commend
Not to run off from _Doctor Bend_,
Nor e'er be govern'd by the whim
That made me run away from him.
"Thus soon in Scholar's cap and gown, }
I was seen saunt'ring up and down }
The High-Street of fair Oxford Town. }
And though I stood not first in fame,
I never bore an idler's name.
I was content, nay 'twas my pride
The Doctor ne'er was heard to chide,
Which, as your Oxford youths can tell,
Was getting onward rather well.
My friends, the WORTHIES, near the Lake,
Lov'd me for DOCTOR SYNTAX' sake,
And, free from e'en a speck of care,
I pass'd a short-liv'd Summer there.
--But time, as it is us'd, roll'd on,
And I, at length, was twenty-one.
"I now became a man of cares
To bear the weight of my affairs,
To know my fortune's full amount,
And to arrange a clear account
Between the vile, rapacious elf,
The _Lawyer Gripe-all_ and myself.
--No sooner to the place I came, }
Soon as was heard my well-known name, }
The bells my coming did proclaim, }
And had I stay'd the following day,
I would have made the village gay!
Thus _Gripe-all_ was full well prepar'd
And put at once upon his guard.
I went unwittingly alone
To claim my right and ask my own,
Though arm'd, to cut the matter short,
With an enliv'ning dose of Port,
While he was ready to display
The spirit of the law's delay.
--A step, he said, he could not stir
Without Baptismal Register,
And many a proof he must receive,
Which well he knew I could not give;
And till these papers I could shew,
He must remain in _Statu quo_.
But still, as a kind, gen'rous friend,
And from respect to _Doctor Bend_,
He would, though cash did not abound,
Advance me then _four hundred pound_.
I took the notes and thought it best
To wait the settling of the rest;
But soon I saw, as I'm alive,
That I had sign'd receipt for _five_.
My fingers caught the fraudful paper,
At which he 'gan to fume and vapour,
And let loose language full of ire,
Such as 'you bastard, rascal, liar,'
On which I caught him by the nose,
And gave the wretch some heavy blows,
Nay, as the blood ran down his face,
I dash'd the ink all in his face,
So that his figure might have done
E'en for the pit of Acheron.
Inky black and bloody red
Was o'er his ghastly visage spread,
As he lay senseless on the floor,
And, as I then thought, breath'd no more.
--The office, now a scene of blood,
Most haply in the garden stood,
So that our scene of sanguine riot
Did not disturb domestic quiet:
The notes were in my pocket stor'd,
And the receipt was in the hoard;
But as I now believ'd him dead,
I thought of being hang'd--and fled.
Nor did I make the whisky wait
Which then stood at the garden gate.
The driver who there held the reins,
Took me through many secret lanes
And woodland roads, that might evade
Pursuit, if any should be made.
He had an humble play-mate been
When I was sportive on the green;
But now, like me, to manhood grown,
Was as a skilful driver known;
And would have gone to serve QUÆ GENUS
Though fire and water were between us.
I told him all the fears I felt,
And how I had with _Gripe-all_ dealt;
Nay, urg'd him, if I were pursued, }
To cheat the blood-hounds, if he could, }
All which he mainly swore he would. }
Nay, hop'd I'd given him such a drubbing,
As to send him Beelzebubbing;
Though, first or last, he sure would go
To his relations down below.
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
CONFLICT BETWEEN QUÆ GENUS & LAWYER GRIPE-ALL.]
"Thus as we talk'd a mail-coach pass'd,
And as I could not go too fast,
I found, perchance, an empty seat,
And thus I made a quick retreat;
Nay should, in eight and forty hours,
By the wheels' ever-rolling powers,
Have a secure retirement found,
Safe from pursuit, on Scottish ground.
But as Misfortune, it is said,
Calls in associates to her aid,
And, indeed, is seldom known
To pay her visits all alone;
So either from the sultry weather,
Or anxious thoughts, or both together,
I was stopp'd short in my career,
By intermitting fits severe
Of heat and cold: a Galen came,
And Julep was the good man's name,
For truly good he prov'd to me
In skill and in humanity.
''Tis not,' he said, 'disease alone,
Which various symptoms have made known,
But they're encreasing as I find,
By a disturb'd and anxious mind,
And if that cannot be subdued,
Med'cine will do but little good.'
I therefore, my distresses told,
In short, my story did unfold,
While, as I spoke, in his kind eye,
I saw the tear of sympathy,
And did beneath his roof receive
The care that pitying skill could give.
"The fever wag'd a painful strife,
A struggling chance 'tween Death and Life,
That play'd upon my yielding spine,
Which did to outward curve incline:
I felt the mark would ne'er forsake
Its cruel seat upon my back;
I bent beneath the foul disaster
That ne'er would yield to any plaister:
Nor medicine, nor knife can cure it,
And must struggle to endure it.
Thus when restor'd to health and vigour,
I was become a crook-back'd figure:
My former round and healthful face
Had lost its plump, its rosy grace,
And was reduc'd from this same cause
To pale and lean and lantern jaws,
That none who once QUÆ GENUS knew
Would recollect him on the view;
Nor e'en would recognition wait
Though he should pass by _Gripe-all's_ gate.
When in the glass I chanc'd to view, }
The figure I now scarcely knew, }
I shudder'd and despis'd it too. }
--'At length,' said _Julep_, 'I commend,
Ere you depart, a worthy friend,
A lawyer too, nay, do not start,
Whose well-stor'd head and honest-heart,
Throughout his life were ne'er disjoin'd,
And in his practice are combin'd
The cause of truth and right to aid;
Who ne'er has heard the poor upbraid
His conscious dealings, while 'tis known,
The wealthy do his virtues own.
Thus, as your fate has been accurs'd,
Of legal dealers, with the worst;
You now may, as by all confess'd,
Obtain good counsel from the best.
"On such a character intent,
To Lawyer _Make-peace_ thus I went,
And told my curious story o'er
As I have told it you before.
With a keen look my face he ey'd,
And in a gentle tone replied.
'If the good man you thus have bang'd,
You may contemplate being hang'd;
But, as the case to me appears,
I trust you may dismiss your fears;
For even now you do not know
What evil follow'd from the blow;
And though some blood may have been spill'd,
It follows not the man was kill'd:
Besides, whatever ill was done,
There was no witness, no not one
To prove which of you was in fault,
Who first provok'd or gave th' assault;
And if, my friend, you had not fled
You need not fear, though he were dead.
--No advertisement has appear'd
To state the crime, as I have heard,
And surely I've the means to know
If any measures had been so.
But still, remember, I advise
That you move under a disguise,
'Till time and chance have drawn aside
That veil that does these threat'nings hide,
Which, in your present dubious state,
May on your wary footsteps wait.
Change your dress and change your name,
For neither now must be the same.'
QUÆ GENUS.
'My dress and name I'll do anon,
The fever all the rest has done;
For Doctor _Bend_ I would defy }
The fondled Foundling to descry, }
In his mis-shapen misery. }
JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS, now adieu!
JACK PAGE I substitute for you!'
LAWYER MAKE-PEACE.
'You have good friends whom you can trust,
Who to misfortune will be just,
They will, I doubt not, let you know,
How you must act and what to do.
And much I think you have been wrong,
To have with-held your pen so long.
Obey me now in all I've said;
Be secret and be not afraid.'
"He spoke, and, in the kindest way,
Urg'd me to make no more delay;
And when I sought to give the fee;
'No, no,' he said, 'to such as thee
For mere good words I'm never paid;--
This is my way of plying trade.
When you have made a fair escape
From this unlucky, wretched scrape,
And when you are again restor'd
To your own happy bed and board;
When from all thraldom you are free,
Then, if it suits, remember me.'
"My notes were sew'd up in my coat,
For JULEP would not take a groat.
'When you reach home,' he kindly said;
'Like his friend MAKE-PEACE, I'll be paid.'
Thus I set off, as was my plan,
Guis'd as a trudging, trav'lling man,
And in his journey going on
To seek his fate in London town.
My needfuls in an oil-cloth sack,
Were buckled to my wretched back,
And late at night when the full moon
In an unclouded brightness shone,
I left those gen'rous friends behind
Which such as me so seldom find:
A Galen, with that goodness fraught,
Who gave his skill and drugs for nought;
And an attorney, whose great aim
Was to put roguery to shame;
Nay, whose superior virtues tell
The Law can shew a _Miracle_.
"You must, _Sir Jeff'ry_, often see }
The strange effects of vanity; }
Another you will find in me. }
You'll scarce believe as I relate
The folly which I now must state:
That I've been such a silly elf
I now can scarce believe myself:
And I could wish I dare conceal
What duty bids me to reveal.
--Did not calm prudence whisper now
To my existing state to bow,
To tell it all to such a friend
As I had found in _Doctor Bend_,
Or a quick pilgrimage to make }
To Worthy-Hall beside the Lake, }
Where, for dear _Doctor Syntax'_ sake, }
The troubled _Foundling_ would receive
All that protecting care could give.
This was the counsel _Make-peace_ gave,
A lawyer who was not a knave;
Who would advise without a fee,
And felt for human misery.
--This Reason said in lessons strong,
As I pac'd my still way along,
When the dull sound of my own feet
And Philomela's sonnet sweet
Did on the gen'ral silence break,
And seem'd to keep the night awake.
Then VANITY sat pick-a-pack
Perch'd on the hump upon my back,
And whisper'd into either ear,
'Such humbling counsels do not hear.
Where poor QUÆ GENUS has been known
His alter'd form must ne'er be shown:
With this sad shape he never can
Hold himself forth a gentleman:
No art can furnish you a cloak
To hide from pity or from joke.
If passing on a river's ridge,
Or, perchance lolling o'er a bridge,
You gaze upon the stream below
Whose crystal mirror's seen to flow,
Would not the picture meet your eye
Of your own sad deformity?
At Oxford you would be the talk
Of the High-street or Christ-Church-walk,
While many quizzing fools look round
To view your rising back begown'd.
--How would you bear the wond'ring ken
Of the good folk of Sommerden,
While they with pitying looks lament
The once straight form, but now so bent!
Then leave the world where you have been,
Where I would be no longer seen,
Nor let the jealous eye compare,
What you once was with what you are.
Might I advise, I'd sooner die }
Unknown, in humble privacy, }
Again,' said whisp'ring vanity, }
'Than e'er appear where I was known
For graces which were then my own,
That pity or that scorn might point
At such a form, so out of joint.'
"I need not say how many days
I sought the bye and secret ways,
For ever list'ning to the tongue }
That whisper'd soft and pleaded strong, }
To set each better feeling wrong. }
Hence I resign'd myself to chance,
Left fortune, friends, inheritance,
And madly felt that I was hurl'd
Thus mark'd to wander through the world.
To snatch at, and at once receive,
Whate'er the world might chance to give.
'Twas not a whimsy of the brain, }
That did the idle scheme sustain, }
'Twas something which I can't explain. }
All feeling center'd in the pack
That had thus risen on my back;
And as I felt the burden there,
It seem'd the seat of ev'ry care,
Of ev'ry painful thought brimfull,
Like OLD PANDORA'S _Ridicule_.
But as every single note }
Which I from _Gripe-all's_ grasp had got, }
Was still secure within my coat, }
I had sufficient means and more
To travel all the kingdom o'er
With staff in hand, and well-shod feet, }
And oil'd umbrella form'd to meet }
The show'rs that might my passage greet. }
One pocket did a bible hold,
The other held the story told,
Which good Æneas did rehearse
To Dido, in immortal verse;
While from a loop before descended
A flute that oft my hours befriended:
Thus I with verse, with prose or fist,
Was scholar, fiddler, methodist.
As fit occasion might demand,
I could let Scripture Phrase off-hand,
Or fine re-sounding verses quote,
Or play a tune in lively note.
Thus qualified to cut and carve,
I need not fear that I should starve;
While in some future lucky stage
Of my uncertain pilgrimage,
I might have hopes, remov'd from strife,
To be a fixture for my life.
"Such was the wild, fantastic scheme
Such was the strange distracted dream,
That, stranger still, rose from the pack
Which chance had fix'd upon my back.
Of friends forgetful, 'twas my plot
That I by friends should be forgot.--
I seem'd to wish that I were thrown
Upon some island yet unknown,
Where crooked figure is the feature
Of all the living, reas'ning nature;
And where deformity would be
A shape of perfect symmetry;
Which SWIFT would not have fail'd to spare,
Had his bold fancy wander'd there,
And _Lemuel Gulliver_ had been
The visitor of such a scene.
"In this same state I wander'd on,
Grumbling and doubting and alone,
Though some encouragement I met
Which made me whilom cease to fret;
For, tales I hap'd by chance to know
And pleasant fancies I could show,
With which my active mind was stor'd,
Had sometimes paid my bed and board;
Nay, had prolong'd my welcome stay
Throughout a grave or lively day.
"One evening by a riv'let's side
That did in gentle murmurs glide,
Where the green turf its carpet spread,
And willow boughs wav'd o'er my head,
I sat reclin'd, nor was my flute,
As I could wake its music, mute:
When a huge waggon pass'd along,
And soon a chorus join'd the song.
Invited by the social strain,
I rose and sought the jocund train;
Men, women, children, all so gay,
Who loudly cheer'd the tedious way.
The cargo which the waggon bore
Were modern times and those of yore;
The image of each living scene,
And of such things as ne'er had been:
Witches and goblins, clouds and skies
Deck'd out in their varieties,
The river's flow, the ocean's waves,
The crowns of kings, the bonds of slaves,
Helmets and mitres, robes and arms,
Terrific forms, and beauty's charms,
All mov'd along, together hurl'd,
Th' outfittings of a mimic world:
When what with spouting, what with song,
As the procession trudg'd along,
No cunning was required to see,
It was a strolling company,
Who were proceeding to make known
Their talents in a neighb'ring town.
Here a strange thought occur'd that I
Might try my powers in Tragedy;
While the vain fancy was possess'd
I might appear among the best:
In short among them I display'd
An earnest of the acting trade.
The bills were blazon'd with my name,
A candidate for scenic fame,
And 'twas announc'd that Mr. Page
Would first appear on any stage.
The part which I of course preferr'd
Was SHAKESPEAR'S well known R. the THIRD.
I wanted not the wardrobe's aid,
My crook-back was already made;
My form disdain'd the aid of art,
And thus I play'd the tyrant's part:
But from my being thus disjoin'd,
To this same part I was confin'd.
Though by this outfit I must own
I could perform the awkward clown,
Or any other hunch-back fellow,
A Pantaloon, or Punchinello,
Where white and red be-mark'd my face,
And excellence was my disgrace:
For here I shrunk beneath the pack
That fate had nail'd upon my back.
"I wish'd to figure as Othello,
But he was a fine, straight-made fellow,
Whom, with a shape, so crook'd, so bent,
I could not dare to represent,
And though his face was olive brown,
No injury his form had known;
While mine, in its unseemly guise,
Fair Desdemona must despise:
Nor could it be a bard's design, }
That love-sick maids should e'er incline }
To such an outrag'd shape as mine. }
My voice possess'd a tender strain,
That could express a lover's pain;
But such a figure never yet
Was seen to win a _Juliet_.
Nay ladies lolling in a box,
Would think it a most curious hoax,
If through their glasses they should see
Lord Townly such an imp as me.
Thus for a month or more, JACK PAGE
Fretted and strutted on the stage,
Sometimes affording Richard's figure
In all its native twist and vigour;
Or bearing kick, or smack, or thump
From Harlequin upon his hump.
Though I say not, I was ill-paid
For the fine acting I display'd.
Nay, had I less mis-shapen been,
I might to the Theatric scene,
Have turn'd my strange life's future views,
And courted the Dramatic Muse.
"But as I could not smooth my shape
From the hips upwards to the nape,
And as to so confin'd a round
My imitative powers were bound,
My Genius I resolv'd to try
In writing Farce or Comedy,
In which I could exert my art
For my dear self to form a part
Wherein the keen, applauding eye
Might dwell on my deformity,
And where the picture might beguile
The judgement to afford a smile.
--When this same work I had perform'd
My vanity was rather warm'd.
'Humour,' 'twas said, 'the piece discovers,'
And it was call'd, 'The Crooked Lovers.'
"I think, _Sir Jeff'ry_ you may guess, }
The plot my Farce aims to possess,-- }
A kind of praise of ugliness; }
Where Beauty is not seen to charm,
Nor fill the heart with fond alarm;
Where finest eyes may gleam in vain,
May wake no joy, or give no pain:
And though the beaming smiles may grace
The rosy bloom of Delia's face,
Here they excite no am'rous passion,
Nor call forth tender inclination:
Such the desire, that ev'ry day,
Amuses Cupid when at play,
But other objects must engage
The scenes I offer'd to the stage:
Lame legs, club feet, and blinking eyes,
With such like eccentricities,
Call'd forth my amorous desire,
And set my actors all on fire.
With me no Damon longs to sip
The sweets of Cath'rine's pouting lip,
But smoke-dried Strephon seeks the bliss
Of a well-guarded, snuffy kiss,
Where the long nose, delightful wonder,
Scarce from the chin can keep asunder;
Where lovers' hearts ne'er feel a thump,
But when they view each other's hump.
"Now here again I was o'erthrown
By a crook-back, and not my own;
The May'rs gay wife, whose back appears
Upon a level with her ears,
Was pleas'd at first that I had prov'd
She was an object to be lov'd;
But as the Parish Parson too,
With a small form was quite askew,
And as, when it was pleasant weather,
This pair would take a walk together,
Would saunter through the winding glade,
Or sit beneath the beechen shade;
And, as it seem'd, were never cloy'd
With tender converse so enjoy'd;
It hap'd some Critic keen discovers
Whom I meant by 'The Crooked Lovers.'
The May'ress call'd th' obedient Mayor
To frown from magisterial chair,
And with the terrors of his mace
To drive my Hunch-back from the place;--
And on the high-road I once more
Was trav'lling as I did before.
"To you, Sir, it was never known
To feel the state which I must own:
No home, not knowing where to go,
How I should act and what to do.
Just as a ship whose rudder's lost,
Nor within sight of any coast;
Without the power to stand the shock
Of tempest, or to shun the rock.
From the strange nature of my birth,
I knew no relative on earth,
Nor to my giddy thoughts was given
To look with any hope to Heaven.
To London I propos'd to go,
Where not a being did I know:
To me it was an unknown shore,
Where I had never been before,
At least, since of all care bereft,
I was a helpless Foundling left.
Thus, as I thought, behold I stood,
Beside a mill-dam's spreading flood;
The waters form'd to drive the mill }
With its tremendous wheel, stood still, }
While evening glimmer'd on the hill. }
One plunge I said and all is o'er,
My hopes and fears will be no more;
An unknown child, an unknown man,
And I shall end as I began.
Nor can I say what would have follow'd,
I, and my hump, might have been swallow'd
In the deep, wat'ry gulph beneath,
Had I not heard a hautbois breath
A lively, but an uncouth strain,
As it appear'd from rustic swain,
Which, as it dwelt upon my ear,
Told me that merriment was near,
And did at once dispel the gloom
That might have sought a wat'ry tomb.
I turn'd my footsteps tow'rds the sound
That was now heard the valley round;
When soon upon the rural green,
The sight of busy mirth was seen.
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
QUÆ GENUS AT A SHEEP-SHEARING.]
"With sights like these, I had been us'd
In early days to be amus'd
When I but wav'd my boyish hand
The rural groupes obey'd command,
When ev'ry rustic feast I grac'd
And was in highest station plac'd,
Though I did to no name aspire,
Yet I was nam'd the youthful 'Squire,
For Madam Syntax sake was shown
The honour which was not my own.
But now, such was my fortune's change,
A wand'rer I was left to range
I scarce knew where, and doom'd to wait
For what might be my future fate.
Thus I approach'd the busy throng,
And when I heard the joyous song,
Though, with a mingled sense of pain,
My flute pour'd forth a doubtful strain.
--'Twas a sheep-shearing that employ'd
The festive toil which all enjoy'd,
And I was welcom'd to receive
The bounties that the feast could give;
And while I did my carols play,
With flowers the maidens made me gay,
And as they gave my back a thump,
Each stuck a nosegay on my hump.
Here I must own, there's no concealing,
These compliments attack'd my feeling,
And I was deck'd out in a part,
Which on my back, was near my heart;
Yet, as sweet smiles shew'd the intent
That no offensive thought was meant,
I, with kind words and sprightly tune
Strove to repay the fragrant boon.
--The yeoman, master of the feast,
Was kind, and own'd me as his guest,
And as he view'd each added fleece
That did his summer wealth encrease,
He joyous made the toast go round
To the song's animating sound,
While the patient ewes grown light,
And eas'd of all their fleecy weight,
No more the shearer's hand restrain
But bound off to their hills again.
Such was the scene that did awhile
My bosom of its cares beguile,
For he must have a wretched heart
To whom those joys no joy impart,
Which others are beheld to feel
And to th' attentive eye reveal;
Nay, I must own that this night's pleasure,
Which revell'd in unbounded measure,
A kind, though short, oblivion shed
O'er my crook-back and thoughtful head:
Yes, brief it was, for soon again
My pleasure yielded to my pain,
And all the jocund, festive folly
Was then restor'd to melancholy.
The ale was good, my draughts were deep,
And, overcome by sudden sleep,
Upon a chair my head repos'd,
And soon my eyes were soundly clos'd.
Th' Exciseman, a smart, parish wit,
Thought he could make a funny hit,
And with his ochre red and black,
Drew a fierce face upon my back,
The thought, at least, was not quite civil,
With all the emblems of the devil.
He had display'd his humour's art
Upon a very tender part,
At least, my pride, as you must know,
Had to my fancy made it so.
When, by the roar caus'd by the joke,
I from the slumb'ring fit awoke;
Soon did I make th' Exciseman sick
Of such a mortifying trick:
His gauging-rod was heard to crack
In many a stroke upon his back,
Till, by his supplicating tone,
I found I had aveng'd my own.
But though the marks were brush'd with care,
By the same hand which trac'd them there;
And though I was most warmly prest,
By the kind master of the feast,
To pass another jovial day;
I felt offence and walk'd away.
"'Do what I can, go where I will,
This Hump's my evil genius still,
And serves in some odd way or other
My any sense of joy to smother.'
--Such was th' expression that my tongue
Would mutter as I trudg'd along.
--But REASON told me, cease your strife
With this companion of your life;
'Tis fix'd as fate, and you must wear it,
Therefore with resignation bear it.
It is, I own, an ugly tumour,
But you should treat it with good humour,
And still be pleas'd you cannot trace
Any mis-givings on your face.
The change you surely would not try
For a lame leg or squinting eye:
Though somewhat out of line your figure,
You still enjoy Health's active vigour:
All's right before, so never mind
A certain awkwardness behind;
For sure, when you present your front,
No eye can see a blemish on't.
With merry and good-humour'd folk,
Treat it, Oh treat it as a joke,
And if, by chance, you meet a fool
Who turns it into ridicule,
Tell him you'd rather have the feature,
Coarse as it is, than his ill-nature.
Take care that none who know you, find
An awkward hump within your mind:
Oh, let it be your constant care
To banish disproportion there,
And you will laugh with friends who crack
Chance-medley jokes upon your back!
[Illustration: QUÆ GENUS ASSISTING A TRAVELLER.]
"To Reason I attention lent; }
Th' advice was good,--and, strait or bent, }
I now resolv'd to be content. }
"Thus, as I urg'd my onward way,
In spirits rather growing gay,
With saddle bags and all alone, }
A sprightly horse came trotting on, }
As if he had his rider thrown. }
The beast I, with some trouble, caught,
And then its fallen master sought,
Whom, within half a mile I found
All pale and stretch'd upon the ground:
When I approach'd, as in surprise,
He gave a groan and op'd his eyes.
A crystal brook ran murm'ring by,
Its cooling fluid to supply,
And soon its sprinklings did afford
The power that banish'd strength restor'd.
Thus, when re-mounted on his steed,
We did, in progress slow, proceed:
I cautious pac'd it by his side
With tighten'd rein the horse to guide;
And with attentive eye, prevent
Another downfall accident.
"We might have gone a mile or more,
When we beheld a lofty tower
That did in stately form arise,
A welcome sight to anxious eyes,
Marking a spot where might be found
Some styptic to a bleeding wound.
I shall be brief,--the Horseman's head }
Was soon repos'd on downy bed; }
The Surgeon came and he was bled: }
The lancet was by blisters follow'd,
And potions, in due order, swallow'd.
He look'd his thanks, then squeez'd my hand,
Bade me, what gold could pay, command;
Of all I wish'd to take my fill,
Enjoy myself, nor fear the bill.
I took my patient at his word,
And what the _Blue Bell_ could afford,
(An Inn of good repute and worth,
Well known to all who travel North,)
As it was his desire, enjoy'd,
Till with good living I was cloy'd.
But his sick bed I did amuse,
I told him tales and read the news;
So that with emphasis he swore
He almost griev'd his ills were o'er.
"As near, I think, as I can tell,
A fortnight pass'd ere he was well;
When he thus wish'd me to make known
How his best thanks could best be shown.--
"'I now may tell, my saddle-bags
Held a rich bundle of those rags
Which, from the Bank, are issued forth,
As we all know, of precious worth,
And might have been a certain prize
Had they been seen by knavish eyes.
A rogue would have possess'd the steed,
And with his mettle and his speed,
Have sought a spot, where, at his leisure,
He might have rummag'd all my treasure;
Nay, been in town before the post
Could have made known what I had lost,
And, on some artful trick's reliance,
Have set discovery at defiance:
When I, here sitting sad and stewing,
Might have been pond'ring o'er my ruin:
While, from your noble, gen'rous dealing,
I feel a joy there's no revealing.
"'A _Trav'ller_ is the name I bear,
A well-known, useful character,
Who, through the kingdom's wide-stretch'd bounds,
Ne'er fails to make his yearly rounds.
I for a London house of trade
Employ my necessary aid,
By which its commerce I extend
From Dover to the far Land's End.
Well mounted, or perhaps in chaise,
We quietly pursue our ways;
Lift our heads high, and look so grand
When we have payments to demand,
But bow, and handsome speeches give
When we have orders to receive:
Thus suiting manners, as you see
To our commercial policy.
Nay, when the busy day is o'er,
We meet at night, perhaps a score;
And, in return, give our commands
To humble host, who cringing stands,
In order to prepare the best
For the be-bagg'd and trav'lling guest,
And bring us wine to aid our cheer; }
While, with stump'd pens behind the ear, }
Good folks in town may drink their beer-- }
Nay, may be boasting of our labours
In smoking clubs of sober neighbours.
"'To what the London Mart supplies,
We give our wings and off it flies:
Thus knowledge, taste, and every fashion
Find a quick way throughout the nation,
And all the wants of high and low
We with a ready zeal bestow.
--The beauties of improving art
We scatter round in every part,
And diff'rent districts of the isle
In our communications smile.
To learning we distribute books,
And sauces to the country cooks:
Nay, none there are who will refuse
The town-made blacking for their shoes:
On Shetland legs its lustre glows
As on the boots of Bond-street beaux.
Where is the Miss, or where the Maid
Who does not ask our frequent aid?
At city ball or country fair
Our visits are apparent there;
And but for us, the summer races
Would be despoil'd of half their graces.
In short, as ev'ry eye may see,
The kingdom is one gallery;
That its abundant uses owes
To what the Traveller bestows.
Hence it is not a vain pretence
That we may make to consequence,
Who, by our turns and windings, strive
To make this flying commerce thrive:
Too happy when we carry home
Bags of Bank rags for which we roam:
Nay, I may think I owe to you,
That mine are safe within my view,
And any wish I will obey,
Which to my power you may convey.'
"I seiz'd the time and told my tale,
At least, as much as might avail
Some settlement in town to find,
That suited both my means and mind;
When by advice, and, which was better,
By a most urgent, friendly letter,
Arriv'd in London,--I soon found
I did not tread on hostile ground:
Nay, ere a week was pass'd and gone, }
Fortune, I hop'd had ceas'd to frown, }
As I did now a station own, }
With promis'd comfort by my side,
That gave me gains, nor hurt my pride.
But my misfortunes were not past,
Though this I hope will be my last,
Or I'll avenge me of the pack,
The foe I carry on my back;
From London Bridge I'll dash me plump,--
And drown th' incorrigible Hump.
"Now, the good lady of the house,
Who had an influence o'er her spouse,
Was in that interesting state
Which I can't otherwise relate
Than being such as loving wives
Think the great honour of their lives,
And she thought, if her daily eye
Should view my sad deformity,
It might the happy shape destroy
Of the expected girl or boy;
And ladies, in a certain trim,
Must be indulg'd in ev'ry whim.
Such danger did my form display,
Another hour I must not stay:
But gold was giv'n to heal my pride,
And bribe me to be satisfied.
'Tis true, kind words explain'd the cause;
Nay, much was said of Nature's laws;
And where that ruling pow'r thought fit,
To her caprice we must submit.
--Thus, once again, if not for ever,
I had to curse th' infernal fever
That did my upright form disgrace,
And rob me of my welcome place.
--At length, brimfull of discontent,
Half-mad, I to the Office went;
Where Fortune seem'd to change my view,
For there she made me known to you.
"Thus, Sir, I've told my tedious story,
And now a suppliant stand before you:
But in my story, right or wrong,
Truth was the rudder of my tongue.
--I've done, and, in all patience, wait,
To know how you may rule my fate;
And if my hist'ry will commend }
QUÆ GENUS, (such may be his end,) }
To you, _Sir Jeff'ry_, as his friend." }
CANTO III
Silence for some short time ensu'd,
Ere conversation was renew'd.
--_Sir Jeff'ry_ first strok'd down his chin, }
With something 'twixt a yawn and grin, }
And then thought proper to begin. }
"By a great writer it is said,
And one who seldom was betray'd,
When he employ'd his tongue or pen
On the known characters of men:
(And if, perchance, I'm not mistaken,
I think his famous name was BACON,)
That in the changeful scenes of life,
Which raise up enmity and strife,
He may 'gainst others hold his head,
Nor the wide world's opinion dread,
If, though he almost stands alone,
An honest heart maintains its own:
But that he is an arrant fool
Who yields to his own ridicule.
Now such a fool, as we have seen,
QUÆ GENUS, from weak pride, has been:
But, though I wonder at his folly,
I will not make him melancholy.
"Things at the worst, 'tis said, must mend,
And I will prove your real friend,
If you, hereafter, have the sense
To merit my full confidence:
And now, I think, you may prepare
To take my household to your care.
Your pride must not offended be
At putting on a livery,
As that will be the best disguise
To hide you from all prying eyes;
QUÆ GENUS, too, you now must yield,
That learned name should be conceal'd;
_Ezekiel_ will suspicion smother,
As well, I think, as any other,
Till I have due enquiry made
If _Gripe-all_ be alive or dead,
And how far I may recommend
The runaway to _Doctor Bend_.
Do what is right--and laugh at fear;
The mark you carry in your rear
Will never intercept the view
Fortune may have in store for you.
No more let vanity resent
The stroke by which your form is bent!
How many in the world's wide range
Would willingly their figures change
For such as yours, and give their wealth
To get your hump and all its health.
Look at my legs--my stomach see,
And tell me, would you change with me?
Nay, when your healthy form I view, }
Though all be-hump'd, I'd change with you, }
And give you half my fortune too. }
Lament no more your loss of beauty,
But give your thoughts to do that duty
Which my peculiar wants require,
And more you need not to desire.
I feel I cannot pay too high
For care and for fidelity:
Let me see that--my heart engages
To give you something more than wages
--Your duties will be found to vary,
As Steward, Nurse, and Secretary:
Thus you will soon my wants attend
Less as a servant than a friend.
You may suppose I little know
Of what is going on below;
My leading wishes are, to prove
That I am duly serv'd above,
And you, as may be daily seen,
Must play the active game between."
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
QUÆ GENUS, IN THE SPORTS OF THE KITCHEN.]
More pass'd, that needs not our repeating,
About the mystery of eating,
Which did these sage instructions close,
When good _Sir Jeff'ry_ 'gan to doze:
And, soon as he more soundly slept,
Downstairs _Ezekiel_ cautious crept,
(For by that name he now is known,
As fate has chang'd it for his own,)
To let th' expecting folk below
The nature of his office know.
To ev'ry man he gave his fist,--
The females, too, he warmly kiss'd;
Then to th' assembled kitchen spoke,
But not as if he thought a joke,
Or in a hypocritic glee,
But with a smiling gravity.
"_Sir Jeff'ry's_ household int'rests are
Committed to my faithful care;
And I must hope we all agree
To serve him with fidelity."
To this they all, in order due,
Gave their assent--and bound it too
By words which each one, in their station,
Gave as a solemn declaration.
The cook and housekeeper began,
And thus her red rag glibly ran;
While, from her knee unto her chin,
She wav'd the floured rolling pin.
"O, may the kettle never boil,
May butter always turn to oil,
And may the jack, the chimney's boast,
From time to time despoil the roast!
May soot fall on the ready stew,
And the cat lick the rich ragout!
May China dish with pie to bake,
While I am speaking, may it crack,
If I e'er took the offer'd bribe
From any of the market tribe,
Or e'er disgrac'd the name of cook
To falsify the kitchen book;
Nay, if I have touch'd or taken,
For my own use, one slice of bacon;
If ever I were such a sinner,
May I now spoil _Sir Jeff'ry's_ dinner;
And should I suffer such disgrace,
I instantly should lose my place!"
CHAMBER MAID.
"May I be hang'd by some bell rope
If e'er I cribb'd an ounce of soap,
Or pocketed wax-candles' ends
To deal out slily to my friends;
Or, in the linen's gen'ral muster,
Made free with towel or with duster;
Or e'er did bribes from turners take,
The mops to spoil, or brooms to break;
Or in the bed-rooms made a stir
To call in the upholsterer,
As house-maids with dishonest view,
Are, as I've heard, so apt to do!
Or ever gave, in washing tub,
The linen a hard, tearing rub,
That might encrease the rags--a fee
Which household custom gives to me!
--That I speak truth, I here declare,
And Molly, too, the same will swear;
Who striking hard upon the dresser,
Hop'd Heaven itself would never bless her,
If, from whate'er she saw or knew
What had been promis'd was not true."
KITCHEN MAID.
"Though I am rather in a flutter,
I vow I never turn'd the butter
Into the pot that might encrease
The perquisite of daily grease;
Nor sought for fat, no, not a bit,
But what dripp'd kindly from the spit,
Or from the plates and dishes came,
When I had daily clean'd the same;
Nor ever let a candle fall
To fill a gaping interval!
Nor did I e'er a doit receive
Which coal-merchants may sometimes give
To those who watch the kitchen-grate,
And keep it in a flaming state;
Who may the poker wield at will
And seldom leave its poking still,
Nor e'er the kitchen blaze controul
By being niggard of the coal:
Charges that are so often laid
To the hard-working, kitchen maid!"
FOOTMAN.
"O may I never, never be
A servant out of livery,
Which is th' ambitious, hop'd-for lot
Of all who wear the shoulder knot!
O may I never quit my place }
Behind the chair, nor shew my face, }
The sideboard's glitt'ring show to grace, }
If, when my master ceas'd to dine,
I ever stole a glass of wine!
O, may my food be pitch and mustard,
If ever I took tart or custard,
If e'er I did my finger dip
In some nice sauce and rub my lip!
If turnpike tolls I e'er enlarg'd,--
May I this moment be discharg'd!"
COACHMAN.
"May I be flogg'd with thorny briars
If e'er I heard such cursed liars,
And should I venture now to say }
I ne'er purloin'd or corn or hay, }
I should be liar big as they! }
Nay, 'tis such folly to be lying,
And all these trifling tricks denying,
Which, ere a fortnight's past and over,
Mr. _Ezekiel_ must discover.
_Sir Jeff'ry's_ keen look never sees
What are but clever servants' fees,
And he would feel it to his sorrow,
Were he to change us all to-morrow;
For the new steward soon will see
No master's better serv'd than he.
There's not a carriage about town
That looks genteeler than our own;
Or horses with more sprightly air,
Trot through the street or round a square.
I say that we all do our duty,
And if we make a little booty,
We never hear _Sir Jeff._ complain:
And wherefore should one give him pain?
If better servants he should seek,
He must be changing ev'ry week;
And I am sure that kind of strife
Would spoil the quiet of his life:
Nay, as you know, there is no question
Would operate on his digestion;
And when that fails, it is a point
That puts the rest all out of joint.
Thus all our trifling, secret gains
Save him a multitude of pains:
And when our daily work is done,
If we kick up a little fun,
No harm proceeds--no ill is meant--
He's not disturb'd--and all's content.
--Nay, now my friends, I'll club my shilling,
And you, I'm sure, will be as willing
To drink--that bus'ness may go on
In the same temper it has done,
And, without any treach'rous bother,
That we may understand each other:
That, without boasting or denying,
We need not to continue lying;
And that, disdaining needless fuss,
_Ezekiel_ may be one of us."
The wine was brought, for vulgar beer
Was not thought proper to appear;
The cook a pigeon pie produc'd,
And other tit-bits that amus'd
The appetites of those who sought 'em,
With thanks to the fat dame who brought 'em.
--Thus the new steward was made free
Of kitchen hospitality;
And to be blind to what he saw,
He was bound down by kitchen law.
At length, in office thus install'd,
And each was gone where duty call'd,
He, with a pressing arm, embrac'd }
The busy cook's well-fatten'd waist, }
As with her pin she plied the paste; }
When from her active tongue he drew
The duties which he had to do,
And how he might their claims divide,
Nor lean too much to either side.
--Our hero, who now felt his ground,
Thought not of change in what he found;
And that to enter on reform
Would be but to excite a storm,
Disturb the Knight's desir'd repose
And fill a kitchen full of foes.
He plainly saw his station bound him
To be at peace with all around him:
But, as the diff'rent int'rests drew,
He rather trembled at the view.
Thus, if we may small things compare
With those which more important are,
We may _Ezekiel's_ state apply
To maxims of philosophy,
By which it seems life's changeful hours
Are subject to two adverse powers,
That govern as by time or chance,
Nay, struggle for predominance;
While each, at diff'rent hours, may be
Possess'd of short-liv'd victory,
As varying impulses may bind
The operations of the mind.
Here selfish int'rest will prevail--
There gen'rous feeling turns the scale;
So that he neither can be said
Strictly to be or good or bad;
But in the one or other sense,
Of that presiding influence
Which counteracting views may give,
And the complying mind receive.
Thus, subject to these adverse powers,
In diff'rent places--diff'rent hours--
Poor mortal man, by their constraint,
May be a sinner or a saint.
To day he's wading to the chin
In folly's stream, through thick and thin;
While, on the morrow, he may prove
What virtue's self delights to love.
'Twas in this case our hero stood:
He might be bad--he might be good;
If good, he must the kitchen sweep--
If bad, its tricks a secret keep;
But if he would preserve his cloth,
He must determine to be both.
Thus, as he took a thoughtful view, }
He saw, his int'rest to pursue, }
He must divide himself in two. }
Above to stick to rigid plan--
Below to join the lively clan:
In what _Sir Jeff'ry_ did entrust
To his sole province, to be just;
But ne'er to interrupt the show
That was kept up by friends below:
At least, he was resolv'd to try
This system of philosophy;
To be a favourite with all,
In drawing room and servants' hall.
From all that he at present view'd,
No other plan could be pursu'd;
No other method could he trace,
To be at ease and keep his place.
Up-stairs to serious care he went, }
Down-stairs to stolen merriment, }
And thus the day and night were spent. }
_Sir Jeff'ry_, in a tone of pleasure,
Talk'd of _Ezekiel_ as a treasure;
And, far as the good Knight could tell,
He merited the title well:
Nay, it is true, he never fail'd
To meet the humour that prevail'd;
And through the day, from morn till night,
_Sir Jeff'ry_ found that all was right.
But when he slumb'ring sought his bed,
And on the pillow laid his head,
Then did our hero quit his post
And pass away like midnight ghost;
Then did he from his virtue move,
The power that rul'd him when above,
And seek the lively sports below;
For what could puzzled hunch-back do?
Could he another course prefer?
No,--he must take things as they were.
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
QUÆ GENUS, IN THE SERVICE OF SIR. JEFFERY GOURMAND.]
In this wide world, how oft is seen
A phantom with alluring mien,
Y'clep'd Temptation, whose sweet smiles
Too oft the stoutest heart beguiles.
Whate'er its forms, they seldom fail
Sooner or later to prevail.
If it assumes a golden shower,
Or sits in any seat of power,
How numerous the slavish band
Who offer to obey command:
Still, some examples may be shown
Of those whose virtues would disown
Its influence, and refuse to fly,
Or yield the palm of victory.
But where's the heart that e'er disdains
The pow'r that dwells where beauty reigns?
If such a question we propose,
_Ezekiel_ was not one of those;
And thus below-stairs he began
To break upon his up-stairs plan:
Nay, this same rigid rule of right, }
In his close duties to the Knight, }
He now thought might be drawn too tight; }
And that, in trifles, to his feeling,
He might be safe in double dealing,
And in the drawing-room apply
The aid of kitchen policy:
But he as soon would think of murther
As to proceed an atom further.
How he thus happen'd to decline
From his strict, philosophic line;
Why he relax'd from law severe
In the Knight's upper atmosphere,
Will not surprise one human creature
Who the world knows, or human nature,
Or recollects the joy or smart
When passion first invades the heart.
There were two objects most bewitching,
That sparkled all around the kitchen;
Though so bright was every kettle,
Or plate or pan of various metal,
That each might gaze upon a face
As if they peep'd into a glass:
Though fire-irons did reveal
The shining of the polish'd steel,--
Yet these superior pow'rs display'd,
Than aught by human artist made:
In short, to state what they could be,
And silence curiosity,
They were two eyes which lustre shed
Where'er the owner turn'd her head;
Though they gave not the only grace
That play'd on Molly's charming face.
But whether 'twas her lips or nose,
Or the fine curve of auburn brows,
That aided the commanding eye
In its well-play'd artillery,
Howe'er that be--in his warm heart
_Ezekiel_ had receiv'd the dart,
And as its ruling power he felt,
Each steady purpose 'gan to melt:--
For her he might his virtue stake }
And let his yielding conscience quake, }
Nay, cheat _Sir Jeff'ry_ for her sake. }
'Tis not the office of the Muse,
On slight suspicions, to accuse;
Nor does she now present to view
More than 'tis probable she knew:
But one day, and it may be more,
His constant meal of dainties o'er,
Dull nature did the Knight incline
To snore a little o'er his wine.
Our hero, seeing Molly pass,
He tempted her to take a glass;
For, in his state of tender feeling,
What gen'rous mind will call it stealing?
And scorn'd be they who think it treason
Against the better rules of reason,
If, in return, he sought a kiss;
But as he seiz'd the melting bliss,
Tall Margery was passing by
By chance or curiosity:
She glanc'd at all was onward going,
And what _Ezekiel_ was bestowing;
When, as she cast her leering eye,
Thus thought her rising jealousy.
"If, Sir, you give Miss Moll the glass,
I'll try to make a bottle pass;"
Then push'd her stout arm by the door,
The sideboard's juices to explore.
If 'twas by chance the action came,
Or if a purpos'd trick's to blame,
A smart kick caus'd the door to close
And caught the damsel by the nose.
The luckless nose was rather long,
And had its gristle not been strong,
Had not the door been edg'd with baize
To give its hurried motion ease,--
Had it been sharp, the wicked pinch
Might have cut short that nose an inch.
_Madge_ now scream'd out at her disaster, }
And swore that she would tell her master, }
But our _Ezekiel_ found a plaister; }
Though what the plaister was he found
To silence tongues and cure the wound,
We must not nice enquiry make
For virtue's and our hero's sake.
But we may tell, for this we know,
That all was still and calm below;
Though as the faithful verse will prove
He shap'd another plan above,
Form'd to controul all household feud,
And be as honest as he could;
Thus give to things another face
To live at ease and keep his place.
--Two int'rests into one were thrown,
Those of _Sir Jeff'ry_ and his own:
The former strictly to maintain,
Nor yet the latter to disdain;
The Knight's confiding grace to keep,
Nor let his own advantage sleep;
The kitchen's jovial mirth to boast,
But leave the cook to rule the roast;
To be of Molly's smiles possest,
Though never to offend the rest:
And here we fear is the beginning,
The first short lesson of his sinning.
So young, and with such little sense
Of what is call'd--experience;
And whom the world had not yet taught,
As it might do, to set at nought
What conscience tells us we should shun,
What we should do or leave undone;
Or, with a certain self-deceit,
The virtues of the heart to cheat,
He certainly appears to be
Envelop'd in perplexity,
And verging on a dang'rous scrape
From which he might not make escape
Without a loss which he would rue
Of the fair prospects in his view;
And thus be on a sudden hurl'd
Faithless and friendless on the world.
As in his plan this hasty change
Was, it may seem, so very strange,
It therefore may be well to know
From whence such awkward motives flow,
For awkward motives they must be
Which trench upon integrity.
It was not Molly's sparkling eyes
Which sought his virtue to surprise;
For though he might her heart beguile
To yield his wish a fav'ring smile,
She ne'er allow'd of a pretence
Beyond the claim of Innocence.
There is a proverb so well known
It would be ign'rance not to own
The having heard and felt its truth
E'en in the days of early youth,
That, if we chance with those to live
Whose lives a bad example give,
They will convey, as we shall find,
A foul contagion to the mind.
Thus for a time _Ezekiel_ stood
Firm as the tree that crowns the wood,
But, after mocking ev'ry blast,
Will sometimes bend and fall at last.
Though whether he began to shake,
Or only suffer'd twigs to break,
But still retain'd his fibres bound, }
In firm defiance to the ground, }
While the main trunk, tho' shook, was sound, }
Is what the curious mind shall know,
And no far distant page will show.
Thus the humble verse will trace
His future honour or disgrace;
As intermingled they must be
With scenes of household history.
When good _Sir Jeff'ry's_ gout was kind
And to his bed he was confin'd;
No dainty dinner to be got,
And nought but messes in the pot,
The kitchen folk, then quite at leisure,
Would think of more than common pleasure;
Then butlers of the higher station,
And valets to gay men of fashion,
Invited were, to join the ball
Now given in the servants' hall,
With ladies' maids who titles bore
Of mistresses--whose gowns they wore;
And sometimes a smart tradesman, too,
Would pop in to say--_how do ye do_.
--Here all home secrets were betray'd-- }
The various tricks which servants play'd, }
And how their fortunes could be made. }
When one grave man his silence broke,
And thus to our _Ezekiel_ spoke:--
"Had I," says he, "so fine a place,
As your superior manners grace;
Had I a rich man in my keeping,
Who passes half his time in sleeping;
Whose purse is always in your view,
And lets you pay his tradesmen too;
While, that he may enjoy his ease,
He makes you guardian of his keys,
My growing fortune soon should flow,
And in a way he ne'er should know.
If by his bed you are his nurse,
And have the jingling of his purse;
If, when the doctor comes to see him,
And you are calmly told to fee him,
You must be nam'd the veriest elf
If, then, you do not fee yourself:
Nay, when his fingers, cramp'd with gout,
Cannot well take a _sovereign_ out,
And he should bid you take out four,
Contrive to grapple five or more.
'Tis when he's sick with aches and ails,
When pain torments and mem'ry fails,
When the night's pass'd his bed beside,
Then Fortune tells you to provide
For future wants,--and bless the hour
That gives the means into your power:
Nor ever fail, on some pretence,
To rail against the rash expense
Which doctors and their varlets bring
To patients, sick and suffering,
Till you can get him to exclaim--
'Expense is a mere idle name;
Of cost let your complainings cease,
I care not so it gives me ease:'
Then offer up your thanks to Heaven
That to his fortune it is given
To be thus blest with ample wealth,
At any cost to purchase health.
This is your harvest; I shall tell
Another story when he's well:
That time's but short,--though let him see
That then you're all economy.
When he can settle an account,
And look into the just amount,
Then, then let ev'ry thing appear
Just as it ought--correct and clear.
Thus let your speculations rove
When well below, when sick above,
And all I'm worth I now would stake
You will, in time, a fortune make.
Rich as he is, and careless too,
With such a confidence in you,
_Sir Jeffery_ will never feel
Your happy turn in fortune's wheel."
"Hold, hold awhile," the list'ner said,
"This is too much," and shook his head;
"For still I feel, without offence,
I've not quite done with Conscience,
Nor can so boldly lay aside
The warnings of that faithful guide!
Am I this moment to forget
How much I'm in _Sir Jeff'ry's_ debt,
And thus, with chance of foul disgrace,
To play the rogue and risque my place?"
"No, no," his counsellor replied,
"Servants and masters are allied;
Each is to each a foster-brother,
And have their claims on one another.
An useful servant is a treasure,
Whose service masters seldom measure.
What I now from my heart commend,
As an experienc'd, willing friend,
Is not to rob or place your paw
On what is guarded by the law,
But such as are no more than fees
For all your extra services;
For duties which no pay engages,
Under the common name of wages;
For what your varied service grants
To all his fancied, sickly wants,
Which never can your toil requite
For all you do by day or night.
"When _Sir Jeffery_ fortune gain'd,
By contracts from the State obtain'd,
Think you he had a pious loathing
To crib a yard from soldiers' clothing?
And when he did his thousands touch,
To say--'my lord, I've got too much;
And I am ready to confess
I should have done the job for less.'
How could such men their fortunes make
Did they but fair advantage take!
And have you not an equal claim,
In a small way, to do the same?
--When the Knight took his daily range
From _Mincing Lane_ to the _Exchange_,
And calculated as he went,
How he should make his _Cent. per Cent._
Think you that he was over-nice
To fix his rate of merchandise?
When his ships sought some foreign strand,
Did he disdain the contraband,
If he could but with safety chouse
The sentries of the custom-house?
A little smuggling all allow,
But only mind the when and how:
Take your _per centage_, but with care;
And who will say it is not fair?
--I've serv'd the wealthy and the great,
Nay once a Minister of state,
And as I saw that in his station
He did not fail to rob the nation,
I thought I might indulge the whim,
As a turn serv'd, to pilfer him.
I courted too my Lady's maid,
For Charlotte understood her trade:
I form'd my plan and did espouse her,
Then started up a tonish grocer,
Kept butlers in my constant pay
Who serve me in the usual way,
And all the house-keepers around
With certain something in the pound.
Now hear the advantage which I share
From all my caution, all my care!
I have a genteel, pleasant home,
To ladies let my drawing-room,
And in a whisky I can ride
With Charlotte smiling by my side.
'Tis thus I offer to your view,
What I have done,--for you to do."
Here this fine conversation ended,
But not, perhaps, as was intended,
Which strong temptations might display
To lead th' unsettled mind astray;
And, for a time, as fancy play'd,
Now beaming light, now seeking shade,
_Ezekiel_ hover'd o'er the plan
Of specious rogue or honest man.
Perhaps a smart, neat, pleasant shop,
Did on his pericranium pop,
With his warm, faithful wish to crown,
The lovely Molly then his own:
Such interests might his purpose guide,
Till he was questioned by his pride;--
"--But can this be a proper plan
For one bred like a gentleman?
'Tis true I cannot change the show }
Of kitchen policy below, }
There I must yield, I'm bound to know: }
But, in the regions above,
The whole in rectitude shall move;
To the Knight's goodness I may trust,
And faithful will I be and just;
Nor ever take or e'en receive
But what his favour's pleas'd to give;
Nor shall reproach my mind disgrace
Whene'er I look him in the face."
Such were his thoughts,--the grocer fail'd.
Thus honesty at length prevail'd,
And sav'd him, as things shortly stood,
From baseness of ingratitude.
In a few days the parting gout
Gave the Knight leave to go about,
And one day in his arm-chair plac'd,
The table with its luncheon grac'd,
Smiling, as he luxurious sat,
He thus let loose his easy chat.
"This soup, my friend's a special treat,
Fit for an Emperor to eat,
And now, my pleasure to pursue,
I trust I have a treat for you.
I've spar'd no pains to know the fate
That on your future hopes may wait,
And what I shall proceed to tell
May altogether please you well,
Unless you are resolv'd to try
New whims and tricks of foolery,
On which, however will depend,
Whether your master is your friend.
If, at all points, the news I bring
May not be quite so flattering;
Yet surely it deserves at least,
To be thought good, if not the best.
--You need no longer stand in awe
Of any terrors of the law,
The beating you to _Gripe-all_ gave
Did little harm to that same knave,
For he surviv'd to play a prank,
By robbing of a country bank,
And fled, as his late neighbours say,
To flourish in America.
Thither your fortune too is gone,
But then your fears are also flown.
Time, it is hop'd may make amends,
Fortune and you may still be friends;
Nor shall I my best wishes smother
To introduce you to each other.
My growing favour you will see,
So lay aside your livery:
Hence you will need not a disguise
'Gainst curious thoughts and prying eyes:
Your former title you may claim,
Again QUÆ GENUS is your name:
Be faithful, and you soon shall know
The kindness I may yet bestow.
Nay, be but honest, while I live }
Your upright service shall receive }
All that my grateful hand should give: }
Nor doubt my purpose as sincere,--
More may be meant than meets the ear."
What heart, with the least sense of good,
That would not melt with gratitude,
When such a gen'rous friend was near
The clouded scenes of life to cheer,
And bid the drooping hopes pursue
A brighter prospect now in view!
And where's the heart that would not feel,
And where's the tongue that could conceal
The sense that virtue had withstood
Such specious efforts to delude!
QUÆ GENUS the sensation felt
That bade repenting thoughts to melt;
Nay, he e'en cast his eyes to Heaven,
With doubts that he should be forgiven
For having listen'd to deceit
And almost yielded to the cheat,
Whose principles had he obey'd
As in the grocer's scheme display'd,
All trembling he should now have stood
A monster of ingratitude.
What he had 'scap'd his heart confess'd,
And his moist eyes confirm'd the rest.
With ev'ry grateful feeling fraught
He spoke not, but 'twas thus he thought:--
"My ever-watchful care shall tend
To make me worthy such a friend,
And all my kindred virtues burn
To make that friend a due return."
The Knight, with kindness, view'd the feeling,
Which poor QUÆ GENUS was revealing;
When, to cut short the pleasing pain
Which words were failing to explain,
He smiling bade him take his way
To the known duties of the day.
Of words there was a mute hiatus,
And of the noon-tide apparatus
The table quickly was bereft,
While with some new-born pamphlet left,
_Sir Jeffery_ calmly was proceeding
To gratify his usual reading,
When our QUÆ GENUS bore away
The fragments of the lighten'd tray,
And sought his pantry's cool retreat,
Where, lolling on a welcome seat,
He let his busy fancy range
Throughout the unexpected change,
That did upon his fortune wait;
And still, though humble was his state,
Scarce could he think it a disaster
To wait the will of such a master;
Nor did his pride reluctant bend,
Since that same master was his friend.
All that indulgence could bestow
_Sir Jeff'ry_ did not fail to show;
And, when alone, it seem'd to please
The knight to set him at his ease,
And shrink the distance to a span
Between the master and the man.
--Nay, here it cannot be denied }
That it was soothing to his pride }
To lay the shoulder-knot aside. }
The liv'ried dress of red and brown
He thus was call'd on to disown:
In blue and buff, or buff and blue
He now appear'd to daily view.
The knight allow'd the taylor's art
By all its power to make him smart;
And Snip with his consummate skill,
In working drapery to his will,
By his contrivance gave the cape
A flow to soften down the shape,
So that the hump could scarce be said
His general figure to degrade,
Nor, to a common view, be seen
To indispose his pleasing mien.
Thus did he sit and calmly bless
The hopes of promis'd happiness.
CANTO IV
The various, the uncertain views
Which the all-anxious world pursues,
While it directs its searching eye
To what is call'd prosperity,
Compose the gen'ral, pictur'd strife
That forms the daily scene of life;
And make up the uncertain measure
Of power, of riches, and of pleasure;
Which, whatsoe'er may be our state, }
Do on the varying projects wait }
Of lowly poor or princely great: }
For as all worldly things move on
We weigh them by comparison.
Thus he who boasts his little all
At a street-corner on a stall,
Tempting the gaze of wandering eyes
To view the transient merchandise,
Will look to Fortune's smile to bless
His humble trading with success,
As he whose freighted vessel sails
O'er distant seas with doubtful gales.
Nay, in Ambition's humble school
Perceive we not the love of rule,
O'er rustic swains to bear the rod
And be a village demi-god?
To gain command and take the lead
Where mean submission courts a head,
Does in the lowest class prevail
Of vulgar thoughts to turn the scale,
As that which on their wishes wait,
Whose object is to rule the state.
--Seek you for pleasure as it flows,
In ev'ry soil the flow'ret grows;
From the pale primrose of the dale
Nurs'd only by the vernal gale,
To the rich plant of sweets so rare }
Whose tints the rainbow colours share }
And drinks conservatorial air. }
But, 'tis so subject to the blast,
It cannot promise long to last;
Though still it 'joys the fragrant day,
Till nature bids it pass away.
The rude boy turns the circling rope,
Or flies a kite or spins a top,
When, a stout stripling, he is seen
With bat and ball upon the green;
The later pleasures then await
On humble life whate'er its state,
And are with equal ardor sought
As those with high refinement wrought,
Where birth and wealth and taste combine
To make the festive brilliance shine.
Thus the same passions govern all
Who creep on this terrestrial ball:
Their objects, truly, are the same,
However shap'd, whate'er their name.
What though the varying plan confounds
In giving sixpences or pounds,
In velvet or in home-spun cloth,
They may be base curmudgeons both.
Some are by charity enroll'd
On tablets proud in lines of gold,
While others, as by stealth, convey
The mite that shuns the light of day;
Though each performs a diff'rent part,
Each may possess a Christian heart.
It is not upon wealth alone
That happiness erects its throne:
How oft, alas! it is we see
The rich involv'd in misery;
How oft is view'd in reason's eye
The wants which wealth can ne'er supply!
The way to power may be betray'd,
Though 'tis with solid gold inlaid;
Nay, purchas'd pleasure prove deceit,
And be at length a very cheat.
--How weak, how vain is human pride,
Dares man upon himself confide:
The wretch who glories in his gain
Amasses heaps on heaps in vain.
Why lose we life, in anxious cares,
To lay in hoards for future years?
Can they, when tortur'd by disease,
Cheer our sick heart and purchase ease?
Can they prolong one gasp of breath,
Or calm the troubled hour of death?
What's man in all his boasted sway?
Perhaps the tyrant of a day.
Can he in all the pride of power
Ensure his honours for an hour?
Alike the laws of life take place
Through ev'ry branch of human race:
The monarch, of long regal line,
Was rais'd from dust as frail as mine.
Can he pour health into his veins
Or cool the fever's restless pains?
Can he worn down in nature's course
New brace his feebled nerves with force?
Can he, how vain is mortal power,
Stretch life beyond the destin'd hour?
"Consider, man, weigh well thy frame;
The king, the beggar, is the same,
Dust form'd us all,--each breathes his day, }
Then sinks into his mortal clay." }
Thus wrote the fabling Muse of GAY. }
Such thoughts as these of moral kind
QUÆ GENUS weigh'd within his mind:
For wherefore should it not be thought }
That, as his early mind was taught, }
It might be with sage maxims fraught? }
--Thus seated, or as he stood sentry,
Sole guardian of the butler's pantry,
Which lock'd up all the household state,
The cumbrance rich of massy plate,
And all the honour that could grace
The power of superior place,
That did acknowledg'd rank bestow
O'er all the kitchen-folk below;
What wonder that his mind should range
On hopes that waited on the change
Which unexpected Fortune's power
Seem'd on his present state to shower.
Though while his wand'ring mind embrac'd
The present time as well as past,
The visions of the future too
Gave a fair prospect to his view.
But life this well-known feature bears,
Our _hopes_' associates are our _fears_,
And ever seem, in reason's eye,
As struggling for the mastery,
In which they play their various part,
To gain that citadel the heart.
Thus though our Hero's honest pride
Was, for the present, satisfied;
And did things, as they seem'd to show,
Promise to stay in _Statu Quo_,
He, surely, would have ask'd no more
For Fortune on his lot to pour,
And with all due contentment wait
For what might be his future fate:
But while the present hour beguiles
His cheerful mind with cheering smiles,
The forward thought would strive to sow
An awkward wrinkle on his brow.
Now, strange as the event appears,
The source of all his hopes and fears
Was on each settled point the same,
And _Jeff'ry Gourmand_ was its name.
The Knight most gen'rous was and free,
And kind as kindest heart could be,
So that QUÆ GENUS scarce could trace
The humbling duties of his place.
Whate'er he did was sure to please,
No fretful whims appear'd to tease;
And while with fond attention shown,
He did each willing duty own,
Sir _Jeff'ry_ frequent smiles bestow'd,
And many a kind indulgence show'd,
And oftentimes would wants repress
To make his fav'rite's labours less:
Nay, when he dawdled o'er his meat, }
Would nod and bid him take a seat }
To share the lux'ry of the treat. }
--He fancied, and it might be true,
That none about him e'er could do
What his peculiar wants required,
And in the way he most desired,
As _his_ QUÆ GENUS, thus he claim'd him,
Whene'er to other folk he nam'd him.
Indeed, he took it in his head
That no one else could warm his bed,
And give it that proportion'd heat
That gave due warmth to either sheet.
Our Hero rather lik'd the plan,
As Molly brought the warming-pan,
And having pass'd it through the door,
Waited without till all was o'er.
Thus, having rang'd the alarum-bell,
With other things I must not tell,
And seen Sir _Jeff'ry's_ pillow'd head
Turning to rest within his bed,
QUÆ GENUS bore the pan away
Where Molly fair was us'd to stay.
He was to honour firm, and she
The mirror bright of Chastity.
Thus half an hour was often spent
In interchange of sentiment,
Which doubtless was some tender theme:
A subject for a pleasing dream.
All this tells well,--nor was this all;
The sceptre of the servants'-hall
Was now committed to his hand;
O'er that he had supreme command,
But such his mild and smiling sway,
All felt a pleasure to obey;
And 'twas the kitchen's daily toast,
Long may QUÆ GENUS rule the roast.
Tradesmen did to his worth subscribe,
For bills were paid without a bribe;
And good Sir _Jeffery_ quite content
How the allotted income went,
At no accounts e'er gave a look,
But those which fill'd his Banker's book.
What could our Hero more desire,
What more his anxious wish require,
When with a calm and reas'ning eye
He ponder'd o'er his destiny,
As he unwound the tangled thread
That to his present comforts led,
And serv'd as a directing clue
In such strange ways to guide him through?
--To what new heights his hopes might soar,
It would be needless to explore:
For now the threat'ning time appears
When he is troubled with his fears.
His hopes have triumph'd o'er the past;
But then the present may not last;
And what succession he might find
Harass'd with doubts his anxious mind.
--Of the gross, cumbrous flesh the load
Sir _Jeffery_ bore did not forebode
Through future years a ling'ring strife
Between the powers of death and life;
The legs puff'd out with frequent swell,
Did symptoms of the dropsy tell;
The stiffen'd joints no one could doubt
Were children of a settled gout;
And humours redd'ning on the face,
Bespoke the Erysipelas.
Indeed, whene'er QUÆ GENUS view'd,
With rich and poignant sauce embued,
As dish to dish did there succeed,
Which seem'd by Death compos'd to feed
With fatal relishes to please
The curious taste of each disease,
That did Sir _Jeffery's_ carcase share
And riot on the destin'd fare:
When thus he watch'd th' insidious food,
He fear'd the ground on which he stood.
--Oft did he curse the weighty haunch
Which might o'ercharge Sir _Jeff'ry's_ paunch;
And to the turtle give a kick,
Whose callipash might make him sick.
He only pray'd Sir _Jeff'ry's_ wealth
Might keep on life and purchase health.
"Let him but live," he would exclaim,
"And fortune I will never blame."
Money is oft employ'd in vain,
To cure disease and stifle pain;
And though he hop'd yet still he fear'd
Whene'er grave Galen's self appear'd;
For when the solemn Doctor came,
(Sir MIDRIFF BOLUS was his name,)
He often in a whisper said,
"I wonder that he is not dead,
Nay, I must own, 'tis most surprising,
That such a length of gormandising
Has not ere this produc'd a treat
For hungry church-yard worms to eat,
And 'tis the skill by which I thrive
That keeps him to this hour alive.
Nay, though I now Sir _Jeffery_ see }
In spirits and such smiling glee, }
I tremble for to-morrow's fee." }
--When this brief tale he chose to tell
And ring his patient's fun'ral bell,
QUÆ GENUS fail'd not to exclaim,
As he call'd on the Doctor's name,
"O tell me not of the disaster
That I must feel for such a master,
Nay, I may add, for such a friend
Were I to go to the world's end,
Alas, my journey would be vain,
Another such I ne'er should gain!"
Sir MIDRIFF, member of the college,
And of high standing for his knowledge,
In lab'ring physic's mystic sense
And practical experience,
As common fame was pleas'd to say,
Expected more than common pay.
Now, as Sir _Jeff'ry_ never thought
His health could be too dearly bought,
Whene'er the healing Knight was seen,
Wrapt up within the Indian screen,
To shape the drugs that might becalm
Some secret pain or sudden qualm;
Or when there was a frequent question,
Of bile's o'erflow and indigestion,
Or some more serious want had sped
Sir _Jeff'ry Gourmand_ to his bed,
QUÆ GENUS fail'd not to convey
(For he had learn'd the ready way),
The two-fold fee, by strict command,
Into Sir _Midriff's_ ready hand.
Thus, in this kind of double dealing,
The Doctor had a pleasant feeling,
That seem'd to work up a regard
For him who gave the due reward,
And knew so well to shape the fee
From the sick chamber's treasury.
Thus when our Hero told his pain }
And did his future fears explain, }
_Galen_ replied,--"Those fears restrain, }
To this grave promise pray attend,
Sir _Midriff Bolus_ is your friend."
Such, when he touch'd the welcome fees,
Were the sly Doctor's promises:
QUÆ GENUS with good grace receiv'd 'em,
Though 'tis not said that he believ'd 'em.
--No, never was a visit past,
But it was hinted as the last,
Had they not been in lucky trim
To have sent off post-haste for him.
Whene'er the Knight's legs took to swelling,
All ears were bor'd with sad foretelling;
And if his chest was over-loaded,
Some dire disaster was foreboded,
But failing in prophetic story,
He gave his science all the glory.
A year, howe'er, was past and gone,
And all the household cares went on,
In active zeal and order too,
As all such matters ought to do,
With hours of leisure well employ'd,
And many a fantasy enjoy'd.
But something yet remains to know:--
To manage _two strings to your bow_,
A maxim is, which ev'ry age
Has rend'red venerably sage,
And forms a more than useful rule
In the world's universal school.
Sir _Jeffery_, we make no doubt,
In various ways had found it out:
It might have help'd him on to wealth,
And now to aid the wants of health,
He kept the adage in his view, }
And as one Doctor might not do, }
It now appears that he had two. }
The one, in order due, has been
Brought forth on the dramatic scene,
Ranks high in bright collegiate fame,
And M. D. decorates his name.
He never ventures to prescribe
But what is known to all the tribe,
Who hold the dispensarial reign
Beneath the dome of Warwick-Lane.
The other, steering from the track
Of learned lore, was styl'd a Quack;
Who, by a secret skill, composes
For many an ill his sovereign doses:
But whether right or wrong, the town
Had given his nostrums some renown.
Salves for all wounds, for each disease
Specifics that could give it ease,
Balsams, beyond all human praise,
That would prolong our mortal days.
All these, in many a puffing paper,
Are seen in striking forms to vapour,
As, in the Magazines they shine,
The boast of Doctor ANODYNE.
His office was advice to give
In his own house from morn till eve,
And a green door, within a court,
Mark'd out the place of snug resort,
Where patients could indulge the feeling
That might dispose them to concealing
The nervous hope, the sly desire
To eke out life's expiring fire,
Without the danger to expose
Their secret or to friends or foes.
Sir _Jeffery_ was one of these
Who thought it was no waste of fees,
Though they were toss'd about by stealth,
If he could think they purchas'd health:
But here, who will not say, it seems
He guarded life by two extremes.
Sir _Midriff_ told him he must starve,
And _Anodyne_ to cut and carve:
But though the first he nobly paid,
It was the latter he obey'd.
Full often was his _Merc'ry_ sent
To bring back med'cine and content;
Permission, what he wish'd, to eat, }
And physic to allay the heat }
Brought on by a luxurious treat; }
To give the stomach strength to bear it,
With some enliv'ning dose to cheer it.
But still our Hero's watchful eye
Saw that this sensuality
Was bringing matters to an end,
That he too soon should lose his friend;
And in what way he should supply
The loss when that same friend should die,
Did often o'er his senses creep
When he should have been fast asleep.
Sir _Midriff_ to his promise swore,
And _Anodyne_ had promis'd more,
Both had prescrib'd or more or less,
A future vision of success:
But time has still some steps to move,
Before they their engagements prove;
Ere our QUÆ GENUS we shall see
In a new line of history.
Sir _Jeffery_ now began to droop,
Nor was he eager for his soup:
He blunder'd on the wrong ragout, }
Nor harangu'd o'er a fav'rite stew, }
Scarce wild-duck from a widgeon knew. }
No longer thought it an abuse,
To see St. MICH: without a goose.
Unless prepar'd with cordial strong,
He hardly heard the jovial song,
Or hearing, had not strength to move
And strike the table to approve.
Nay, sometimes his unsteady hand
Could not the rubied glass command,
But forc'd him slowly to divide
The rosy bumper's flowing tide.
Beside him oft QUÆ GENUS sat
An hour, and not a word of chat;
And when he was in sleepy taking
The news would scarcely keep him waking.
--It was a melancholy showing,
But poor Sir _Jeffery_ was a-going.
"Indulge his gormandising swallow,
And apoplexy soon must follow,"
Such did Sir _Midriff's_ sage foreknowledge
Give as the doctrine of the College.
"--Now, if you dare to keep him low,
A dropsy gives the fatal blow.
Remember, my good friend, I pray,
What _Anodyne_ is pleas'd to say."
When, in a kind of solemn croak,
The Quack, with shaking noddle, spoke.
Thus did the differing doctors fail,
Nor could their varying skill prevail:
They neither could set matters right,
Or quicken a pall'd appetite.
More weak and weak Sir _Jeffery_ grew,
Nay, wasted to the daily view,
And, as his faithful servant found,
Between two stools he fell to ground.
But still he smelt the sav'ry meat, }
He sometimes still would eye the treat, }
And praise the dish he could not eat. }
One day, when in a sunshine hour,
To pick a bit he felt the power,
Just as he did his knife apply
To give a slice of oyster-pie,
Whether the effort was too great
To bear the morsel to his plate;
Or if, from any other cause,
His nature made a gen'ral pause,
He gave a groan, it was his last,
And life and oyster-pies were past.
Which of the Doctors did the deed,
The one who starv'd or he who fed,
Or whether Nature, nothing loth,
Laugh'd at the counsels of them both,
And, as they issued their commands,
Her victim took from both their hands,
I know not, but it seems to me,
To be the work of all the three.
Here it would be but idle folly
To call on fruitless melancholy,
To talk of blisters that in vain
Were spread to bring back life again;
Or all the lancet's power explore
To wake the breath that breath'd no more;
The stroke was struck, no human art
Could now withdraw the fatal dart.
Mutes marching on, in solemn pace,
With gladden'd heart and sorrowing face,
Who, clad in black attire, for pay
Let out their sorrows by the day:
The nodding plumes and 'scutcheon'd hearse
Would make a pretty show in verse;
But 'tis enough, Sir _Jeffery_ dead,
That his remains, enshrin'd in lead,
And, cloth'd in all their sad array,
To mingle with their native clay,
Were safe convey'd to that same bourne
From whence no travellers return.
--We must another track pursue, }
Life's varying path we have in view,-- }
Our way QUÆ GENUS is with you! }
CANTO V
As our enlighten'd reason ranges
O'er man and all his various changes,
What sober thoughts the scenes supply,
To hamper our philosophy;
To make the expanding bosom swell
With the fine things the tongue can tell!
And it were well, that while we preach,
We practice, what we're fain to teach.
O, here might many a line be lent,
To teach the mind to learn content,
And with a manly spirit bear
The stroke of disappointing care;
Awake a just disdain to smile
On muckworm fortune base and vile,
Look on its threatnings to betray,
As darksome clouds that pass away,
And call on cheering hope to see
Some future, kind reality.
--All who Sir _Jeffery_ knew could tell
Our Hero serv'd him passing well;
Nay to the care which he bestow'd }
The Knight a lengthen'd period ow'd, }
And such the thanks he oft avow'd. }
QUÆ GENUS never lost his views
Of duty and its faithful dues;
His honour no one could suspect,
Nor did he mark with cold neglect
Those services which intervene }
In a sick chamber's sickly scene: }
His duty thought no office mean, }
And to Sir _Jeffery's_ closing sigh
All, all was warm fidelity.
Nay, thus the Knight would frequent own
A grateful sense of service done;
And oft, in words like these, he said,
That duty shall be well repaid.
"QUÆ GENUS, know me for your friend,
I to your welfare shall attend;
Your friend while I retain my breath,
And when that's gone, your friend in death."
That death he felt as a disaster,
For, to speak truth, he lov'd his master,
Nor did he doubt that a reward
Would prove that master's firm regard.
'Tis nature, in life's worst vexation,
To look at least for consolation;
And he, 'tis true, had turn'd his eye
To a consoling legacy,
That might, at least, make some amends,
For losing this his best of friends;
But his ill luck we must not smother;
He lost the one, nor found the other.
The will was full of good intent,
And a warm legacy was meant
To poor QUÆ GENUS, there's no doubt,
But shuffling Fortune left it out;
'Twas she cut short the kind bequest,
Which was thus fatally express'd.
"To this my last and solemn Will
I add by way of Codicil,
My true and faithful servant's name,
Who to my care has every claim:
--To JOHN QUÆ GENUS I bequeath
One month posterior to my death,
The sum of
Here a blank ensued
Which has not yet been understood,
Or why the figures were delay'd
That would a sterling gift have made.
Whether a sudden twitch of gout
Caus'd him to leave the figures out;
Or visit of a chatt'ring friend
That did th' important words suspend,
And thus retard the kind design,
Until the 'morrow's sun should shine,
That 'morrow with its ha's and hums,
Which, often promis'd, never comes:
Howe'er the enquiring mind may guess
It cannot find the wish'd success:
In short, whatever cause prevail'd,
Too true, the gen'rous purpose fail'd.
In the Knight's mind the boon was will'd,
But still the blank was never fill'd,
And no more the said will engages
Than mourning suit and one year's wages,
Which all his household should inherit
Whate'er their station or their merit:
Here no distinction was display'd
'Tween high and low, 'tween man and maid,
And though QUÆ GENUS was the first,
He had his portion with the worst.
Our Hero thought it wond'rous hard
Thus to be foil'd of his reward,
That which, in ev'ry point of view,
He felt to be his honest due;
And both his master and his friend
Did to his services intend;
Which, as the sun at noontide clear,
Does by the codicil appear:
But when he ask'd Sir _Jeffery's_ heir }
(Who did so large a fortune share) }
The blank hiatus to repair, }
Which he with truth could represent
As an untoward accident,
The wealthy merchant shook his head
And bade him go and ask the dead.
QUÆ GENUS ventur'd to reply
While his breast heav'd a painful sigh,
"The dead, you know, Sir, cannot speak,
But could the grave its silence break,
I humbly ask your gen'rous heart,
Would not its language take my part,
Would it not utter, 'O fulfil
The purpose of the codicil?'
Would it not tell you to supply
The blank with a due legacy?"
The rich man, turning on his heel,
Did not the rising taunt conceal.
"All that the grave may please to say,
I promise, friend, I will obey."
What could be done with this high Cit,
But to look sad and to submit;
For it could answer no good end
Though indispos'd to be a friend,
That kind of discontent to show
Which might convert him to a foe.
But ere we altogether leave
Sir _Jeffery's_ grateful friends to grieve,
We mean all those which to the sight
Were clearly writ, in black and white,
Within the bound'ries of the will,
Nor left to _blundering Codicil_,
It may not be amiss to draw
The picture of the _Heir at Law_.
When on the 'Change he took his rounds,
He walk'd an hundred thousand pounds:
Not less was his acknowledg'd worth
When ev'ry morn he sallied forth,
With expectation grave, to meet
Fortune's fresh smiles in Lombard-Street.
Upright in all his worldly dealing:--
But that high sense of noble feeling,
The humane impulse to relieve,
To wipe the eye of those who grieve,
The wish of goodness to impart
The bounties of a gen'rous heart,
These were not his; and though the scroll
That may the charities enroll
Of gilded pride, upon the wall
In some conspicuous hospital,
Might his known name and title bear,
'Twas vanity that plac'd it there.
But though, perhaps, a plum or more
Was added to his former store,
If, by sad chance, with haggard mien,
An humble suppliant should be seen,
A mother sick, a father dead,
And children, left forlorn, unfed,
His hand ne'er ventur'd on his purse
To give relief, and, what was worse,
He would alarm the wretches' fears
With beadles fierce and overseers,
Or talk of laws for vagrants made,
Which call the scourge-man to their aid.
Thus nought was look'd for at his hands,
But justice strict to just demands:
No smiling, generous overflow
Of fair reward would he bestow;
No bounty did his thoughts prepare
For duty's overweening care;
While service, by affection wrought,
Was, in his reck'ning, set at nought.
QUÆ GENUS gave in his account;
Its justness own'd, the full amount
Was duly paid, but I'll forgive
The mind refusing to believe,
That, when the rich man should discover
That he had paid some nine-pence over,
He did, without a look of shame,
That pittance as a balance claim:
It may appear full passing strange,
But 'tis a fact, he took the change,
And did the jingling half-pence greet,
Like fish-women in open street.
E'en the worn wardrobe of the Knight,
Which is esteem'd the valet's right,
The gen'ral heir-loom of his place,
Was seiz'd by the curmudgeon base,
And borne away, a paltry gain,
To his own Store in Mincing-Lane:
But when, among the other dues,
Were order'd off the _Gouty Shoes_,
QUÆ GENUS, with contempt inflam'd,
Thus, in a hearty tone, exclaim'd,
"Away, to the mean merchant bear 'em!
Heaven grant he may be forc'd to wear 'em!"
--Thus things went on;--then came the time,
(The truth e'en shames my humble rhyme)
When the Executor and Heir,
For one did both the titles share,
Appear'd to pay, in legal guise,
The wages and the legacies.
QUÆ GENUS, who had lately been
A favour'd actor in the scene,
Could not have guess'd at such disaster
From such a friend and such a master:
And though he strove, he scarce could hide
The feelings of an honest pride,
When, from Sir _Jeffery's_ error, he
And those who wore a livery,
Nay even house and kitchen-maid
Were in the same proportions paid,--
When his allotted mourning bore
The same coarse stuff the coachman wore.
But how his heart began to beat
When he was charg'd for the _receipt_!
All his distinction now was lost,
And he who long had rul'd the roast,
Had, since Sir _Jeffery_ went to rest,
Been of his station dispossest;
Nay, not a common smile remain'd
Of all the favour he had gain'd,
While beggarly mistrust took place,
Which he must feel as foul disgrace:
For ev'ry key had been demanded;
One instant made him empty-handed
Dismiss'd from his late envied station
Without a nod of approbation,
He was preparing to depart
With downcast look and heavy heart;
Nor could e'en Molly's tender smile
Of one sad thought that heart beguile
HIS FAREWELL SPEECH.
"And now, I say, adieu, my friends,
For here our fellow-service ends.
You need not put on sorrowing faces;
You will soon meet with ready places;
'Tis me whose disappointing care,
Of cheering prospects, bids despair.
--You all, I'm sure can well believe,
I have most ample cause to grieve
That cruel Fortune thus should frown,
When I thought her fond smiles my own.
--Sir _Jeffery_ now is laid in dust,
But when alive, how good, how just!
And all who knew him well must know
He never wish'd to use me so.
Had he believ'd his end so nigh,
I should have had the legacy,
Which would have made me full amends
For loss of fortune, loss of friends.
Another day had he surviv'd,
To the next morning had he liv'd,
It might, perhaps, have been my fate
To know an independent state,
As he had told me, o'er and o'er,
I ne'er should go to service more.
When I did on his wants attend
He spoke as a familiar friend:
How often too we might be seen
Chatting within the Indian screen!
Whenever we were left alone,
We seem'd not two, but were as one.
I knew each tit-bit that he lov'd;
He always what I gave approv'd;
And as I stood beside his chair,
Attending with respectful air,
He oft would bid me sit and dine,
Fill up his glass and pour out mine.
--When thumb and finger he applied
To the gold snuff box by his side,
I shar'd the pinch, and he ne'er ceas'd
To say, 'God bless you,' when I sneez'd;
Nay, when my snortings I repeated,
He thus my awkward flurry greeted,
'My friend, familiarize your nose
To this exhilarating dose,
For sure as we together dine
This box, QUÆ GENUS, shall be thine!'
But that kind friend, alas! is dead,
And box and snuff and all are fled.
Nay, had I now a hope on earth,
And could engage in trifling mirth,
I here might my complainings close
With disappointments of my nose.
--His common purse I could command,
'Twas daily open to my hand;
You all well know I paid his bills,
And when, to ease his various ills,
Sir _Midriff_ came, I us'd to squeeze
Into his palm the welcome fees.
Whene'er I showed my weekly book,
He never gave the page a look;
And when I urg'd it the good Knight
Would smile and say, 'I'm sure 'tis right.'
Nay, I can say, in ev'ry sense,
I ne'er abus'd his confidence:
No, no, I never did purloin
An atom of the lowest coin,
And what I have to Heaven is known,
In honest truth, to be my own,
Then wonder not, I feel it hard,
To be depriv'd of my reward,
And, by such a chance, be hurl'd
Again to struggle with the world.
Reasons, besides, I must not tell,
Why the Knight treated me so well;
But I play'd no delusive part,
And they did honour to his heart:
Of that heart, had he left a share, }
As well as fortune to his heir, }
I need not now indulge despair." }
"Mr. QUÆ GENUS, never fear,"
The Coachman said, "your spirits cheer!
Dame Fortune has look'd down 'tis plain,
But the jade may look up again:
'Tis true that dev'lish oyster-pie
Fell souse upon the legacy:
E'en so it was, I cannot doubt it,
But I would think no more about it.
You so well know your P's and Q's,
That you have but to pick and chuse.
I speak the truth, there are but few
Mr. QUÆ GENUS, such as you:
And though the merchant will not give
The bounty which you should receive,
What though he would not spare a farthing
To save a soul of us from starving,
Good names he'll give us, as he ought,
For they we know will cost him nought;
'Twere better therefore to be civil,
And hold the candle to the Devil,
For we as servants cannot stir
Without a show of character.
--As you perceive, I'm not a chick,
And know enough to make one sick:
Nay, somewhat my experience lends,
To guess at this world's odds and ends.
I've been in many curious places;
I've serv'd my Lords,--and serv'd their Graces;
And, which gives work of more ado,
I've even serv'd my Ladies too:
I knew to shut or ope my eyes,
To see strange things, nor look surprise.
Sometimes good-luck has given a lift,
And sometimes, I've been turn'd adrift;
But should I live to Judgement-day,
No, I will never fail to say,
That I ne'er so much comfort knew,
As since this house was rul'd by you.
--Now, when you get an upper place,
Which soon, I'm sure, must be the case,
If then your favour will contrive,
I should my Lord or Lady drive,
For I the reins can handle true
Of pairs, of fours, and sixes too,
I promise, nay, my word engages
To give you poundage from my wages.
--I know you're gen'rous, kind and free,
But here you will accord with me,
That interest has a powerful weight
Both with the little and the great:
You see it well by what is past,
Since your fine plan is overcast.
I do not wish to give offence,
But interest is common sense,
And he who does not look to that,
Mr. QUÆ GENUS, is a FLAT."
The blunt, rough _Coachman_, said no more:
When _Molly's_ fine black eyes ran o'er:
The _Cook_ look'd grave, and _Betty_ sigh'd, }
The _Kitchen-maid_ sat still and cried, }
While _Thomas_ not a word replied.-- }
QUÆ GENUS, not to be remiss,
Gave to each maid a friendly kiss,
And when he whisper'd his adieu
To charming _Molly_, he gave two:
Perhaps, if they were counted o'er,
Her sweet lips might acknowledge more:
Then told her softly not to fear,
And kindly whisper'd in her ear,
"What e'er my lot, I will be true
To fond affection and to you."
Our gloomy Hero now departed,
And left the mansion heavy-hearted,
Where in such comfort he had liv'd,
Nor, till dismiss'd it, ever griev'd,
And, with a tardy step, retir'd
To a snug lodging he had hir'd.
Thus once again by Fortune thrown
On the wide world, and all alone,
Without th' appearance of a friend
On whose kind aid he could depend,
QUÆ GENUS pac'd his lonely floor
All to and fro and o'er and o'er,
Thinking what efforts might be made,
What stroke be struck, what game be play'd,
To place him in some active state
That promis'd to be fortunate.
One consolation he possest, }
Which, though it did not charm to rest }
The rising troubles of his breast, }
Yet still, whatever might confound him,
Gave him full time to look around him,
And, on whatever project bent,
To weigh its views, and wait th' event.
For, though his purse might not run o'er,
He had a snug, sufficient store,
To keep his anxious spirits free
From any dread of penury,
And guard him amidst toils and strife,
Against the insidious smiles of life,
That do so often tempt the mind
To cast discretion far behind,
Or make it fearful hazards try,
Impell'd by dire necessity.
--He had not yet unripp'd his coat, }
In which conceal'd lay every note }
Which he from _Gripe-all's_ clutches got: }
A hoard on which he might depend,
When he look'd round nor saw a friend.
Besides, he had no trifle gain'd,
While with Sir _Jeffery_ he remain'd;
For though, as has been lately said,
He never play'd a trick of trade;
Nor had he even thought it right
To take a valet's perquisite,
Nor e'er allow'd his hands to seize
The household steward's common fees,
But of the strict and rigid law
Of duty ever stood in awe.
--All this the Knight full well believ'd,
Nor could he think himself deceiv'd,
When once he answer'd to a friend,
Who did the young man's cares commend.
"That same QUÆ GENUS is so just
In all committed to his trust,
To his right notions such a slave,
He would not with a razor shave,
Nor use a strap, nor ply a hone,
He had not purchas'd as his own."--
Thus, as most worthy of his charge,
Sir _Jeffery's_ annual pay was large,
And when th' allotted quarter came,
Something was added to his claim,
Which with such gen'rous grace was given,
It seem'd like Manna sent from Heaven!--
Besides, his wages, being high,
Encreas'd the gen'ral legacy,
Which he with all the household shar'd;
The last, and now his sole reward.
Thus so far independence brought
A'gleam of comfort on his thought;
He was not left on ruin's brink
To sit and sigh, and swear and think.
_Two_ points alone he had in view,
He thought it hard they were but _two_;
Nor could he call his fortune kind
When they alone employ'd his mind:
These were the DOCTORS, won by fees
To make most bounteous promises;
And though these GALENS might deny 'em,
He was at least resolv'd to try 'em;
And, if Sir MIDRIFF should decline,
He would apply to ANODYNE.
--The _former_, if he pleas'd, could well,
And with strict truth, his value tell:
For none with such experience knew
That he was active, honest, true,
And to his patient, well or ill,
Did ev'ry duteous care fulfil.
Nay, that it was the Knight's good pleasure
To speak of him as of a treasure.
Now, on his serious purpose bent,
He to Sir MIDRIFF BOLUS went;
But then, alas! as we shall see,
His face did not forebode a fee:
Nor did the great man smiling meet him,
Or with a tone familiar greet him,
As his keen humour us'd to do
When _golden sovereigns_ were in view:
Nor did he take him by the hand,
As when it did the coin command.
He now put on a curious leer,
That said, "I pray, what brought _you_ here?"
"I'm come to hope you'll condescend
To prove yourself my promis'd friend,"
QUÆ GENUS said, "and with this view,
I now present myself to you.
You told me, 'when your master's gone,
Look on my friendship as your own.'
He's gone, alas, I too well know,
To me a most affecting blow:
But still, I trust, I may engage
Your kind, protecting patronage,
And, among those of rank and wealth
Who make you guardian of their health,
Your favour may smile on my fate,
And I renew an household state,
Like that which crown'd my better days,
When I enjoy'd your frequent praise."
The Doctor now his suppliant ey'd,
And thus in hasty tone replied.
"Indeed I've something else to do
Than thus to be employ'd by you:
I'm in great haste and must away,
My patients wait, I cannot stay,
To hear you, your fine story tell:--
So, honest friend, I wish you well."--
--Thus when Sir _Jeffery's_ fees were o'er
He thought not of QUÆ GENUS more.
Now, as he pac'd along the street, }
Thus did he to himself repeat, }
"Is this the fortune I must meet? }
Is this the merited reward
Which they receive who strive to guard
Their hearts against the tempting guise
Of int'rest and its sorceries;
And say to Virtue, 'Maid divine!
Behold thy slave, I'm wholly thine!'
--It is not that I now repent,
Or harbour selfish discontent,
That I should hesitate to seize
The golden opportunities
Which were presented to my power,
Not ev'ry day, but ev'ry hour,
While with Sir _Jeffery Gourmand_ I
Enjoy'd the means those arts to ply,
Which, by the curious eye unseen,
Might with such gains have pregnant been:
No, no, thank Heaven, I'm not embued
With that worst vice, Ingratitude;
An odious vice that is of kin
To every other mortal sin.
I felt his kindness, and where'er
My lot may be of pain and care,
Those kind reflections I possess
To make me smile in my distress,
That I ne'er for a moment swerv'd
From the best duties he deserv'd;
Nay, which he, to his closing days,
So often honour'd with his praise,--
And should it be my lot to find
Another master good and kind,
Whose gen'rous heart would condescend
To treat QUÆ GENUS as a friend,
This I may truly boast, that he }
Should find an humble friend in me, }
Whose soul is faithful loyalty! }
I would the path of truth pursue
As I have long been us'd to do;
And where, howe'er oblig'd to bend
To pressing views, my wishes tend.
But, in this world of chance and change,
As it appears, I'm doom'd to range,
And I may be oblig'd to treat it
As it will be my lot to meet it.
I will not rob nor will I steal, }
But from myself I'll not conceal }
The secret purpose which I feel. }
Commandments I will never break,
But when fair interest is at stake,
I'll follow in my future views
The conduct which the world pursues;
And when that principle I own,
The world will have no right to frown.
Thus whatsoe'er may be my station,
Where chance may fix my next vocation
I'll keep discretion in my view,
As prudent folk profess to do.
--But ere throughout the town at large
I look for some inviting charge,
Though with one Doctor I have fail'd,
Another now shall be assail'd;
Though brilliant prospects may not shine,
Yet I'll e'en go to ANODYNE.
The QUACK may prove a better friend
Than e'er Sir MIDRIFF might intend;
At all events, howe'er perverse,
'Tis plain he cannot prove a worse;
Howe'er that be, I can but try."--
--Thus clos'd his thoughts' soliloquy.
QUÆ GENUS now pass'd up the Court
The sickly patient's still resort,
Where, in a corner quite retired,
The mansion stood which he desired,
Whose door, bedight with darksome green
And mouldings edg'd with black, is seen;
While letter'd gold appears to shine
And tell the name of ANODYNE.
He touch'd the well-known tinkling-bell
That did some sickly presence tell,
When the door op'd with rapid force,
And patients glided in of course.
There was ne'er heard a knocker's sound,
To rouse the idle neighbours round,
Or to the windows call the eye
Of peeping curiosity.
The signal was not given twice;
QUÆ GENUS enter'd in a trice
And sought the solemn Doctor's nook,
Where he sat with a folio book,
Some ancient Galen's learned creed,
Which 'tis not certain he could read:
Alone, o'er this he gravely doz'd,
But when the sick arriv'd, he clos'd
The cumbrous volume, and gave ear
The tale of some distress to hear.
To JOHNNY this was no new scene,
For here he had full often been,
But as he _fee-less_ ne'er before
Had hasten'd through the well-known door,
He felt some doubts within his mind
What sort of welcome he should find.
Sir MIDRIFF'S conduct it appears,
Had chang'd his promis'd hopes to fears;
And when he felt such rude disdain
From one who rul'd in Warwick-Lane,
Who boasted of superior knowledge
To all the learned of the College;
Who from his frequent promise swerv'd,
To one who his kind smiles deserv'd;
Yet ev'ry day, and ev'ry hour,
Possess'd the patronising power,
With mere commending words to gain
The boon QUÆ GENUS ask'd in vain;--
What good then could his hopes supply
From the low pride of quackery,
From one who rested his pretence
On nostrums and on impudence.
But he had felt that in Life's dance,
We often owe to strokes of chance,
That unexpected good prevail'd
Where Reason's better hopes have fail'd.
Such thoughts the purpose did incline
To make his bows to ANODYNE.
The Doctor with a friendly air, }
'Rose from his dictatorial chair, }
And pleasure told to see him there: }
When thus QUÆ GENUS in reply,
Began the following Colloquy.
QUÆ GENUS.
"Sir _Jeffery_, as, I trust, you know,
Is gone, Sir, where we all must go;
In spite of all your healing power,
Has reach'd, at length, his final hour,
Though had he trusted all to you, }
And to Sir MIDRIFF bade adieu, }
Which he was half inclin'd to do, }
Perhaps, my present visit here
Would not so penniless appear;
For I am come, as you must see,
Without the pass-port of a fee.
It is self-interest, I fear,
Yes, I must own it, brings me here.
Since his departure I am hurl'd
To push my fortune in the world,
And may I now with courage say,
You will assist me on my way?
--Such is, alas! my alter'd case,
I'm seeking for another place,
Though e'en my visionary mind
Can never hope again to find
Such a so envied household post,
As that which I have lately lost.
With fortune I shall ne'er contend
But smile on that which she may send;
And of whatever state possest,
Be satisfied and act my best.
Now, as I've reason well to know,
Though 'tis not you have told me so,
That persons of superior worth,
The wealthy and of noble birth;
Who, tir'd of physic's settled rules,
As taught in colleges and schools,
Have sought your bold and fearless skill,
The potent drafts and secret pill,
Which your _Acumen_ can impart,
Beyond the reach of drudging art,
And I have heard will cure the pain,
When boasting science tries in vain:
Nor is this all, the tonish fair
Attend to seek your healing care.
When here I've for Sir _Jeffery_ been, }
Dames of high figure I have seen, }
Lolling behind your folding screen }
With all their gay caricatures
The lively eye's attractive lures.
Broad bonnets all beflower'd o'er,
Are often passing through your door,
And I have glanc'd at many a shawl
That glided through your gloomy hall.
When such grand visitors as these
Apply to you to give them ease;
And when your skill relieves their pain,
That is the time their grace to gain,
And then, good Doctor, you might see
If you could gain a grace for me;
While to some patient you commend
The service of your humble friend:
Nor will he fail returns to make,
Which you may condescend to take;
And grateful memory will repay
Your kindness to his dying day."
The modest suit was not denied,
And thus, th' assenting Don replied.
"QUÆ GENUS, my regards are thine,
As sure as my name's ANODYNE.
--If worth lay in a flatt'ring tongue,
You would not want a service long;
For if you do with caution use it,
Where is the ear that will refuse it?
'Tis but the art how to apply
The well-conceal'd artillery,
And, more or less, the well-told tale
Will o'er the pliant mind prevail.
Your int'rest, friend, I'll not neglect,
Perhaps do more than you expect;
Nay, I e'en may your mind surprise,
When I mark how that int'rest lies;--
But 'tis not where your hopes may look,
'Tis not that page in fortune's book.
--The higher folk who come to me
Are all involv'd in secrecy:
Those who can't walk employ a hack,
When they employ the humble quack:
Hence, no fine carriages resort
About the purlieus of my court,
For the rich owners, with their wealth,
Blush to pass this bye-way to health.
Such is proud fashion's powerful rule
O'er many a purse-proud, titled fool:
They tell me all their sickness claims,
But seem afraid to tell their names.
--There's an old man I sometimes see,
And faith he brings a handsome fee,
Whose hackney always drops his fare
Just by, in the adjoining Square:
Where, when we've clos'd our consultation,
He hobbles to regain his station.
In a loose coat of common wear,
This person chuses to appear;
With his round hat and dingy caxon,
He calls himself a Mr. Jackson;
Though still his manners and his words
Are such as highest rank affords:
And, sure as I e'er gave a puke,
I know the man to be a duke.--
But I, of course, the secret keep,
And let his splendid titles sleep.
--I have two ladies now in hand,
Whose whims and fancies I command:
They tell of humours on the skin,
But then they only shew their chin;
No other part they let me see,
Such is their bashful fantasy.
They seem to think I doubt their graces,
As veils o'erspread their pimpled faces,
So that where'er they chuse to show 'em,
I do not think that I should know 'em.
Yet by their chat they have betray'd,
That one's a wife, and one's a maid:
Nor from the names can they refrain
Of _Lady Bell_ and _Lady Jane_.
They never fail in their appointments,
And are fast curing by my ointments:
Thus, from their praise, I hope to claim
An added honour to my name.
Nor are these all; for many more }
Of wealth and rank pass through my door; }
Though still as I have said before, }
They to such aid as mine apply
All mask'd in fearful secrecy.
These whims I have explain'd, to prove
I cannot in this quarter move;
And where I could your worth commend
It would degrade you to attend.
But I shall now unfold to view,
Another chance I have for you:
And let your patience ope its ear
To all you are about to hear.
"'Tis not to breathe the tonish air }
Of Portland-Place, or Grosv'nor-Square, }
Or stand behind her Grace's chair: }
'Tis not to serve the titled beaux,
And flourish in your master' clothes:
'Tis not, as you are wont, to grace
Some peopled household's highest place,
Though well-accomplish'd as you are,
'Tis chance alone can place you there:
For, through your days, you may not boast
A master such as you have lost;
Nay, your precarious life may end
Before a master proves a friend;
And, after all, old age may come
Without an alms-house for a home.
Think, think in what a woeful plight
The man must live who's pocket's light!
Are not his hours by want depress'd?
Penurious care corrodes his breast;
Without respect, or love, or friends,
His solitary day descends.
O be not led away by pride,
But use the means that may provide
For future wants, when evils press,
And life is pregnant with distress!
Hear me, my friend, nor let surprise
With staring looks burst from your eyes,
When I, in language frank and free,--
Tell you to come and _live with me_.
"Think not I want you for a hack,
A serving menial to a quack;
If to my interests you attend, }
You will be treated as a friend. }
On this be sure you may depend, }
That you will find a better station,
In profit as in inclination,
Than were you hired to be solus
Behind the chair of Doctor BOLUS.
--Within a week, perhaps a day,
You'll see the part you have to play.
The man I had, whom you have seen,
Might still beneath this roof have been,
But he by coughing was worn down
To a poor gasping skeleton,
And 'twere not fit I should endure
One in my house I could not cure
He would not prove a tempting sign
To spread the fame of ANODYNE:
But in the time he here remain'd,
He had a little fortune gain'd.
--Your knowledge, which I well can trace, }
Is far above a servant's place, }
And would a higher station grace. }
The pleasing manners you possess,
Your winning speech and nice address,
Might call to your ambitious view,
An higher state than you pursue;
Though still your savings you might waste,
Before you're suited to your taste.
--Such aid as your's I long have wanted,
And if my warm proposal's granted,
You must at once grow wond'rous dull,
Or soon your pocket will be full:
Here, in one year, you will get more
Than with your noble lords in four.
Nay, on the honour of a friend,
Who no deception can intend,
You'll greatly err, if you decline
Such an official place as mine.
--I'll teach you how to cup and bleed;
These operations you will need;
The pulses' movements you shall know,
When they are either high or low:
While other symptoms of disease
I can communicate with ease.
All this, if I the truth discern,
Your ready mind will quickly learn.
Besides 'tis right to let you know
You'll have no nauseous work to do;
For the old woman spreads the blisters,
Rolls up the pills and stirs the clysters.
While 'tis my hand alone composes
The patients' necessary doses,
And your chief care is to dispense
These med'cines with your eloquence.
--But I have sick folk to attend,
So while away an hour, my friend:
And as I trust you'll stay and dine,
We'll close our bargain o'er our wine."
CANTO VI
It often happens as we range
Through life, an unexpected change,
With sudden stroke may pain destroy
And turn our thoughts from grief to joy:
Or as some shock cuts off relief
May turn a flow of joy to grief.
Thus our days' varying system bears
Th' alternate play of hopes and fears:
Nay, when more pleasant views provoke,
May turn our gravity to joke.
Besides, as in the Drama's art,
The scene displays the varying part,
So apt are we to play the fool,
We serve for our own ridicule:
And when sly Fortune's pleas'd to vary
Our progress with some strange vagary,
We oft become such merry elves
To burst with laughter at ourselves.
Thus as QUÆ GENUS pac'd the room,
Reflecting on the time to come,
And all the heap of promis'd good
By ANODYNE to be bestow'd;
That he was to be cramm'd with wealth,
And turn all sickness into health;
His fancy, tickled at the thought,
He set each serious wish at nought,
And laugh'd till his sides seem'd to crack,
To think he should become a Quack.
But when he had indulg'd the joke
Which this idea might provoke,
He thought more gravely of the case
And vow'd to take the proffer'd place:
At all events, he could but try
This self-same scheme of quackery:
At least some knowledge he should gain,
And knowledge never comes in vain.
Indeed, what harm, if he succeed in
The arts of cupping and of bleeding?
The lancet's power to command
Might be of use in any hand,
And e'en in any hand might save
A forlorn suff'rer from the grave;
While he might well instructed be
In principles of Pharmacy.
He also felt that application
Might fit him for a better station;
That in some distant country town,
He might a _Galen's_ title own:
Where, if his fortune did not vary,
He might strut an Apothecary.
Thus between gravity and smile
Conceit play'd its full part the while,
Though not without a view to gains
Which might reward his present pains:
Indeed he knew the means that made 'em,
For he had for Sir _Jeffery_ paid 'em:
As while for potion, pill and plaister
A golden fee awaits the master;
He found it was a useful plan,
With lesser coin, to fee the man,
Who had the means to lift the latch
That did the secret wish dispatch;
And could th' impatience set to rest
Of the more eager, grumbling guest.
--Thus, with lively hope high-season'd,
QUÆ GENUS walk'd about and reason'd;
And, in his Pericranium fast,
This grave opinion fix'd at last:
If not in honour, yet in purse,
_He might go further and fare worse_,--
But if no other good were done,
There might be sure a world of fun.
[Illustration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_
QUÆ GENUS WITH A QUACK DOCTOR.]
Patients that morning had been plenty,
Not less it seems than five-and-twenty;
This the old woman smiling stated,
And told him that the dinner waited.
The table shew'd a plenteous treat }
Of fish and fowl and sav'ry meat, }
But poor QUÆ GENUS scarce could eat. }
For, though prepar'd for any diet,
His hunger soon repos'd in quiet.
The Doctor fed, but talk'd the while,
Of gastric juice and flowing bile;
Of kidneys and o'ergrowing liver,
As of sore eyes now cur'd for ever;
What his fam'd _Nostrum_ had perform'd,
And how it had the bowels storm'd
Of guttling Gourmand with such force,
That it a passage made of course,
Which three great Doctors tried in vain,
With all their boasted skill to gain.
Besides our hero did not know
How cookery went on below,
And he might think, poor dainty sinner,
That the same hands had dress'd the dinner,
Which were entrusted with the care
Each daily med'cine to prepare;
To melt the salves and spread anon
The cerates and diacolon;
That did the drugs or grind or pound,
And dress the sore leg's running wound:
But so it was, a sick sensation
Check'd all his powers of mastication,
And caus'd his stomach to resent
The very taste of nutriment:
Nay his sad appetite approv'd
When all the dishes were remov'd.
--They therefore soon had ceas'd to dine }
And o'er the second pint of wine }
The bargain clos'd with ANODYNE. }
What that was, it is fit to know,
And the verse now will briefly show.
QUÆ GENUS had made up his mind
Not to his interest to be blind;
But in the game that path pursue
Which prudence says we ought to do,
Nor to let scruples overpower
Th' advantage of the passing hour,
And yet that artifice restrain
Whose daily efforts are for gain:
In short to take the middle plan, }
Which, as the world is us'd to scan, }
Marks what is call'd an _Honest Man_. }
He might not hesitate complying
With a small spice of useful lying
That idle questions might disarm,
Do some slight good, but never harm,
Afford a sentimental grace
To conversation's common place,
And give a customary aid
To all the retail slang of trade.
With mind thus settled and prepar'd
He ANODYNE'S first lecture heard.
And as it surely was the best,
We shall pass over all the rest.
ANODYNE.
"This the first rule that I shall trace:--
You must command a solemn face;
Nor suffer objects to beguile
Your features to familiar smile.
Here, I must own, you oft may see
What may court transient pleasantry;
For e'en 'midst misery and pain,
You'll find such whims and fancies reign,
Hear patients cough and grunt and sneeze
In such uncouth, discordant keys,
That without care, I should not wonder
Your muscles into laugh might blunder.
You have a speech runs off at score,
As rapid as a chaise and four,
But with my sickly folk be slow
As a stage-waggon's us'd to go;
And pray remember to apply
Your words with due solemnity.
I know you well can suit your tongue
To any age, to old or young;
Nor will the task your care perplex
In the complaints of either sex;
And bear in mind, whate'er you see,
To veil your thoughts with modesty:
But hear the great and leading rule
Of this my Esculapian school.
"I care not by what name you call
This spacious parlour, room or hall:
But here my daily patients range
Whose order you must never change:
Were I to take them one by one,
By Heaven I should ne'er have done;
And, therefore, govern'd by their feather
I thus assort my birds together.
Here, on the right, are duly seated
Those who for gouty freaks are treated,
Then comes the symptomatic fever,
And next the bilious and their liver:
Then follow others in their turn,
The chills which shake, the heats that burn;
The stomachs which will ne'er digest
The food their feeders love the best;
The wheesers too are not far off,
All those who hem and spit and cough,
With such, not of the happiest kind,
Whose bowels threat to crack with wind
The Hypochondres here repose
Impatient for the cordial dose,
And children on the carpet brawl,
Till my spice biscuits calm the squall.
"I first review th' assembled tribe
Then walk off stately and prescribe,
When I consign to your quick sense
Th' appropriate med'cines to dispense,
To all the classes in your view, }
With gentle tone and caution due: }
See then how much depends on you. }
Each case that asks superior art
I send into a room apart;
And _there_ I never feel alarm;
I play no tricks and do no harm.
When I a desp'rate illness see,
For patients must not die with me,
I recommend them to repair
To goat's-milk and the country air;
And when such counsel they receive
They do not fail to take their leave,
Full of my candour and disdain
Of any little paltry gain.
Deep cuts, sore legs and gummy eyes,
With all the common casualties,
I with my healing dame bestow,
In her snug, secret cell below:
Indeed I've sometimes star'd to see
The wonders of her surgery.
--'Tis true 'mong doctors I'm not famous,
But still I'm not an _Ignoramus_;
For I can play a skillfull part
In elements of chymic art;
I give the drafts a varying hue,
To-day so red, to-morrow blue,
And touch them with a diff'rent savour,
To give a worse or better flavour,
As it may suit, then change their name, }
Though they may be the very same, }
Both in their object and their aim. }
"It is with me a leading fashion
To play thus with imagination;
A symptom that doth never cease,
Or more or less in all disease.
There are sly shifts in ev'ry trade,
Which money calls in to its aid:
But here I'd have it understood,
If when my practice does no good,
My conscience never has the qualm,
That I do any real harm.
Nor are my various cures unknown
As placards tell of my renown!
My nostrums oft my hopes fulfil,
Nor do I know they ever kill.
Those cases which I've cause to doubt,
And cannot find their symptoms out,
I never fail to leave to nature,
Who is a wonder-working creature:
And my chief cures which make a stir,--
I e'en must own I owe to her.--
--Such the great object of my care.--
Fear not, you will th' advantage share.
But know, when all my sick are here,
You as _Inferior_ must appear;
But business o'er and they are gone,
Then good QUÆ GENUS, we are one!"
At length the compact was agreed, }
And all things promis'd to succeed: }
Our Hero soon could cup and bleed; }
And, with a kind, officious grace,
The med'cine gave in time and place;
Nay, as occasion might afford,
Bitters improve with sweet'ning word:
He had acquir'd the art to please
With welcome flatt'ries such as these.
"_How stout your legs appear to-day!
I trust you have walk'd all the way!
And ere that our brief work is done,
We shall have taught you how to run!_"
"_O madam! how I must rejoice,
That you have lost your husky voice;
Soon I doubt not that I shall find
Your tones are of the sweetest kind_!"
"_And that fine face I griev'd to view
When cloth'd in such a pallid hue;
But I have seen, this passing week,
The colour coming on your cheek.
And if some ill does not oppose,
We soon shall see the tender rose:
And hope's a friend that will supply
The prospect which, I trust, is nigh_."
Now sometimes he would give a scope
To his propensity to joke.
For 'mid this pale-fac'd, grumbling mess
'Twere well to stir some chearfulness:
For if a parson chose to squeeze
A lady on her crummy knees,
(For here a little play and prate
Might cheer a sickly _tête-à-tête_)
His whisper might perchance declare,
"Doctor, her pulses are not there."
--At all events, things went on well,
As the pleas'd verse may freely tell;
And the young Doctor ne'er complain'd
Of what he by his office gain'd.
But here we now shall change our road
And slip into an _Episode_;
It is a common way we know,
In which much better poets go:
Though pride will not suggest that we
Can be accus'd of _poetry_;
Yet we must own that, in our time,
We have stirr'd up some reams of _Rhyme_.
Howe'er that be, we now must come
To steer our Hero's walks from home.
Among the few who sought the aid
Of ANODYNE'S more secret trade,
Was one who sent a written case
Which did his various symptoms trace:
Thus, when the Quack prepar'd the dose,
QUÆ GENUS took it snug and close:
He only knew the cordial sent,
To whom address'd, and where it went:
Besides it was his daily task
Questions of import grave to ask.
How was his pulse? How had he slept?
If tremors o'er the system crept?
With such enquiries as our verse
Might feel it awkward to rehearse.
Of that no more, the patient's name
Was _Woodlands_, known in rural fame:
Through early years, a sportsman he,
The flower of hunting chivalry;
Was rich, and as he well was able,
Saw jovial sportsmen round his table,
Drank hard and lov'd the evening glee,
With those who drank as hard as he.
But gout, with other ills came on,
And jovial life was pass'd and gone:
Health's active season now was o'er,
When he could hunt and feast no more.
He sold his hounds and took a wife,
To soothe the latter years of life;
But they were few, as we shall see,
In spite of care and Quackery.
She was a _Belle_ of rural fame,
Who gave her troth and bore his name:
Whate'er had been her hopes and views
When she did an old husband chuse,
The knowledge we do not profess,
But leave the gen'rous mind to guess.
At all events, her outward mien,
As it should be had always been,
Nor had a jealous eye suspected
Her duty had been e'er neglected.
But as infirm he now was grown, }
At her desire, he came to town }
To seek Physicians of renown. }
He first had one, he then had two,
But their prescriptions did not do;
When still her care prevail'd, and she
Another sought, so he had three;
And no more good seem'd to be done,
Than if he had been seen by none.
--Thus matters stood, nay he grew worse
When an old busy, chattering nurse,
Talk'd of the cures, almost divine,
Of our friend Doctor ANODYNE.
The drowning catch at any reed,
And all is help in desp'rate need:
Thus the rich man propos'd to try
The boasted aid of Quackery,
And what he wish'd, Amelia said,
With anxious smile, must be obey'd.
--Thus then it is, as we have seen,
QUÆ GENUS has the attendant been;
But now we are about to see
What a snug _Proteus_ he can be.
The Lady, to his great surprise,
Oft view'd him with enquiring eyes,
And did a kind attention show
Which he thought queer she should bestow,
But he soon found the matter out;
Madam herself clear'd up the doubt,
As, in her _Boudoir's_ still recess,
She did her quiet thoughts express.
In a soft, pleasant tone she spoke,
As half in earnest half in joke;
But as she thus her mind unveil'd,
It might be seen what thought prevail'd.
"There's something in your air and face }
That tells me you will not disgrace }
The trust which I now wish to place }
In your obedience to my will;
And if you do that trust fulfil,
If you act up to my intent,
QUÆ GENUS never shall repent."
--His fingers on his lips he press'd,
He clos'd his hands upon his breast;
With most submissive air he bow'd,
And secresy he swore and vow'd;
When Madam _Woodlands_ thus proceeded:
(I scarce need add that she succeeded.)
"You do a Doctor's business ply;
Now do not stare,--for so do I:
There is a pale-fac'd patient too
Whose certain cure I have in view,
And I've a med'cine that will prove
Specific,--as he's sick of love;
It will, in time, set all at ease,
And cure the pangs of his disease;
For no prescription can be better
Than that contain'd within this letter,
Which you, my friend, must understand
To give into the patient's hand.
Believe me too, when you are told,
You'll find it worth its weight in gold.
--There is," she said, "a smile I see
Now stealing on your gravity;
But know, QUÆ GENUS I do nought
That is with base dishonour fraught;
My whims, though secret, common-sense
Will clothe in garb of innocence."--
In short, but not without a fee,
He took the balmy recipe,
And ev'ry time he bore a letter
The patient's case was growing better.
Thus fortune kindly did bestow
Two strings to our keen Hero's bow;
And to his wishes, in good troth,
He reap'd no common gains from both.
--But here, another lucky hour
Did on his hopes new promise pour:
For Madam _Woodlands_ more than hinted,
If, in his present projects stinted,
He should no longer wish to shine
With Quackery and ANODYNE,
He might, by her all-fav'ring grace,
Attain her household's highest place.
He saw, and not by way of whim,
This was the very place for him;
But still he felt he could not quit,
As in a momentary fit,
That state he to the Doctor ow'd,
And which such benefit bestow'd;
Then, without proper warning, leave him,
Or with some scurvy tale deceive him,
He saw in any point of view
That honour prompts, it would not do.
Thus, in a state of constant doubt,
He scarce knew what he was about,
And to the daily patients gave
Their med'cines just as chance would have.
To all diseases waiting there }
He did not e'en appear to care }
What was the complaint or where, }
If it was fever or the gout;
But left each dose to find it out.
--Thus strange indeed, but it appear'd
The healing shop would soon be clear'd,
The patients calmly pass'd away; }
Nay, some of them were rather gay, }
And fees forsook th' impoverish'd day. }
When this change our QUÆ GENUS saw,
He thought awhile and felt an awe,
When it struck sudden on his sense,
That his so wicked negligence,
Had caus'd, perhaps, the final doom
Of many an inmate of the room;
But, on a fearful search, he found,
Not one of them was under ground,
Nay, that by giving med'cines wrong,
He did their precious lives prolong;
At least no harm they had endur'd,
For by his blund'ring they were cur'd.
Shrewd ANODYNE, of course, suspected
That his prime bus'ness was neglected;
Indeed he clearly understood
QUÆ GENUS did more harm than good,
And therefore, without much delay,
Hinted in a good-humour'd way,
"You're tir'd, my friend, as it appears,
(Of which I've sometime had my fears)
You're tir'd of the _Galenic Art_;
'Twere better, therefore, that we part."
QUÆ GENUS made a calm reply,
With acquiescing modesty:
Nor was a harsh, unpleasant word
From these dissolving Doctors, heard.
In truth, each party was good-hearted;
So they shook hands and thus they parted.
Our _Proteus_ now is seen to grace
Another and a favour'd place;
The confidential servant he
In 'Squire _Woodlands'_ family:
But the poor 'Squire was hast'ning fast
To that sad hour which prov'd his last;
For soon, alas, the fatal gout
Got in his head, and let life out;
When Madam made a quick retreat
From town to the fine country seat
Which now was her's, with all the rest
Of the great wealth which he possess'd.
What tears the widow'd Lady shed
In sorrow o'er her husband dead,
Whether as they her cheeks bedew'd,
They flow'd from grief or gratitude;
How calm or poignant was her woe,
We tell not, for we do not know.
Yet this we can with safety tell,
Because we surely know it well,
That through her husband's sickly life
She was a tender nurse and wife.
--But now another scene appears,
Dispers'd her grief, dried up her tears;
Rich as she was and still a beauty,
She look'd to change her line of duty;
'Twas Nature's act, as all will see
Who read her little history.
In earlier years, ere she was led
By Hymen to the marriage bed,
VALCOUR and she each other lov'd,
But their fond passion hopeless prov'd.
--She was high-bred with fortune small,
And his Commission was his all:
For though he was of ancient line }
And did with noble virtues shine, }
He was the youngest child of nine; }
And ere her marriage rites were o'er
He sought renown on India's shore.
What he thus bravely sought he found,
And once more trod on British ground,
With that, but little else beside,
A month before Old Woodlands died.
He let her hear that still he lov'd,
She wrote, nor said she disapprov'd;
That was the recipe to cure
The doubts his bosom might endure;
In which QUÆ GENUS was employ'd,
And caus'd the good he now enjoy'd.
--But then she acted with discretion;
As her fond husband's sole possession
She would not, at his last, allow
The promise of a future vow:
She felt her tender inclination,
As a reversionary passion
She must not own for him she lov'd,
Till Death each hindrance had remov'd.
For due decorum she obey'd,
And the sage widow's period stay'd;
Nor till Time pull'd the Hatchment down,
Did she her _Valcour's_ wishes cr
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