i

THE ILLUSTRATED POCKET LIBRARY
OF PLAIN AND COLOURED BOOKS

THE HISTORY OF
JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS

ii

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus on his Journey To London.

iii

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

iv

NOTE

THIS Issue is founded on the Edition
published by R. Ackermann in the
year 1822

v

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 vi 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.

vii

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.

viii

LIST OF THE PLATES

1

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: 2

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." 3 "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 4 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, 5 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. 6 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, 7 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.

in search of service

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: 8

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: 9 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. 10 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. 11

"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; 12

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; 13

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?

relating his history to sir jeffrey gourmand.

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus reading to Sir Jeffrey 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: 14

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; 15

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." 16

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: 17

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; 18	}
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, 19

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; 20

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, 21

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. 22

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; 23 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: 24 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. 25

'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; 26 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: 27 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. 28
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; 29 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, 30 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: 31 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; 32

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."

33

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. 34

—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: 35

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; 36

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; 37 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: 38 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!" 39

"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, 40 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.' 41

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.

at oxford

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 42 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, 43 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, 44 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; 45 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.

Conflict with Lawyer Gripeall

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, 46

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, 47 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, 48

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. 49

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: 50 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, 51 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. 52	}
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, 53

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; 54

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: 55

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. 56 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: 57 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, 58

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 59 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.

with the sheep-shearers

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, 60

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, 61

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; 62

'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!

assisting a traveller

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. 63	}
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,) 64 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. 65 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: 66

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, 67	}
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; 68

Where Fortune seem'd to change my view,

For there she made me known to you.

69

CANTO III

"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, 70 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. 71 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."

in the sports of the kitchen

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." 72

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; 73

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: 74

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. 75 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; 76

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, 77

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; 78 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.

in the service of sir jeffrey gourmand

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus, in the service of S^ir. Jeffery Gourmand.

In this wide world, how oft is seen A phantom with alluring mien, 79 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. 80
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. 81

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. 82 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; 83

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. 84 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; 85 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, 86 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. 87

"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, 88

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; 89 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, 90 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; 91

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, 92 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.

93

CANTO IV

108

CANTO V

134

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, 135

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, 136

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.

with a quack doctor

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, 137 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, 138 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. 139

"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. 140 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. 141

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!" 142

"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. 143

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, 144 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, 145 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; 146 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. 147
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. 148 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, 149 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 crown: But crown'd they were; a splendid show Did Fortune on the rites bestow, When Hymen call'd on Love to shower Its roses o'er the nuptial bower. 150 Quæ Genus did the sports contrive Which kept the country-folk alive, And all the scatter'd bounties flow'd As his disposing hand bestow'd, Nor did one over-curious mind Suspect that any lurk'd behind.
Nay, it was order'd to his care The gen'ral figure to prepare That was to blaze in Portman-Square.	}
He, who had sometime form'd the plan To set up for a Gentleman, Well knew the purse alone could aid The progress of that pretty trade, And now had learn'd, quite at his ease, To take the upper servant's fees, Which to fulfil his growing aim, In a resistless plenty came. —Valcour was grand, his Eastern Taste Was not dispos'd to run to waste; Madam had never yet made known Her beauty to th' admiring town, And ready wealth was now at hand Their mutual wishes to command:
Plutus with Fashion standing by Impatient languish'd to supply Each wish of glowing luxury.	}
The tonish trade display'd its store Where our Quæ Genus kept the door; In various forms, a numerous host All strove who should affect him most, And by what tempting means engage, His trusty, promis'd patronage.

with a spendthrift

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus with a Spendthrift.

Whene'er enquiry makes a stir

To trace the human character, 151

The strict and scrutinising eye

Must look for human frailty,

And will perceive as on we range,

Our dispositions prone to change,

Nor like the features of the face,

Fix'd on their first-born, native place.

So many tempting Sirens play

Their games to lead the heart astray,

So many gay temptations smile

The wav'ring prudence to beguile;

So many worldly interests wake

The pliant feelings to forsake

And wander from the beaten road

In which they hitherto have trod;

That reason from her judgement-seat

Must, with a tender rigour, treat

The venial errors of the mind,

And in severity be kind.

—Our Hero an example shews

To ask the candour we propose,

For he, we are compell'd to own,

Had given his thoughts a different tone.

As we have said, it was his plan

To be a future Gentleman,

And that he only could attain

By seizing all the means to gain

An added heap to that same store

Which luck'ly he possess'd before.

He, therefore, now had laid aside

Those scruples which his boasted pride

Maintain'd against the retail sense

Of the shrewd Grocer's eloquence,

While, with Sir Jeffery Gourmand, he

Preserv'd such pure fidelity.

—And here it should not be forgot

That it was Molly's happy lot, 152

By some keen plan which he had laid,

To be the Lady's fav'rite maid:

For Molly he sincerely lov'd,

And was with gen'rous passion mov'd;

Nay, when his project he should carry,

He had engag'd the maid to marry:

Thus she was well prepar'd to join

In forwarding the main design;

Which as it may, perhaps, appear

From the surmises hinted here,

Was never, never to refuse

What custom offer'd as their dues,

And all the op'ning hand of chance

Might gather from extravagance.

How far this system may succeed

Will soon be seen by those who read.

This Valcour was a noble creature,

Splendid and gen'rous in his nature;

Nor had these feelings been decreas'd

By the profusion of the East,

Which he from well-earn'd station shar'd;

But honour was his chief reward.

He no amass'd Pagodas brought

Whence treasures are so often sought:

Yet he, the favour'd lot of few,

As they bright fortune's track pursue,

Though India gave him mod'rate store,

Found plenteous wealth on Britain's shore.

—Full many a well fought field he try'd,

And Mars beheld his course with pride,

Nay bade the wreath of triumph glow

The Hero's pride, upon his brow,

While Knighthood's pointed star express'd

The tinsel glitter on his breast. 153

But Venus, who such things disposes

Chang'd all the laurel into roses;

And Hymen did his state enfold

In saffron mantle, rich with gold.

As Nature in its fancies varies,

Sir Charles indulg'd in his vagaries,

With a wild love of shew and figure;

Yet still he was resolv'd with rigour,

A line of prudence to pursue

And keep discretion in his view.

Full droll indeed it may appear

But thus he chose to persevere:

Not to run out was all that he

Consider'd as œconomy;

If his rents answer'd what he spent

He'd bless his stars and be content;

But never did his views appear

To look upon the coming year.

Nor e'er did he his mind distress

To know if he could live on less:

Nay at the thought how he would laugh,

When told that he could live on half,

And felt affront, if 'twere repeated

That by his servants he was cheated.

—Such a receipt to pamper ruin

Nay to hurry an undoing,

Has seldom given so queer a chance

To gratify extravagance.

—But so it was—Quæ Genus thought

Just as the rising fancy taught:

While, in mock fashion's borrow'd pride,

Molly was seated by his side.

Now as her needle made its way

Some 'broider'd figure to display, 154

Thinking, perhaps, how well her art

Gave semblance to a two-fold heart;

He fondly call'd her willing ear

With all attention due to hear.

Quæ Genus.

"Plac'd as we are, it seems to be The height of that prosperity Which such as we can e'er enjoy; And it becomes us to employ The means it offers to possess Our views of future happiness. I doubt not, Molly, but you feel, For your sweet lady, all the zeal, Which flows alike from due regard As the just hope of due reward: But still, I think, it must appear That we've a doubtful course to steer;
How we may keep within the line, Our great folks' interest to combine With what we know is yours and mine.	}
They are with generous grace endued, To us how kind they are and good. But life with them is nought but pleasure; Luxurious show fills up the measure Of all their hours, as they run on Through each meander of the Ton. They sometimes talk of prudent schemes, And reason's language veils the dreams; But the incessant love of change Invites the unreflecting range 'Neath ev'ry dome where pride resorts And fashion holds her motley courts; Though while they for their pleasures roam We too well know their cost at home. 155 This proud parade can never last, Their ready wealth will soon be past. —Nay, when I bring the month's account, And silent point to the amount; He tells my Lady what I've done, And she exclaims, ''tis precious fun!— We need not for our ruin fear With such a careful guardian near!' When I point out the triple charge In many a bill display'd at large, She says, 'Quæ Genus, do not grieve, Tradesmen, my honest friend, must live! Nay, when from service you retire, And sit all plodding by your fire In thought what profits should repay The labours of the closing day;—
When o'er some door we see your name, A dealer of great retail fame, You have our leave to do the same.'	}

"I made my bow and answer'd nought,

But then I paid it off in thought;

And, as their gen'rous leave they give,

Like others to play tricks and live,

I may begin, perhaps, before

My name is painted on the door;

And, in good time, my fortune try

With that same prosp'ring honesty.

—I tell you, Molly, 'tis as clear

As we, dear girl, are sitting here,

That our great folks were both created

So rich, please fortune, to be cheated.

And we must aid them, as you see,

Thus to fulfil their destiny.

For trifles we'll not make a fuss,

They will not be the worse for us: 156

If we do not our pockets fill,

Others there are who quickly will,

But not by any paltry gains,

As pilfering of Sovereigns.

You must not crib a handsome shawl

And say 'twas lost at such a ball;

Nor will you in some corner place

A card or roll of costly lace,

That when you think she has forgot it,

You to your own use may allot it:—

Nor, when she gives a thrice-worn dress

Your vanity and wish to bless,

Do not within its wide folds smother,

As if by chance, just such another,

As she'd not miss it 'mid such plenty

A wardrobe of full five-and-twenty,

While others, 'mid the toilet's din

Are almost daily pouring in.

Can we such means as these pursue?—

Would it be just in me and you:

Though I guess by your waggish smile,

What you are thinking of the while.

But still I feel it is not right

That you should lose your perquisite;

Nor do I, my dear girl, incline

E'er to forego the claim to mine,

And tempting opportunity

May tell us what those claims should be,

And 'tis out right to seize the chance

That's furnish'd by extravagance,

When call'd upon to prove our taste

In ssaving what would run to waste;

For rumpled fin'ry, all thrown by,

Is safer in our custody.

—When t'other day the Knight bespoke

A new great-coat and Hussar cloak; 157

'Sure, Sir,' I said, 'you have forgot

Of these same coverings what a lot,

Neither be-spotted, scratch'd or torn

And some of them have scarce been worn,

Which are all hanging in the hall:'—

'They're old,' he said, 'so take them all.'

—I bow'd and took them to my keeping;

Snub in my wardrobe they are sleeping.

It is the same, I know it well,

You of your Lady have to tell:

I doubt not but your hoard encreases

Of Spencers, mantles and pelisses:

But let it be out mutual boast

That sage precaution rules the roast;

Amd take care that we never deal in

Any thing that looks like stealing.

My books are fair, accounts are right,

In them my honour's sound and tight:

Valet I am and Butler both,

A rare advantage to our cloth,

And there's no day, nay scarce an hour

But tempting profits court my power,

Yet may dread Heaven above forsake me,

And Old Nick in his fury take me,

If I the pilf'ring track pursue

Which hireling knaves so often do.

When from the shopmen we receive

The somethings they are us'd to give

As their long, bouncing bills are paid,

'Tis not our Knight is tax'd, but trade,

Though should we not our poundage claim

Sum Totals would be just the same.

—E'en when, as if a boon, I crave

Some superfluity to save,

Perhaps he'll tell me I'm a fool,

Or threat to floor me with a stool. 158

—Last week, he said, 'at our next fête,

(Mind what I say and hold your prate)

Let the desert in splendour shine

With gay plateaus and many a pine.'

VWhen as, to check the cost's encrease,

I hinted what they were a piece,

He ranted, 'if there are not five,

Thou slave, I'll cut you up alive.

Dare you look piteous? for then

You scurvy clown, I'll order ten.'

"These gay delusions cannot last, The spendthrift scene will soon be past; And, in another year or two You'll see that what I say is true. When Banker's checks, that easy pay Like fancy's ghosts have pass'd away, When the whole funded wealth is sold Another story will be told; When all the ready cash is flown, The country-rents will change their tone, Nor will the half-grown oaks supply The means for one year's luxury.
Crabbed Entail will rise beside And dare the acres to provide The power to feed their needy pride,	}
And Mortgage-deeds in vain will strive To keep the piteous show alive. While thus the vain folk whom we serve, Do from each point of prudence swerve, While thus they waste in such a way, To Luxury the willing prey, I know, my girl, what I've to do, And faith, shall leave the rest to you!" 159

Molly.

"My dearest friend, you are so clever, That I could hear you talk for ever. Let not Quæ Genus be afraid, He ne'er shall want my ready aid;
For surely to his heart 'tis known, His ev'ry interest is my own, At least I feel that we are one.	}
O yes, I comprehend him well!" But now she heard her Lady's bell, A summons that must be attended,— So here the conversation ended.
Thus Valcour and his brilliant dame Attain'd their folly's highest aim, To scale the ladder of the Ton As many wealthy fools have done, And laugh, if they should hear the call, "Your foot may slip and you may fall." They did in every thing agree, With the same eye each object see. "Whate'er you fancy must appear So very right my dearest dear!— And whatsoe'er you do approve, Cannot be wrong, my sweetest love!" —Such was their billing and their cooing, As they were hast'ning on to ruin; Nor did they see that Fashion laugh'd, While she their costly nectar quaff'd; Or 'mid the crowds that might attend Their banquets, they had not a friend. But such too often is the case Where Folly takes the highest place; And upstart fortune fain would be The ape of rank and family. 160 There vulgar wealth pays dear for places With Lordships, Ladyships and Graces,
Who at its table may appear Or once or twice or thrice a year, When luxury does the feast prepare;	}
And yet their host but coldly greet, If they should meet him in the street. —But true or not, howe'er that be, In this career of vanity, Winter's fine pleasures pass'd away And Summer made the country gay, While fashion now set out to grace The Country seat and Wat'ring place, Valcour and Madame now were seen Parading on the Brighton Stein, But where, though envied and admir'd, With the same scenes they soon were tir'd: Besides 'twas decent to retreat And give life to their ancient seat. Thus while th' astonish'd Natives stare Woodlands receiv'd the tonish pair;
While they the rural 'Squires surprise With splendid hospitalities; And even here the money flies.	}
The Knight when sporting in the East, Was wont to hunt the brindled beast, Or the long, pointed jav'lin plant From castled back of elephant, In the fierce tiger's spotted side, And gloried when the savage died: He therefore would not deign to share The conquest o'er a tim'rous hare; Nor push on in a break-neck pace Through all his wiles the fox to chace. 161 But when the sportsmen left their game, And weary to his mansion came, Which they were always glad to do, Whene'er that mansion was in view, Quæ Genus heard the orders gay To be fulfill'd without delay, As the loud and welcome brawl Re-echoed through the lofty hall,— "Prepare, that my good friends may dine, The turkey and the smoking chine, The pasty and whate'er is best To furnish out an instant feast!
Be sure 'tis your attentive task, To give them all that they may ask, The bowl, the tankard and the flask;"	}
But then the Knight in whispers hinted, "When you perceive my time is stinted, And both my deafen'd ears no more Can bear the Bacchanalian roar; When it appears the stupid asses Scarce know the bottles from the glasses, Nor can perceive, 'mid boosing laughter, That I am only sipping water;
When I shall unperceiv'd retire, Remember it is my desire, They do not set the house on fire."	}
—Thus, when o'erwhelm'd with sporting guest, Sir Charles his constant wish express'd, And, after many a vain essay, Contriv'd at last to steal away, With something like an aching head, To seek the refuge of his bed.

attending on a sporting finale

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus attends a sporting Finale.

In drunken freaks Quæ Genus knew

Sense was oft gone and feeling too; 162

That legs might tables overturn,

And fallen lights would flare and burn;

Nay, flaming mischief might attend

On lighted snuff and candle's end.

Thus to be safe, without delay

The threat'ning lights he bore away,

And, to avoid a falling spark,

Left parties snoring in the dark.

Thus stretching as their limbs were able,

On chair, on floor or on table,

Quæ Genus did not own a fear

That there was any danger near,

So left them till the day should break

And fev'rish nature bid them wake;

When, yawning round the sporting closet,

Some groom brought in their morning posset;

And, hobbling off as they were able

To mount their horses at the stable,

They left the Knight their humble thanks,

Hop'd Madam would excuse their pranks,

And sought their homes, perhaps, to hear

A wife talk loud in either ear.

Such were the jovial sportsmen's meetings

And these their hospitable greetings;

But rural dames who were received

With kindness while old Woodlands liv'd,

As they found such an alter'd state

Ne'er enter'd twice the mansion gate:

The 'Squires' wives would ne'er resort

To one so chang'd to pay their court;

And, though she was with title crown'd,

The proud acquaintance they disown'd.

Brimful of town conceits and folly, My Lady now grew melancholy; 163 And when the sporting season came Her daily looks were not the same: That time of noisy, jovial joy, Did ev'ry lively sense annoy, Nor would she any reas'ning hear.— "To Town we'll haste away, My Dear! Let us be gone without delay: To London let us haste away! These rooms where staring figures sprawl In ancient hangings on the wall, Nay, where at noon, the shaded light Gives dimness of approaching night, Which nought can chearful make and gay, Or give the semblance bright of day, But that well-dress'd, high-minded glee That here, alas, we never see, Which could alone from this dull room, Snatch the grim likeness of a tomb! Let us be gone without delay, To London let us haste away!" —She gave a piteous look and sigh'd, When, with soft grace, Sir Charles replied. "As such is your desire, My Love, To Town we quickly will remove; If it will soothe my charmer's sorrow, We will set out for Town to-morrow. But have you thought, my dearest Dear, That not a creature will be there? Will you not find we shall be hurl'd Into a lifeless, empty world; Where, till the winter near approaches You will see nought but Hackney coaches? I'm sure you'll think yourself quite undone, If you're a month alone in London. To your gay spirit Oh how dull On a soft window-seat to loll, 164 And count with your half-sleeping eye How many Nobodies go by! While mothers with their babies tell, What sick'ning stuff they have to sell, When from their ceaseless screaming noises, You ask for what Heaven gave them voices: Till like the fiddler in a rage, Which you have seen in Hogarth's page, You stop your ears, with anger burn, And cry 'to Woodlands, let's return.' I'd rather sit and yawn, I own, Here in the country than in town,
Where to dull club-rooms I must go, E'en in the streets no creature know, And ride alone in Rotten-Row.	}
But be it as you wish."—"Then I," The Dame delay'd not to reply, "Desire such orders you will give That we, with prompt dispatch, may leave This stupid spot and hurry strait With post horse gallop through the gate, And when we've got a dozen mile, I then will thank you, Love, and smile.
Yes, I will bid adieu to care, Though not a soul in Portman-Square, When once I see that I am there.	}
Believe me I would rather hear As sounds more pleasing to my ear, Fishwomen's cries along the street, Than noisy sportsmen when they meet, Whose noisy, vulgar, drunken brawl So often echoed in our Hall. The Town, perhaps, is not so full, But London never can be dull: Thin as it may be, or e'en thinner, We shall find folk to eat our dinner, 165 And though no crowd will throng at present, Our little parties will be pleasant. The Drama too presents its play To make the evening pass away; Blue hills delight and lawns so green When they are painted on the scene; O how I like the woods and rocks When I can view them from a box!— I'm charm'd with such a rural sight When it is seen by candle-light. We shall to pass our time contrive, And keep our pretty selves alive, Till the world rolls to Town amain:— Then we shall be ourselves again." —They were themselves, and suffer'd pride Still to remain their fatal guide, And to bring on that period near, When Folly claim'd its full arrear.

It is not needful for our rhyme

To tell how long or short the time

Which the vain Spendthrift Genius thought

Was fit to bring their schemes to nought.

All we shall say is, with the song,

"The days of pleasure ne'er are long."

And, if to proverbs we resort,

"The days of sorrow ne'er are short."

And here it is but truth to tell, That our Quæ Genus acted well. For never, as his duty call'd, When home affairs were so enthrall'd, That ere the Winter months would end There would be no more coin to spend, Nor credit found to give the swing To gay manœuvres through the Spring, 166 He did not from his master's ears Conceal the state of his affairs; And though, too oft receiv'd with scorn, Gave hints, but still they fail'd to warn. —At length, howe'er, the period came From fashion's list to blot their name; When it was vain for pride to look In the card-rack or porter's book, While the old guard might sit and snore, But rarely summon'd to the door; That door, of late, so seldom quiet From lounging call or pleasure's riot, Unless it, with less noisy stir, Announc'd some threat'ning visiter. —Encreasing wants began to press, And all things threaten'd that distress
Which vanity knows not to bear, That pride contemplates with despair, Yet spurns regenerating care;	}
And a pale demon seems to see In form of sage œconomy.
The scene thus drawing to a close, Friends, aye, and faithful ones arose, With their best aid to interpose,	}
And Valcour found, when least expected, That falling he was not neglected. For he was lov'd by all who knew The virtues whence his follies grew; And some of these so active were As to preserve him from the snare Of Us'rer's gripe and Lawyer's strife, That seem'd to threat his future life. They did with counsel sage persuade And brought the ready, golden aid, 167 Which check'd the powers that did enslave him, Before it was too late to save him.

The well-weigh'd scheme which prudence chose

Was rather an unsav'ry dose:

Madam, at first, declar'd it treason;

But humbled pride was taught to reason.

Enough was spar'd to share the dance

And gay festivities of France;

With promise, when five years were o'er,

They should regain the British shore;

And, on repassing Woodlands gate,

Would find a noble, freed estate;

And, from their follies past remov'd,

Reside respected and belov'd.

Now, all this serious bustle over,

They sought, and soon set sail from, Dover,

And, in the common period, found

Their footsteps meas'ring Gallic ground.

Quæ Genus saw them to the sea,

Then gave a look of sympathy,

And, with respectful rev'rence said,

"When you again Old England tread,

To re-enjoy my happy station

I will quit any situation,

And I dare boast you will receive me,

As true and faithful as you leave me!"

—To France he was not quite inclin'd,

And Molly chose to stay behind;

So both brush'd up their sep'rate graces,

To go in search of other places.—

For, 'twas not yet our Hero's plan

To set up for a Gentleman.

168

CANTO VII