The History of Johnny Quæ Genus, the Little Foundling of the Late Doctor Syntax. / A Poem by the Author of the Three Tours.

CANTO V

AS our enlighten'd reason ranges O'er man and all his various changes, What sober thoughts the scenes supply, To hamper our philosophy; To make the expanding bosom swell With the fine things the tongue can tell! And it were well, that while we preach, We practice, what we're fain to teach. O, here might many a line be lent, To teach the mind to learn content, And with a manly spirit bear The stroke of disappointing care; Awake a just disdain to smile On muckworm fortune base and vile, Look on its threatnings to betray, As darksome clouds that pass away, And call on cheering hope to see Some future, kind reality. —All who Sir Jeffery knew could tell Our Hero serv'd him passing well;
Nay to the care which he bestow'd The Knight a lengthen'd period ow'd, And such the thanks he oft avow'd.	}
Quæ Genus never lost his views Of duty and its faithful dues; His honour no one could suspect, Nor did he mark with cold neglect
Those services which intervene In a sick chamber's sickly scene: His duty thought no office mean,	}
And to Sir Jeffery's closing sigh All, all was warm fidelity. Nay, thus the Knight would frequent own A grateful sense of service done; And oft, in words like these, he said, That duty shall be well repaid. "Quæ Genus, know me for your friend, I to your welfare shall attend; Your friend while I retain my breath, And when that's gone, your friend in death." That death he felt as a disaster, For, to speak truth, he lov'd his master, Nor did he doubt that a reward Would prove that master's firm regard.

  'Tis nature, in life's worst vexation,
To look at least for consolation;
And he, 'tis true, had turn'd his eye
To a consoling legacy,
That might, at least, make some amends,
For losing this his best of friends;
But his ill luck we must not smother;
He lost the one, nor found the other.
The will was full of good intent,
And a warm legacy was meant
To poor Quæ Genus, there's no doubt,
But shuffling Fortune left it out;
'Twas she cut short the kind bequest,
Which was thus fatally express'd.

    "To this my last and solemn Will
  I add by way of Codicil,
  My true and faithful servant's name,
  Who to my care has every claim:
  —To John Quæ Genus I bequeath
  One month posterior to my death,
  The sum of
             Here a blank ensued
Which has not yet been understood,
Or why the figures were delay'd
That would a sterling gift have made.
Whether a sudden twitch of gout
Caus'd him to leave the figures out;
Or visit of a chatt'ring friend
That did th' important words suspend,
And thus retard the kind design,
Until the 'morrow's sun should shine,
That 'morrow with its ha's and hums,
Which, often promis'd, never comes:
Howe'er the enquiring mind may guess
It cannot find the wish'd success:
In short, whatever cause prevail'd,
Too true, the gen'rous purpose fail'd.
In the Knight's mind the boon was will'd,
But still the blank was never fill'd,
And no more the said will engages
Than mourning suit and one year's wages,
Which all his household should inherit
Whate'er their station or their merit:
Here no distinction was display'd
'Tween high and low, 'tween man and maid,
And though Quæ Genus was the first,
He had his portion with the worst.

Our Hero thought it wond'rous hard Thus to be foil'd of his reward, That which, in ev'ry point of view, He felt to be his honest due; And both his master and his friend Did to his services intend; Which, as the sun at noontide clear, Does by the codicil appear:
But when he ask'd Sir Jeffery's heir (Who did so large a fortune share) The blank hiatus to repair,	}
Which he with truth could represent As an untoward accident, The wealthy merchant shook his head And bade him go and ask the dead. Quæ Genus ventur'd to reply While his breast heav'd a painful sigh, "The dead, you know, Sir, cannot speak, But could the grave its silence break, I humbly ask your gen'rous heart, Would not its language take my part, Would it not utter, 'O fulfil The purpose of the codicil?' Would it not tell you to supply The blank with a due legacy?" The rich man, turning on his heel, Did not the rising taunt conceal. "All that the grave may please to say, I promise, friend, I will obey."

  What could be done with this high Cit,
But to look sad and to submit;
For it could answer no good end
Though indispos'd to be a friend,
That kind of discontent to show
Which might convert him to a foe.
But ere we altogether leave
Sir Jeffery's grateful friends to grieve,
We mean all those which to the sight
Were clearly writ, in black and white,
Within the bound'ries of the will,
Nor left to blundering Codicil,
It may not be amiss to draw
The picture of the Heir at Law.

  When on the 'Change he took his rounds,
He walk'd an hundred thousand pounds:
Not less was his acknowledg'd worth
When ev'ry morn he sallied forth,
With expectation grave, to meet
Fortune's fresh smiles in Lombard-Street.
Upright in all his worldly dealing:—
But that high sense of noble feeling,
The humane impulse to relieve,
To wipe the eye of those who grieve,
The wish of goodness to impart
The bounties of a gen'rous heart,
These were not his; and though the scroll
That may the charities enroll
Of gilded pride, upon the wall
In some conspicuous hospital,
Might his known name and title bear,
'Twas vanity that plac'd it there.
But though, perhaps, a plum or more
Was added to his former store,
If, by sad chance, with haggard mien,
An humble suppliant should be seen,
A mother sick, a father dead,
And children, left forlorn, unfed,
His hand ne'er ventur'd on his purse
To give relief, and, what was worse,
He would alarm the wretches' fears
With beadles fierce and overseers,
Or talk of laws for vagrants made,
Which call the scourge-man to their aid.
Thus nought was look'd for at his hands,
But justice strict to just demands:
No smiling, generous overflow
Of fair reward would he bestow;
No bounty did his thoughts prepare
For duty's overweening care;
While service, by affection wrought,
Was, in his reck'ning, set at nought.

 Quæ Genus gave in his account;
Its justness own'd, the full amount
Was duly paid, but I'll forgive
The mind refusing to believe,
That, when the rich man should discover
That he had paid some nine-pence over,
He did, without a look of shame,
That pittance as a balance claim:
It may appear full passing strange,
But 'tis a fact, he took the change,
And did the jingling half-pence greet,
Like fish-women in open street.
E'en the worn wardrobe of the Knight,
Which is esteem'd the valet's right,
The gen'ral heir-loom of his place,
Was seiz'd by the curmudgeon base,
And borne away, a paltry gain,
To his own Store in Mincing-Lane:
But when, among the other dues,
Were order'd off the Gouty Shoes,
Quæ Genus, with contempt inflam'd,
Thus, in a hearty tone, exclaim'd,
"Away, to the mean merchant bear 'em!
Heaven grant he may be forc'd to wear 'em!"
—Thus things went on;—then came the time,
(The truth e'en shames my humble rhyme)
When the Executor and Heir,
For one did both the titles share,
Appear'd to pay, in legal guise,
The wages and the legacies.
Quæ Genus, who had lately been
A favour'd actor in the scene,
Could not have guess'd at such disaster
From such a friend and such a master:
And though he strove, he scarce could hide
The feelings of an honest pride,
When, from Sir Jeffery's error, he
And those who wore a livery,
Nay even house and kitchen-maid
Were in the same proportions paid,—
When his allotted mourning bore
The same coarse stuff the coachman wore.
But how his heart began to beat
When he was charg'd for the receipt!

  All his distinction now was lost,
And he who long had rul'd the roast,
Had, since Sir Jeffery went to rest,
Been of his station dispossest;
Nay, not a common smile remain'd
Of all the favour he had gain'd,
While beggarly mistrust took place,
Which he must feel as foul disgrace:
For ev'ry key had been demanded;
One instant made him empty-handed
Dismiss'd from his late envied station
Without a nod of approbation,
He was preparing to depart
With downcast look and heavy heart;
Nor could e'en Molly's tender smile
Of one sad thought that heart beguile

His Farewell Speech.

"And now, I say, adieu, my friends,
For here our fellow-service ends.
You need not put on sorrowing faces;
You will soon meet with ready places;
'Tis me whose disappointing care,
Of cheering prospects, bids despair.
—You all, I'm sure can well believe,
I have most ample cause to grieve
That cruel Fortune thus should frown,
When I thought her fond smiles my own.
—Sir Jeffery now is laid in dust,
But when alive, how good, how just!
And all who knew him well must know
He never wish'd to use me so.
Had he believ'd his end so nigh,
I should have had the legacy,
Which would have made me full amends
For loss of fortune, loss of friends.
Another day had he surviv'd,
To the next morning had he liv'd,
It might, perhaps, have been my fate
To know an independent state,
As he had told me, o'er and o'er,
I ne'er should go to service more.
When I did on his wants attend
He spoke as a familiar friend:
How often too we might be seen
Chatting within the Indian screen!
Whenever we were left alone,
We seem'd not two, but were as one.
I knew each tit-bit that he lov'd;
He always what I gave approv'd;
And as I stood beside his chair,
Attending with respectful air,
He oft would bid me sit and dine,
Fill up his glass and pour out mine.
—When thumb and finger he applied
To the gold snuff box by his side,
I shar'd the pinch, and he ne'er ceas'd
To say, 'God bless you,' when I sneez'd;
Nay, when my snortings I repeated,
He thus my awkward flurry greeted,
'My friend, familiarize your nose
To this exhilarating dose,
For sure as we together dine
This box, Quæ Genus, shall be thine!'
But that kind friend, alas! is dead,
And box and snuff and all are fled.
Nay, had I now a hope on earth,
And could engage in trifling mirth,
I here might my complainings close
With disappointments of my nose.
—His common purse I could command,
'Twas daily open to my hand;
You all well know I paid his bills,
And when, to ease his various ills,
Sir Midriff came, I us'd to squeeze
Into his palm the welcome fees.
Whene'er I showed my weekly book,
He never gave the page a look;
And when I urg'd it the good Knight
Would smile and say, 'I'm sure 'tis right.'
Nay, I can say, in ev'ry sense,
I ne'er abus'd his confidence:
No, no, I never did purloin
An atom of the lowest coin,
And what I have to Heaven is known,
In honest truth, to be my own,
Then wonder not, I feel it hard,
To be depriv'd of my reward,
And, by such a chance, be hurl'd
Again to struggle with the world.
Reasons, besides, I must not tell,
Why the Knight treated me so well;
But I play'd no delusive part,
And they did honour to his heart:

Of that heart, had he left a share,
As well as fortune to his heir,
I need not now indulge despair."

}

  "Mr. Quæ Genus, never fear,"
The Coachman said, "your spirits cheer!
Dame Fortune has look'd down 'tis plain,
But the jade may look up again:
'Tis true that dev'lish oyster-pie
Fell souse upon the legacy:
E'en so it was, I cannot doubt it,
But I would think no more about it.
You so well know your P's and Q's,
That you have but to pick and chuse.
I speak the truth, there are but few
Mr. Quæ Genus, such as you:
And though the merchant will not give
The bounty which you should receive,
What though he would not spare a farthing
To save a soul of us from starving,
Good names he'll give us, as he ought,
For they we know will cost him nought;
'Twere better therefore to be civil,
And hold the candle to the Devil,
For we as servants cannot stir
Without a show of character.
—As you perceive, I'm not a chick,
And know enough to make one sick:
Nay, somewhat my experience lends,
To guess at this world's odds and ends.
I've been in many curious places;
I've serv'd my Lords,—and serv'd their Graces;
And, which gives work of more ado,
I've even serv'd my Ladies too:
I knew to shut or ope my eyes,
To see strange things, nor look surprise.
Sometimes good-luck has given a lift,
And sometimes, I've been turn'd adrift;
But should I live to Judgement-day,
No, I will never fail to say,
That I ne'er so much comfort knew,
As since this house was rul'd by you.
—Now, when you get an upper place,
Which soon, I'm sure, must be the case,
If then your favour will contrive,
I should my Lord or Lady drive,
For I the reins can handle true
Of pairs, of fours, and sixes too,
I promise, nay, my word engages
To give you poundage from my wages.
—I know you're gen'rous, kind and free,
But here you will accord with me,
That interest has a powerful weight
Both with the little and the great:
You see it well by what is past,
Since your fine plan is overcast.
I do not wish to give offence,
But interest is common sense,
And he who does not look to that,
Mr. Quæ Genus, is a Flat."

The blunt, rough Coachman, said no more: When Molly's fine black eyes ran o'er:
The Cook look'd grave, and Betty sigh'd, The Kitchen-maid sat still and cried, While Thomas not a word replied.—	}
Quæ Genus, not to be remiss, Gave to each maid a friendly kiss, And when he whisper'd his adieu To charming Molly, he gave two: Perhaps, if they were counted o'er, Her sweet lips might acknowledge more: Then told her softly not to fear, And kindly whisper'd in her ear, "What e'er my lot, I will be true To fond affection and to you."

  Our gloomy Hero now departed,
And left the mansion heavy-hearted,
Where in such comfort he had liv'd,
Nor, till dismiss'd it, ever griev'd,
And, with a tardy step, retir'd
To a snug lodging he had hir'd.

Thus once again by Fortune thrown On the wide world, and all alone, Without th' appearance of a friend On whose kind aid he could depend, Quæ Genus pac'd his lonely floor All to and fro and o'er and o'er, Thinking what efforts might be made, What stroke be struck, what game be play'd, To place him in some active state That promis'd to be fortunate.
One consolation he possest, Which, though it did not charm to rest The rising troubles of his breast,	}
Yet still, whatever might confound him, Gave him full time to look around him, And, on whatever project bent, To weigh its views, and wait th' event. For, though his purse might not run o'er, He had a snug, sufficient store, To keep his anxious spirits free From any dread of penury, And guard him amidst toils and strife, Against the insidious smiles of life, That do so often tempt the mind To cast discretion far behind, Or make it fearful hazards try, Impell'd by dire necessity.
—He had not yet unripp'd his coat, In which conceal'd lay every note Which he from Gripe-all's clutches got:	}
A hoard on which he might depend, When he look'd round nor saw a friend. Besides, he had no trifle gain'd, While with Sir Jeffery he remain'd; For though, as has been lately said, He never play'd a trick of trade; Nor had he even thought it right To take a valet's perquisite, Nor e'er allow'd his hands to seize The household steward's common fees, But of the strict and rigid law Of duty ever stood in awe. —All this the Knight full well believ'd, Nor could he think himself deceiv'd, When once he answer'd to a friend, Who did the young man's cares commend. "That same Quæ Genus is so just In all committed to his trust, To his right notions such a slave, He would not with a razor shave, Nor use a strap, nor ply a hone, He had not purchas'd as his own."— Thus, as most worthy of his charge, Sir Jeffery's annual pay was large, And when th' allotted quarter came, Something was added to his claim, Which with such gen'rous grace was given, It seem'd like Manna sent from Heaven!— Besides, his wages, being high, Encreas'd the gen'ral legacy, Which he with all the household shar'd; The last, and now his sole reward.

  Thus so far independence brought
A'gleam of comfort on his thought;
He was not left on ruin's brink
To sit and sigh, and swear and think.
Two points alone he had in view,
He thought it hard they were but two;
Nor could he call his fortune kind
When they alone employ'd his mind:
These were the Doctors, won by fees
To make most bounteous promises;
And though these Galens might deny 'em,
He was at least resolv'd to try 'em;
And, if Sir Midriff should decline,
He would apply to Anodyne.
—The former, if he pleas'd, could well,
And with strict truth, his value tell:
For none with such experience knew
That he was active, honest, true,
And to his patient, well or ill,
Did ev'ry duteous care fulfil.
Nay, that it was the Knight's good pleasure
To speak of him as of a treasure.

  Now, on his serious purpose bent,
He to Sir Midriff Bolus went;
But then, alas! as we shall see,
His face did not forebode a fee:
Nor did the great man smiling meet him,
Or with a tone familiar greet him,
As his keen humour us'd to do
When golden sovereigns were in view:
Nor did he take him by the hand,
As when it did the coin command.
He now put on a curious leer,
That said, "I pray, what brought you here?"
"I'm come to hope you'll condescend
To prove yourself my promis'd friend,"
Quæ Genus said, "and with this view,
I now present myself to you.
You told me, 'when your master's gone,
Look on my friendship as your own.'
He's gone, alas, I too well know,
To me a most affecting blow:
But still, I trust, I may engage
Your kind, protecting patronage,
And, among those of rank and wealth
Who make you guardian of their health,
Your favour may smile on my fate,
And I renew an household state,
Like that which crown'd my better days,
When I enjoy'd your frequent praise."

  The Doctor now his suppliant ey'd,
And thus in hasty tone replied.
"Indeed I've something else to do
Than thus to be employ'd by you:
I'm in great haste and must away,
My patients wait, I cannot stay,
To hear you, your fine story tell:—
So, honest friend, I wish you well."—
—Thus when Sir Jeffery's fees were o'er
He thought not of Quæ Genus more.

Now, as he pac'd along the street, Thus did he to himself repeat, "Is this the fortune I must meet?	}
Is this the merited reward Which they receive who strive to guard Their hearts against the tempting guise Of int'rest and its sorceries; And say to Virtue, 'Maid divine! Behold thy slave, I'm wholly thine!' —It is not that I now repent, Or harbour selfish discontent, That I should hesitate to seize The golden opportunities Which were presented to my power, Not ev'ry day, but ev'ry hour, While with Sir Jeffery Gourmand I Enjoy'd the means those arts to ply, Which, by the curious eye unseen, Might with such gains have pregnant been: No, no, thank Heaven, I'm not embued With that worst vice, Ingratitude; An odious vice that is of kin To every other mortal sin. I felt his kindness, and where'er My lot may be of pain and care, Those kind reflections I possess To make me smile in my distress, That I ne'er for a moment swerv'd From the best duties he deserv'd; Nay, which he, to his closing days, So often honour'd with his praise,— And should it be my lot to find Another master good and kind, Whose gen'rous heart would condescend To treat Quæ Genus as a friend,
This I may truly boast, that he Should find an humble friend in me, Whose soul is faithful loyalty!	}
I would the path of truth pursue As I have long been us'd to do; And where, howe'er oblig'd to bend To pressing views, my wishes tend. But, in this world of chance and change, As it appears, I'm doom'd to range, And I may be oblig'd to treat it As it will be my lot to meet it.
I will not rob nor will I steal, But from myself I'll not conceal The secret purpose which I feel.	}
Commandments I will never break, But when fair interest is at stake, I'll follow in my future views The conduct which the world pursues; And when that principle I own, The world will have no right to frown. Thus whatsoe'er may be my station, Where chance may fix my next vocation I'll keep discretion in my view, As prudent folk profess to do. —But ere throughout the town at large I look for some inviting charge, Though with one Doctor I have fail'd, Another now shall be assail'd; Though brilliant prospects may not shine, Yet I'll e'en go to Anodyne. The Quack may prove a better friend Than e'er Sir Midriff might intend; At all events, howe'er perverse, 'Tis plain he cannot prove a worse; Howe'er that be, I can but try."— —Thus clos'd his thoughts' soliloquy.

 Quæ Genus now pass'd up the Court
The sickly patient's still resort,
Where, in a corner quite retired,
The mansion stood which he desired,
Whose door, bedight with darksome green
And mouldings edg'd with black, is seen;
While letter'd gold appears to shine
And tell the name of Anodyne.
He touch'd the well-known tinkling-bell
That did some sickly presence tell,
When the door op'd with rapid force,
And patients glided in of course.
There was ne'er heard a knocker's sound,
To rouse the idle neighbours round,
Or to the windows call the eye
Of peeping curiosity.

The signal was not given twice; Quæ Genus enter'd in a trice And sought the solemn Doctor's nook, Where he sat with a folio book, Some ancient Galen's learned creed, Which 'tis not certain he could read: Alone, o'er this he gravely doz'd, But when the sick arriv'd, he clos'd The cumbrous volume, and gave ear The tale of some distress to hear. To Johnny this was no new scene, For here he had full often been, But as he fee-less ne'er before Had hasten'd through the well-known door, He felt some doubts within his mind What sort of welcome he should find. Sir Midriff's conduct it appears, Had chang'd his promis'd hopes to fears; And when he felt such rude disdain From one who rul'd in Warwick-Lane, Who boasted of superior knowledge To all the learned of the College; Who from his frequent promise swerv'd, To one who his kind smiles deserv'd; Yet ev'ry day, and ev'ry hour, Possess'd the patronising power, With mere commending words to gain The boon Quæ Genus ask'd in vain;— What good then could his hopes supply From the low pride of quackery, From one who rested his pretence On nostrums and on impudence. But he had felt that in Life's dance, We often owe to strokes of chance, That unexpected good prevail'd Where Reason's better hopes have fail'd. Such thoughts the purpose did incline To make his bows to Anodyne.
The Doctor with a friendly air, 'Rose from his dictatorial chair, And pleasure told to see him there:	}
When thus Quæ Genus in reply, Began the following Colloquy.

Quæ Genus.

"Sir Jeffery, as, I trust, you know, Is gone, Sir, where we all must go; In spite of all your healing power, Has reach'd, at length, his final hour,
Though had he trusted all to you, And to Sir Midriff bade adieu, Which he was half inclin'd to do,	}
Perhaps, my present visit here Would not so penniless appear; For I am come, as you must see, Without the pass-port of a fee. It is self-interest, I fear, Yes, I must own it, brings me here. Since his departure I am hurl'd To push my fortune in the world, And may I now with courage say, You will assist me on my way? —Such is, alas! my alter'd case, I'm seeking for another place, Though e'en my visionary mind Can never hope again to find Such a so envied household post, As that which I have lately lost. With fortune I shall ne'er contend But smile on that which she may send; And of whatever state possest, Be satisfied and act my best. Now, as I've reason well to know, Though 'tis not you have told me so, That persons of superior worth, The wealthy and of noble birth; Who, tir'd of physic's settled rules, As taught in colleges and schools, Have sought your bold and fearless skill, The potent drafts and secret pill, Which your Acumen can impart, Beyond the reach of drudging art, And I have heard will cure the pain, When boasting science tries in vain: Nor is this all, the tonish fair Attend to seek your healing care.
When here I've for Sir Jeffery been, Dames of high figure I have seen, Lolling behind your folding screen	}
With all their gay caricatures The lively eye's attractive lures. Broad bonnets all beflower'd o'er, Are often passing through your door, And I have glanc'd at many a shawl That glided through your gloomy hall. When such grand visitors as these Apply to you to give them ease; And when your skill relieves their pain, That is the time their grace to gain, And then, good Doctor, you might see If you could gain a grace for me; While to some patient you commend The service of your humble friend: Nor will he fail returns to make, Which you may condescend to take; And grateful memory will repay Your kindness to his dying day."

The modest suit was not denied,

And thus, th' assenting Don replied.

"Quæ Genus, my regards are thine, As sure as my name's Anodyne. —If worth lay in a flatt'ring tongue, You would not want a service long; For if you do with caution use it, Where is the ear that will refuse it? 'Tis but the art how to apply The well-conceal'd artillery, And, more or less, the well-told tale Will o'er the pliant mind prevail. Your int'rest, friend, I'll not neglect, Perhaps do more than you expect; Nay, I e'en may your mind surprise, When I mark how that int'rest lies;— But 'tis not where your hopes may look, 'Tis not that page in fortune's book. —The higher folk who come to me Are all involv'd in secrecy: Those who can't walk employ a hack, When they employ the humble quack: Hence, no fine carriages resort About the purlieus of my court, For the rich owners, with their wealth, Blush to pass this bye-way to health. Such is proud fashion's powerful rule O'er many a purse-proud, titled fool: They tell me all their sickness claims, But seem afraid to tell their names. —There's an old man I sometimes see, And faith he brings a handsome fee, Whose hackney always drops his fare Just by, in the adjoining Square: Where, when we've clos'd our consultation, He hobbles to regain his station. In a loose coat of common wear, This person chuses to appear; With his round hat and dingy caxon, He calls himself a Mr. Jackson; Though still his manners and his words Are such as highest rank affords: And, sure as I e'er gave a puke, I know the man to be a duke.— But I, of course, the secret keep, And let his splendid titles sleep. —I have two ladies now in hand, Whose whims and fancies I command: They tell of humours on the skin, But then they only shew their chin; No other part they let me see, Such is their bashful fantasy. They seem to think I doubt their graces, As veils o'erspread their pimpled faces, So that where'er they chuse to show 'em, I do not think that I should know 'em. Yet by their chat they have betray'd, That one's a wife, and one's a maid: Nor from the names can they refrain Of Lady Bell and Lady Jane. They never fail in their appointments, And are fast curing by my ointments: Thus, from their praise, I hope to claim An added honour to my name.
Nor are these all; for many more Of wealth and rank pass through my door; Though still as I have said before,	}
They to such aid as mine apply All mask'd in fearful secrecy. These whims I have explain'd, to prove I cannot in this quarter move; And where I could your worth commend It would degrade you to attend. But I shall now unfold to view, Another chance I have for you: And let your patience ope its ear To all you are about to hear.

"'Tis not to breathe the tonish air Of Portland-Place, or Grosv'nor-Square, Or stand behind her Grace's chair:	}
'Tis not to serve the titled beaux, And flourish in your master' clothes: 'Tis not, as you are wont, to grace Some peopled household's highest place, Though well-accomplish'd as you are, 'Tis chance alone can place you there: For, through your days, you may not boast A master such as you have lost; Nay, your precarious life may end Before a master proves a friend; And, after all, old age may come Without an alms-house for a home. Think, think in what a woeful plight The man must live who's pocket's light! Are not his hours by want depress'd? Penurious care corrodes his breast; Without respect, or love, or friends, His solitary day descends. O be not led away by pride, But use the means that may provide For future wants, when evils press, And life is pregnant with distress! Hear me, my friend, nor let surprise With staring looks burst from your eyes, When I, in language frank and free,— Tell you to come and live with me.

"Think not I want you for a hack, A serving menial to a quack;
If to my interests you attend, You will be treated as a friend. On this be sure you may depend,	}
That you will find a better station, In profit as in inclination, Than were you hired to be solus Behind the chair of Doctor Bolus. —Within a week, perhaps a day, You'll see the part you have to play. The man I had, whom you have seen, Might still beneath this roof have been, But he by coughing was worn down To a poor gasping skeleton, And 'twere not fit I should endure One in my house I could not cure He would not prove a tempting sign To spread the fame of Anodyne: But in the time he here remain'd, He had a little fortune gain'd.
—Your knowledge, which I well can trace, Is far above a servant's place, And would a higher station grace.	}
The pleasing manners you possess, Your winning speech and nice address, Might call to your ambitious view, An higher state than you pursue; Though still your savings you might waste, Before you're suited to your taste. —Such aid as your's I long have wanted, And if my warm proposal's granted, You must at once grow wond'rous dull, Or soon your pocket will be full: Here, in one year, you will get more Than with your noble lords in four. Nay, on the honour of a friend, Who no deception can intend, You'll greatly err, if you decline Such an official place as mine. —I'll teach you how to cup and bleed; These operations you will need; The pulses' movements you shall know, When they are either high or low: While other symptoms of disease I can communicate with ease. All this, if I the truth discern, Your ready mind will quickly learn. Besides 'tis right to let you know You'll have no nauseous work to do; For the old woman spreads the blisters, Rolls up the pills and stirs the clysters. While 'tis my hand alone composes The patients' necessary doses, And your chief care is to dispense These med'cines with your eloquence. —But I have sick folk to attend, So while away an hour, my friend: And as I trust you'll stay and dine, We'll close our bargain o'er our wine."

The History of Johnny Quæ Genus, the Little Foundling of the Late Doctor Syntax. / A Poem by the Author of the Three Tours.

About This Book

CANTO V

His Farewell Speech.

Quæ Genus.

CANTO VI