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

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

Chapter 29: CANTO IX
By William Combe
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British LiteraturePoetry

About This Book

A comic narrative poem traces the fortunes of a foundling boy, Johnny Quæ Genus, who is reared by a kindly guardian and left to fend for himself after her death. He moves through London and the countryside in a series of episodic adventures and misadventures—entering domestic service, encountering rustic sports, quack doctors, moneylenders, gaming, and legal trickery—each scene satirizing manners and institutions. Humorous engraved plates punctuate the verse, and the tone mixes earthy simplicity with ironic observation, leading through setbacks and reversals to an eventual discovery about the boy's parentage.

LIFE, as a witty Bard has shewn,
Who dealt in just comparison,[1]
Is but a busy pantomime,
Whose actions vary with the time;
Where they who turn from side to side,
According to the wind and tide,
Are more ingenious in their art
Than such as act but one grave part;
Who, as their years pass onward, seem
To glide along one gentle stream.
But here we stop not to contend
Whether, to answer Life's great end,
'Tis best from place to place to range,
Or fix to one, and never change.
Suffice it, that, from choice or chance,
Quæ Genus hurried through some dance
Of early life, and, as we see,
Not knowing what the next would be:
But now, disdaining future tricks,
He felt a firm resolve to fix
Upon a steady, better plan,
Of living like a Gentleman.
Whether he knew to calculate
The means required for such a state,
The curious eye will shortly see,
In his approaching History.
It has been well observ'd by some,
"All countries are a wise man's home."
As it is said of diff'rent nations,
The same is true of various stations
Which man is destin'd to fulfil,
Or with, or e'en against his will;
If Reason happens to provide
A steersman who is fit to guide
The vessel o'er life's flowing main,
And sure at last the port to gain.
How much our Hero had amass'd,
By ways and means now gone and pass'd,
We know not, as we never heard
The hoarded sums he had prepar'd;
But as he had a sense of craving,
And with it, too, a knack of saving,
He must have got a heap of Cash,
Which, for a time, would make a dash.
The Valcour wardrobe almost new,
The gifts of service, laid perdu,
Would serve him for a year or two;		 }
And by some Snip's contriving art,
Would fit him well and make him smart:
But stumbling-blocks were found to lay
Before him, and impede his way.
Manners and matter he possest,
His early life had given the best;
And while he as a servant mov'd,
His knowledge of the world improv'd:
But still his face and form were known
In certain quarters of the town,
And the first object to his fame
Was to discard his present name;
For he ne'er did a Father know,
The source from whence a name should flow;
And by Quæ Genus nought was meant—
It was a boon by accident,
Which he might, if he pleas'd, disuse,
And any other title chuse.
Through the Directory he waded,
Till his poor eyes were sadly jaded;
Then in the finer streets he stroll'd
Where Names on Door Plates are enroll'd:
But then he fear'd a name to own,
Which would, perhaps, be too well known,
And cause enquiries, that might be
The source of some perplexity.
Reason, at length, rous'd the intention
Of yielding to his own invention,
To eke out from the alphabet,
A name he never heard of yet;
And which his fancy might suggest
As one to suit his project best.
Free-born he thought would do as well
As any other he could tell,
When, his right Christian name of John
Form'd the becoming union;
Then nothing more he could desire
Than trim these names with an Esquire;
And to let the report be spread,
That some rich relative was dead,
And 'twas his Fortune and his Fate
To get the name and an estate.
Should it be ask'd where that might lay,
He had prepar'd himself to say,
(As if half earnest—half in joke,
The smiling answer might be spoke,)
"'Tis here, 'tis there, 'tis everywhere,
Or in some country in the air;
But should you come to number three
In such a street, you there will see
How that estate appears to thrive:
On Thursday next I dine at five."
Thus he would find none to suspect him,
Or, dinners given, to neglect him.
He now to Coffee Houses went,
With looks assuming calm content,
And such as those are seen to wear,
Who easy independence share.
At reading-rooms he frequent sat,
And read or join'd in social chat;
Acquaintance made, no arduous task,
Of those he did to dinner ask.
In gay apartments then he shone
In a good quarter of the town,
But distant, as we may conceive,
From where his masters us'd to live.

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus gives a grand Party.

Miss Emily, the blooming niece
Of the old Broker, Master Squeeze,
Who made some figure in the piece,		 }
And, at no very distant page,
Was seen to figure on the stage;
The Lady all her points had carried,
Was rich, and had the Pleader married;
Had chang'd her uncle's name of Squeeze'em
To her shrewd husband's, Lawyer Seize'em:
Who, by his cunning and his skill,
Had brought all contests to her will,
When he had got his promis'd fee
Of Beauty, Wealth and Luxury.
To her, with smiles of gay content,
The 'Squire his eager footsteps bent,
And did in lofty tone proclaim
His change of fortune as of name;
And told her it would be his pride,
At a small Fête would she preside,
Which he propos'd in style to give,
Where he would all her friends receive;
For this was now the only way
He had to make his party gay:
And the first flourish of his plan
To figure as a Gentleman.
—She smil'd and said she'd bring him plenty,
Then ask'd at once his cards for twenty.
—The fête was given,—the dance, the song,
And feasting did the night prolong,
Which pleasure gave to full two score,
Whom he had never seen before;—
But, his great object to maintain,
These he must strive to see again;
At all their doors his cards present,
And thus, by various compliment,
To form a circle of such friends
As would secure his serious ends,
In social ease to pass the day,
And often find an evening gay.
—But 'Squire Free-born quickly found
He did not tread on solid ground,
And 'gan to fear he should not see
The way to that society,
Which forms of life the happiest measure:
By mutual interchange of pleasure.
—'Twas but slight chat if he should meet
His new acquaintance in the street;
He seldom found, or more or less,
But gen'ral forms of politesse,
And that, too often, at the best,
Was but in flimsy style exprest.
—Ladies would ask him to the play,
To take his arm and let him pay;
And when to cards, he always lost
More than the wine and biscuits cost.
He found, as yet, but little done—
'Twas neither common sense nor fun,
Where kind regard would ne'er encrease,
And int'rest wak'd the wish to please;
Where words were either cold or hearty,
As he propos'd to give a party;
And a good supper was the charm
That did to transient friendship warm,
For that, alas, no longer lasted,
Than while they thought on what they tasted.
'Squire Free-born soon began to feel
A relaxation in his zeal
To push away that class among
Who did his evening parties throng,
From whom no fair return was made,
And mod'rate fashion was display'd.
Manners were ap'd, but in a way
That did vulgarity betray;
And the best show that he might see,
Was dash of awkward finery:—
Besides, a rude and rough event
Gave spirit to his discontent.
—He call'd, one day, where, on admission,
The parties were in sad condition;
It was a scene of mutual flame,
'Tween Start-up and his lovely dame.
He was a clerk on public duty,
And she a most conceited beauty:
When, as he enter'd, her sharp tongue
Began in tones both harsh and strong,—
"Pray, Free-born, do you think it breeding,
That he should thus be always reading?
When he does from his office come
'Tis thus he sits hum-drum at home,
As if he thought so low my wit
I'm not for conversation fit;
Nor does he seem to rate me higher
Than to trace figures in the fire!"
—"Call you, hum-drum, that information
So suited to official station,"
He sternly said, "which now engages
Attention to these curious pages!"
—"My mind," she cried, "was in the dark
When I was married to a Clerk:—
O had I join'd a fool instead
Of one to office breeding bred!
He, who in honour should protect me,
You see, Sir, how he dares neglect me!"
—In terms polite to praise and blame,
Free-born now hop'd to quench the flame,
And therefore offer'd, nothing loth,
To give a little spice of both.

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus, interrupts a Tête a Tête.

"Madam, by persons of discerning,
My friend is known for store of learning;
While you are bless'd with those rare charms,
A Prince might wish to fill his arms."
He gently smil'd and so did she,
At this same two-fold flattery,
Which, in a moment, seem'd to smother
The flames of anger 'gainst each other:
He therefore ventur'd to proceed,
But did not now so well succeed.
"You ask me to unfold my thought,
Which is with truth and friendship fraught.
We all well know, in life's great stake,
There's such a Rule as give and take;
A maxim, with your good in view,
I recommend to both of you.
On this, for peace, fix your reliance,
And learn to practise kind compliance.
If he is haughty, soothe his pride,
Nor with disdainful glances chide.
When you are angry, he must chase
All frownings from that lovely face,
With tender words and soft embrace.		 }
Both of you now are in the wrong,
He with his book,—you with your tongue."
But, ere he could his speech conclude,
With scornful look and accents rude,
Again the furious Dame began:—
"What Impudence is in the Man!
Thus, 'gainst his betters, to let loose
His vulgar tongue in such abuse.
My husband to be thus belied,
Who is my love, my boast, my pride!"
When Start-up foam'd,—"You risk your life,
In treating thus my darling wife;
Who, I proclaim, as 'tis my duty,
Has charms superior to her beauty!"
Then each gave each a warm embrace,
And both star'd in poor Free-born's face,
The one as if he wish'd to beat him,
The other as if she could have eat him.
He then, as suiting her desire,
Threw the base volume in the fire,
When she——"Thus ends a petty fuss
Which may cross those who love like us;
Though I might wish it had not been
By such a saucy booby seen."
—Free-born, but not from sense of fear,
Now thought it best to disappear;
And as they rang the clam'rous bell,
He heard them both the servant tell—
"Discharg'd you shall be, if the door
Is open'd to that varlet more."
—Such vulgar threat the 'Squire amus'd,
For he no more would be refus'd
By those whose silly actions prove
That they could scold, and lie, and love:
But still he rather felt the wrongs
Which had proceeded from the tongues
Of those who had no fair pretence
At what he said to take offence:
A pretty way to make amends
For having treated them as friends;
In short, he thought it best to fly
His late acquir'd society:
Pert Lawyers and such busy men
As in some office wield the pen;
Who, when their daily labour's done,
Put their best coats and faces on;
Leave home, where tallow dimly lights 'em,
For wax, when some dull fool invites 'em,
The plenteous evening to prolong
In lively glee or tender song,
Or in some funny tale to shine,
And give a current to the wine.
There, too, their wives and sisters flow,
Gay, scanty finery to show,
In gawdy trim and furbelow;		 }
Who can, perhaps, the music play,
And scream the carol of the day;
Nay, work a waltz, while staring eyes
Proclaim their gentle ecstasies.
At length the shawls and wrappers come,
When in their hacks they trundle home.
—Though, after all, whate'er his aim,
Whate'er his fancy chose to claim,
'Twas not amiss;—this first degree
In what is call'd society,
Where step by step he must advance
To higher place in fashion's dance:
But with the folk, he 'gan to find,
Who din'd with him, he never din'd,
And got no more than casual tea
For what his guests thought luxury;
And, in a snug, familiar way,
For all they gave, they made him pay.
Besides, he sometimes felt offence,
At what he thought impertinence:
Such as they were, both great and small,
He cut acquaintance with them all.
His purse had thus indulg'd his whim,
But they ne'er heard again from him.
 
He now suspected that his plan,
Of turning to a Gentleman,
Was not so easy to be brought
To such success as he had thought.
But still he ventur'd to turn over
New plans by which he might discover
Some means to realize his scheme,
But it, at times, began to seem
Somewhat, indeed, too like a dream.		 }
To thinking minds it is not strange
That man is seen so soon to change,
And, when he gets on random chace,
To move so quick from place to place.
If no fix'd principles he trust
Which Reason says are true and just,
The busy world will not restrain him,
Nor in one beaten path maintain him.
Now here, now there, he is as oft
Seen to sink low as rise aloft.
As he moves on, how he will vary
From sober thought to gay vagary;
Nay, seem the tempers to unite
Of Dons 'bout whom historians write;
The one whose name our laughter cheers,
And he who pass'd his time in tears.
What wonder then that we should see
In Free-born, that variety,
Which, in his disappointed mind,
Nature may bid us look and find:
Though he must guess profoundly well,
Who could th' approaching change foretell.
He long since felt it as a folly
To think again on pretty Molly,
But when his project seem'd to fail,
Her image did again prevail;
And humbler views began to find
A passage to his wav'ring mind.
Instead of striving to pursue
What he now fear'd would never do,
He fancied that a tender wife
Might give a charm to rural life.
Molly he fear'd not he could move
To bless a home with married Love,
And that a cottage might be found,
With garden green and meadow ground;
Where he might form his fragrant bowers,
And deck the pretty lawn with flowers;
Beneath a beech-tree read his book,
And sometimes angle in the brook:
Nay, even wield a shepherd's crook.		 }
Money he had, and so had she,
And, with a due economy,
Far from the noisy world remov'd,
And by each other fondly lov'd,
They might pass on in plenteous ease,
And lead a life of smiling peace.
He slept, and, in a dream, he swore,
He saw his Parent-Friend, once more—
Not looking as he did before,		 }
But all so smirking, blithe and gay;
When, sitting on a cock of hay,
The prong and rake he seem'd to wield,
As he were master of the field:
He spoke not, but he seem'd to speak,—
"This is the life, boy, you must seek."
—Such was another strong emotion
To aid the new, romantic notion,
And think of nought but Cottage Life,
With pretty Molly for his Wife.
He turn'd this over in his mind,
And ev'ry hour felt more inclin'd
To take the Maiden by surprize,
And this fond dream to realize.
Sweet Molly now was gone from town
As waiting-maid to Lady Brown,
Who lives a portion of the year
At her fine place in Devonshire;
Nor did fond Corydon delay
To write his mind another day:
While, to amuse th' impatient hours,
He fill'd his room with shrubs and flowers:
Branching Geraniums were seen
To make his ev'ry window green,
And something like a picture wear
Of future scenery he might share.
Our time does like our watches go
Sometimes too fast,—sometimes too slow;
But to the 'Squire, for he was still
A 'Squire, though now against his will,
Old Bald-Pate mov'd with tardy tread,
As if his feet were hung with lead;
But he went on:—An answer came,
Sign'd Molly, with no other name!
He thought it odd, but did not wait
To make it matter of debate,
So quick his hurry to be shown
The passion which the page would own.
He read,—"I've heard, bless Heav'n, my friend!
(With thanks for what you might intend,)
Your serving days are at an end:		 }
Thus I believ'd, and find it true,
I could no longer think of you.
It seems to be your prosp'rous fate
To come into a great estate;
And so I thought it Heaven's decree,
You ought no more to think of me.
Besides, as you have never wrote,
I fancied Molly was forgot;
When soon a tender lover came,
A learned man, of preaching fame;
He press'd me,—I was not obdurate,
And so, I'm married to a Curate!
The match my Lady much approv'd,
And my good Husband's so belov'd,
Our kind Sir John has given his word
That he shall shortly be preferr'd.
Poor Corydon could read no more,
But, in a rage the letter tore,
And kick'd the fragments round the floor: 		}
Toss'd some things up, and some things down,
Curs'd both the Country and the Town;
With pots and pans did battle rage—
Drove the geraniums from the stage,
And wish'd no object now to see
Of ruralized felicity.
 
The country letter turn'd the tide
To rush upon his wounded pride:
At once he thought it more than folly
Thus to have offer'd love to Molly.
Nay, he began to smile at length;
And, to regain becoming strength,
He took to the well-known resort
Of season'd dish and good Old Port:
When as he sat, with uplift eyes,
And, thro' the window, view'd the skies,
He ventur'd to soliloquize.		 }
 
"My genteel folk I have declin'd,
At least, the sort which I could find;
And just as much dispos'd to sneeze
At all my Rural Deities:
But still I've got a heap of Cash,
And, while it lasts, will make a Dash!
But here one firm resolve I make,—
I never will my Elbow shake;
And if I take care not to play,
I shall get something for my pay:
It will not all be thrown away!		 }
Who knows what Cupid, too, may do?
For I may win if I should woo;
And e'en, in spite of this same Hump,
Fortune may turn me up a trump.
—My standard now shall be unfurl'd,
And I will rush into the world:
Nay, when I have the world enjoy'd,
With emptied purse and spirits cloy'd,
I then can trip it o'er the main:
Valcour will take me back again;
Once more his humble friend receive,
With all the welcome he can give:
We know not what from ill may screen us,
And I, once more, shall be Quæ Genus."
—He spoke, and seem'd to close his plan
Of keeping up the Gentleman.
 
The Sun had sunk beneath the west,
To go to bed and take his rest,
As Poets feign, in Thetis lap,
Where he ne'er fails to have a nap;
When, with his second bottle rallied,
Our Hero rose, and out he sallied
In search of any lively fun,
That he, perchance, might hit upon.
—As through a court he chanc'd to pass,
He saw a gay, well-figur'd lass,
Who, in her floating fripp'ry shone,
With all the trim of fashion on.
She had descended from a coach,
And did a certain door approach,
With tripping step and eager haste,
When soon th' illumin'd arch she pass'd:
And still he saw, in height of feather,
Small parties enter there together,
While jovial gentlemen appear'd,
Who, as they came, each other cheer'd.
—He asked, where these fine Ladies went?
The watchman said,—"For merriment;
And should a little dancing fit you,
A crown, your honour, will admit you."
—The 'Squire then rapp'd, the door was op'd,
He gave his coin, and in he popp'd:
The music sounded in the hall,
And smiling faces grac'd the ball,
Where, as he lov'd a merry trip
With some gay Miss he chose to skip,
But as they Waltz'd it round in pairs
A noise was heard upon the stairs,
And strait a magistrate appear'd
With solemn aspect; while, uprear'd,
Official staves in order stand,
To wait the laws' so rude command.
—Sad hurry and confusion wait
On this their unexpected state;
When there broke forth, as it might seem,
From snow-white throats, a fearful scream;
Nor, to add horror, was there wanting
Some strong appearances of fainting:
But Justice, with its iron brow
Unfeeling scowl'd on all the show.
In shriller tones the ladies cried,
In diff'rent key the beaux replied,
Though some consoling bev'rage quaff,
Give a smart twirl, nor fear to laugh:
While coarser voices,—"hold your tongue,
Pack up your alls and come along."
Then, of fair culprits full a score,
And of their dancing partners more,
Beneath stern power's relentless rod,
Were rang'd, and order'd off to Quod.
They march'd away in long procession
To take the fruits of their transgression:—
Staffmen did at their head appear,
And watchmen lighted up the rear.
Our Hero felt the ridicule
Of having idly play'd the fool,
And, as he handed on his Belle,
He could not but compare the smell
That rotten root and trodden leaf
Do to th' offended senses give
Of those who, by the lamp's pale light,
Through Covent-Garden stroll at night,
With all the garlands which he weav'd
Ere Molly's letter was receiv'd:
And all the fragrance of the flowers
He thought to cull in Molly's bowers;
Nay, which, but the preceding morning,
His promis'd hopes had been adorning.
It was indeed a noisome change,
O it was strange, 'twas passing strange!
But still the watch-house made amends,
Such as they were, they gave him friends.
Which here, I'm not suppos'd to think
Were such as save from ruin's brink;
But lively sprites who have a taste
To hurry on the stream to waste.
Thus, when the welcome morn was come,
And Justice sent the party home;
He and two blades of certain feather
Propos'd to pass the day together:
The one, more grave, declar'd his breed,
Famous on t'other side the Tweed,
The other lively, brisk and airy,
Boasted his birth in Tipperary;
Though whether this were truly so,
'Tis from their words alone we know:
But they were easy, free and jolly,
Decided foes to melancholy,
And seem'd well-form'd to aid a day
In passing pleasantly away.
—But first the Trio thought it best
To snatch some hours' refreshing rest,
When, as it was in Summer's pride,
They pass'd their jovial hours beside
The crystal Thames imperial tide;		 }
And as the river roll'd along,
Made the banks echo with their song.
—At length it was a rival jest
Who of the three could sing the best.
—The sturdy Scot the song began,
And thus th' harmonious contest ran.
 
Wallace, who fought and bled, he sung,
Whose name dwells on a nation's tongue.
The 'Squire, in boist'rous tone declar'd,
And neither lungs nor quavering spar'd,
That Britain triumph'd o'er the waves
And Britons never would be slaves.
Then Erin's Son, with sweeter voice,
Exclaim'd, "I'll make you both rejoice;
O with a famous song I'll treat you,
And then you both shall say I've beat you
Your verses are old-fashion'd prosing,
My song is of my own composing;
And though 'tis to lov'd Erin's fame,
To all three Kingdoms 'tis the same."
The hearers both politely bow'd,
When he, of his fam'd subject proud,
Pour'd forth his accents deep and loud.		 }

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus committed, with a riotous dancing Party, to the Watch-House.

Song.

It has long been agreed by all persons of learning
Who in stories of old have a ready discerning,
That in every country which travellers paint,
There has always been found a protector or saint.
Derry down, etc.
St. George for Old England, with target and lance,
St. Andrew for Scotland, St. Denis for France,
St. David o'er Wales, so long known to preside,
And St. Patrick, Hibernia's patron and pride.
Derry down, etc.
He was gallant and brave as a saint ought to be,
For St. George was not braver or better than he,
He would drink and would sing and would rattle like thunder,
Though 'twas said, he was, now and then given to blunder.
Derry down, etc.
But the jests of his friends he took in good part,
For his blunders were nought but th' excess of his heart;
Though there was but one blunder he ever would own,
And that was when he saw all the claret was gone.
Derry down, etc.
He'd fight for his country's religion and laws,
And when beauty was injur'd he took up the cause,
For the gallant St. Patrick, as ev'ry one knows,
Was fond of a pretty girl under the rose.
Derry down, etc
So many his virtues, it would be too long
To rehearse them at once in a ballad or song;
Then with laughter and mirth let us hallow his shrine,
And drown all his Bulls in a bumper of wine.
Derry down, etc.
Then St. Patrick, St. George and St. Andrew shall be
The Protectors of Kingdoms so brave and so free:
Thus in vain will the thunders of Denis be hurl'd,
For our Trio of Saints shall give laws to the world.
Derry down, etc.
Hard went the hands upon the board,
And Erin's praises were encor'd.
Thus when the pleasant song was heard,
Hibernia's minstrel was preferr'd;
Nor from the voice or in the eye
Was there a hint of jealousy:
Nay, while they took their parting glass,
These sentiments were heard to pass.
"The Thistle, Shamrock and the Rose
May challenge all the world at blows:
English and Irish names are known,—
There's Marlborough and Wellington;
And O, what men of glorious name
Do Scotia's annals give to Fame!"

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus engaged with jovial Friends: Or—Who sings best?

With friends like these the 'Squire began
His new career, and thus it ran,
With others whom he chanc'd to light on
In trips to Tunbridge or to Brighton,
Swells at most public places known
And as gay triflers 'bout the town;
Who might, perhaps, at times resort
To Billiard-rooms or Tennis-court,
Where lively grace, and easy skill
Might flatter Fortune to their will.
Freeborn these gay companions sought,
Who soon their brisk disciple taught
How to direct his lively course
By the snug compass in his purse;
In short, who tutor'd his quick sense
In the gay world to make pretence
By modest, well-dress'd impudence.		 }
—Ye Dandies, Bucks or by what name
Bond Street re-echoes with your fame;
Whether in Dennet, Gig or Tandem,
In five-cap'd coats you bang at random,
With such nice skill that you may break
Your own, or Dulcinea's neck:
Or, when lock'd arm in arm you meet,
From the plain causeway to the street,
Drive Ladies in their morning walk,
While you enjoy your lounging talk:
Then saunter off to pass your hours
In roving through those gaudy bowers
Where purchas'd pleasure seems design'd
To occupy the thoughtless mind:
And, having idled through the day,
To quicken dull night's weary way,
You seek the mask, the dance or play;—		 }
With you our Hero did contrive
To keep himself and time alive;
But now and then too prone to trace
Those scrapes that border on disgrace,
And threat the unreflecting plan
Of the best would-be Gentleman!
From such as these he was not free,
As we, I fear, shall shortly see,
In this so busy history.		 }
—To him no social life was known,
His home, his friends were through the town
Who were seen wand'ring here and there,
Caring for no one, no one's care;
Prepared no pleasures to receive
But coin could buy or chance might give;
And would prove lively or were dull,
As the silk purse was drain'd or full.
For though deck'd out with all the art
That Fashion's journeymen impart,
They never pass'd the tonish wicket
Of High-life, but by purchas'd ticket
Obtain'd by the resistless bribe
To Traitors of the livried tribe,
Which, by some bold disguise to aid,
Might help them through a masquerade;
Or, with some sly, well-fram'd pretence
And varnish'd o'er with impudence,
A proud admittance might obtain
With chance to be turn'd out again:
Nor was the luckless Freeborn spar'd,
When he the saucy trial dar'd.
—One night, the hour we need not tell,
Into a trap the coxcomb fell.
As through the streets he rattled on
Lamps with inviting brilliance shone;
The music's sound, the portal's din
Told 'twas a joyous scene within:
The second bottle of the night,
Might have produced a double sight,
And two-fold courage to pursue
The splendid prospect in his view,
He, therefore bade the Hack approach,
And at the door present the coach;
Then made a push, got through the hall,
And quickly mingled with the ball.
—Whether his face was too well known
Among the dashers of the town,
Who do not an admittance gain
Among the more distinguish'd train,
Whose social habits will exclude
The mere street-trampling multitude,
Who, like the insects of a day,
Make a short buzz and pass away:
Or whether the intruding sinner
Eat as he seem'd to want a dinner;
Or if it did his fancy suit
To line his pocket with the fruit;
Or if he let some signal fly,
Not usual in such company,
Or if his spirits were so loud
As to alarm the polish'd crowd;
Whatever was the Spell that bound him,
Suspicion more than hover'd round him;
For, he replied with silent stare,
As he was taken unaware,
When he was ask'd how he came there.		 }
Nor did he show a visage bold
When, in a whisper, he was told,
But still with steady look express'd
By the stern Master of the feast,
If he wish'd not to play a farce
To make his pretty figure scarce.
—That such a part he might not play
Which menac'd e'en the least delay,
He thought it best to glide away;		 }
And, to avoid the threat'ning rout,
As he push'd in, he darted out.
 
A tonish Matron who ne'er fail'd
Where she was ask'd and cards prevail'd,
My Lady Dangle was her name,
And 'twas the fancy of the dame
Still to retain the antique plan
At night to dance in a Sedan
Sedans, so known the fair to coop,
When clad in the expanding hoop,
Snug chairs borne on by sturdy feet,
Once seen in ev'ry courtly street;
And one a most uncommon sight,
Was waiting at the door to-night;
Which, in all due array, was come,
To bear my Lady Dangle home.
The Chairmen lifted up the top,
When Freeborn, with a sprightly hop,
And his cloak wrapp'd around his face,
Made bold to seize the vacant place:
The bearers, not intent to know,
Whether it were a Belle or Beau,
Went on—a cheary footman bore
A flambeau, blund'ring on before:
While, ere the 'Squire, in this sad scrape,
Had time to plan his next escape,
A heap of Paviour's stones which lay
Directly in the Chairmen's way,
Gave them a fall upon the road,
With their alarm'd, mistaken load.
Each Watchman sprang his rousing rattle,
But as no voices call'd for battle,
They did the best without delay
To set the party on their way:
While the attendants on the chair,
Half-blinded by the flambeau's glare,
First rais'd their weighty forms and then
Set the Sedan upright again:
Nor e'er attempted to explore
The hapless head that burst the door.
But such was Freeborn's falling fate,
Which such confusion did create
Within the region of his brain,
He did not know his home again:
Nay, when the wearied Chairmen stopp'd,
Into the house he stagg'ring popp'd;
Then to and fro got up the stairs,
And, straddling o'er opposing chairs,
He star'd, but knew not he was come
To Lady Dangle's Drawing Room,
But wildly thought himself at home.		 }
Then on a sofa threw his length,
Thus to regain exhausted strength,
And grunted, groan'd and drew his breath,
As if it were the hour of death.
 
Sir David Dangle, whom the gout
Had kept that night from going out,
Was sitting in all sick-man's quiet,
Nor dreaming of a scene of riot
When, waken'd into wild amaze,
He did on the strange vision gaze,
While the bold reprobate intrusion
Threw all the house into confusion.
In rush'd domestics one and all,
Who heard the bell's alarming call;
While stamping crutch and roaring voice
Encreas'd the Knight's awak'ning noise
That he might quick assistance stir
Against this unknown visiter.
But while the household struggled hard
To keep him still, and be his guard,
Till he thought fit to lay before 'em
The cause of all his indecorum;
My Lady came to set all right
And check the hurry of the night:
She then, to soothe his rude alarms
Clasp'd her dear Knight within her arms,
Those arms which, for full forty years,
As from tradition it appears,
Had sometimes strok'd his chin and coax'd him,
And now and then had soundly box'd him.
"It is," she said, "some heated rake,
Who has occasion'd the mistake.
But loose your hands, I do protest,
To be thus us'd, he's too well drest
For though his face I do not know
He does some air of fashion show,
Playing his pranks incognito."		 }
—"It may be so," the Knight replied,
And then he shook his head and sigh'd:
"I'm not a stranger to the game,
When I was young, I did the same."
—Beside Sir David, Madam sat:
To charm his flurry with her chat
Her tongue pour'd forth its ready store
And talk'd the busy evening o'er;
Their biscuits took and, nothing loth,
Moisten'd them well with cordial broth;
Thus, till bed call'd, enjoy'd their quaffing,
He with hoarse chuckle—she with laughing.

Drawn by Rowlandson

The Party breaking up, and Quæ Genus breaking down.

As he his innocence had vow'd,
Our Hero press'd his hands and bow'd,
Nay look'd, with humble, downcast eye,
The Mirror of Apology.
Besides, he well knew how to bribe
The service of the liv'ried tribe;
So, without fear of ill to come,
He was convey'd in safety home.
—With the next noon his morning came,
And serious thoughts began to claim
Attention to the Life he past,
And how much longer it might last:
For the hard blow he had receiv'd,
By the chair's fall, had so aggriev'd
The Pericranium's tend'rest part
That it requir'd a Surgeon's art,
Who, to relieve the threat'ning pains
Applied the leeches to his veins,
He then with blistering proceeded,
The strong Cathartic next succeeded,
With light debarr'd to either eye,
And undisturb'd tranquillity:
Such was the system to restore
His health to what it was before.
Thus bound to silence and confin'd
It was a period for the mind
To yield to those reflecting powers
Which flow from solitary hours.
'Tis said by one, no chattering dunce
That changes seldom come at once;
And to those changes we refer
Which work in human character.
Reason at once does not disown us,
Nor instant folly seize upon us;
It is by a progressive course
That habit sinks from bad to worse,
And thus the happier impulse moves
By which the character improves:
The struggle that controuls the will
From ill to good, from good to ill,
Is not a contest for the power
That lasts but through a transient hour.
Virtue's fine ardor does not yield
But after many a well-fought field;—
Nor do the baser passions cool
Till they despair to overule,
By secret spell or Virtue's fire,
The glowing of the heart's desire.
Thus, as through pictur'd life we range,
We see the varying landscape change,
But, as the diff'rent scenes we view,
If we have hearts we feel them too:
And then, how charming is the sight
When Virtue rises to its height
And triumphs o'er the conquer'd foe
That flaps its baffled wing below.
What though such images as these
May look to Eccentricities
Beyond the reach of those whose claim
Is shelter'd by a borrow'd name:
Yet still our system may apply
The force of its philosophy
To ev'ry track of human life,
Where the heart feels conflicting strife;
In short, where 'tis the painful lot,
And in what bosom is it not,
To struggle in the certain feud
Between the evil and the good,
That in our mortal nature lies
With all its known propensities:
Nor shall we on our Hero trample
As an inadequate example.
He'll serve as well as brighter tools
To give an edge to moral rules,
And Freeborn's frolics may prevail
To give a spirit to the tale
Which in its fashion and its feature
Bears, as we trust, the stamp of nature.
—Besides, it surely has appear'd,
He was at first in virtue rear'd,
Nor do we fear, however cross'd,
His Virtue has been wholly lost:
Nor will our kind and honest muse
The hope, nay the belief refuse,
That, after all his follies past,
Much good may still remain at last
Which might, with Reason's aid, at length,
Be felt in more than former strength.
How this may happen we shall see
In our progressive history.

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus turned out of a house which he mistakes for his own.

Thus he, for many a night and day,
In strict, prescriptive silence lay,
For he all talking was forbid
No friends must visit, if they did,
All Galen's efforts would be vain
For the re-settling of his brain;
And when acquaintance chanc'd to come
It must be said, "He's not at home:"
Nay, his kind friends, when it appear'd,
That e'en his life was rather fear'd,
And that his hospitable fare
Might quickly vanish into air:
Though as the knocker still was tied,
They just ask'd if he liv'd or died.
But other reasons soon prevail
That made his vain pretensions fail
To ask them now and then to dine,
And prove their welcome by his wine.
For when they left him others came,
More constant in their wish and aim;
Who, while the Doctor order'd pills,
Would call, perhaps, to leave their bills;
And sometimes in the way of trade
Might ask the favour to be paid.
These things, as he lay still in bed,
Would sometimes tease his shaken head,
And force him to consult his hoard,
To know what hopes that might afford
When he to health should be restor'd.		 }
—That time arriv'd and he was free
From offering another fee,
But then he found more clumsy hands
Ready to grasp enlarg'd demands.
—In all the playgames he had sought
He found, at last, as might be thought,
In worst of scrapes he now was left,
Our 'Squire, alas, was deep in debt,
And which was worse, of the amount,
He could not pay the full account:
Nor were his drooping spirits cheer'd
When ev'ry day a Dun appear'd.
There were no frolics now to charm
The mind from feeling the alarm,
At thought so painful to endure
Th' afflicting thought of being poor.
But though Discretion oft had fail'd him,
And Folly's Gim-crack schemes assail'd him
Though his whole conduct might not bear
The scrutinizing eye severe:
Yet honour was not dispossest
Of a snug corner in his breast,
Which there an influence did maintain,
And, call'd to speak, spoke not in vain;
For he refus'd, at once, to hear
What smiling Knaves pour'd in his ear,
To scrape the relics of his hoard,
Make a long skip and get abroad;
Seize the first favourable wind,
And laugh at those he left behind.
—The counsel given, was given in vain;
He met it with a just disdain,
Bore with mild humour each sly sneer,
And smil'd when Folly chose to jeer;
Resolv'd to pay to his last groat,
Though standing in his only coat.
—'Twas thus he thought in temper cool,
"I may be call'd vain, silly fool,
And something more I might deserve,
But I would dig or almost starve,
Rather than in that concert join,
Which sprightly vagabonds design."
—Suspicion may be sometimes led
To doubt the vows which, on the bed
Of pain and sickness, may be made,
When, by a trait'rous world betray'd
Hope's future prospects sink and fade.		 }
For when Contrition views the past,
Because the passing day's o'ercast
Yet does no more its place retain
When smiling hours return again,
'Tis but an hypocritic art
To mock the world and cheat the heart.
But our sick Hero, as the verse
Will, with unvarnish'd truth, rehearse,
An eye of tearful sorrow threw
O'er some past years' reproachful view,
And trembling at the future too.		 }
Thus, of some awkward fears possess'd,
He held a council in his breast,
And felt the way to be pursued
Was now to do the best he could,
And call on Justice to receive
The only tribute he could give.
 
Thus, at once, honest and discreet,
He call'd his Creditors to meet
To hear proposals which he thought
They would receive as just men ought:
Nay, fancied, when he told his tale,
That lib'ral notions would prevail;
Nor could his gen'rous mind foresee
The fruits of his integrity:
For when he walk'd into the room
He found th' invited guests were come,
Who soon began in hideous measure,
To play away their loud displeasure,
Not unlike Andrews at a fair
Who to make gaping rustics stare,
Expand their lanky, lanthern jaws
That fire may issue from their maws.
One darted forth revengeful looks,
Another pointed to his books
Wherein a charge was never made,
That did not honour to his trade;
And curs'd th' accounts which were not paid,		 }
Nor fail'd to wish he could convey them,
We'll not say where, who did not pay them.
A third, as hard as he was able,
Struck his huge fist upon the table.
While, beastly names from many a tongue,
Around the room resounding rung.
As Freeborn had not quite possest
The hope that he should be carest,
He rather look'd with down-cast eye,
To win by his humility,
And put on a repentant face
As suited to the awkward place:
Nay, his high spirits he prepar'd
And call'd discretion for their guard
In case, though it was not expected,
Decorum should be quite neglected:—
But when the Butcher strok'd his sleeve,
Brandish'd his steel and call'd him thief,
Belching forth mutton, veal and beef;		 }
When touch'd by such a market sample
They join'd to follow his example;
When stead of praise for honest doing
And the fair course he was pursuing
They loos'd their banter on his ruin;		 }
His prudence then was thrown aside
From sense of irritated pride,
And, patient bearing quite exhausted,
He thus the angry circle roasted.—
"You all in your abuse may shine,
But know—Abuse will never coin!
Remember you have had my trade,
For some few years, and always paid;
While for your charges you must own,
I let them pass, nor cut them down,
And Customers, such fools like me
Are Prizes in your Lottery.
Put but your loss and gain together,
I should deserve your favour, rather
Than this rude and unseemly treating,
As if I gain'd my bread by cheating.
You know, you set of thankless calves,
You are well paid if paid by halves;
And spite of knowing nods and blinking,
I have been told, and can't help thinking,
All that now may remain to pay
The claims which bring me here to-day,
A just Arithmetic would tell
Will pay your honours very well!
But I have done—nay, I shall burst
If I say more——so do your worst.——"

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus & Creditors.

He threw himself into a chair,
While each at each began to stare;
When, from a corner of the room,
A milder voice appear'd to come,
And, without prefatory art,
Was heard opinions to impart
Which as he spoke them, did not fail
O'er the loud rancour to prevail.
"Gem'men,—
"I cannot but refuse
My honest vote to your abuse;
And had I thought it was your plan
Thus to foul-mouth a Gentleman,
(And such he is, I'll boldly say,
By all he has propos'd to-day)
I would have stay'd and minded home,
Nor to this boist'rous Meeting come!
You could not give a harder banging
To one whose deeds had call'd for hanging.
What I've to say there's no denying—
Nor will I please you now by lying.
For no short time, you all can tell,
We each charg'd high and he paid well;
Nay, now that he is gone to pot
He gives us all that he has got,
And with a pittance is content
To take him to the Continent:
Nor by sly tricks does he deceive ye
But gives you all that he can give you;
And, if again of wealth possest,
I doubt not but he'll pay the rest;
Now he who does the best he can,
I'm certain he's a Gentleman.
For me, whate'er may be your will,
I'll take his terms and trust him still;
And my best judgement recommends
The same right conduct to my friends."
Much more the lib'ral tradesman said
And still continued to persuade
With arguments that bore the test
From that known power call'd Interest,
Which, by degrees, becalm'd the riot,
And clos'd the scene in gen'ral quiet.
Thus, grumb'ling o'er, with parting glass,
The settling hour was seen to pass,
And soon dismiss'd our Freeborn home
To meditate on times to come,
With the first pleasure man can know,
Of doing what he ought to do.
Whether it was his ready way,
As we know not, we cannot say—
But as he saunter'd through a court,
A passage of no small resort,
Well known to Lawyer's daily tread,
As to the King's-Bench Walks it led,
A Placard of no common size
Compell'd the gaze of passing eyes:
When, as he read, he saw it bore
The well-known name he whilom bore,
While there was forc'd upon his view
The Rev'rend Doctor Syntax too;
Nay, as he thought, it seem'd to be
A Brief of his own History:
Nor was it sure an idle whim
To think that it belong'd to him.
The Advertisement did address,
In all the pomp of printing press,
Th' important loss which was sustain'd
And the reward that might be gain'd
By those who should the loss restore
To those who did th' event deplore.
Then o'er and o'er he read the paper
That set his spirits in a caper;
For when he trac'd the pedigree,
He whisper'd to himself—"'Tis Me."
Nor do I from the hope refrain,
Nor do I think I boast in vain,—
Quæ Genus is Himself again!"		 }
But here it may become the verse,
The Placard's purpose to rehearse,
This Advertisement courts regard
To full FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS reward.
"Upwards of twenty years ago,
Or more or less it may be so,
Some one had ventur'd to expose
In clean and decent swaddling clothes,
An Infant, laid before the door
Mark'd number three in number four,
Of Chambers which distinction claim,
And Paper Buildings is their name:,
Now any one who can but give
Assurance that He still doth live,
The above reward will then receive.		 }
Quæ Genus is the Foundling's name,
Which, if alive, he best can claim,
For now at least it is not known
That he can any other own.
The kind Protector of his Birth
Was a Divine of highest worth—
Who held preferment in the North— 		}
Syntax was his much-honour'd name,
Nor is he now unknown to Fame.
But time has long since laid his head
On his last low and silent bed;
And search has hitherto been vain,
The Foundling's present state to gain.
A Laundress now is still alive
Who can some information give,
And Betty Broom is the known name
Of the communicating Dame
To whose kind care deliver'd first,
The Babe was given to be nurs'd.
Th' exposure she can well display
As if it were but yesterday,
But further knowledge is requir'd
And what events may have conspir'd
To shape his Life—If he should live,
'Tis what this paper asks to give.
Who has such tidings and will tell 'em,
With all due proofs, to Mr. Vellum,
Or sent by Post to his abode,
Near Shoreditch Church in Hackney Road,
Will the remuneration prove
That's fully stated as above."
 
Again he read the paper o'er,
Resolv'd its purport to explore,
And strait to Number Three repairs
When hobbling down the ancient stairs,
He met the Matron whom he sought,
And told his story as he ought,
A rapid sketch—nor did it fail
To be an interesting Tale:
Which when she heard, against the wall
The broom she held was seen to fall,
And scarce her old arms could prevail
To bear the burthen of her pail.
Her glasses then she sought to place
On the Proboscis of her face;
Not that a likeness she should see
'Tween riper years and infancy.
But now her heart began to melt
At Recollections that she felt,
And thus she wish'd to tell them o'er,
As she had often done before.
"What, though so many years are gone,
And you to man's estate are grown,
Since I, in all its infant charms,
Dandled the Foundling in my arms,
Were I but certain it was you,
Yes I would hug—and kiss you too."
—But though he vow'd and did exclaim
He was the very—very same;
And though he put forth ev'ry grace
With which his words could gild his face,
He could not gain a kind embrace;		 }
Though twenty-five don't often sue
To claim a kiss from sixty-two:
But some suspicions had possess'd
The avenues to Betty's breast;
For she liv'd where her open ear
Was practis'd ev'ry day to hear
Of art array'd in fairest guise
And truth o'erthrown by artifice.
Thus what could the old Matron do?
She fear'd him false, and wish'd him true:
Then turn'd him round, but look'd aghast,
As at his back her eye she cast;
When she thus spoke, and heav'd a sigh,
"I hope it is not treachery!
Before that door the child lay sprawling,
And mov'd the Doctor with its squalling:
But, before Heaven I can swear,
It then was as a Cherub fair;
Strait as a little arrow he,
In perfect form and symmetry;
And from its neck unto its rump,
Believe me, he had no such hump
As that, though hid with every care,
Your injur'd form is seen to bear;
And cannot but appear to be
A natural deformity.
How this change came of course you know,—
With the poor child it was not so;—
Prepare its Hist'ry to explain,
Or you will visit here in vain.
—My good young man, strive not to cheat,
Nor think to profit by deceit:
You have with knowing folk to do,
Not to be foil'd by such as you.
I own you tell a moving tale,
But Facts alone will now prevail:
You will be sifted up and down
Till e'en your marrow-bones are known.
—I've not another word to say;
To Master Vellum take your way,
You'll find him at his snug abode
Near Shoreditch Church, in Hackney Road:
For, when the infant first was left,
Of all parental care bereft,
The Bookseller and I, between us,
Had much to do with dear Quæ Genus:
For to his shop I us'd to go
'Twas then in Paternoster Row,
As he the money did supply
For the poor Foundling's nursery.
—O, if he finds your story true,
It will, indeed, be well for you!
I will then hug and kiss you too!"		 }
He took his leave—she gave a blessing
As good, perhaps, as her caressing.
In haste, and on his great intent
To Vellum He his footsteps bent;
Who had long since left off the trade
By which he had a fortune made:
But why we do the old Man see
A figure in this history,
Becomes a duty to explain,
Nor shall it be employ'd in vain:
And now, as brief as can be told,
We must the Mystery unfold;
And, since so many years are o'er,
Why it was not explain'd before.
Though he who length of life has seen,
Must have a cold observer been;
Whose languid or incurious eye
Has not the power to descry,
On what a chain of odds and ends
The course of Human Life depends.
But now we quit the beaten road
And turn into an Episode,
Nor fear the track, though we shall draw
The picture of a Man of Law;
For we have seldom had to do
With one so gen'rous, just and true;
So he was thought by grateful fame,
And Fairman was the good man's name.
If in that long-suspected trade
An honest fortune e'er was made
'Twas that he could in Honour boast
As Justice always tax'd the cost.
'Twas his to bid Contention cease
And make the Law a Friend to peace:
He strove to silence rising feud,
And all his practice led to good:
By mildest means it was his aim
To silence each opposing claim;
To take Injustice by the brow
And make it to right reason bow:
Nay, where in courts he must contend,
He saw no foe, and knew no friend.
He fail'd not by his utmost power
To wing with speed Law's ling'ring hour;
A busy foe to dull delay,
He spurr'd each process on its way;
Nor were his words, by skill made pliant,
Arrang'd to flatter any Client:
Whene'er he claim'd his well-earn'd Fee,
Justice and Law would answer—Yea.
And when Oppression knit its brow
And said, proceed,—He answer'd—No.
—When summon'd to the great Assize,
Held in the Court above the skies,
He will not be afraid to hear
The verdict which awaits him there.
—Such was the Man who soon would own
Quæ Genus as his darling Son.

CANTO IX

THE man of pure and simple heart
Through Life disdains a double part,
Nor does he need a mean device
His inward bosom to disguise:
Thus as he stands before mankind
His actions prove an honest mind.
But though 'gainst Reason's rigid rule
He may have play'd the early fool,
As wise men may, perhaps, have done
In the long race which they have run;
For Passion, which will act its part
In the best regulated heart,
Is, as we may too often see
Beset with Nature's frailty.
Yet Virtue in its course prevails;
The better impulse seldom fails
When smiling Conscience holds the scales:		 }
Nay, through the venial errors past,
Maintains its influence to the last,
And thus, with righteous hope endued,
Rests on predominating good.
Something like this we hope to see
In our progressive History.
One morn as worthy Fairman lay
Courting his pillow's soft delay,
Enjoying, in his mind's fair view,
Good he had done, or meant to do;
A Letter came, as it appear'd,
Sign'd by a name, he'd never heard,
To beg he instant would attend
An old and long-forgotten friend,
Matter of import to unfold
Which could by her alone be told,
Whose trembling hand in Nature's spite
Had strove the wretched scrawl to write.
She wish'd into his ear to pour
The tidings of a dying hour,
Which she was anxious to impart
To the recesses of his heart.
This Summons the good man obey'd
And found upon, a sick-bed laid,
A female form, whose languid eye
Seem'd to look bright when he drew nigh.
—"Listen," she said, "I humbly pray,
Though short the time, I've much to say.
My features now no longer bear
The figure when you thought them fair:
Maria was my borrow'd name
When passion shook my early claim
To woman's glory, that chaste fame		 }
Which when once lost, no power should give,
But to repent—the wish to live.
A mother's lab'ring pangs I knew,
And the child ow'd its life to you.
Though ever gen'rous, just and kind
Here doubt perplex'd your noble mind,
And had dispos'd you to believe
That I was false, and could deceive:
But now, if solemn oaths can prove,
And if my dying words can move,
Should he be living, I'll make known
The Babe I bore to be your own.
Scarce was it born, but 'twas my care
That you a parent's part should bear.
My quiv'ring hands then wrapp'd it o'er,
I trembling plac'd it on the floor
And gave a signal at the door:		 }
When I, my eyes bedimm'd with tears,
And flurried by alarming fears,
In a dark night mistook the stair
And left it to a stranger's care.
Such was my error, as I thought
The child was harbour'd where it ought;
And, O my friend, how well I knew
The helpless would be safe with you:—
And when, by secret means, I heard
It was receiv'd and would be rear'd,
I doubted not you did prepare
The blessings of a parent's care.
—I was content, and join'd the train
Of warring men who cross'd the main;
And since, for twenty years or more,
I've follow'd Camps on India's shore;
But when, how chang'd by years of pain,
I saw my native land again,
I look'd, how vainly, for the joy
Of seeing my deserted Boy!
Think how my disappointment grew,
When, from a strict research, I knew
He never had been known to you!		 }
But, favour'd by the will of Heaven,
To Mercy's hand he has been given;
Though of his first or latter years
No record of him yet appears:
At least, beyond the earliest day
As in his cot the Infant lay,
And when his smiling place of rest
Was on a fondling nurse's breast!
I the child's story, but in vain,
Have strove with anxious heart to gain;
For she who gave him milk still lives
And tells all that her mem'ry gives.
But of your child what is become,
Whether he has a house or home,
Whether he sails the ocean o'er
Or wanders on some desert shore,
Whether he lives or breathes no more,		 }
If you've the heart that once I knew
May shortly be made known to you:
For, with the means which you possess,
He may be found your age to bless.
I only ask of Heaven to live
To see him your embrace receive;
And, dare I hope the joy, to join
A mother's fond embrace with thine:
Then may my pilgrim wanderings cease,
And I, at length, shall die in peace!
—Thus I have my last duty done,
And may kind Heaven restore your Son!—"
—She spoke—the tale she did impart
Sunk deep into the good man's heart;
For, as he said, there did not live
To close his eyes one relative.
He then in eager speech declar'd
No cost, no labour should be spar'd
The Boy to find, and should he be
What his fond eyes might wish to see,
His Father's name he soon would bear,
And of his fortune be the Heir.
—No time was lost—what could be done,
To give her ease and find her Son,
Was soon employ'd in ev'ry way
That public notice could display.
The good man now the subject weigh'd,
Then call'd in Vellum to his aid,
And did, with anxious wish commend
The office to his long-known friend,
To set afloat enquiry due
If what Maria told were true;
Nor did he think of pains or cost
To find the stray-sheep that was lost.
"To you," he said, "I give the task,
The greatest favour I can ask,
To trace, if 'tis in any power,
The Foundling from that favor'd hour
When Doctor Syntax first receiv'd
The child and all its wants reliev'd;
And you, at once, call'd in to share
The wishes of his guardian care.
Believe me that my high-wrought feeling,
Which you must see there's no concealing,"
(For the tear glisten'd in his eye,
And his breast spoke the long-drawn sigh)
"Disdains at once all sordid sense
Which hesitates at recompence:
O what would I refuse to give
Should he be blest with worth and live!
Indulge my whims—nor let me know
Or what you've done or what you do,
Till you can answer—Yea or No.		 }
Till your grave voice attests my claim
To bear a parent's tender name:
Nor let the claimant here be shown,
Till he is prov'd to be my own."
Vellum began by exercising
His well-known zeal in advertising;
Nay, did, from Kent, to the Land's-End,
Quæ Genus and his birth extend,
And as the King's Bench Walks had been
Of his first days the curious scene,
Within those environs were spread
The grand Placards which he had read;
And did a forc'd attention call
To many a window, many a wall,
Whose tempting story to rehearse
Has wak'd an effort in our verse.
Quæ Genus' plain, consistent tale
Seem'd with old Vellum to prevail;
And rather tallied with the view
Of what, in former times, he knew:
But, that same Hump his shoulders bore,
And oft had been his foe before,
Forbad the Laundress to bestow
A favouring opinion now;
The want of which kept things aloof
From certain and substantial proof.
For though the Doctors in the North,
Men of acknowledg'd skill and worth,
Were ready to confirm on oath,		 }
That, 'twas disease which gave the blow
And bent the strait back to a bow;
Yet this same Hump of direful note
Still stuck in Betty's doubtful throat,
For all that she would say or swear
Was, when the Child was in her care,
To the most, keen, observing eye,
His back bore no deformity;
And thus continued the suspense
From want of better evidence.
—Vellum was not without a fear,
That, from the Gout's attack severe,
The anxious Father's self might die
Before truth clear'd the Mystery,
And had, from doubt reliev'd, made known
The Child as his begotten Son—
Besides on his discovery bent,
To Oxford when kind Vellum went,
To seek his venerable Friend,
The well-known Rev'rend Doctor Bend,
Who would have set all matters right,
He died on the preceding night.
But still, as we pass on our way,
What changes mark life's transient day;
The sun-beams gild the o'erhanging cloud,
The mists the glitt'ring rays enshroud;
And, while from storms of beating rain
We strive some shelter to obtain,
The scene is chang'd—'tis bright again.		 }
Hence 'tis we share th' uncertain hour
Of joys that smile, of cares that lour.
 
Thus, while Enquiry seem'd to wear
The very aspect of Despair,
A sudden instantaneous thought
Was to Old Betty's mem'ry brought,
That a Ripe Strawberry, blushing red,
As it grew on its verdant bed,
By Nature's whimsey, was impress'd
Not on the cheek or on the breast
But Betty said, "'Tis I know where,
And could I once but see it there,
On Bible Book, ay, I would swear,		 }
The young man is the child who left,
And, of a mother's care bereft,
Was by the Doctor given to me
To nurse his tender Infancy."
—Quæ Genus now was call'd to tell
What he knew of this secret spell.
When he without delay declar'd
What of the mark he oft had heard
By gamesome play-fellows at school
When he was bathing in the pool;
And though he sometimes strove to feel it,
Its strange position did conceal it
From his own eyes, though, as a joke,
It often did a laugh provoke.
Then did he to her wish display,
What the verse hides from open day;
But Betty Broom was not so shy
To turn away her curious eye
From this same blushing Strawberry.		 }
Nay, when she saw the mark, she swore
She oft had kiss'd it o'er and o'er;
And, were he not to manhood grown,
She'd do what she so oft had done.
O she exclaim'd with tears of joy,
Quæ Genus is the very boy
Whom their so anxious wishes sought
And was to full discovery brought.
—Nor was this all, at the strange show
Old Vellum wip'd his moisten'd brow,
And said, with an uplifted eye,
"Here ends this curious Mystery."
When he again, the Symbol saw
In its right place without a flaw,
At once he did remember well,
Syntax would smiling oft foretell,
This mark might to the Foundling show
To whom he did existence owe.
"'Tis all fulfill'd, the proof is shewn,—
The Father may embrace his Son!"
As Vellum, thought another hour
Should not delay that darling power
He to his friend's impatient ear
In all due substance did declare
The Hist'ry of Quæ Genus past,
With all the proofs from first to last,
As on his own conviction shone
That he was truly Fairman's Son:
When the good man, with brighten'd eye,
And the heart's tend'rest sympathy,
As he look'd upwards thus express'd
The joy that revell'd in his breast.
"From all I've heard and you have shown
With zeal and friendship rarely known,
To the fond truth I'm reconcil'd
That poor Quæ Genus is my Child,
Confirm'd by all his Mother said,
As I sat by her dying bed;
And ere another sun shall shine,
I'll prove, at least, I think him mine,
By giving him a rightful claim
To share my fortune and my name.
You then, my friend, may bring him here,
'Tis a strange task, but do not fear,
At this so unexpected hour,
My firmness will relax its power,—
Though I'm beneath a certain course
Of medicine, of promis'd force
On which I have a firm reliance
To bid the tort'ring Gout defiance,
My vig'rous spirits will sustain
The shock of joy as well as pain."
—Vellum, with pleasure now withdrew
To shape the approaching Interview,—
And suit Quæ Genus to a change:
So unexpected and so strange;
But how can we relate the scene
That is about to intervene
Where we shall see in different parts
The weeping eyes, the melting hearts,
Affection's warm and yielding sense
And looks of cold indifference,
While Reason yields, with ample fee,
To be the dupe of Quackery.
This to describe with all the rest
The verse, we trust, will do its best;
But if the labour it refuses
We'll scout Old Poll and his nine Muses,
And leave our John Trot lines to tell
The Story and, we hope, as well.
An Empiric had hither bent
His journey from the Continent,
Who boasted, by his Chymic skill,
Disease was subject to his will;
And that his cunning had found out
A Panacea for the Gout.
It seems this wonderful receipt
Form'd a warm-bath for legs and feet;
And ev'ry day, for a full hour,
The period might be less or more,
The Patient sat, but ill at ease
His legs immers'd up to his knees,
Each in a pail just plac'd before him
Fill'd with a fluid to restore him.
Fairman, who dup'd by Quack'ry's lures,
Had often sought for promis'd cures
Thought it would be no harm to try
The efforts of this Remedy.
—But Vellum eager to make known
This curious pair as Sire and Son.
Did not consult his better reason
Respecting the right place and season,
But a most heedless moment sought
When he Quæ Genus trembling brought,
While the Old Man up to his knees
Was bathing for expected ease,
And thought of nothing but the ails
He hop'd to drown within the pails.
Then Vellum said, my Duty's done
Behold, my friend and see your Son!
Quæ Genus, kneeling on the floor,
Began a blessing to implore!
The good man said, I ask of Heaven
That its protection may be given
To this my long-lost, darling Boy
Of coming time my only joy!
'Twas then he press'd the frizzled hair
And sunk back senseless in his chair.
The good old Bookseller amaz'd
On the strange, motley picture gaz'd,
And Betty Broom began to vow
"'Twere pity he should die just now."
While the staid Cook, whose ev'ry feature
Scarce knew a change from sober nature,
Was to expression ne'er beguil'd,
Who never wept nor ever smil'd
Then calmly said, but said no more,
"I never saw him so before:"—
While, "look! behold! see he revives!"
Quæ Genus cried—"my Father lives!"
Wonder and Gratitude and Fainting
Were there combin'd—what could be wanting
To make the melting scene complete,
But coffin and a winding-sheet?
Nor were those symbols long to seek,
For, in a short and happy week,
Which was in warm affection past,
The exulting Father breath'd his last.