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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 7: Sharpsight.
By William Combe
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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.

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Title: The History of Johnny Quæ Genus, the Little Foundling of the Late Doctor Syntax.

Author: William Combe

Illustrator: Thomas Rowlandson

Release date: March 10, 2013 [eBook #42299]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Mary Akers and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORY OF JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS, THE LITTLE FOUNDLING OF THE LATE DOCTOR SYNTAX. ***

THE ILLUSTRATED POCKET LIBRARY
OF PLAIN AND COLOURED BOOKS

THE HISTORY OF
JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS

What various views of our uncertain State
These playful, unassuming Rhymes relate!
Anon

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus on his Journey To London.

THE HISTORY
OF
JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS
THE LITTLE FOUNDLING OF
THE LATE DOCTOR SYNTAX
A POEM BY THE AUTHOR OF
THE THREE TOURS

WITH TWENTY-FOUR
COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
BY THOMAS ROWLANDSON

A NEW EDITION

METHUEN & CO.
LONDON
1903

NOTE

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

HISTORY
OF
QUÆ GENUS, ETC.

THE favour which has been bestowed on the different Tours of Doctor Syntax, has encouraged the Writer of them to give a History of the Foundling, who has been thought an interesting Object in the latter of those Volumes; and it is written in the same style and manner, with a view to connect it with them.

This Child of Chance, it is presumed, is led through a track of Life not unsuited to the peculiarity of his Condition and Character, while its varieties, as in the former Works, are represented by the Pencil of Mr. Rowlandson with its accustomed characteristic Felicity.

The Idea of an English Gil Blas predominated through the whole of this Volume; which must be considered as fortunate in no common degree, if its readers, in the course of their perusal, should be disposed to acknowledge even a remote Similitude to the incomparable Work of Le Sage.

The AUTHOR.

PREFACE

THIS prolonged work is, at length, brought to a close.—It has grown to this size, under rare and continuing marks of public favour; while the same mode of Composition has been employed in the last, as in the former Volumes. They are all equally indebted to Mr. Rowlandson's talents.

It may, perhaps, be considered as presumption in me, and at my age, to sport even with my own Dowdy Muse, but, from the extensive patronage which Doctor Syntax has received, it may be presumed that, more or less, he has continued to amuse: And I, surely, have no reason to be dissatisfied, when Time points at my eightieth Year, that I can still afford some pleasure to those who are disposed to be pleased.

The AUTHOR.

May 1, 1821.

LIST OF THE PLATES

Journey to London
In search of Service
Relating his History to Sir Jeffery
At Oxford
Conflict with Lawyer Gripe-all
With the Sheep-Shearers
Assisting a Traveller
In the Sports of the Kitchen
In the Service of Sir Jeffery Gourmand
With a Quack Doctor
With a Spendthrift
Attending on a Sporting Finale
In the Service of a Miser
With the Money Lenders
Officiating at a Gaming Table
With a Portrait Painter
Gives a Grand Party
Interrupts a Tête à Tête
Committed with a riotous Dancing Party to the Watch-House
Engaged with Jovial Friends, or who sings best
The Party breaking up and Quæ Genus breaking down
Turned out of a House which he mistakes for his own
With Creditors
Discovers his Father

THE HISTORY
OF
JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS
OR
The Foundling of Doctor Syntax

CANTO I

JOHNNY QUÆ GENUS! what a name
To offer to the voice of Fame!
(Though she 'tis hop'd may condescend
To act as Little Johnny's friend)
This may be said, when first the eye
Does, by a careless glance, descry
The striking range of marshall'd words
Which a gay Title-Page affords.
But what's a name, as Shakespeare says,
It neither gives nor lessens praise;
Adds no fresh odour to the rose,
Nor any other flower that blows:
Whether with rare or common name
The fragrance will be just the same.
'Tis not a title can confer
The good or ill of character,
Howards have been both beat and bang'd,
And some with ancient names been hang'd:
Look at a ship with convicts stor'd
What noble names are oft on board!
It is the living, current course
Or of the better or the worse,
That stamps, whate'er may be the name,
Or with a good or evil fame.
But howsoe'er the thing we view
Our little Johnny's title's new:
Or for the child or for the man,
In an old phrase, 'tis spick and span.
Besides, as most folk do agree
To find a charm in novelty,
'Tis the first time that Grammar rule
Which makes boys tremble when at school
Did with the name an union crave
Which at the font a sponsor gave.
But whether 'twas in hum'rous mood
Or by some classic whim pursued,
Or as, in Eton's Grammar known,
It bore relation to his own,
Syntax, it was at Whitsuntide,
And a short time before he died,
In pleasant humour, after dinner,
Surnam'd, in wine, the little sinner.
And thus, amid the table's roar,
Gave him from good, old Lilly's store,
A name which none e'er had before.		 }
—'Squire Worthy, who, perchance was there
Promis'd the Doctor's wish to share,
That want, at least might not annoy
The progress of the Foundling Boy.
"—Syntax," He said, "We'll try between us
To make the fortune of Quæ Genus:
You feed his mind with learning's food,
And I'll protect him if he's good."
"While I," said smiling Dickey Bend,
"Will add my mite as Johnny's friend;
Nor shall he want the scraps of knowledge
Which he can pick up at my College."
—Thus, as they did the bumper ply
To Johnny's future destiny,
The warm, almost parental heart
Of Mrs. Syntax bore its part;
And her cheek wore a smile of joy
As she beheld th' unconscious boy,
Who, careless of the kind debate,
Play'd with the cherries on his plate.
But such is life's uncertain hour,
And such is fate's tyrannic power,
That while our comforts smile around
The fatal dart inflicts the wound:
Thus e'er another month was past
Syntax, alas! had breath'd his last.
Whene'er he heard the widow sigh
Quæ Genus wept he scarce knew why:
Of a kind friend fate had bereft him,
And an odd name was all he left him.
His urchin fancy only thought
As his enquiring mind was taught,
That his adopted sire was gone
Where the good go to worlds unknown,
To happy regions plac'd on high
Above the blue and starry sky,
Where, he was with the hope endued,
That he should go, if he were good.
But the good lady took him home
And kept him many a year to come;
When he grew up a charming youth,
In whom simplicity and truth
Did o'er his ev'ry thought preside;
While, with such an anxious guide,
Life smil'd and seem'd to promise fair,
That it would answer to the care
Which her affection had bestow'd,
To set him on his future road:
But when she died poor John was hurl'd
Into a bustling, tricking world.
He had, 'tis true, all she could leave;
She gave him all there was to give;
Of all she had she made him heir,
But left it to a lawyer's care:
No wonder then that he was cheated
And her fond anxious hopes defeated:
So that instead of his possessing
The fruits of her last, dying blessing;
He had, as it turn'd out, to rue
What foul rascality could do;
And his own wild vagaries too.		 }
Here, gentle reader, here begins
The account of our young Hero's sins:
But all which thus far form'd his fate,
Quæ Genus will himself relate,
And what truth bids him to rehearse,
My hum-strum Muse records in verse.
Thus I proceed,—my humble strain
Has hap'ly pleas'd.——I may be vain,—
But still it hopes to please again.		 }
In this great overwhelming town,
Certain receptacles are known,
Where both the sexes shew their faces
To boast their talents and get places:
Not such as kings and courts can give,
Not such as noble folk receive,
But those which yield their useful aid
To common wants or gen'ral trade,
Or finely furbish out the show
That fashion does on life bestow.
Here those who want them may apply
For toiling powers and industry,
On whom the nervous strength's bestow'd
To urge the wheel or bear the load.
Here all who want, may pick and chuse
Each service of domestic use:
The laundry, kitchen, chamber, dairy,
May always find an Ann or Mary,
While in th' accommodating room,
He who wants coachman, footman, groom,
Or butler staid, may come and have,
With such as know to dress and shave.
—The art and skill may here be sought
In ev'ry thing that's sold and bought,
In all the well spread counter tells
Of knowledge keen in yards and ells;
Adepts in selling and in buying
And perfect in the modes of lying;
Who flatter misses in their teens,
And harangue over bombazeens,
Can, in glib words, nor fear detection,
Arrange each colour to complexion:
Can teach the beau the neckcloth's tie,
With most becoming gravity;
Or with a consequential air,
Turn up the collar to a hair.
—Besides, your nice shop-women too,
May at a call be brought to view,
Who, with swift fingers, so bewitching,
Are skill'd in ev'ry kind of stitching;
Can trim the hat, arrange the bonnet,
And place the tasty ribbon on it.
In short, here all to service bound,
May in their various shapes be found.
—From such who may display their charms,
By smirking looks and active arms,
To those in kitchen under ground
Amid black pots and kettles found:
From such as teach the early rules,
Or in the male or female schools,
To those of an inferior breed,
Who ne'er have known to write or read:
From those who do the laws perplex
In toil at an attorney's desk,
To such as pass their busy lives
In cleaning shoes or cleaning knives.
To these, perhaps, an added score
Might swell the tiresome list or more,
But here description says, "give o'er."		 }
 
In such enregistering shop
One morn a figure chanc'd to pop;
(But here I beg it may be guess'd,
Of these same shops it was the best,
His hat was rather worse for wear,
His clothing, too, was somewhat bare,
His boots might say, "we've travell'd far."		 }
His left hand an umbrella bore
And something like a glove he wore:
Clean was his very sun-burnt skin
Without a long hair on his chin,
While his lank face, in ev'ry feature,
Proclaim'd a keen, discerning nature;
And when he spoke there was an air
Of something not quite common there:
His manner good, his language fair.		 }
A double cape of curious make,
Fell from his shoulders down his back,
As if art did the folds provide
A very awkward hump to hide;
But, if 'twere so, the cunning fail'd,
For still the treach'rous bunch prevail'd.
 
By chatting here and talking there,
He did his curious mind prepare
With all the means by which to gain
The end his wishes would obtain;—
Then with half-humble, solemn face,
He sought the ruler of the place,
Who boasted an establish'd fame,
And Sharpsight was his well-known name.
But ere we in our way proceed
To tell of many a future deed,
It may, we doubt not, be as well,
To save all guess-work, just to tell,
Of the part now upon the stage
Quæ Genus was the personage.
Fortune's dark clouds, for some time past
That learned title had o'ercast,
And he had borrow'd names in plenty,
He might have gone by more than twenty;
But now arriv'd in this great town
Without a fear of being known
He thought he might assume his own:		 }
And he had weighty reasons too
For what he was about to do,
Which, we believe, a future page
Will reconcile as reasons sage.
At length his statement he began,
When thus the conversation ran.

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus, in search of Service.

Quæ Genus.

"'Tis the first time I e'er applied
To ask your counsel for my guide:
But strange events have brought me here,
And at your desk I now appear,
But not without the means to pay,
For all you do and all you say.
And here, good Sir, there's no concealing
We must be cautious in our dealing:
I want employment that will give
Means to be honest and to live.
Such is my warm, heart-felt desire,
Such is the boon I now require,—
And if you do my wishes aid,
I tell you Sir,—you shall be paid."
Sticking his pen behind his ear
And with a keen enquiring leer,
Sharpsight the curious figure view'd,
And thus the important talk pursued.

Sharpsight.

"In answer to your just desire,
Permit me fairly to enquire,
Which to my ledger is transmitted,
For what your qualities are fitted?
And, in good faith, I wish to know,
What you have done, and what can do?
Nay, to whose word I may refer
For your good name and character.
Such is essential to the case,
Such are the first steps to a place,
Of whate'er kind that place may be,
Whether of high or low degree;
Without them no access to station,
No character, no situation.
—What you assert, you say is true,
I'm sure, my friend, I wish so too:
For what you ask, as you describe,
Is ask'd by all the serving tribe:
'Tis that to which they all pretend,
But those I never can commend
In honour to my own good name,
And to this room's establish'd fame,
But what the rigid truth may claim.		 }
Though as you look this place around,
But common folk are to be found:
Coachmen who sit without a whip;
Footmen, without a call to skip;
Gardeners who have lost their spade,
And Journeymen without a trade;
Clerks whose pens have long been idle;
With grooms quite dull, who ask a bridle;
Cooks who exclaim for roast and boil'd,
And nurs'ry-maids without a child;
Young, sprightly girls who long to clamber
From drawing-rooms to upper chamber,
Ready the drudg'ry to assail
Of scrubbing-brush, and mop and pail;
Stout porters who for places tarry,
Whose shoulders ache for loads to carry;
But character they must maintain,
Or here they come, and pay in vain.
In short, were I to count them o'er,
I could name twenty kinds or more,
Who patient and impatient wait
About this busy, crowded gate.
—But you might higher claimants see
Within this crowded registry,
Who do not at the desk appear,
Nor e'er are seen in person here;
But they are charged a larger fee,
Both for success and secrecy.
Thus you must see how much depends,
To gain your object and your ends,
That you should truly let me know
What you have done,—what you can do;
And I, once more, beg to refer
To your good name and character."

Quæ Genus.

"I do profess I can engage
With noble, simple, and with sage.
Though young as yet, I've been so hurl'd
About what you would call the world,
That well I know it, yet 'tis true,
I can be very honest too.
—Of the good name which you demand,
I tell you—I've not one at hand.
Of friends, I once had ample store,
But those fair, prosp'rous days are o'er,
And I must mourn it to my cost
That friends are dead, and gone, and lost;
But if to conscience 'tis referr'd,
My conscience says, Sir, take his word.
—Of character, though I have none,
Perhaps, Sir, I can purchase one:
I, from a corner of my coat,
May just pluck out a pretty note;
Which, with a view to gain an end,
Might, in an urgent want, befriend.
Now, if to place me, you contrive,
Where I may have a chance to thrive;
I'll give this note, if I'm alive.		 }
It may be rather worth your while;
Perhaps it may awake a smile."
Sharpsight appear'd to look astray,
But still he took a glance that way.
"I'm not," he said, "to be beguil'd;"
Though when he glanc'd that way, he smil'd,
And, turning to the other side,
In a calm, soften'd tone replied.

Sharpsight.

"Here money is not that way earn'd,
My reputation is concern'd;
But still I can my duty do,
And strive to be a friend to you.
Sir Jeff'ry Gourmand you may suit;
A Knight renown'd, of high repute,
As all who know his name can tell,
For being rich and living well;
A gen'rous man, but full of whim,
And you may be the thing for him:
In such a way your case I'll mention
As shall awaken his attention.
And now, my worthy friend, I pray,
Mind well what I'm about to say:
Without a creature to refer
Or for good name or character,
And in a state which seems to be
Involv'd in awkward mystery;
And I shall add, with your excuse
For the remark which I must use,
That either accident or nature
Has, on your back, plac'd such a feature,
That were you e'en my dearest friend,
I dare not such an one commend
To any lady worth a groat,
Unless to serve the dame for nought.
—Just turn around, and you may see
A Lady in deep scrutiny,
With a nice quizzing-glass in hand,
Glancing across a liv'ried band;
And once a month she does appear
On this domestic errand here.
If of a maid she wants the use,
Her woman comes to pick and chuse;
But if a man,—she is so nice,
She comes herself to make the choice.
A widow rich, who gives high wages,
If they should please, whom she engages:
But he must be of such a size,
And look so well in her keen eyes,
That she scarce one in twenty sees
Fit to wear her rich liveries.
There's one who has a squinting eye—
I know full well she'll pass him by;
On one poor rogue she'll turn her back
Because his frightful beard is black;
Another will not eat her bread
Because his frizzled crop is red;
These are too weak,—and those too strong,
And some an inch too short or long:
She'll take the best-made of the bunch,
But would be fainting at a hunch.
—Thus then, according to my plan,
Sir Jeff'ry Gourmand is the man;
But to his questions pray reply
Without the veil of mystery:
Your story from your very youth,
If he should ask it—tell the truth;
Your errors fail not to unfold—
In telling them be firm, be bold;
While you your better virtues own,
E'en let your mischiefs all be known,
But let not folly blazen forth
Whate'er you have of conscious worth;
Express the ill with down-cast eye,
And veil the good with modesty;
Though, if you can with prudence poke
Into your tale a funny joke,
Fear not, 'tis what his humour loves,
As his own daily chit-chat proves;
And while he does his bev'rage quaff,
At what he says—be sure you laugh.
But should you not his service suit,
He will not play the churlish brute;
And if not gone too far astray,
May serve you in some other way.
Thus you must see I do my best—
To Fortune I shall leave the rest:
But now I see Sir Jeff'ry enter,
And I must leave you to your venture."
Sharpsight then after humbly greeting
This huge man-mountain of good eating,
For a few minutes in his ear,
Told that which he alone could hear.
The Knight then cast a curious eye
On Johnny, who was standing by,
And just enquir'd from whence he came,
What was his age, and what his name;
Whom he had serv'd, and why he left
The place of which he was bereft?

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus reading to Sir Jeffrey Gourmand.

Quæ Genus.

"If, Sir, it were not thought too free,
If I might take the liberty,
I would not wish you here to wait
While I my strange condition state,
As it would take an hour or more,
My various story to explore;
Tho' 'tis not such, that I should fear
The tale to tell or you to hear:
You, who will kind allowance make
For wants that press, and hearts that ache,
And passions that restraint disdain
When justice sues, and sues in vain;
And 'tis to that tale I refer
For name, for age and character,
Whom I have serv'd, and what the scene
Where my frail manhood's years have been:
And if you will but condescend
To my young hist'ry to attend,
And will not the fond hope deny me,
That you, good Sir, will take and try me,
And let my rude, misgotten shape
From your observance to escape,
You will command,—I will obey;
When you may see from day to day,
How far, Sir, I may make pretence
To your good grace and confidence."
"Then be it so," the Knight replied,
"I trust I may be satisfied.
I'm told there's something droll about you,
But droll'ry will not make me scout you;
Nor do I mind, my friend, the pack,
Which you now wear upon your back:
We're rather equal on that score—
Your's is behind, and mine's before;
Nay, when of both I take a view,
Mine is the larger of the two."
Quæ Genus, with a ready grace,
Lifted his hat to hide his face;
But still he so arrang'd the screen
That his gay visage might be seen;
Which seem'd to burst as from the hit
Of the fat Knight's spontaneous wit,
Who chuckled first, and then made known
His further will to laughing John.

Sir Jeffery.

"Be punctual;—at the hour of ten
We will, to-morrow, meet again;
When I will hear, without delay,
The whole which you have got to say:
But know, you will offend my feeling
If you should shuffle from plain dealing.
I'm serious now:—on that depends,
How far we may continue friends."
Quæ Genus fail'd not, at the hour,
To pass Sir Jeff'ry's chamber door;
Where, seated in a cushion'd chair
As large as some post-chaises are,
And though it may be strange to tell,
The Knight contriv'd to fill it well;
He seem'd attentive to peruse
The pages of the daily news:
When, with a look and with a loll,
As if he thought on something droll,
And in a sort of pleasant glee,
He thus commenc'd the colloquy.—

Sir Jeffery.

"First, I must ask to know your name,
Your parentage, and whence you came;
And when these trifling things are past,
The master whom you liv'd with last."

Quæ Genus.

"Quæ Genus, is the name I bear."

Sir Jeffery.

"Quæ Genus? 'tis a name so rare,
It never met my ear or eye,
If I can trust my memory.
I mean the surname that you own,
By which your family is known:
Not what your sponsor's pedant hammer
Beat into use from Lilly's grammar.
I want your father's name."—

Quæ Genus.

"'Twere well!
If I that honour'd name could tell;
I must suppose that such a creature
Was form'd in her own way, by Nature!
That I had parents must be true;
A father and a mother too,
But who they were I never heard,
Nor has the secret yet appear'd:
They're known to Heaven,—but to me
My birth's a perfect mystery:
Though this I'm sure that I can tell—
It was not worth a miracle."

Sir Jeffery.

"By whom, then, was Quæ Genus given?"

Quæ Genus.

"By one who is a saint in Heaven;
If ever mortal beings go
To bliss above, from ills below:
This I believe, nay I would swear,
That such is his allotment there;
And I would kiss the book I trow,
The holy book that tells me so.
A Grammar Title was his own,
And therefore 'twas—he gave me one:
'Twas Doctor Syntax, and I'm proud
That 'tis to him the name I ow'd."

Sir Jeffery.

"I knew him not, but this I know,
What pleasure to his works I owe;
And you will meet my partial whim—
Prove that you e'er belong'd to him.
Treasur'd within that curtain'd case,
His works possess a favour'd place;
And if the binding aught can tell,
They show that I respect them well.
Go, take a volume down, and look—
Perhaps, my friend, you know the book."

Quæ Genus.

"I know it well, as you will see,
It tells my infant history:
This leaf will partly save the task
Of answ'ring what you're pleas'd to ask.
That little infant whom you see
In basket laid,—that, Sir, is me,
Now grown to sad maturity.		 }
—It was within an Inn of Court,
Where busy Lawyers plead and sport;
Upon those stairs and thus enclos'd,
My new-born figure was expos'd.
Of mercy they had little share
Whose cruel purpose plac'd me there,
And left me to the Lawyer's care; 		}
For, had th' Attorney been in town,
Who did those very chambers own,
I doubt what might have been my fate:
The thing was strange—the hour was late;
The work-house might be distant far,
And dubious been the nursings there.
But one, perchance, possess'd the floor
When I was laid beside the door,
Who would have felt a crying sin
Had he not ta'en the stranger in.
When I this pictur'd figure view,
So innocent—so helpless too,
A smile's contending with a tear,
On seeing what I now appear:
A pretty figure for a casket,—
A little Falstaff in the basket."

Sir Jeffery.

"Further of this you need not tell,
I know the curious story well;
At least as far as there appears
In what regards your infant years,
And all that did your fate betide,
Till your good friend the Doctor died.
—But now,—Of Masters name the last
Whom you have serv'd for some time past."

Quæ Genus.

"Masters, an' please you, I had none,
And Mistresses, I had but one:
Indeed, Sir, it may not be civil,
But O, she is a very devil,
Which I am sure you will allow
Soon as you come her name to know,
Tho' oft and oft, and o'er and o'er,
You must have heard it spoke before,
But not in any pressing hour
Have you been subject to her power.
It might not be a thing of course
But I her servant was perforce,
For sure as my name is Quæ Genus
There seem'd a contract made between us;
And her sad service I must rue,
If I come not to live with you;
With her I must continue still,
If it proves not your gen'rous will,
To receive me, Sir, from her
With what she gives of character,
For she sometimes can make pretence
To ask heart-felt benevolence."

Sir Jeffery.

"This is most strange, I do declare!
But pray what figure did she bear
While you th' unwilling servant were?"		 }

Quæ Genus.

"An ever-varying form she wore,
As ever changeful Proteus bore:
But or in motion she, or still;
Her ev'ry hour is mark'd with ill.
She looks best pleas'd when sorrow flows,
She can disdain when virtue bows:
Labour and penury and pain
And sad disease compose her train,
While vain complaint and discontent
Form her pale-fac'd establishment."
Sir Jeff'ry now let loose a smile
As if some fancy did beguile
And play upon his easy thought,
With light, amusive mischief fraught;
And this sarcastic question prov'd
The pleasantry Sir Jeff'ry lov'd.
"When she was in a spiteful humour,
What said she of that pretty tumour?
The which without a wish to pry,
Must sometimes meet her wand'ring eye.
Did she ne'er stroke your circling back,
Nor e'er salute it with a smack;
Or when she was dispos'd to sneer
Compare it to a Hemisphere,
Deck it with sun and moon and stars,
With Venus, Mercury and Mars,
Or cover with her liv'ry's robe
The Continents of half the Globe;
Or like an Atlas, did she flout you
As you bore half the world about you,
When you might show it as a sight,
And gain no common profit by't;
Blend with the Panorama's skill,
In all the pride of printed bill,
Deliver'd with a ready hand
Through Leic'ster-fields or in the Strand."
The Knight's loud laughter then succeeded,—
And Johnny laughing too, proceeded.
"How happy you who thus can joke
And wrap me in your funny cloak,
Nay, when your mirth, Sir, may think fit,
Can fill my crooked back with wit;
Can even make me almost proud,
Of that self-same prepost'rous load.
You may, perhaps, be not aware,
But 'tis the truth which I declare,
I would serve you for half the wages
Which common servitude engages,
Provided you would pay the rest
In such nice puns and merry jest;
I would with joy sign the receipt,
For half in cash, and half in wit."
"Well, well, go on," Sir Jeff'ry said,
While his glad, twinkling eyes betray'd,
How much Quæ Genus pleas'd his fancy
At this so flatt'ring necromancy.
—While the Knight his cold coffee quaffing,
But still at his own fancies laughing,
Exclaim'd, "proceed, but be it known,
I wish the lady's hist'ry done,
And then you will conclude your own."		 }

Quæ Genus.

"When she first knew me she could see
A form as strait as poplar tree,
Then I was ruddy, fair and plump,
Nor was my back crown'd with a hump,
Of which you may not be aware,
For hang the hag, she plac'd it there,
And you, good Sir, shall shortly know,
How to her power the gift I owe."

Sir Jeffery.

"The more I hear, the more I see,
The more you deal in mystery.
This Mistress, sure, of which you tell,
Is an Incomprehensible!
A widow she, or is she wedded?
Or e'er by blushing Hymen bedded?"

Quæ Genus.

"O no, Sir, no.—She is more common
Than is the worst street-walking woman.
There's scarce a mortal about town
To whom this Mistress is not known;
And if the track I should pursue,
I might add in the country too.
But 'tis a keen wit that unravels
The wide extent of all her travels;
Nor time nor space has she to spare,
She's here and there and ev'ry where.
Though if I at a guess may venture
Beneath this roof she will not enter,
Unless, as you the chance may see,
The saucy minx comes here with me."

Sir Jeffery.

"But one more question I've to ask,
Ere you perform your promis'd task,
And tell me from all shuffling free,
The items of your history,
Up to the moment when you stand
A candidate for my command.
And now Quæ Genus tell the name
Of this same universal dame,
Whom you, poor fellow, have been serving,
And, as you state it, almost starving.
—If in your tale she does agree,
It is a tale of mystery;
Some fairy fable, I suppose,
That paints, in emblems, human woes,
And does in figur'd words, apply
To your peculiar history.
It is not in the usual way
That such as you their state display;
It is not in such borrow'd guise
That they unfold their histories,
With here and there a little bit
Of droll'ry to shew off their wit;
It is not in this form I see
Those who may wear my livery;
But your's I feel a diff'rent case
From those who come to seek a place;
Or when the register may send him,
With, 'Sir, we beg to recommend him.'
I now bethink me of the sage
Who lov'd you in your tender age;
And when I see you have a claim
To share the page that marks his fame,
Syntax, that highly honour'd name		 }
A passport is, my good Quæ Genus,
To the familiar talk between us.
From that relation which you share,
No longer stand, but take a chair,
And now proceed, without delay,
To close the tale in your own way.
"And once again, I ask the name
Of this so universal dame;
What is her fortune,—where she lives,
And the strange means by which she thrives?
Where she acquires her wond'rous power,
Which you describe, o'er ev'ry hour?
Where it began, my curious friend;
Then tell me, pray, when it will end."
With due respect, as was requir'd,
He took the chair for he was tir'd,
And calling truth to be his guide,
He thus in solemn tone replied.

Quæ Genus.

"Miss-Fortune is the name she bears,
Her rent-roll's form'd of sighs and tears:
She doth not live or here or there,
I fear, Sir, she lives ev'ry where.
I'm sure that I know not the ground
Where her sad influence is not found;
But if a circle should appear
Beyond her arbitrary sphere,
I feel and hope, Sir, it is here.		 }
—This worn-out coat, Sir, which you see,
Is the kind Lady's livery:
I once was fat, but now am thin,
Made up of nought but bone and skin;
I once was large but now am small,
From feeding in her servants'-hall,
And the hump I shall ever bear
Is an example of her care.
As for the blessed Dame's beginning,
I've heard that it began in sinning,
And I have learn'd that she will end
When this vile world has learn'd to mend;
But if we guess when that may be,
We may guess to eternity."
"Miss-Fortune!! Heav'ns! O thus she's nam'd,"
The Knight, with uplift eyes exclaim'd.
"O the dull head, not to have seen
What the Finale must have been!"
Then clasping hands and chuckling first
Into a bellowing laugh he burst,
Though not to his broad face confin'd,
But on each side, before, behind,
It seem'd as if his whimsies bound him,
In a joyous circle round him:
His belly trembles, his sides ache,
And the great-chair scarce stands the shake.
'Twas a hoarse, deep bass, note of mirth,
To which his fancy thus gave birth;
And Johnny fail'd not to come after
An octave higher in his laughter,
While his delight appear'd to speak
In somewhat of a treble squeak.—
Thus, for some minutes they enjoy'd
The Duo which their nerves employ'd.
Sir Jeff'ry shook his head awhile,
Then spoke with a complacent smile.
"Though in a diff'ring point of view,
I know her just as well as you;
And hang the hag she plagues me too.		 }
Need I, good fellow, need I tell ye,
She deck'd me out with this great belly;
'Tis she, by way of friendly treat,
Has given this pair of gouty feet;
Nay sometimes when her whim commands
Miss-Fortune robs me of my hands:
'Tis she with her intention vile
That makes me overflow with bile;
And tho' my table's spread with plenty
Of ev'ry nice and costly dainty,
She sometimes envies me a bite,
And takes away my appetite.
She does not meddle with my wealth,
But then she undermines my health;
She never in my strong box looks,
Nor pries into my banker's books;
My ample fortune I contrive
To guard with care and make it thrive,
I check her power to destroy it,
But then she says, 'you sha'n't enjoy it;
I will take care you shall endure
The ills and pains gold cannot cure.'
Or leagu'd with wrinkled age at least,
She strives to interrupt the feast.
—But with her malice I contend,
Where she's a foe, I'm oft a friend,
And, with the weapons I can wield,
I sometimes drive her from the field.
Nay when she does the victim clasp,
I snatch it from her cruel grasp.
And thus you see, or more or less,
I make her prove my happiness."

Quæ Genus.

"There was indeed a time when I
Knew her but by warm sympathy
With those who did her burthen bear,
Which I have since been forc'd to share;
But this, at least, I'm pleas'd to own,
And 'tis a truth to you well known,
Nay, this I'll say, in others' breast,
Where'er the virtue is possess'd,
She does, as I have felt, and see,
Awake benign Humanity."

Sir Jeffery.

"And she shall 'wake it now, Quæ Genus!
An instant contract's made between us.
I break that which she made with you,
And gladly you abjure it too.
I have no doubt, my friend, to venture;
Into my service you shall enter,
Your ills at present shall be o'er,
Miss-Fortune you shall serve no more.
At least, I say, while you contrive
By your good deeds with me to live:
I'll save you from your late disaster
And change your mistress for a master.
I want no bowings, no grimaces,
No blessings that I've chang'd your places.
—I now remind you to relate
All that has been your various fate,
Nay, all that you have ever known,
Since time and freedom were your own.
—I tell you, Johnny, speak the truth;
I know what follies wait on youth:
I know where erring passion leads,
On what a slipp'ry ground it treads:
I can remember that I fail'd
When the gay, tempting world prevail'd;
Nor shall I now the thought conceal,
Which reason tells me to reveal.
What Heaven forgives should be forgiven
By all who look with hope tow'rds Heaven:
But I expect not faults alone,
I trust in what you may have done,
There may work out a little fun.		 }
—If I guess right your lively eye
Was not exactly made to cry,
But sometimes call forth pleasantry;		 }
Of diff'ring thoughts to ope the vein,
Let pleasure forth or lessen pain.
But still do not your mischiefs hide,
Throughout your tale, be truth your guide;
Nor make Miss-Fortune though she starves,
Worse, by the bye, than she deserves,
For after all her misdeeds past,
The Dame may do you good at last.
—Deceive me, and you will offend,
Deceive me, and you lose a friend:
Try to deceive me and again
You'll join Miss-Fortune's pale-fac'd train.
Proceed then, and, without a fear,
Pour thy misdoings in my ear
And I will with indulgence hear.		 }
I'll not discard you for the evil,
Though you should prove a little devil,
Though to your hump you should not fail,
To add your horns and hoofs and tail;
Though you should prove a bag of sin,
And hump'd without be hump'd within,
Here you shall have your home, your food;
Kick at Miss-Fortune, and be good."
He spoke, then rang the shrill-ton'd bell,
Which did its well-known message tell.—
A tray appear'd, and well prepar'd,
Which Johnny with Sir Jeff'ry shar'd.
When, waving his beflannell'd hand,
The knight thus utter'd his command.
"And now, thou little Imp of Sin,
Without a compliment begin."

Quæ Genus.

"The Volume that now lies before ye,
Tells you thus far, Sir, of my story;
Which would be upon this occasion
A work of supererogation;
Though I shall beg leave to repeat,
I'm not the new-born of the street;
But as it never yet appear'd,
At least, as I have ever heard,
To such unknown, unfather'd heirs,
I am a Foundling of the stairs,
Without a mark upon the dress,
By which there might be form'd a guess,
Whether I should the offspring prove
Of noble or of vulgar love;
Whether thus left in Inn of Court
Where Lawyers live of ev'ry sort;
Love in a deep full-bottom clad,
Gave me a grave black-letter'd dad,
Who, if 'twere so, might not agree
To have a child without a fee;
And, therefore, would not plead my cause,
But left me to the vagrant laws
Of chance, who did not do amiss,
But sued in Formâ Pauperis,
And, in a Court where Mercy reign'd,
The little Foundling's cause was gain'd:
Syntax was judge, and pity's power
Sav'd me in that forsaken hour.
He with that truly Christian spirit,
Which Heaven gave him to inherit,
Fondly embrac'd me as his own;
But ere three transient years were gone,
I lost my friend, but found another,
A father he, and she, a mother;
For such at least they both have prov'd,
And as their child the stranger lov'd.
O, rest her soul!—to her 'tis given
To share his happy lot in Heaven.
I seem'd to be her utmost pride,
And Johnny trotting by her side,
Fill'd with delight her glancing eye
In warm affection's sympathy.
This fond, this kind, this fost'ring friend
Did to my ev'ry want attend;
Her only fault, she rather spoil'd
As he grew up, the darling child;
But though her care was not confin'd
Or to his body, or his mind,
Though, with a fond parental view,
She gave to both th' attention due,
Ne'er would she her displeasure fix
On his most wild, unlucky tricks.
So that at church he held grave airs,
Pronounc'd Amen, and said his pray'rs,
And on a Sunday evening read
A sermon ere they went to bed,
Throughout the week, he was quite free
For mischief with impunity.
—If on the folk I squirted water,
How she would shake her sides with laughter;
If the long-rotten eggs were thrown
At Mary, Sally, or at Joan;
If any stinging stuff was put
Into the hasty trav'ller's boot;
If the sly movement of the heel
Should overturn the spinning-wheel.
—If holly plac'd beside the rose
Should wound the gay sheep-shearer's nose,
Or 'neath the tail a thorn-bush pricking,
Should set Dame Dobbins' mare a kicking,
And overthrow the market load,
While beans and peas o'erspread the road,
If the poor injur'd made complaint
To Madam of her wily saint,
She would reply, 'pray cease your noise,
These are the tricks of clever boys,
It is my pleasant Johnny's fun,
Tell me the damage, and have done.'
—When I became a rosy boy,
My growth encreas'd her growing joy;
But now such gamesome hours were o'er
I play'd my childish tricks no more.
My little heart 'gan to beat high,
And with heroic ardor try
The tempting danger to pursue,
And do what others could not do:
I sought to climb the highest tree,
Where none would dare to follow me,
Or the gay sporting horse to ride,
Which no school-fellow dare bestride.
My feats were sometimes rather scaring,
But the Dame lov'd to see me daring;
As by my running, leaping, walking,
I us'd to set the parish talking,
And, to the good old women's wonder,
I fear'd not lightning nor thunder.
She thought, in future time, my name
By some achievement bold, might claim
A loud blast in the trump of fame.		 }
"When, as a youth, how great the charm
To lean upon his willing arm,
Or when she wish'd to take the air,
To guide her poney in the chair;
To fetch her book, to place her stool,
Or bear the laden ridicule:
To chat, to laugh, to sing, to read,
As whims or wishes might succeed:
And I am proud to make it known
Her ev'ry pleasure was my own;
And all to please her I could do,
Was joy, as it was duty too.
"Here now my better story ends—
So far, I trust, Sir, we are friends:
But I could almost wish me dumb,
When I must tell of what's to come."
Sir Jeffery, half-laughing, said,
"Johnny, I pray, be not afraid,
Whate'er your luckless wit has done,
I swear I will set down in fun;
By me, your sins shall be forgiven
As sure as Mercy is in Heaven."

Quæ Genus.

"Then, at your pleasure I proceed,
Nor will I hide a single deed;
There is but one I doubt to own,
But that to you shall be made known,
And will with you securely rest
As in my own uneasy breast;
Though I'm afraid of vengeful laws
As I believe without a cause.
Indeed, I have contriv'd to play
The very fool for many a day,
But brief, be sure, I'll strive to be
In this my early history.
"And here, an' please you, Sir, begins
The tale of my mishaps—the chapter of my sins."