"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."