CANTO IV

THE various, the uncertain views
Which the all-anxious world pursues,
While it directs its searching eye
To what is call'd prosperity,
Compose the gen'ral, pictur'd strife
That forms the daily scene of life;
And make up the uncertain measure
Of power, of riches, and of pleasure;
Which, whatsoe'er may be our state,
Do on the varying projects wait
Of lowly poor or princely great:		}
For as all worldly things move on
We weigh them by comparison.
Thus he who boasts his little all
At a street-corner on a stall,
Tempting the gaze of wandering eyes
To view the transient merchandise,
Will look to Fortune's smile to bless
His humble trading with success,
As he whose freighted vessel sails
O'er distant seas with doubtful gales.
Nay, in Ambition's humble school
Perceive we not the love of rule,
O'er rustic swains to bear the rod
And be a village demi-god?
To gain command and take the lead
Where mean submission courts a head,
Does in the lowest class prevail
Of vulgar thoughts to turn the scale,
As that which on their wishes wait,
Whose object is to rule the state.
—Seek you for pleasure as it flows,
In ev'ry soil the flow'ret grows;
From the pale primrose of the dale
Nurs'd only by the vernal gale,
To the rich plant of sweets so rare
Whose tints the rainbow colours share
And drinks conservatorial air.		}
But, 'tis so subject to the blast,
It cannot promise long to last;
Though still it 'joys the fragrant day,
Till nature bids it pass away.
The rude boy turns the circling rope,
Or flies a kite or spins a top,
When, a stout stripling, he is seen
With bat and ball upon the green;
The later pleasures then await
On humble life whate'er its state,
And are with equal ardor sought
As those with high refinement wrought,
Where birth and wealth and taste combine
To make the festive brilliance shine.

Thus the same passions govern all

Who creep on this terrestrial ball:

Their objects, truly, are the same,

However shap'd, whate'er their name.

What though the varying plan confounds

In giving sixpences or pounds,

In velvet or in home-spun cloth,

They may be base curmudgeons both.

Some are by charity enroll'd

On tablets proud in lines of gold,

While others, as by stealth, convey

The mite that shuns the light of day;

Though each performs a diff'rent part,

Each may possess a Christian heart.

It is not upon wealth alone

That happiness erects its throne:

How oft, alas! it is we see

The rich involv'd in misery;

How oft is view'd in reason's eye

The wants which wealth can ne'er supply!

The way to power may be betray'd,

Though 'tis with solid gold inlaid;

Nay, purchas'd pleasure prove deceit,

And be at length a very cheat.

—How weak, how vain is human pride,

Dares man upon himself confide:

The wretch who glories in his gain

Amasses heaps on heaps in vain.

Why lose we life, in anxious cares,

To lay in hoards for future years?

Can they, when tortur'd by disease,

Cheer our sick heart and purchase ease?

Can they prolong one gasp of breath,

Or calm the troubled hour of death?

What's man in all his boasted sway?

Perhaps the tyrant of a day.

Can he in all the pride of power

Ensure his honours for an hour?

Alike the laws of life take place

Through ev'ry branch of human race:

The monarch, of long regal line,

Was rais'd from dust as frail as mine.

Can he pour health into his veins

Or cool the fever's restless pains?

Can he worn down in nature's course

New brace his feebled nerves with force?

Can he, how vain is mortal power,

Stretch life beyond the destin'd hour?

"Consider, man, weigh well thy frame;
The king, the beggar, is the same,
Dust form'd us all,—each breathes his day,
Then sinks into his mortal clay."
Thus wrote the fabling Muse of Gay.		}
Such thoughts as these of moral kind
Quæ Genus weigh'd within his mind:
For wherefore should it not be thought
That, as his early mind was taught,
It might be with sage maxims fraught?		}
—Thus seated, or as he stood sentry,
Sole guardian of the butler's pantry,
Which lock'd up all the household state,
The cumbrance rich of massy plate,
And all the honour that could grace
The power of superior place,
That did acknowledg'd rank bestow
O'er all the kitchen-folk below;
What wonder that his mind should range
On hopes that waited on the change
Which unexpected Fortune's power
Seem'd on his present state to shower.
Though while his wand'ring mind embrac'd
The present time as well as past,
The visions of the future too
Gave a fair prospect to his view.
But life this well-known feature bears,
Our hopes' associates are our fears,
And ever seem, in reason's eye,
As struggling for the mastery,
In which they play their various part,
To gain that citadel the heart.

Thus though our Hero's honest pride

Was, for the present, satisfied;

And did things, as they seem'd to show,

Promise to stay in Statu Quo,

He, surely, would have ask'd no more

For Fortune on his lot to pour,

And with all due contentment wait

For what might be his future fate:

But while the present hour beguiles

His cheerful mind with cheering smiles,

The forward thought would strive to sow

An awkward wrinkle on his brow.

Now, strange as the event appears,

The source of all his hopes and fears

Was on each settled point the same,

And Jeff'ry Gourmand was its name.

The Knight most gen'rous was and free,
And kind as kindest heart could be,
So that Quæ Genus scarce could trace
The humbling duties of his place.
Whate'er he did was sure to please,
No fretful whims appear'd to tease;
And while with fond attention shown,
He did each willing duty own,
Sir Jeff'ry frequent smiles bestow'd,
And many a kind indulgence show'd,
And oftentimes would wants repress
To make his fav'rite's labours less:
Nay, when he dawdled o'er his meat,
Would nod and bid him take a seat
To share the lux'ry of the treat.		}
—He fancied, and it might be true,
That none about him e'er could do
What his peculiar wants required,
And in the way he most desired,
As his Quæ Genus, thus he claim'd him,
Whene'er to other folk he nam'd him.
Indeed, he took it in his head
That no one else could warm his bed,
And give it that proportion'd heat
That gave due warmth to either sheet.

Our Hero rather lik'd the plan,

As Molly brought the warming-pan,

And having pass'd it through the door,

Waited without till all was o'er.

Thus, having rang'd the alarum-bell,

With other things I must not tell,

And seen Sir Jeff'ry's pillow'd head

Turning to rest within his bed,

Quæ Genus bore the pan away

Where Molly fair was us'd to stay.

He was to honour firm, and she

The mirror bright of Chastity.

Thus half an hour was often spent

In interchange of sentiment,

Which doubtless was some tender theme:

A subject for a pleasing dream.

All this tells well,—nor was this all;

The sceptre of the servants'-hall

Was now committed to his hand;

O'er that he had supreme command,

But such his mild and smiling sway,

All felt a pleasure to obey;

And 'twas the kitchen's daily toast,

Long may Quæ Genus rule the roast.

Tradesmen did to his worth subscribe,

For bills were paid without a bribe;

And good Sir Jeffery quite content

How the allotted income went,

At no accounts e'er gave a look,

But those which fill'd his Banker's book.

What could our Hero more desire,
What more his anxious wish require,
When with a calm and reas'ning eye
He ponder'd o'er his destiny,
As he unwound the tangled thread
That to his present comforts led,
And serv'd as a directing clue
In such strange ways to guide him through?
—To what new heights his hopes might soar,
It would be needless to explore:
For now the threat'ning time appears
When he is troubled with his fears.
His hopes have triumph'd o'er the past;
But then the present may not last;
And what succession he might find
Harass'd with doubts his anxious mind.
—Of the gross, cumbrous flesh the load
Sir Jeffery bore did not forebode
Through future years a ling'ring strife
Between the powers of death and life;
The legs puff'd out with frequent swell,
Did symptoms of the dropsy tell;
The stiffen'd joints no one could doubt
Were children of a settled gout;
And humours redd'ning on the face,
Bespoke the Erysipelas.
Indeed, whene'er Quæ Genus view'd,
With rich and poignant sauce embued,
As dish to dish did there succeed,
Which seem'd by Death compos'd to feed
With fatal relishes to please
The curious taste of each disease,
That did Sir Jeffery's carcase share
And riot on the destin'd fare:
When thus he watch'd th' insidious food,
He fear'd the ground on which he stood.
—Oft did he curse the weighty haunch
Which might o'ercharge Sir Jeff'ry's paunch;
And to the turtle give a kick,
Whose callipash might make him sick.
He only pray'd Sir Jeff'ry's wealth
Might keep on life and purchase health.
"Let him but live," he would exclaim,
"And fortune I will never blame."
Money is oft employ'd in vain,
To cure disease and stifle pain;
And though he hop'd yet still he fear'd
Whene'er grave Galen's self appear'd;
For when the solemn Doctor came,
(Sir Midriff Bolus was his name,)
He often in a whisper said,
"I wonder that he is not dead,
Nay, I must own, 'tis most surprising,
That such a length of gormandising
Has not ere this produc'd a treat
For hungry church-yard worms to eat,
And 'tis the skill by which I thrive
That keeps him to this hour alive.
Nay, though I now Sir Jeffery see
In spirits and such smiling glee,
I tremble for to-morrow's fee."		}
—When this brief tale he chose to tell
And ring his patient's fun'ral bell,
Quæ Genus fail'd not to exclaim,
As he call'd on the Doctor's name,
"O tell me not of the disaster
That I must feel for such a master,
Nay, I may add, for such a friend
Were I to go to the world's end,
Alas, my journey would be vain,
Another such I ne'er should gain!"
Sir Midriff, member of the college,
And of high standing for his knowledge,
In lab'ring physic's mystic sense
And practical experience,
As common fame was pleas'd to say,
Expected more than common pay.
Now, as Sir Jeff'ry never thought
His health could be too dearly bought,
Whene'er the healing Knight was seen,
Wrapt up within the Indian screen,
To shape the drugs that might becalm
Some secret pain or sudden qualm;
Or when there was a frequent question,
Of bile's o'erflow and indigestion,
Or some more serious want had sped
Sir Jeff'ry Gourmand to his bed,
Quæ Genus fail'd not to convey
(For he had learn'd the ready way),
The two-fold fee, by strict command,
Into Sir Midriff's ready hand.
Thus, in this kind of double dealing,
The Doctor had a pleasant feeling,
That seem'd to work up a regard
For him who gave the due reward,
And knew so well to shape the fee
From the sick chamber's treasury.
Thus when our Hero told his pain
And did his future fears explain,
Galen replied,—"Those fears restrain,		}
To this grave promise pray attend,
Sir Midriff Bolus is your friend."

Such, when he touch'd the welcome fees,

Were the sly Doctor's promises:

Quæ Genus with good grace receiv'd 'em,

Though 'tis not said that he believ'd 'em.

—No, never was a visit past,

But it was hinted as the last,

Had they not been in lucky trim

To have sent off post-haste for him.

Whene'er the Knight's legs took to swelling,

All ears were bor'd with sad foretelling;

And if his chest was over-loaded,

Some dire disaster was foreboded,

But failing in prophetic story,

He gave his science all the glory.

A year, howe'er, was past and gone,

And all the household cares went on,

In active zeal and order too,

As all such matters ought to do,

With hours of leisure well employ'd,

And many a fantasy enjoy'd.

But something yet remains to know:—
To manage two strings to your bow,
A maxim is, which ev'ry age
Has rend'red venerably sage,
And forms a more than useful rule
In the world's universal school.
Sir Jeffery, we make no doubt,
In various ways had found it out:
It might have help'd him on to wealth,
And now to aid the wants of health,
He kept the adage in his view,
And as one Doctor might not do,
It now appears that he had two.		}
The one, in order due, has been
Brought forth on the dramatic scene,
Ranks high in bright collegiate fame,
And M. D. decorates his name.
He never ventures to prescribe
But what is known to all the tribe,
Who hold the dispensarial reign
Beneath the dome of Warwick-Lane.
The other, steering from the track
Of learned lore, was styl'd a Quack;
Who, by a secret skill, composes
For many an ill his sovereign doses:
But whether right or wrong, the town
Had given his nostrums some renown.
Salves for all wounds, for each disease
Specifics that could give it ease,
Balsams, beyond all human praise,
That would prolong our mortal days.
All these, in many a puffing paper,
Are seen in striking forms to vapour,
As, in the Magazines they shine,
The boast of Doctor Anodyne.
His office was advice to give
In his own house from morn till eve,
And a green door, within a court,
Mark'd out the place of snug resort,
Where patients could indulge the feeling
That might dispose them to concealing
The nervous hope, the sly desire
To eke out life's expiring fire,
Without the danger to expose
Their secret or to friends or foes.
Sir Jeffery was one of these
Who thought it was no waste of fees,
Though they were toss'd about by stealth,
If he could think they purchas'd health:
But here, who will not say, it seems
He guarded life by two extremes.
Sir Midriff told him he must starve,
And Anodyne to cut and carve:
But though the first he nobly paid,
It was the latter he obey'd.
Full often was his Merc'ry sent
To bring back med'cine and content;
Permission, what he wish'd, to eat,
And physic to allay the heat
Brought on by a luxurious treat;		}
To give the stomach strength to bear it,
With some enliv'ning dose to cheer it.
But still our Hero's watchful eye
Saw that this sensuality
Was bringing matters to an end,
That he too soon should lose his friend;
And in what way he should supply
The loss when that same friend should die,
Did often o'er his senses creep
When he should have been fast asleep.
Sir Midriff to his promise swore,
And Anodyne had promis'd more,
Both had prescrib'd or more or less,
A future vision of success:
But time has still some steps to move,
Before they their engagements prove;
Ere our Quæ Genus we shall see
In a new line of history.
Sir Jeffery now began to droop,
Nor was he eager for his soup:
He blunder'd on the wrong ragout,
Nor harangu'd o'er a fav'rite stew,
Scarce wild-duck from a widgeon knew.		}
No longer thought it an abuse,
To see St. Mich: without a goose.
Unless prepar'd with cordial strong,
He hardly heard the jovial song,
Or hearing, had not strength to move
And strike the table to approve.
Nay, sometimes his unsteady hand
Could not the rubied glass command,
But forc'd him slowly to divide
The rosy bumper's flowing tide.
Beside him oft Quæ Genus sat
An hour, and not a word of chat;
And when he was in sleepy taking
The news would scarcely keep him waking.

—It was a melancholy showing,

But poor Sir Jeffery was a-going.

"Indulge his gormandising swallow,

And apoplexy soon must follow,"

Such did Sir Midriff's sage foreknowledge

Give as the doctrine of the College.

"—Now, if you dare to keep him low,

A dropsy gives the fatal blow.

Remember, my good friend, I pray,

What Anodyne is pleas'd to say."

When, in a kind of solemn croak,

The Quack, with shaking noddle, spoke.

Thus did the differing doctors fail,
Nor could their varying skill prevail:
They neither could set matters right,
Or quicken a pall'd appetite.
More weak and weak Sir Jeffery grew,
Nay, wasted to the daily view,
And, as his faithful servant found,
Between two stools he fell to ground.
But still he smelt the sav'ry meat,
He sometimes still would eye the treat,
And praise the dish he could not eat.		}
One day, when in a sunshine hour,
To pick a bit he felt the power,
Just as he did his knife apply
To give a slice of oyster-pie,
Whether the effort was too great
To bear the morsel to his plate;
Or if, from any other cause,
His nature made a gen'ral pause,
He gave a groan, it was his last,
And life and oyster-pies were past.

Which of the Doctors did the deed,

The one who starv'd or he who fed,

Or whether Nature, nothing loth,

Laugh'd at the counsels of them both,

And, as they issued their commands,

Her victim took from both their hands,

I know not, but it seems to me,

To be the work of all the three.

Here it would be but idle folly

To call on fruitless melancholy,

To talk of blisters that in vain

Were spread to bring back life again;

Or all the lancet's power explore

To wake the breath that breath'd no more;

The stroke was struck, no human art

Could now withdraw the fatal dart.

Mutes marching on, in solemn pace,
With gladden'd heart and sorrowing face,
Who, clad in black attire, for pay
Let out their sorrows by the day:
The nodding plumes and 'scutcheon'd hearse
Would make a pretty show in verse;
But 'tis enough, Sir Jeffery dead,
That his remains, enshrin'd in lead,
And, cloth'd in all their sad array,
To mingle with their native clay,
Were safe convey'd to that same bourne
From whence no travellers return.
—We must another track pursue,
Life's varying path we have in view,—
Our way Quæ Genus is with you!		}