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:
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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
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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:
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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!
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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,
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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.
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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,
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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.
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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,
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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.
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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.
discovers his father
Drawn by Rowlandson
Quæ Genus discovers His Father.
Here then we make a pause to ask How Fortune will achieve its task, And, to indulge the curious view, What track the Fancy must pursue, From such a change in the affairs Of the poor Foundling on the stairs. Whether the passions active strife Will check repose and trouble life; Whether the inmate of his breast Will lead to turbulence or rest, Make him repose beneath the shade At ease and indolently laid; Whether the mind will yield to pleasure In that seducing form and measure, Which strews temptations ev'ry hour And gold commands with ready power: —But other notions we had brought The proofs of our prophetic thought; That, not without a gleam of pride, He would chuse Reason for his guide. When with a plenteous income arm'd And hospitable bosom warm'd, He from the gay world would retire And turn into a Country 'Squire; Then, with those charms which heighten life, And blossom in a pleasing wife,
Enjoy that calm and tranquil state That does on Independence wait, Nor spurns the low, nor courts the great:
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And though not from those frailties free The Lot of man's infirmity, He might pass on to rev'rend age, And die a Christian and a sage. —Thus we our Hero's picture drew As hope inspir'd, for future view, Such as the coming years might see, Such as we hop'd that he would be. But soon appear'd a threat'ning storm That did the expected scene deform, And many a cloud began to lour That veils the intellectual hour, Though gleams of light would oft controul The darksome chaos of the soul: And a bright, instantaneous ray Would gild a cloud and chear the day; And now and then a serious thought Was to its proper object brought. Whene'er, oppress'd with sudden gloom, In solemn steps he pac'd the room; Then, his looks beaming with content, He turn'd to Joy and Merriment, And Reason, for a wav'ring hour, Would seem to re-assume its power. Yet social habits he disclaim'd, Wept when he prais'd, laugh'd when he blam'd, And, sometimes frowning, would declare Life was not worth the liver's care. —Whether it was the sudden change, So unexpected and so strange, Or the accession large of wealth Broke in upon his reason's health,
Or the concussion of his brain Which the night's frolic did sustain, Our science knows not to explain.
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Old Betty thought it must be Love, Which she would undertake to prove, As in his freaks that seem'd like folly He sung and danc'd and talk'd of Molly, And frequently was seen to scrawl Figures in chalk upon the wall, Then fancy that he scatter'd flowers And sat in gay and fragrant bowers.
—Whate'er the hidden cause might be, No sage experience could foresee A cure for his Infirmity.
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He now grew worse from day to day, And Nature hasten'd to decay: It soon was seen, no art could save Quæ Genus from an early grave. —Old Vellum did not quit his care And Betty Broom was always there. The Foundling's Life she had attended, As it began, and as it ended: His earliest days her cares embrac'd, Her aged eyes wept o'er his last: They did his dying hour behold! —Reader Farewell,——The Story's told!
