CANTO V
'Tis nature, in life's worst vexation,
To look at least for consolation;
And he, 'tis true, had turn'd his eye
To a consoling legacy,
That might, at least, make some amends,
For losing this his best of friends;
But his ill luck we must not smother;
He lost the one, nor found the other.
The will was full of good intent,
And a warm legacy was meant
To poor Quæ Genus, there's no doubt,
But shuffling Fortune left it out;
'Twas she cut short the kind bequest,
Which was thus fatally express'd.
"To this my last and solemn Will
My true and faithful servant's name,
Who to my care has every claim:
—To John Quæ Genus I bequeath
One month posterior to my death,
The sum of
Here a blank ensued
Which has not yet been understood,
Or why the figures were delay'd
That would a sterling gift have made.
Whether a sudden twitch of gout
Caus'd him to leave the figures out;
Or visit of a chatt'ring friend
That did th' important words suspend,
And thus retard the kind design,
Until the 'morrow's sun should shine,
That 'morrow with its ha's and hums,
Which, often promis'd, never comes:
Howe'er the enquiring mind may guess
It cannot find the wish'd success:
In short, whatever cause prevail'd,
Too true, the gen'rous purpose fail'd.
In the Knight's mind the boon was will'd,
But still the blank was never fill'd,
And no more the said will engages
Than mourning suit and one year's wages,
Which all his household should inherit
Whate'er their station or their merit:
Here no distinction was display'd
'Tween high and low, 'tween man and maid,
And though Quæ Genus was the first,
He had his portion with the worst.
What could be done with this high Cit,
But to look sad and to submit;
For it could answer no good end
Though indispos'd to be a friend,
That kind of discontent to show
Which might convert him to a foe.
But ere we altogether leave
Sir Jeffery's grateful friends to grieve,
We mean all those which to the sight
Were clearly writ, in black and white,
Within the bound'ries of the will,
Nor left to blundering Codicil,
It may not be amiss to draw
The picture of the Heir at Law.
When on the 'Change he took his rounds,
He walk'd an hundred thousand pounds:
Not less was his acknowledg'd worth
When ev'ry morn he sallied forth,
With expectation grave, to meet
Fortune's fresh smiles in Lombard-Street.
Upright in all his worldly dealing:—
But that high sense of noble feeling,
The humane impulse to relieve,
To wipe the eye of those who grieve,
The wish of goodness to impart
The bounties of a gen'rous heart,
These were not his; and though the scroll
That may the charities enroll
Of gilded pride, upon the wall
In some conspicuous hospital,
Might his known name and title bear,
'Twas vanity that plac'd it there.
But though, perhaps, a plum or more
Was added to his former store,
If, by sad chance, with haggard mien,
An humble suppliant should be seen,
A mother sick, a father dead,
And children, left forlorn, unfed,
His hand ne'er ventur'd on his purse
To give relief, and, what was worse,
He would alarm the wretches' fears
With beadles fierce and overseers,
Or talk of laws for vagrants made,
Which call the scourge-man to their aid.
Thus nought was look'd for at his hands,
But justice strict to just demands:
No smiling, generous overflow
Of fair reward would he bestow;
No bounty did his thoughts prepare
For duty's overweening care;
While service, by affection wrought,
Was, in his reck'ning, set at nought.
Quæ Genus gave in his account;
Its justness own'd, the full amount
Was duly paid, but I'll forgive
The mind refusing to believe,
That, when the rich man should discover
That he had paid some nine-pence over,
He did, without a look of shame,
That pittance as a balance claim:
It may appear full passing strange,
But 'tis a fact, he took the change,
And did the jingling half-pence greet,
Like fish-women in open street.
E'en the worn wardrobe of the Knight,
Which is esteem'd the valet's right,
The gen'ral heir-loom of his place,
Was seiz'd by the curmudgeon base,
And borne away, a paltry gain,
To his own Store in Mincing-Lane:
But when, among the other dues,
Were order'd off the Gouty Shoes,
Quæ Genus, with contempt inflam'd,
Thus, in a hearty tone, exclaim'd,
"Away, to the mean merchant bear 'em!
Heaven grant he may be forc'd to wear 'em!"
—Thus things went on;—then came the time,
(The truth e'en shames my humble rhyme)
When the Executor and Heir,
For one did both the titles share,
Appear'd to pay, in legal guise,
The wages and the legacies.
Quæ Genus, who had lately been
A favour'd actor in the scene,
Could not have guess'd at such disaster
From such a friend and such a master:
And though he strove, he scarce could hide
The feelings of an honest pride,
When, from Sir Jeffery's error, he
And those who wore a livery,
Nay even house and kitchen-maid
Were in the same proportions paid,—
When his allotted mourning bore
The same coarse stuff the coachman wore.
But how his heart began to beat
When he was charg'd for the receipt!
All his distinction now was lost,
And he who long had rul'd the roast,
Had, since Sir Jeffery went to rest,
Been of his station dispossest;
Nay, not a common smile remain'd
Of all the favour he had gain'd,
While beggarly mistrust took place,
Which he must feel as foul disgrace:
For ev'ry key had been demanded;
One instant made him empty-handed
Dismiss'd from his late envied station
Without a nod of approbation,
He was preparing to depart
With downcast look and heavy heart;
Nor could e'en Molly's tender smile