How much our Hero had amass'd, By ways and means now gone and pass'd, We know not, as we never heard The hoarded sums he had prepar'd; But as he had a sense of craving, And with it, too, a knack of saving, He must have got a heap of Cash, Which, for a time, would make a dash.
The Valcour wardrobe almost new, The gifts of service, laid perdu, Would serve him for a year or two;
}
And by some Snip's contriving art, Would fit him well and make him smart: But stumbling-blocks were found to lay Before him, and impede his way. Manners and matter he possest, His early life had given the best; And while he as a servant mov'd, His knowledge of the world improv'd: But still his face and form were known In certain quarters of the town, And the first object to his fame Was to discard his present name; For he ne'er did a Father know, The source from whence a name should flow; And by Quæ Genus nought was meant— It was a boon by accident, Which he might, if he pleas'd, disuse, And any other title chuse. Through the Directory he waded, Till his poor eyes were sadly jaded; Then in the finer streets he stroll'd Where Names on Door Plates are enroll'd: But then he fear'd a name to own, Which would, perhaps, be too well known, And cause enquiries, that might be The source of some perplexity. Reason, at length, rous'd the intention Of yielding to his own invention, To eke out from the alphabet, A name he never heard of yet; And which his fancy might suggest As one to suit his project best. Free-born he thought would do as well As any other he could tell, When, his right Christian name of John Form'd the becoming union; Then nothing more he could desire Than trim these names with an Esquire; And to let the report be spread, That some rich relative was dead, And 'twas his Fortune and his Fate To get the name and an estate. Should it be ask'd where that might lay, He had prepar'd himself to say, (As if half earnest—half in joke, The smiling answer might be spoke,) "'Tis here, 'tis there, 'tis everywhere, Or in some country in the air; But should you come to number three In such a street, you there will see How that estate appears to thrive: On Thursday next I dine at five." Thus he would find none to suspect him, Or, dinners given, to neglect him.
He now to Coffee Houses went,
With looks assuming calm content,
And such as those are seen to wear,
Who easy independence share.
At reading-rooms he frequent sat,
And read or join'd in social chat;
Acquaintance made, no arduous task,
Of those he did to dinner ask.
In gay apartments then he shone
In a good quarter of the town,
But distant, as we may conceive,
From where his masters us'd to live.
gives a grand party
Drawn by Rowlandson
Quæ Genus gives a grand Party.
Miss Emily, the blooming niece Of the old Broker, Master Squeeze, Who made some figure in the piece,
}
And, at no very distant page, Was seen to figure on the stage; The Lady all her points had carried, Was rich, and had the Pleader married; Had chang'd her uncle's name of Squeeze'em To her shrewd husband's, Lawyer Seize'em: Who, by his cunning and his skill, Had brought all contests to her will, When he had got his promis'd fee Of Beauty, Wealth and Luxury. To her, with smiles of gay content, The 'Squire his eager footsteps bent, And did in lofty tone proclaim His change of fortune as of name; And told her it would be his pride, At a small Fête would she preside, Which he propos'd in style to give, Where he would all her friends receive; For this was now the only way He had to make his party gay: And the first flourish of his plan To figure as a Gentleman. —She smil'd and said she'd bring him plenty, Then ask'd at once his cards for twenty. —The fête was given,—the dance, the song, And feasting did the night prolong, Which pleasure gave to full two score, Whom he had never seen before;— But, his great object to maintain, These he must strive to see again; At all their doors his cards present, And thus, by various compliment, To form a circle of such friends As would secure his serious ends, In social ease to pass the day, And often find an evening gay. —But 'Squire Free-born quickly found He did not tread on solid ground, And 'gan to fear he should not see The way to that society, Which forms of life the happiest measure: By mutual interchange of pleasure. —'Twas but slight chat if he should meet His new acquaintance in the street; He seldom found, or more or less, But gen'ral forms of politesse, And that, too often, at the best, Was but in flimsy style exprest. —Ladies would ask him to the play, To take his arm and let him pay; And when to cards, he always lost More than the wine and biscuits cost. He found, as yet, but little done— 'Twas neither common sense nor fun, Where kind regard would ne'er encrease, And int'rest wak'd the wish to please; Where words were either cold or hearty, As he propos'd to give a party; And a good supper was the charm That did to transient friendship warm, For that, alas, no longer lasted, Than while they thought on what they tasted.
'Squire Free-born soon began to feel
A relaxation in his zeal
To push away that class among
Who did his evening parties throng,
From whom no fair return was made,
And mod'rate fashion was display'd.
Manners were ap'd, but in a way
That did vulgarity betray;
And the best show that he might see,
Was dash of awkward finery:—
Besides, a rude and rough event
Gave spirit to his discontent.
—He call'd, one day, where, on admission,
The parties were in sad condition;
It was a scene of mutual flame,
'Tween Start-up and his lovely dame.
He was a clerk on public duty,
And she a most conceited beauty:
When, as he enter'd, her sharp tongue
Began in tones both harsh and strong,—
"Pray, Free-born, do you think it breeding,
That he should thus be always reading?
When he does from his office come
'Tis thus he sits hum-drum at home,
As if he thought so low my wit
I'm not for conversation fit;
Nor does he seem to rate me higher
Than to trace figures in the fire!"
—"Call you, hum-drum, that information
So suited to official station,"
He sternly said, "which now engages
Attention to these curious pages!"
—"My mind," she cried, "was in the dark
When I was married to a Clerk:—
O had I join'd a fool instead
Of one to office breeding bred!
He, who in honour should protect me,
You see, Sir, how he dares neglect me!"
—In terms polite to praise and blame,
Free-born now hop'd to quench the flame,
And therefore offer'd, nothing loth,
To give a little spice of both.
interrupts a tête à tête
Drawn by Rowlandson
Quæ Genus, interrupts a Tête a Tête.
"Madam, by persons of discerning, My friend is known for store of learning; While you are bless'd with those rare charms, A Prince might wish to fill his arms." He gently smil'd and so did she, At this same two-fold flattery, Which, in a moment, seem'd to smother The flames of anger 'gainst each other: He therefore ventur'd to proceed, But did not now so well succeed. "You ask me to unfold my thought, Which is with truth and friendship fraught. We all well know, in life's great stake, There's such a Rule as give and take; A maxim, with your good in view, I recommend to both of you. On this, for peace, fix your reliance, And learn to practise kind compliance. If he is haughty, soothe his pride, Nor with disdainful glances chide.
When you are angry, he must chase All frownings from that lovely face, With tender words and soft embrace.
}
Both of you now are in the wrong, He with his book,—you with your tongue." But, ere he could his speech conclude, With scornful look and accents rude, Again the furious Dame began:— "What Impudence is in the Man! Thus, 'gainst his betters, to let loose His vulgar tongue in such abuse. My husband to be thus belied, Who is my love, my boast, my pride!" When Start-up foam'd,—"You risk your life, In treating thus my darling wife; Who, I proclaim, as 'tis my duty, Has charms superior to her beauty!" Then each gave each a warm embrace, And both star'd in poor Free-born's face, The one as if he wish'd to beat him, The other as if she could have eat him. He then, as suiting her desire, Threw the base volume in the fire, When she——"Thus ends a petty fuss Which may cross those who love like us; Though I might wish it had not been By such a saucy booby seen." —Free-born, but not from sense of fear, Now thought it best to disappear; And as they rang the clam'rous bell, He heard them both the servant tell— "Discharg'd you shall be, if the door Is open'd to that varlet more." —Such vulgar threat the 'Squire amus'd, For he no more would be refus'd By those whose silly actions prove That they could scold, and lie, and love: But still he rather felt the wrongs Which had proceeded from the tongues Of those who had no fair pretence At what he said to take offence: A pretty way to make amends For having treated them as friends; In short, he thought it best to fly His late acquir'd society: Pert Lawyers and such busy men As in some office wield the pen; Who, when their daily labour's done, Put their best coats and faces on; Leave home, where tallow dimly lights 'em, For wax, when some dull fool invites 'em, The plenteous evening to prolong In lively glee or tender song, Or in some funny tale to shine, And give a current to the wine.
There, too, their wives and sisters flow, Gay, scanty finery to show, In gawdy trim and furbelow;
}
Who can, perhaps, the music play, And scream the carol of the day; Nay, work a waltz, while staring eyes Proclaim their gentle ecstasies. At length the shawls and wrappers come, When in their hacks they trundle home. —Though, after all, whate'er his aim, Whate'er his fancy chose to claim, 'Twas not amiss;—this first degree In what is call'd society, Where step by step he must advance To higher place in fashion's dance: But with the folk, he 'gan to find, Who din'd with him, he never din'd, And got no more than casual tea For what his guests thought luxury; And, in a snug, familiar way, For all they gave, they made him pay. Besides, he sometimes felt offence, At what he thought impertinence: Such as they were, both great and small, He cut acquaintance with them all. His purse had thus indulg'd his whim, But they ne'er heard again from him.
He now suspected that his plan, Of turning to a Gentleman, Was not so easy to be brought To such success as he had thought. But still he ventur'd to turn over New plans by which he might discover
Some means to realize his scheme, But it, at times, began to seem Somewhat, indeed, too like a dream.
}
To thinking minds it is not strange
That man is seen so soon to change,
And, when he gets on random chace,
To move so quick from place to place.
If no fix'd principles he trust
Which Reason says are true and just,
The busy world will not restrain him,
Nor in one beaten path maintain him.
Now here, now there, he is as oft
Seen to sink low as rise aloft.
As he moves on, how he will vary
From sober thought to gay vagary;
Nay, seem the tempers to unite
Of Dons 'bout whom historians write;
The one whose name our laughter cheers,
And he who pass'd his time in tears.
What wonder then that we should see
In Free-born, that variety,
Which, in his disappointed mind,
Nature may bid us look and find:
Though he must guess profoundly well,
Who could th' approaching change foretell.
He long since felt it as a folly To think again on pretty Molly, But when his project seem'd to fail, Her image did again prevail; And humbler views began to find A passage to his wav'ring mind. Instead of striving to pursue What he now fear'd would never do, He fancied that a tender wife Might give a charm to rural life. Molly he fear'd not he could move To bless a home with married Love, And that a cottage might be found, With garden green and meadow ground; Where he might form his fragrant bowers, And deck the pretty lawn with flowers;
Beneath a beech-tree read his book, And sometimes angle in the brook: Nay, even wield a shepherd's crook.
}
Money he had, and so had she, And, with a due economy, Far from the noisy world remov'd, And by each other fondly lov'd, They might pass on in plenteous ease, And lead a life of smiling peace.
He slept, and, in a dream, he swore, He saw his Parent-Friend, once more— Not looking as he did before,
}
But all so smirking, blithe and gay; When, sitting on a cock of hay, The prong and rake he seem'd to wield, As he were master of the field: He spoke not, but he seem'd to speak,— "This is the life, boy, you must seek." —Such was another strong emotion To aid the new, romantic notion, And think of nought but Cottage Life, With pretty Molly for his Wife. He turn'd this over in his mind, And ev'ry hour felt more inclin'd To take the Maiden by surprize, And this fond dream to realize.
Sweet Molly now was gone from town
As waiting-maid to Lady Brown,
Who lives a portion of the year
At her fine place in Devonshire;
Nor did fond Corydon delay
To write his mind another day:
While, to amuse th' impatient hours,
He fill'd his room with shrubs and flowers:
Branching Geraniums were seen
To make his ev'ry window green,
And something like a picture wear
Of future scenery he might share.
Our time does like our watches go Sometimes too fast,—sometimes too slow; But to the 'Squire, for he was still A 'Squire, though now against his will, Old Bald-Pate mov'd with tardy tread, As if his feet were hung with lead; But he went on:—An answer came, Sign'd Molly, with no other name! He thought it odd, but did not wait To make it matter of debate, So quick his hurry to be shown The passion which the page would own.
He read,—"I've heard, bless Heav'n, my friend! (With thanks for what you might intend,) Your serving days are at an end:
}
Thus I believ'd, and find it true, I could no longer think of you. It seems to be your prosp'rous fate To come into a great estate; And so I thought it Heaven's decree, You ought no more to think of me. Besides, as you have never wrote, I fancied Molly was forgot; When soon a tender lover came, A learned man, of preaching fame; He press'd me,—I was not obdurate, And so, I'm married to a Curate! The match my Lady much approv'd, And my good Husband's so belov'd, Our kind Sir John has given his word That he shall shortly be preferr'd.
Poor Corydon could read no more, But, in a rage the letter tore, And kick'd the fragments round the floor:
}
Toss'd some things up, and some things down, Curs'd both the Country and the Town; With pots and pans did battle rage— Drove the geraniums from the stage, And wish'd no object now to see Of ruralized felicity.
The country letter turn'd the tide To rush upon his wounded pride: At once he thought it more than folly Thus to have offer'd love to Molly. Nay, he began to smile at length; And, to regain becoming strength, He took to the well-known resort Of season'd dish and good Old Port:
When as he sat, with uplift eyes, And, thro' the window, view'd the skies, He ventur'd to soliloquize.
}
"My genteel folk I have declin'd, At least, the sort which I could find; And just as much dispos'd to sneeze At all my Rural Deities: But still I've got a heap of Cash, And, while it lasts, will make a Dash! But here one firm resolve I make,— I never will my Elbow shake;
And if I take care not to play, I shall get something for my pay: It will not all be thrown away!
}
Who knows what Cupid, too, may do? For I may win if I should woo; And e'en, in spite of this same Hump, Fortune may turn me up a trump. —My standard now shall be unfurl'd, And I will rush into the world: Nay, when I have the world enjoy'd, With emptied purse and spirits cloy'd, I then can trip it o'er the main: Valcour will take me back again; Once more his humble friend receive, With all the welcome he can give: We know not what from ill may screen us, And I, once more, shall be Quæ Genus." —He spoke, and seem'd to close his plan Of keeping up the Gentleman.
The Sun had sunk beneath the west, To go to bed and take his rest, As Poets feign, in Thetis lap, Where he ne'er fails to have a nap; When, with his second bottle rallied, Our Hero rose, and out he sallied In search of any lively fun, That he, perchance, might hit upon. —As through a court he chanc'd to pass, He saw a gay, well-figur'd lass, Who, in her floating fripp'ry shone, With all the trim of fashion on. She had descended from a coach, And did a certain door approach, With tripping step and eager haste, When soon th' illumin'd arch she pass'd: And still he saw, in height of feather, Small parties enter there together, While jovial gentlemen appear'd, Who, as they came, each other cheer'd. —He asked, where these fine Ladies went? The watchman said,—"For merriment; And should a little dancing fit you, A crown, your honour, will admit you." —The 'Squire then rapp'd, the door was op'd, He gave his coin, and in he popp'd: The music sounded in the hall, And smiling faces grac'd the ball, Where, as he lov'd a merry trip With some gay Miss he chose to skip, But as they Waltz'd it round in pairs A noise was heard upon the stairs, And strait a magistrate appear'd With solemn aspect; while, uprear'd, Official staves in order stand, To wait the laws' so rude command. —Sad hurry and confusion wait On this their unexpected state; When there broke forth, as it might seem, From snow-white throats, a fearful scream; Nor, to add horror, was there wanting Some strong appearances of fainting: But Justice, with its iron brow Unfeeling scowl'd on all the show. In shriller tones the ladies cried, In diff'rent key the beaux replied, Though some consoling bev'rage quaff, Give a smart twirl, nor fear to laugh: While coarser voices,—"hold your tongue, Pack up your alls and come along." Then, of fair culprits full a score, And of their dancing partners more, Beneath stern power's relentless rod, Were rang'd, and order'd off to Quod. They march'd away in long procession To take the fruits of their transgression:— Staffmen did at their head appear, And watchmen lighted up the rear. Our Hero felt the ridicule Of having idly play'd the fool, And, as he handed on his Belle, He could not but compare the smell That rotten root and trodden leaf Do to th' offended senses give Of those who, by the lamp's pale light, Through Covent-Garden stroll at night, With all the garlands which he weav'd Ere Molly's letter was receiv'd: And all the fragrance of the flowers He thought to cull in Molly's bowers; Nay, which, but the preceding morning, His promis'd hopes had been adorning. It was indeed a noisome change, O it was strange, 'twas passing strange! But still the watch-house made amends, Such as they were, they gave him friends. Which here, I'm not suppos'd to think Were such as save from ruin's brink; But lively sprites who have a taste To hurry on the stream to waste. Thus, when the welcome morn was come, And Justice sent the party home; He and two blades of certain feather Propos'd to pass the day together: The one, more grave, declar'd his breed, Famous on t'other side the Tweed, The other lively, brisk and airy, Boasted his birth in Tipperary; Though whether this were truly so, 'Tis from their words alone we know: But they were easy, free and jolly, Decided foes to melancholy, And seem'd well-form'd to aid a day In passing pleasantly away. —But first the Trio thought it best To snatch some hours' refreshing rest,
When, as it was in Summer's pride, They pass'd their jovial hours beside The crystal Thames imperial tide;
}
And as the river roll'd along, Made the banks echo with their song. —At length it was a rival jest Who of the three could sing the best. —The sturdy Scot the song began, And thus th' harmonious contest ran.
Wallace, who fought and bled, he sung, Whose name dwells on a nation's tongue. The 'Squire, in boist'rous tone declar'd, And neither lungs nor quavering spar'd, That Britain triumph'd o'er the waves And Britons never would be slaves. Then Erin's Son, with sweeter voice, Exclaim'd, "I'll make you both rejoice; O with a famous song I'll treat you, And then you both shall say I've beat you Your verses are old-fashion'd prosing, My song is of my own composing; And though 'tis to lov'd Erin's fame, To all three Kingdoms 'tis the same."
The hearers both politely bow'd, When he, of his fam'd subject proud, Pour'd forth his accents deep and loud.
}
committed with a riotous dancing party to the watch-house
Drawn by Rowlandson
Quæ Genus committed, with a riotous dancing Party, to the Watch-House.
