The History of Johnny Quae Genus Part 5

As fit occasion might demand, I could let Scripture Phrase off-hand, Or fine re-sounding verses quote, Or play a tune in lively note.

Thus qualified to cut and carve, I need not fear that I should starve; While in some future lucky stage Of my uncertain pilgrimage, I might have hopes, remov'd from strife, To be a fixture for my life.

"Such was the wild, fantastic scheme Such was the strange distracted dream, That, stranger still, rose from the pack Which chance had fix'd upon my back.

Of friends forgetful, 'twas my plot That I by friends should be forgot.-- I seem'd to wish that I were thrown Upon some island yet unknown, Where crooked figure is the feature Of all the living, reas'ning nature; And where deformity would be A shape of perfect symmetry; Which SWIFT would not have fail'd to spare, Had his bold fancy wander'd there, And _Lemuel Gulliver_ had been The visitor of such a scene.

"In this same state I wander'd on, Grumbling and doubting and alone, Though some encouragement I met Which made me whilom cease to fret; For, tales I hap'd by chance to know And pleasant fancies I could show, With which my active mind was stor'd, Had sometimes paid my bed and board; Nay, had prolong'd my welcome stay Throughout a grave or lively day.

"One evening by a riv'let's side That did in gentle murmurs glide, Where the green turf its carpet spread, And willow boughs wav'd o'er my head, I sat reclin'd, nor was my flute, As I could wake its music, mute: When a huge waggon pa.s.s'd along, And soon a chorus join'd the song.

Invited by the social strain, I rose and sought the jocund train; Men, women, children, all so gay, Who loudly cheer'd the tedious way.

The cargo which the waggon bore Were modern times and those of yore; The image of each living scene, And of such things as ne'er had been: Witches and goblins, clouds and skies Deck'd out in their varieties, The river's flow, the ocean's waves, The crowns of kings, the bonds of slaves, Helmets and mitres, robes and arms, Terrific forms, and beauty's charms, All mov'd along, together hurl'd, Th' outfittings of a mimic world: When what with spouting, what with song, As the procession trudg'd along, No cunning was required to see, It was a strolling company, Who were proceeding to make known Their talents in a neighb'ring town.

Here a strange thought occur'd that I Might try my powers in Tragedy; While the vain fancy was possess'd I might appear among the best: In short among them I display'd An earnest of the acting trade.

The bills were blazon'd with my name, A candidate for scenic fame, And 'twas announc'd that Mr. Page Would first appear on any stage.

The part which I of course preferr'd Was SHAKESPEAR'S well known R. the THIRD.

I wanted not the wardrobe's aid, My crook-back was already made; My form disdain'd the aid of art, And thus I play'd the tyrant's part: But from my being thus disjoin'd, To this same part I was confin'd.

Though by this outfit I must own I could perform the awkward clown, Or any other hunch-back fellow, A Pantaloon, or Punchinello, Where white and red be-mark'd my face, And excellence was my disgrace: For here I shrunk beneath the pack That fate had nail'd upon my back.

"I wish'd to figure as Oth.e.l.lo, But he was a fine, straight-made fellow, Whom, with a shape, so crook'd, so bent, I could not dare to represent, And though his face was olive brown, No injury his form had known; While mine, in its unseemly guise, Fair Desdemona must despise: Nor could it be a bard's design, } That love-sick maids should e'er incline } To such an outrag'd shape as mine. } My voice possess'd a tender strain, That could express a lover's pain; But such a figure never yet Was seen to win a _Juliet_.

Nay ladies lolling in a box, Would think it a most curious hoax, If through their gla.s.ses they should see Lord Townly such an imp as me.

Thus for a month or more, JACK PAGE Fretted and strutted on the stage, Sometimes affording Richard's figure In all its native twist and vigour; Or bearing kick, or smack, or thump From Harlequin upon his hump.

Though I say not, I was ill-paid For the fine acting I display'd.

Nay, had I less mis-shapen been, I might to the Theatric scene, Have turn'd my strange life's future views, And courted the Dramatic Muse.

"But as I could not smooth my shape From the hips upwards to the nape, And as to so confin'd a round My imitative powers were bound, My Genius I resolv'd to try In writing Farce or Comedy, In which I could exert my art For my dear self to form a part Wherein the keen, applauding eye Might dwell on my deformity, And where the picture might beguile The judgement to afford a smile.

--When this same work I had perform'd My vanity was rather warm'd.

'Humour,' 'twas said, 'the piece discovers,'

And it was call'd, 'The Crooked Lovers.'

"I think, _Sir Jeff'ry_ you may guess, } The plot my Farce aims to possess,-- } A kind of praise of ugliness; } Where Beauty is not seen to charm, Nor fill the heart with fond alarm; Where finest eyes may gleam in vain, May wake no joy, or give no pain: And though the beaming smiles may grace The rosy bloom of Delia's face, Here they excite no am'rous pa.s.sion, Nor call forth tender inclination: Such the desire, that ev'ry day, Amuses Cupid when at play, But other objects must engage The scenes I offer'd to the stage: Lame legs, club feet, and blinking eyes, With such like eccentricities, Call'd forth my amorous desire, And set my actors all on fire.

With me no Damon longs to sip The sweets of Cath'rine's pouting lip, But smoke-dried Strephon seeks the bliss Of a well-guarded, snuffy kiss, Where the long nose, delightful wonder, Scarce from the chin can keep asunder; Where lovers' hearts ne'er feel a thump, But when they view each other's hump.

"Now here again I was o'erthrown By a crook-back, and not my own; The May'rs gay wife, whose back appears Upon a level with her ears, Was pleas'd at first that I had prov'd She was an object to be lov'd; But as the Parish Parson too, With a small form was quite askew, And as, when it was pleasant weather, This pair would take a walk together, Would saunter through the winding glade, Or sit beneath the beechen shade; And, as it seem'd, were never cloy'd With tender converse so enjoy'd; It hap'd some Critic keen discovers Whom I meant by 'The Crooked Lovers.'

The May'ress call'd th' obedient Mayor To frown from magisterial chair, And with the terrors of his mace To drive my Hunch-back from the place;-- And on the high-road I once more Was trav'lling as I did before.

"To you, Sir, it was never known To feel the state which I must own: No home, not knowing where to go, How I should act and what to do.

Just as a s.h.i.+p whose rudder's lost, Nor within sight of any coast; Without the power to stand the shock Of tempest, or to shun the rock.

From the strange nature of my birth, I knew no relative on earth, Nor to my giddy thoughts was given To look with any hope to Heaven.

To London I propos'd to go, Where not a being did I know: To me it was an unknown sh.o.r.e, Where I had never been before, At least, since of all care bereft, I was a helpless Foundling left.

Thus, as I thought, behold I stood, Beside a mill-dam's spreading flood; The waters form'd to drive the mill } With its tremendous wheel, stood still, } While evening glimmer'd on the hill. } One plunge I said and all is o'er, My hopes and fears will be no more; An unknown child, an unknown man, And I shall end as I began.

Nor can I say what would have follow'd, I, and my hump, might have been swallow'd In the deep, wat'ry gulph beneath, Had I not heard a hautbois breath A lively, but an uncouth strain, As it appear'd from rustic swain, Which, as it dwelt upon my ear, Told me that merriment was near, And did at once dispel the gloom That might have sought a wat'ry tomb.

I turn'd my footsteps tow'rds the sound That was now heard the valley round; When soon upon the rural green, The sight of busy mirth was seen.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Drawn by Rowlandson_

QUae GENUS AT A SHEEP-SHEARING.]

"With sights like these, I had been us'd In early days to be amus'd When I but wav'd my boyish hand The rural groupes obey'd command, When ev'ry rustic feast I grac'd And was in highest station plac'd, Though I did to no name aspire, Yet I was nam'd the youthful 'Squire, For Madam Syntax sake was shown The honour which was not my own.

But now, such was my fortune's change, A wand'rer I was left to range I scarce knew where, and doom'd to wait For what might be my future fate.

Thus I approach'd the busy throng, And when I heard the joyous song, Though, with a mingled sense of pain, My flute pour'd forth a doubtful strain.

--'Twas a sheep-shearing that employ'd The festive toil which all enjoy'd, And I was welcom'd to receive The bounties that the feast could give; And while I did my carols play, With flowers the maidens made me gay, And as they gave my back a thump, Each stuck a nosegay on my hump.

Here I must own, there's no concealing, These compliments attack'd my feeling, And I was deck'd out in a part, Which on my back, was near my heart; Yet, as sweet smiles shew'd the intent That no offensive thought was meant, I, with kind words and sprightly tune Strove to repay the fragrant boon.

--The yeoman, master of the feast, Was kind, and own'd me as his guest, And as he view'd each added fleece That did his summer wealth encrease, He joyous made the toast go round To the song's animating sound, While the patient ewes grown light, And eas'd of all their fleecy weight, No more the shearer's hand restrain But bound off to their hills again.

Such was the scene that did awhile My bosom of its cares beguile, For he must have a wretched heart To whom those joys no joy impart, Which others are beheld to feel And to th' attentive eye reveal; Nay, I must own that this night's pleasure, Which revell'd in unbounded measure, A kind, though short, oblivion shed O'er my crook-back and thoughtful head: Yes, brief it was, for soon again My pleasure yielded to my pain, And all the jocund, festive folly Was then restor'd to melancholy.

The ale was good, my draughts were deep, And, overcome by sudden sleep, Upon a chair my head repos'd, And soon my eyes were soundly clos'd.

Th' Exciseman, a smart, parish wit, Thought he could make a funny hit, And with his ochre red and black, Drew a fierce face upon my back, The thought, at least, was not quite civil, With all the emblems of the devil.

He had display'd his humour's art Upon a very tender part, At least, my pride, as you must know, Had to my fancy made it so.

When, by the roar caus'd by the joke, I from the slumb'ring fit awoke; Soon did I make th' Exciseman sick Of such a mortifying trick: His gauging-rod was heard to crack In many a stroke upon his back, Till, by his supplicating tone, I found I had aveng'd my own.

But though the marks were brush'd with care, By the same hand which trac'd them there; And though I was most warmly prest, By the kind master of the feast, To pa.s.s another jovial day; I felt offence and walk'd away.

"'Do what I can, go where I will, This Hump's my evil genius still, And serves in some odd way or other My any sense of joy to smother.'

--Such was th' expression that my tongue Would mutter as I trudg'd along.

--But REASON told me, cease your strife With this companion of your life; 'Tis fix'd as fate, and you must wear it, Therefore with resignation bear it.

It is, I own, an ugly tumour, But you should treat it with good humour, And still be pleas'd you cannot trace Any mis-givings on your face.

The change you surely would not try For a lame leg or squinting eye: Though somewhat out of line your figure, You still enjoy Health's active vigour: All's right before, so never mind A certain awkwardness behind; For sure, when you present your front, No eye can see a blemish on't.

With merry and good-humour'd folk, Treat it, Oh treat it as a joke, And if, by chance, you meet a fool Who turns it into ridicule, Tell him you'd rather have the feature, Coa.r.s.e as it is, than his ill-nature.

Take care that none who know you, find An awkward hump within your mind: Oh, let it be your constant care To banish disproportion there, And you will laugh with friends who crack Chance-medley jokes upon your back!

[Ill.u.s.tration: QUae GENUS a.s.sISTING A TRAVELLER.]

"To Reason I attention lent; } Th' advice was good,--and, strait or bent, } I now resolv'd to be content. }

"Thus, as I urg'd my onward way, In spirits rather growing gay, With saddle bags and all alone, } A sprightly horse came trotting on, } As if he had his rider thrown. } The beast I, with some trouble, caught, And then its fallen master sought, Whom, within half a mile I found All pale and stretch'd upon the ground: When I approach'd, as in surprise, He gave a groan and op'd his eyes.

A crystal brook ran murm'ring by, Its cooling fluid to supply, And soon its sprinklings did afford The power that banish'd strength restor'd.

Thus, when re-mounted on his steed, We did, in progress slow, proceed: I cautious pac'd it by his side With tighten'd rein the horse to guide; And with attentive eye, prevent Another downfall accident.

"We might have gone a mile or more, When we beheld a lofty tower That did in stately form arise, A welcome sight to anxious eyes, Marking a spot where might be found Some styptic to a bleeding wound.

I shall be brief,--the Horseman's head } Was soon repos'd on downy bed; } The Surgeon came and he was bled: } The lancet was by blisters follow'd, And potions, in due order, swallow'd.

He look'd his thanks, then squeez'd my hand, Bade me, what gold could pay, command; Of all I wish'd to take my fill, Enjoy myself, nor fear the bill.

I took my patient at his word, And what the _Blue Bell_ could afford, (An Inn of good repute and worth, Well known to all who travel North,) As it was his desire, enjoy'd, Till with good living I was cloy'd.

But his sick bed I did amuse, I told him tales and read the news; So that with emphasis he swore He almost griev'd his ills were o'er.

"As near, I think, as I can tell, A fortnight pa.s.s'd ere he was well; When he thus wish'd me to make known How his best thanks could best be shown.--

"'I now may tell, my saddle-bags Held a rich bundle of those rags Which, from the Bank, are issued forth, As we all know, of precious worth, And might have been a certain prize Had they been seen by knavish eyes.

A rogue would have possess'd the steed, And with his mettle and his speed, Have sought a spot, where, at his leisure, He might have rummag'd all my treasure; Nay, been in town before the post Could have made known what I had lost, And, on some artful trick's reliance, Have set discovery at defiance: When I, here sitting sad and stewing, Might have been pond'ring o'er my ruin: While, from your n.o.ble, gen'rous dealing, I feel a joy there's no revealing.

"'A _Trav'ller_ is the name I bear, A well-known, useful character, Who, through the kingdom's wide-stretch'd bounds, Ne'er fails to make his yearly rounds.

I for a London house of trade Employ my necessary aid, By which its commerce I extend From Dover to the far Land's End.

Well mounted, or perhaps in chaise, We quietly pursue our ways; Lift our heads high, and look so grand When we have payments to demand, But bow, and handsome speeches give When we have orders to receive: Thus suiting manners, as you see To our commercial policy.

Nay, when the busy day is o'er, We meet at night, perhaps a score; And, in return, give our commands To humble host, who cringing stands, In order to prepare the best For the be-bagg'd and trav'lling guest, And bring us wine to aid our cheer; } While, with stump'd pens behind the ear, } Good folks in town may drink their beer-- } Nay, may be boasting of our labours In smoking clubs of sober neighbours.

"'To what the London Mart supplies, We give our wings and off it flies: Thus knowledge, taste, and every fas.h.i.+on Find a quick way throughout the nation, And all the wants of high and low We with a ready zeal bestow.

--The beauties of improving art We scatter round in every part, And diff'rent districts of the isle In our communications smile.

To learning we distribute books, And sauces to the country cooks: Nay, none there are who will refuse The town-made blacking for their shoes: On Shetland legs its l.u.s.tre glows As on the boots of Bond-street beaux.

Where is the Miss, or where the Maid Who does not ask our frequent aid?

At city ball or country fair Our visits are apparent there; And but for us, the summer races Would be despoil'd of half their graces.

In short, as ev'ry eye may see, The kingdom is one gallery; That its abundant uses owes To what the Traveller bestows.

Hence it is not a vain pretence That we may make to consequence, Who, by our turns and windings, strive To make this flying commerce thrive: Too happy when we carry home Bags of Bank rags for which we roam: Nay, I may think I owe to you, That mine are safe within my view, And any wish I will obey, Which to my power you may convey.'

"I seiz'd the time and told my tale, At least, as much as might avail Some settlement in town to find, That suited both my means and mind; When by advice, and, which was better, By a most urgent, friendly letter, Arriv'd in London,--I soon found I did not tread on hostile ground: Nay, ere a week was pa.s.s'd and gone, } Fortune, I hop'd had ceas'd to frown, } As I did now a station own, } With promis'd comfort by my side, That gave me gains, nor hurt my pride.