CANTO II

IT may seem queer when 'tis the will
Of Fate, its wishes to fulfil,
To call the culprit to the bar,
One born beneath a luckless star,
And from his urging conscience tell
The truths that on his mem'ry dwell,
When, like a checquer they display
The black and white to open day.
Thus, as the truth he's bound to state,
The former may preponderate;
While, in a happy moment bold,
He may some conscious good unfold,
Nor can the awkward task refuse
Both to applaud and to accuse.
—Such thoughts as these might be the cause,
Why poor Quæ Genus made a pause.
"Well," said Sir Jeff'ry, "pray go on,
Or never will your tale have done:
I've told you, and you must attend;
You tell your story to a friend,
Who will, whatever may appear,
With kindness and compassion hear."

Quæ Genus.

"Your pardon, Sir, I will proceed,
Nor stop till I've perform'd the deed.
—Thus, so far Fortune deck'd with smiles
The season which our youth beguiles,
And gave the hope of added measure
To gay delight and solid pleasure:
But while the merry song went round,
And to the tabor's lively sound,
The village did in cadence beat,
With all its many twinkling feet,
Pale Fate appear'd, in cypress wreath,
And call'd out for the Dance of Death:
When my dear friend, who gave the feast,
And cheer'd with smiles each happy guest,
Was borne away, I scarce knew why,
But I was told,—it was to die.
And soon, alas! I wond'ring saw
All govern'd by a man of law,
With whom she seldom converse held,
But when her private cares compell'd
Some petty, trifling, legal aid,
Which coolly she discharg'd and paid.
'Twas by this man's exulting side
I walk'd along and sobb'd and sigh'd
When she was carried to the bourne
From whence we mortals ne'er return.
—I was by all around approv'd,
And by the better neighbours lov'd,
While I in ev'ry eye could see
The pity that was felt for me.
By her death-bed he held the quill
That made him master of her will,
While a round sum was written there
To pay him for the tender care
Which he of her sweet boy would take,
For her's and her dear husband's sake.
Husband! whom this same man of law,
This forging rascal never saw:
Indeed by many it was thought
He put his name where he ought not.
It much surpriz'd each curious friend,
And quite astonish'd Doctor Bend,
Whose rev'rend titles should have been
Where the foul lawyer's name was seen.
Wrong was suspected, Counsel had,
But no objection could be made,
And by all forms of law allied,
The will was shap'd and testified:
The attorney to his duties swore,
So he became Executor.
'Tis true she left her all to me,
But here and there a legacy;
Though, such were this strange will's commands
Through Lawyer Gripe-all's grasping hands,
All was to pass and there remain
Till I the age of man attain;
And if I chanc'd to die before,—
The lawyer was to take the store.
All saw, or all believ'd the cheat,
But the law veil'd the base deceit,
And when the doctor came to see
How justice might be done to me,
On due reflection, thought it fit,
As things were order'd, to submit;
Told me, at present, to be quiet,
To seem content, nor breed a riot,
But when I truely crav'd a friend,
I knew the home of Dickey Bend;
Then with affection's warmth caress'd me,
And, with a parent's blessing, bless'd me.
"From that dear cottage now I mov'd,
Where I such tender fondness prov'd;
From a calm scene of taste refin'd,
And all that could improve the mind;
Where daily blessings were bestow'd
From all the humble neighbourhood;
Where heart-felt goodness was employ'd,
And social harmony enjoy'd;—
From these Quæ Genus was transferr'd
To where the daily curse was heard,
Where the law's promise was delay'd,
And money for injustice paid;
Or a loud, base, malignant joy,
Which the law's triumphs might employ;—
To an old house that stood alone,
With ivy and with moss o'ergrown,
And where the practiser of laws
Did his foul deeds 'mid bats and daws;
Nay, which, as fame reports, was worse,
The house was saddled with a curse,
That Gripe-all, in the law's despite,
Had robb'd some widow of her right,
And, by his cutting and his carving,
Had got the house—and left her starving.
"Oft I my loss, in secret, wept,
And when my eyelids should have slept,
Nay, when those eyelids should have clos'd
And I in strength'ning sleep repos'd,
They remain'd wakeful oft and shed
Their dews upon my troubled bed.
Though Master Gripe-all, it was known
Shew'd me a kindness not his own;
And did with all indulgence treat me,
As the best means, at length, to cheat me.
He strove my early grief to soothe,
Call'd me his dear, delightful youth;
Gave me a pretty horse to ride,
With money in my purse beside;
Let me employ the taylor's art
To deck me out and make me smart,
Let me just study when I pleas'd,
Nor e'er my mind with learning teas'd.
But still a gnawing discontent
Prey'd on me wheresoe'er I went.
—Of Phillis too I was bereft,
One real pleasure that was left:
A fav'rite spaniel of my friend,
That did on all my steps attend,
At eve was frisking, fond and gay,
But on the sad succeeding day,
A poison'd, swollen form it lay.		 }
It might be chance, but while I griev'd,
The following letter I received,
Which was thrown o'er a hedge the while
I sat half weeping on a stile.
The writer I could never tell;
But he who wrote it meant me well;
And I've no doubt that it contain'd
The thoughts which through the country reign'd."

Letter.

"I'm a poor man, but yet can spell,
And I lov'd Madam Syntax well:
—But I've a sorry tale to tell.		 }
Young 'Squire you're in the Devil's hands,
Or one who yields to his commands,
And who, I'm certain, would be bold
In bloody deeds, if 'tis for gold.
Halters he fears, but the base wretch
Fears no one mortal but Jack Ketch:
Yet what with quirks and such like flaws,
He can contrive to cheat the laws:
Though Madam's hand the will might sign,
It is no more her will than mine.
Some say, as she lay on her bed,
The deed was sign'd when she was dead,
And I've heard some one say, whose name
I must not give to common fame,
He'd lay ten pounds and say, 'have done,'
You liv'd not on to twenty-one;
And if you die before, 'tis known,
That Madam's money's all his own.
Nay, how he did the will compose,
'Tis Beelzebub alone who knows!
He in a lonely mansion lives,
But there the cunning villain thrives:
Yes, he gets on, as it appears,
By setting people by the ears:
Though I have heard Nan Midwife say,
Who sometimes travels late that way,
That 'neath the yew, near the house wall,
Where the dark ivy's seen to crawl,
A cat she once saw which was half
As big as any full-grown calf,
And with her tail beat down the bushes,
As if they were but slender rushes;
Has often felt sulphureous steam,
And seen bright lines of lightning gleam.
These things the good, old woman, swears
She sometimes smells and sees and hears,
While thus all trembling with affright,
She scarce can get her bald mare by't.
—Run off, young 'Squire, for much I fear
You'll be cut off, if you stay here.
My service thus I do commend,
From, Sir, your very humble friend:
And hope you will take in good part,
What comes from poor but honest heart!"
"This plain epistle told no more
Than had been hinted at before;
But though I was too bold to fear
That danger of such kind was near,
Yet still the honest counsel brought
My mind to a new range of thought.
"One day as I was riding out,
Prowling the country round about,
A guide-post stood, in letter'd pride,
Close by the dusty high-road side:
With many towns for passage fam'd,
Oxford upon its points was nam'd,
Which instant call'd me to attend
To my kind patron Doctor Bend:
And then there 'rose within my breast
A thought that reason did suggest,
And not th' effect of boyish whim,
'Th' Attorney quit and fly to him.'—
—Soon after, by a lucky chance,
I heard what made my heart to dance,
That Cerberus would be from home,
At least for sev'ral days to come,
Though, when of me he took his leave,
He said, 'expect me home at eve,
But, as talk may the way beguile,'
He added, 'ride with me a mile.'
—This was the very thing I wish'd,
For now I felt the fox was dish'd.
He rode on first and bade me follow,
'Twas then that I began to hollow;
I had but one white lie to tell
And all things would be going well.
I said it was my guardian's whim
That I should make the tour with him,
And ask'd for a clean shirt or so
As I had such a way to go.
Thus my great-coat, most closely roll'd,
Did all the useful package hold,
And to the saddle strongly tied
I was completely satisfied,
As nought appear'd, thus pack'd together,
But a protection from the weather,
So that the lawyer's lynx's eye
Was clos'd on curiosity:
For Madam Gripe-all's ready care
Did, to my wish, the whole prepare.
Indeed, whatever she might be,
Her kindness never fail'd to me.
She frequently would call me son,
And say she lov'd me as her own;
Nay, when the clock struck, she would say,
'Kiss me as often, dear, I pray
As that same clock is heard to strike,
And oft'ner, dearest, if you like.'
Though such favour ne'er was shown,
But when we both were quite alone,
And seldom when the clock struck one.		 }
Her fondness I could well have stinted,
For, to say truth, she smelt and squinted:
But I remember'd that she cried,
When my poor, little Phillis died.
"I felt my airing rather droll,
Jogging with Gripe-all cheek-by-jowl,
And hearing him, with no great awe,
Expound the secrets of the law.
—When arriv'd at seven miles' end
He smil'd and said, 'Good bye, my friend:
Now homewards you will turn and tell,
That thus far you have left me well.'
I left him with a hope, how vain!
I ne'er might see his face again.
My spur did sprightly poney goad
Till I had got into the road
Which did to Oxford's city lead,
When I restrain'd my foaming steed,
And, calmly pacing on my way,
Ere Great Tom toll'd the following day,
I had embrac'd my rev'rend friend
And kindest patron, Doctor Bend.

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ Genus at Oxford.

"I told a simple, artless tale,
That seem'd completely to prevail,
As I beheld his face the while
Beam with a kind, approving smile.
''Tis a bold trick,' the Doctor said,
'Which you, my lively spark, have play'd,
But since to College you are come,
I'll try to make the place your home;
Where I should hope you need not fear
To be cut short in your career;
I think, at least, we may engage
To keep you safe till you're of age,
When I shall leave you to the struggling
With Gripe-all's artifice and juggling:
But still the cunning lawyer knows
I have good friends 'mong some of those
Who lead the bar or have a seat
Where the keen eye detects a cheat.
He will, I doubt not, swear and curse,
Nay, he may say you've stole his horse;
But if he meets with no disaster,
In two days he shall see his master,
And John will have a strict command
To give a letter to his hand
Which I shall with due caution write
Before I seek my bed to-night,
And if my mental eye sees clear
Will fix my friend Quæ Genus here.'
John met the lawyer on the road,
Just as he reach'd his own abode,
And ere at home he could have heard
Of my escape a single word:
Told him at once all he could tell,
That I at Oxford was, and well,
Where as I stay'd, I had of course,
With many thanks return'd his horse,
John said, he rather look'd confus'd
As the epistle he perus'd.
—Whether it bore a kind request
I should with Alma Mater rest,
Or any hint that might apply
To the High Court of Chancery:
If soothing it contain'd or threat,
I never knew or I forget,—
With all submission it was met.		 }
To all it ask'd he did agree,
And sent his kind regards to me,
While he his counsel did commend
Not to run off from Doctor Bend,
Nor e'er be govern'd by the whim
That made me run away from him.
 
"Thus soon in Scholar's cap and gown,
I was seen saunt'ring up and down
The High-Street of fair Oxford Town.		 }
And though I stood not first in fame,
I never bore an idler's name.
I was content, nay 'twas my pride
The Doctor ne'er was heard to chide,
Which, as your Oxford youths can tell,
Was getting onward rather well.
My friends, the Worthies, near the Lake,
Lov'd me for Doctor Syntax' sake,
And, free from e'en a speck of care,
I pass'd a short-liv'd Summer there.
—But time, as it is us'd, roll'd on,
And I, at length, was twenty-one.
 
"I now became a man of cares
To bear the weight of my affairs,
To know my fortune's full amount,
And to arrange a clear account
Between the vile, rapacious elf,
The Lawyer Gripe-all and myself.
—No sooner to the place I came,
Soon as was heard my well-known name,
The bells my coming did proclaim,		 }
And had I stay'd the following day,
I would have made the village gay!
Thus Gripe-all was full well prepar'd
And put at once upon his guard.
I went unwittingly alone
To claim my right and ask my own,
Though arm'd, to cut the matter short,
With an enliv'ning dose of Port,
While he was ready to display
The spirit of the law's delay.
—A step, he said, he could not stir
Without Baptismal Register,
And many a proof he must receive,
Which well he knew I could not give;
And till these papers I could shew,
He must remain in Statu quo.
But still, as a kind, gen'rous friend,
And from respect to Doctor Bend,
He would, though cash did not abound,
Advance me then four hundred pound.
I took the notes and thought it best
To wait the settling of the rest;
But soon I saw, as I'm alive,
That I had sign'd receipt for five.
My fingers caught the fraudful paper,
At which he 'gan to fume and vapour,
And let loose language full of ire,
Such as 'you bastard, rascal, liar,'
On which I caught him by the nose,
And gave the wretch some heavy blows,
Nay, as the blood ran down his face,
I dash'd the ink all in his face,
So that his figure might have done
E'en for the pit of Acheron.
Inky black and bloody red
Was o'er his ghastly visage spread,
As he lay senseless on the floor,
And, as I then thought, breath'd no more.
—The office, now a scene of blood,
Most haply in the garden stood,
So that our scene of sanguine riot
Did not disturb domestic quiet:
The notes were in my pocket stor'd,
And the receipt was in the hoard;
But as I now believ'd him dead,
I thought of being hang'd—and fled.
Nor did I make the whisky wait
Which then stood at the garden gate.
The driver who there held the reins,
Took me through many secret lanes
And woodland roads, that might evade
Pursuit, if any should be made.
He had an humble play-mate been
When I was sportive on the green;
But now, like me, to manhood grown,
Was as a skilful driver known;
And would have gone to serve Quæ Genus
Though fire and water were between us.
I told him all the fears I felt,
And how I had with Gripe-all dealt;
Nay, urg'd him, if I were pursued,
To cheat the blood-hounds, if he could,
All which he mainly swore he would.		 }
Nay, hop'd I'd given him such a drubbing,
As to send him Beelzebubbing;
Though, first or last, he sure would go
To his relations down below.

Drawn by Rowlandson

Conflict between Quæ Genus & Lawyer Gripe-All.

"Thus as we talk'd a mail-coach pass'd,
And as I could not go too fast,
I found, perchance, an empty seat,
And thus I made a quick retreat;
Nay should, in eight and forty hours,
By the wheels' ever-rolling powers,
Have a secure retirement found,
Safe from pursuit, on Scottish ground.
But as Misfortune, it is said,
Calls in associates to her aid,
And, indeed, is seldom known
To pay her visits all alone;
So either from the sultry weather,
Or anxious thoughts, or both together,
I was stopp'd short in my career,
By intermitting fits severe
Of heat and cold: a Galen came,
And Julep was the good man's name,
For truly good he prov'd to me
In skill and in humanity.
''Tis not,' he said, 'disease alone,
Which various symptoms have made known,
But they're encreasing as I find,
By a disturb'd and anxious mind,
And if that cannot be subdued,
Med'cine will do but little good.'
I therefore, my distresses told,
In short, my story did unfold,
While, as I spoke, in his kind eye,
I saw the tear of sympathy,
And did beneath his roof receive
The care that pitying skill could give.
"The fever wag'd a painful strife,
A struggling chance 'tween Death and Life,
That play'd upon my yielding spine,
Which did to outward curve incline:
I felt the mark would ne'er forsake
Its cruel seat upon my back;
I bent beneath the foul disaster
That ne'er would yield to any plaister:
Nor medicine, nor knife can cure it,
And must struggle to endure it.
Thus when restor'd to health and vigour,
I was become a crook-back'd figure:
My former round and healthful face
Had lost its plump, its rosy grace,
And was reduc'd from this same cause
To pale and lean and lantern jaws,
That none who once Quæ Genus knew
Would recollect him on the view;
Nor e'en would recognition wait
Though he should pass by Gripe-all's gate.
When in the glass I chanc'd to view,
The figure I now scarcely knew,
I shudder'd and despis'd it too.		 }
—'At length,' said Julep, 'I commend,
Ere you depart, a worthy friend,
A lawyer too, nay, do not start,
Whose well-stor'd head and honest-heart,
Throughout his life were ne'er disjoin'd,
And in his practice are combin'd
The cause of truth and right to aid;
Who ne'er has heard the poor upbraid
His conscious dealings, while 'tis known,
The wealthy do his virtues own.
Thus, as your fate has been accurs'd,
Of legal dealers, with the worst;
You now may, as by all confess'd,
Obtain good counsel from the best.
"On such a character intent,
To Lawyer Make-peace thus I went,
And told my curious story o'er
As I have told it you before.
With a keen look my face he ey'd,
And in a gentle tone replied.
'If the good man you thus have bang'd,
You may contemplate being hang'd;
But, as the case to me appears,
I trust you may dismiss your fears;
For even now you do not know
What evil follow'd from the blow;
And though some blood may have been spill'd,
It follows not the man was kill'd:
Besides, whatever ill was done,
There was no witness, no not one
To prove which of you was in fault,
Who first provok'd or gave th' assault;
And if, my friend, you had not fled
You need not fear, though he were dead.
—No advertisement has appear'd
To state the crime, as I have heard,
And surely I've the means to know
If any measures had been so.
But still, remember, I advise
That you move under a disguise,
'Till time and chance have drawn aside
That veil that does these threat'nings hide,
Which, in your present dubious state,
May on your wary footsteps wait.
Change your dress and change your name,
For neither now must be the same.'

Quæ Genus.

'My dress and name I'll do anon,
The fever all the rest has done;
For Doctor Bend I would defy
The fondled Foundling to descry,
In his mis-shapen misery.		 }
Johnny Quæ Genus, now adieu!
Jack Page I substitute for you!'

Lawyer Make-peace.

'You have good friends whom you can trust,
Who to misfortune will be just,
They will, I doubt not, let you know,
How you must act and what to do.
And much I think you have been wrong,
To have with-held your pen so long.
Obey me now in all I've said;
Be secret and be not afraid.'
"He spoke, and, in the kindest way,
Urg'd me to make no more delay;
And when I sought to give the fee;
'No, no,' he said, 'to such as thee
For mere good words I'm never paid;—
This is my way of plying trade.
When you have made a fair escape
From this unlucky, wretched scrape,
And when you are again restor'd
To your own happy bed and board;
When from all thraldom you are free,
Then, if it suits, remember me.'
"My notes were sew'd up in my coat,
For Julep would not take a groat.
'When you reach home,' he kindly said;
'Like his friend Make-peace, I'll be paid.'
Thus I set off, as was my plan,
Guis'd as a trudging, trav'lling man,
And in his journey going on
To seek his fate in London town.
My needfuls in an oil-cloth sack,
Were buckled to my wretched back,
And late at night when the full moon
In an unclouded brightness shone,
I left those gen'rous friends behind
Which such as me so seldom find:
A Galen, with that goodness fraught,
Who gave his skill and drugs for nought;
And an attorney, whose great aim
Was to put roguery to shame;
Nay, whose superior virtues tell
The Law can shew a Miracle.
"You must, Sir Jeff'ry, often see
The strange effects of vanity;
Another you will find in me.		 }
You'll scarce believe as I relate
The folly which I now must state:
That I've been such a silly elf
I now can scarce believe myself:
And I could wish I dare conceal
What duty bids me to reveal.
—Did not calm prudence whisper now
To my existing state to bow,
To tell it all to such a friend
As I had found in Doctor Bend,
Or a quick pilgrimage to make
To Worthy-Hall beside the Lake,
Where, for dear Doctor Syntax' sake,		 }
The troubled Foundling would receive
All that protecting care could give.
This was the counsel Make-peace gave,
A lawyer who was not a knave;
Who would advise without a fee,
And felt for human misery.
—This Reason said in lessons strong,
As I pac'd my still way along,
When the dull sound of my own feet
And Philomela's sonnet sweet
Did on the gen'ral silence break,
And seem'd to keep the night awake.
Then Vanity sat pick-a-pack
Perch'd on the hump upon my back,
And whisper'd into either ear,
'Such humbling counsels do not hear.
Where poor Quæ Genus has been known
His alter'd form must ne'er be shown:
With this sad shape he never can
Hold himself forth a gentleman:
No art can furnish you a cloak
To hide from pity or from joke.
If passing on a river's ridge,
Or, perchance lolling o'er a bridge,
You gaze upon the stream below
Whose crystal mirror's seen to flow,
Would not the picture meet your eye
Of your own sad deformity?
At Oxford you would be the talk
Of the High-street or Christ-Church-walk,
While many quizzing fools look round
To view your rising back begown'd.
—How would you bear the wond'ring ken
Of the good folk of Sommerden,
While they with pitying looks lament
The once straight form, but now so bent!
Then leave the world where you have been,
Where I would be no longer seen,
Nor let the jealous eye compare,
What you once was with what you are.
Might I advise, I'd sooner die
Unknown, in humble privacy,
Again,' said whisp'ring vanity,		 }
'Than e'er appear where I was known
For graces which were then my own,
That pity or that scorn might point
At such a form, so out of joint.'
 
"I need not say how many days
I sought the bye and secret ways,
For ever list'ning to the tongue
That whisper'd soft and pleaded strong,
To set each better feeling wrong.		 }
Hence I resign'd myself to chance,
Left fortune, friends, inheritance,
And madly felt that I was hurl'd
Thus mark'd to wander through the world.
To snatch at, and at once receive,
Whate'er the world might chance to give.
'Twas not a whimsy of the brain,
That did the idle scheme sustain,
'Twas something which I can't explain. 		}
All feeling center'd in the pack
That had thus risen on my back;
And as I felt the burden there,
It seem'd the seat of ev'ry care,
Of ev'ry painful thought brimfull,
Like Old Pandora's Ridicule.
But as every single note
Which I from Gripe-all's grasp had got,
Was still secure within my coat,		 }
I had sufficient means and more
To travel all the kingdom o'er
With staff in hand, and well-shod feet,
And oil'd umbrella form'd to meet
The show'rs that might my passage greet.		 }
One pocket did a bible hold,
The other held the story told,
Which good Æneas did rehearse
To Dido, in immortal verse;
While from a loop before descended
A flute that oft my hours befriended:
Thus I with verse, with prose or fist,
Was scholar, fiddler, methodist.
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 pass'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 Othello,
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 glasses 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 passion,
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 ship 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 shore,
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.

Drawn by Rowlandson

Quæ 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 pass 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,
Coarse 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!

Quæ Genus assisting 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 pass'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 noble, 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 fashion
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 lustre 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 pass'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.
But my misfortunes were not past,
Though this I hope will be my last,
Or I'll avenge me of the pack,
The foe I carry on my back;
From London Bridge I'll dash me plump,—
And drown th' incorrigible Hump.
"Now, the good lady of the house,
Who had an influence o'er her spouse,
Was in that interesting state
Which I can't otherwise relate
Than being such as loving wives
Think the great honour of their lives,
And she thought, if her daily eye
Should view my sad deformity,
It might the happy shape destroy
Of the expected girl or boy;
And ladies, in a certain trim,
Must be indulg'd in ev'ry whim.
Such danger did my form display,
Another hour I must not stay:
But gold was giv'n to heal my pride,
And bribe me to be satisfied.
'Tis true, kind words explain'd the cause;
Nay, much was said of Nature's laws;
And where that ruling pow'r thought fit,
To her caprice we must submit.
—Thus, once again, if not for ever,
I had to curse th' infernal fever
That did my upright form disgrace,
And rob me of my welcome place.
—At length, brimfull of discontent,
Half-mad, I to the Office went;
Where Fortune seem'd to change my view,
For there she made me known to you.
"Thus, Sir, I've told my tedious story,
And now a suppliant stand before you:
But in my story, right or wrong,
Truth was the rudder of my tongue.
—I've done, and, in all patience, wait,
To know how you may rule my fate;
And if my hist'ry will commend
Quæ Genus, (such may be his end,)
To you, Sir Jeff'ry, as his friend."		 }