The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | The English Dance of Death |  |
137
The Genealogist.
OF all the Passions that infest
The mansion of the human breast,
Which trouble with continual strife
The nobler Charities of Life;
That which stirs up the greatest pother,
And claims to bear down ev'ry other,
Is Pride, which seems to fill more room,
More various titles to assume,
Than any tenant we can find,
Within the chambers of the mind.
The Passion, doubtless, is the same,
Or in the low or titled name;
And may be trac'd up to the sense
Of what is call'd Pre-eminence,
Whether in those who men command,
Or such as drive their Four-in-Hand;
In busy Maid who plies the broom,
Or Dame of Rank in Drawing Room.
Pride may be found in him who creeps
Up chimnies, and those chimnies sweeps;
Or in his breast who day and night
Climbs up Ambition's dizzy height.
But 'tis not here the verse intends
To mark the fair and noble ends
Of Pride, too little understood,
Which is a virtue in the good;
That dignifies th'exalted state
Of those who are both good and great:
That, sanction'd by right Reason's law,
Keeps the submissive crowd in awe:—
No, 'tis the Pride which makes men mad,
And is a vice among the bad;
Or, bred in Fashion's motley school,
Is a known folly in the fool,
With vain and idle objects fraught,—
That now awakes the moral thought.
Thus, if we look around, 'tis seen
That some are proud of being mean;
Or, boasting of their various feats,
Are even proud of being cheats:—
Are not Attornies ever vain,
Of cunning, tricking, and chicane?
They're known to have a certain pride,
In cheating all the world beside.
Some vaunt their mighty power in drinking,
As if 'twere praise to banish thinking.
'Tis said, that Cælia has the trick
Of being vain of being sick;
And that she feels superior grace
In languid looks and pallid face;—
That she would think herself a fright,
And charge it as an act of spite,
If Health should give the ruddy hue
That decks the cheeks of Moll or Sue.
If Shopkeeper or Artizan
Wants to be thought a Gentleman,
The Herald, first he humbly pays;
And then, in order due, displays
His arms upon a one-horse chaise.
The new-made Noble in the Gout,
About his titles makes a rout;
Then bids the Carver ply his tool
To aggrandize a footing stool
With sculptur'd arms, that all may see
The splendid show of Heraldry,
Which, in his new-born honours great,
He treads beneath his hobbling feet;
While on his gilded crutch is set
The all-ennobling Coronet.
Others, who boast an ancient race,
And to remotest ages trace
Of ancestors a noble line,
Who through successive ages shine;
Whose proud and honourable name
By Hist'ry is consign'd to Fame;—
Yet, if by Fortune's fatal frown
The ancient Fabric tumbles down:
If by profuse or vitious taste
The vast domains are brought to waste,
Lament it as a dire disgrace
To mix with an inferior race,
Whose wealth would happily restore
Their state to what it was before.
The mansion of the human breast,
Which trouble with continual strife
The nobler Charities of Life;
That which stirs up the greatest pother,
And claims to bear down ev'ry other,
Is Pride, which seems to fill more room,
More various titles to assume,
Than any tenant we can find,
Within the chambers of the mind.
The Passion, doubtless, is the same,
Or in the low or titled name;
And may be trac'd up to the sense
Of what is call'd Pre-eminence,
Whether in those who men command,
Or such as drive their Four-in-Hand;
138
Or Dame of Rank in Drawing Room.
Pride may be found in him who creeps
Up chimnies, and those chimnies sweeps;
Or in his breast who day and night
Climbs up Ambition's dizzy height.
But 'tis not here the verse intends
To mark the fair and noble ends
Of Pride, too little understood,
Which is a virtue in the good;
That dignifies th'exalted state
Of those who are both good and great:
That, sanction'd by right Reason's law,
Keeps the submissive crowd in awe:—
No, 'tis the Pride which makes men mad,
And is a vice among the bad;
Or, bred in Fashion's motley school,
Is a known folly in the fool,
With vain and idle objects fraught,—
That now awakes the moral thought.
Thus, if we look around, 'tis seen
That some are proud of being mean;
139
Are even proud of being cheats:—
Are not Attornies ever vain,
Of cunning, tricking, and chicane?
They're known to have a certain pride,
In cheating all the world beside.
Some vaunt their mighty power in drinking,
As if 'twere praise to banish thinking.
'Tis said, that Cælia has the trick
Of being vain of being sick;
And that she feels superior grace
In languid looks and pallid face;—
That she would think herself a fright,
And charge it as an act of spite,
If Health should give the ruddy hue
That decks the cheeks of Moll or Sue.
If Shopkeeper or Artizan
Wants to be thought a Gentleman,
The Herald, first he humbly pays;
And then, in order due, displays
His arms upon a one-horse chaise.
140
About his titles makes a rout;
Then bids the Carver ply his tool
To aggrandize a footing stool
With sculptur'd arms, that all may see
The splendid show of Heraldry,
Which, in his new-born honours great,
He treads beneath his hobbling feet;
While on his gilded crutch is set
The all-ennobling Coronet.
Others, who boast an ancient race,
And to remotest ages trace
Of ancestors a noble line,
Who through successive ages shine;
Whose proud and honourable name
By Hist'ry is consign'd to Fame;—
Yet, if by Fortune's fatal frown
The ancient Fabric tumbles down:
If by profuse or vitious taste
The vast domains are brought to waste,
Lament it as a dire disgrace
To mix with an inferior race,
141
Their state to what it was before.
Not so the old Lord Freeland, He
Fond as he was of Ancestry,
And ancient name, could not restrain
Of wounded pride the daily pain,
When debts unpaid assail'd his gate,
And his domains refus'd the weight
Of mortgages, whose loud demands
Call'd for the sale of house and lands:
While the axe menac'd all the wood
Which round his noble mansion stood
With stately, venerable grace,
The boast and grandeur of the place.
“Embarrass'd as I am,” said he,
“I'll not a noble beggar be,
“If means of honour can be found
“To heal my fortune's wasting wound.
“Ne'er have I England's rights betray'd;
“No bribe my voice has ever paid,
“Nor will I e'er my name degrade;
“Nor shall its public fame be lost
“Be Pension, or by servile Post.”
In short, Lord Freeland had the wit
To wed a very wealthy Cit;
And, on his golden wedding-day,
All his distresses pass'd away.
The bonny, and the happy bride
Adopts her lordly husband's pride;
And is most willing to forget
All but the charming Coronet;
Nay, with remembrance is at war,
Of all things East of Temple Bar;
While he calls in the Herald's aid
To hide the blot that has been made
In the pure flow of ages three,
The period of his pedigree.
—'Tis all arrang'd in order due,
The splendid Roll's expos'd to view:
The Man of Arms a tip-toe stands,
And the fair scene of Blood expands:
A finer Lineage ne'er was drest,
With Ensign, Quartering, and Crest;
True in all forms—and to the letter;
Sir Isaac never sold a better.
The Peer, with much delight explains
The blood that flow'd throughout his veins:
My Lady too began to purr,
That such fine blood belong'd to her.
Thus as th'Escutcheons she survey'd,
Cocking her glass, she gravely said:
But, my dear Lord, are you quite sure,
The Herald has left out the Brewer?
For 'twould not this fine roll exalt,
To have it smell of Hops and Malt.
My Uncle's name I much revere,
But do not wish to see it here.—
—But not alarm'd, my Lady dear;
His name your eye will never see,
On any branch of our tree.
Remember I Sir Isaac quote:
—“Your Uncle never had a Coat.”—
Fond as he was of Ancestry,
And ancient name, could not restrain
Of wounded pride the daily pain,
When debts unpaid assail'd his gate,
And his domains refus'd the weight
Of mortgages, whose loud demands
Call'd for the sale of house and lands:
While the axe menac'd all the wood
Which round his noble mansion stood
With stately, venerable grace,
The boast and grandeur of the place.
“Embarrass'd as I am,” said he,
“I'll not a noble beggar be,
“If means of honour can be found
“To heal my fortune's wasting wound.
“Ne'er have I England's rights betray'd;
“No bribe my voice has ever paid,
“Nor will I e'er my name degrade;
142
“Be Pension, or by servile Post.”
In short, Lord Freeland had the wit
To wed a very wealthy Cit;
And, on his golden wedding-day,
All his distresses pass'd away.
The bonny, and the happy bride
Adopts her lordly husband's pride;
And is most willing to forget
All but the charming Coronet;
Nay, with remembrance is at war,
Of all things East of Temple Bar;
While he calls in the Herald's aid
To hide the blot that has been made
In the pure flow of ages three,
The period of his pedigree.
—'Tis all arrang'd in order due,
The splendid Roll's expos'd to view:
The Man of Arms a tip-toe stands,
And the fair scene of Blood expands:
A finer Lineage ne'er was drest,
With Ensign, Quartering, and Crest;
143
Sir Isaac never sold a better.
The Peer, with much delight explains
The blood that flow'd throughout his veins:
My Lady too began to purr,
That such fine blood belong'd to her.
Thus as th'Escutcheons she survey'd,
Cocking her glass, she gravely said:
But, my dear Lord, are you quite sure,
The Herald has left out the Brewer?
For 'twould not this fine roll exalt,
To have it smell of Hops and Malt.
My Uncle's name I much revere,
But do not wish to see it here.—
—But not alarm'd, my Lady dear;
His name your eye will never see,
On any branch of our tree.
Remember I Sir Isaac quote:
—“Your Uncle never had a Coat.”—
My Lady in a passion flew;—
He lies, she cried, and so do you.—
My good old Uncle dress'd as well
(A truth his Taylor's bills can tell)
As any Lord within the land,
And could a little cash command:
This I, his Heiress, do declare:
You know it too, who're simp'ring there.
The Herald, who may please to scoff,
Would wear the cloaths which he cast off.
He talk of dress—a scurvy fellow;—
Except, when dress'd like Punchinello,
He stalks, as proud as he can go,
A shape in some state Puppet show,
His cloaths would scarcely tempt a Jew
The shabby bargain to pursue.
Or if the parsimonious brute
Appears at times in velvet suit,
All know 'tis furnish'd from a Pall;
His fee at some state Funeral.
I'll drive the sentence down his throat;
—That Uncle John ne'er had a Coat.—
Cease, Lady dear, cease your alarms;—
The Herald meant—a Coat of Arms.—
—That's not so bad;—but I can state,
That He had Arms upon his Plate.—
—My Lady dear, I think 'twere best
That we should let the matter rest:
Our argument will not prevail;
The plate was purchas'd at a Sale;
And the good Knight, a little vain,
Thought fit to let the Arms remain.
'Tis my advice,—your anger cease,
And let the Herald live in peace.
Our Honours will be more secure
To sink the Bearings of the Brewer.
He lies, she cried, and so do you.—
144
(A truth his Taylor's bills can tell)
As any Lord within the land,
And could a little cash command:
This I, his Heiress, do declare:
You know it too, who're simp'ring there.
The Herald, who may please to scoff,
Would wear the cloaths which he cast off.
He talk of dress—a scurvy fellow;—
Except, when dress'd like Punchinello,
He stalks, as proud as he can go,
A shape in some state Puppet show,
His cloaths would scarcely tempt a Jew
The shabby bargain to pursue.
Or if the parsimonious brute
Appears at times in velvet suit,
All know 'tis furnish'd from a Pall;
His fee at some state Funeral.
I'll drive the sentence down his throat;
—That Uncle John ne'er had a Coat.—
Cease, Lady dear, cease your alarms;—
The Herald meant—a Coat of Arms.—
145
That He had Arms upon his Plate.—
—My Lady dear, I think 'twere best
That we should let the matter rest:
Our argument will not prevail;
The plate was purchas'd at a Sale;
And the good Knight, a little vain,
Thought fit to let the Arms remain.
'Tis my advice,—your anger cease,
And let the Herald live in peace.
Our Honours will be more secure
To sink the Bearings of the Brewer.
Thus, while they talk the matter o'er,
The splendid Roll sinks on the floor;
And lo, a sight brimful of fears:—
The Herald's gone, and Death appears.
His Lordship starts, and shakes, and falls:
My Lady stares, and screams, and squalls.
“Make not,” said Death, “this mighty stir;
“You're now a wealthy Dowager,
“And may, perhaps, for many a year,
“Live on, the Widow of a Peer.
“But 'twere as well to lay aside
“This embryo of human pride.
“Whether from Priam you descend,
“Or your Dad cried—Old chairs to mend;
“When you are summon'd to your end,
“You will not shun the fatal blow;
“And sure, you're old enough to know,
“That though each varying Pedigree
“Begins with Time,—it ends with Me.”
The splendid Roll sinks on the floor;
And lo, a sight brimful of fears:—
The Herald's gone, and Death appears.
His Lordship starts, and shakes, and falls:
My Lady stares, and screams, and squalls.
“Make not,” said Death, “this mighty stir;
“You're now a wealthy Dowager,
146
“Live on, the Widow of a Peer.
“But 'twere as well to lay aside
“This embryo of human pride.
“Whether from Priam you descend,
“Or your Dad cried—Old chairs to mend;
“When you are summon'd to your end,
“You will not shun the fatal blow;
“And sure, you're old enough to know,
“That though each varying Pedigree
“Begins with Time,—it ends with Me.”
| The English Dance of Death | |