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. |
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The Porter's Chair.
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 | II. |
 | The English Dance of Death |  |
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The Porter's Chair.
OF Things to Notions when we seeA regular Conformity,
(Such was the lesson of my youth)
We may suppose we see the Truth.
And when the contrary prevails,
'Tis Falshood, with its lying tales:
But, the refinement of the day,
Has settled it another way.
Some men may now, nor do a wrong,
Tell ready Falshoods all day long:
Nay, 'tis the duty of their place,
To utter practis'd Lies with grace;
And, that their wants may be supplied,
They keep them ready, cut and dried.
John Lockfast had, for years, kept sentry,
The Guardian of some Great Man's Entry,
Which, not to give offence, we call
By the more stylish name of Hall:—
Prepar'd, at ev'ry sounding knock,
The harrass'd Portal to unlock;
And there or yes—or no—to say,
As was the order of the day,
—The tenant of an Easy Chair,
His Life was free from bustling care:
There, when by watchful nights distrest,
He could recruit himself with rest.
There he would sit and hear the News,
With which the liv'ried train amuse
Their fellow varlets, and relate
As they in due attendance wait;
The lucky fortune, or disasters
Which happen to their Lords and Masters,
And tittle-tattle of the heigh-days
Of all the high-bred, tonish Ladies.
Nay, in a language of their own,
Talk o'er the scandal of the Town.
Thus John, who had, for many a year,
Been used the daily Tales to hear,
The state domestic, could declare
Of ev'ry house in ev'ry square.
Nay, such was his experience thought
In ev'ry thing which Service taught,
That all the shoulder-knots in town
Did his superior knowledge own,
Nor fail'd the Porter sage to greet,
As Oracle of Harley Street.
—He knew the policy that waits
On vigilance at Great Mens' gates;
And how to gloss the daily lie
With a soft, smiling gravity.
Of all his bows would give the best
To him who was a welcome guest;
But could reply, in surly tone,
To those he wanted to be gone:
In short, he could adapt his face,
As well as voice, to ev'ry case;
And had the art, the first I know,
When to return a Yes—or No.
The Guardian of some Great Man's Entry,
230
By the more stylish name of Hall:—
Prepar'd, at ev'ry sounding knock,
The harrass'd Portal to unlock;
And there or yes—or no—to say,
As was the order of the day,
—The tenant of an Easy Chair,
His Life was free from bustling care:
There, when by watchful nights distrest,
He could recruit himself with rest.
There he would sit and hear the News,
With which the liv'ried train amuse
Their fellow varlets, and relate
As they in due attendance wait;
The lucky fortune, or disasters
Which happen to their Lords and Masters,
And tittle-tattle of the heigh-days
Of all the high-bred, tonish Ladies.
Nay, in a language of their own,
Talk o'er the scandal of the Town.
Thus John, who had, for many a year,
Been used the daily Tales to hear,
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Of ev'ry house in ev'ry square.
Nay, such was his experience thought
In ev'ry thing which Service taught,
That all the shoulder-knots in town
Did his superior knowledge own,
Nor fail'd the Porter sage to greet,
As Oracle of Harley Street.
—He knew the policy that waits
On vigilance at Great Mens' gates;
And how to gloss the daily lie
With a soft, smiling gravity.
Of all his bows would give the best
To him who was a welcome guest;
But could reply, in surly tone,
To those he wanted to be gone:
In short, he could adapt his face,
As well as voice, to ev'ry case;
And had the art, the first I know,
When to return a Yes—or No.
Nor was this all.—He could unfold
The Language which the Knocker told;
From Fashion's proud, imperious rap,
To the poor Suppliant's humble tap:
Whether 'twas Form, or Friendship came,
Or disappointed Tradesman's claim:
The sons of Frolic, and of Fun,
Or the stroke flippant of a Dun.
—Besides, John, though he did not know it,
Was no mean Casuist,—and I'll show it.
From living well, and sitting still,
The Language which the Knocker told;
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To the poor Suppliant's humble tap:
Whether 'twas Form, or Friendship came,
Or disappointed Tradesman's claim:
The sons of Frolic, and of Fun,
Or the stroke flippant of a Dun.
—Besides, John, though he did not know it,
Was no mean Casuist,—and I'll show it.
And of strong beer a daily fill,
With other habits that combine,
The props of Life to undermine,
By slow degrees, John was, at length
Diminish'd, both in health and strength;
And, as he one night thought of dying,
The thirty years he'd pass'd in lying,
Came cross his mind, with the intent
To quit his service, and repent.
But after a full glass of Gin,
He ask'd how it could be a sin,
To do what ev'ry Servant did,
And what his Lord and Lady bid?
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John, to himself, thus thought and spoke.
“I say, what I am told to say,
And 'tis my duty to obey.
Nay, I believe it true, that I,
When I am lying, do not lie:
For, if I utter Falsehood's words,
The Lie's my Lady's or my Lord's;
And, though it may not be so civil,
I think 'tis they should fear the Devil.
I well remember, t'other day,
I heard a rev'rend Prelate say,
As from my Lord he went away,
I am, indeed, with truth most fervent,
Your Lordship's most devoted Servant;
And that's a swinging one, I hold it,
Though my Lord Archbishop told it.
But that is call'd a mere expression,
No sin at all, nor wants confession;
And let me ask then, if I'm worse
Than him—for using words of course?
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For saying what does no one harm?
I've heard our Chaplain say, Denying
Is not bona fide Lying:
At least, that it will be forgiven
By ev'ry Law that's made in Heaven .”
To cut short this Soliloquy.
—The clock struck twelve, a gentle knock
Bid John the Mansion door unlock:
He took a light, and left his chair,
To see who ask'd admittance there.
A horrid Figure met his eyes.—
John instant thought of all his Lies.
And struck with fear, aloud he squall'd:
Murder, and Fire, and Thieves he bawl'd;
Then hobbled off at helter skelter,
And in the cellar sought for shelter.
—My Lord and Lady were gone out,
To some Fandango, Ball, or Rout,
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As second-table gentry do,
Had, to ape their betters gone
To a smart party of their own.
—The maids up stairs with Tom were sitting;
For he was sick, and they were knitting.
They heard the noise;—Tom, with a grin,
Said thieves were somewhere breaking in:
Then seiz'd a pistol and a sword,
And swore that none should rob my Lord.
As Betty shriek'd, said jolly Nell,
There are no thieves, I sure can tell:
'Tis that fool John, who, in a dream,
Sees some strange thing that makes him scream:
And if down stairs we gently creep,
There we shall find him fast asleep.
'Twas but last week that he was found
Bawling and sprawling on the ground,
Swearing he dream'd that he was drown'd.
—They went, and what a sight was there?
Death sitting in the Porter's chair:
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And flapp his wings around the Hall.
Tom dropp'd the pistol from his hand:
Nor could his strength the sword command.
Bet shook with fear, nor was she slack,
To trace her hurrying footsteps back;
While poor, fat Nelly, in her fright,
Fell from the stair-case, at the sight.
It was a most tremendous fall,
As she plung'd headlong to the Hall:
Her forehead struck the marble floor:—
She heav'd a sigh, and spoke no more.
The Spectre calmly turn'd around,
And saw his victim on the ground:
Then grinn'd a smile, and wav'd his dart:—
'Tis done, he said,—and I depart.
The door gap'd wide, as he withdrew;—
When the Bird shriek'd, and with him flew.
John, though still trembling with affright,
Stole up, and view'd the dismal sight.
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For Tom had plac'd poor Nelly there.
Said John, I ne'er again will stir,
To let in such a Visiter;
—And, if I live,—to-morrow morning,
I'll surely give his Lordship warning.
—In your warm place, good John remain:—
Be where you will, he'll come again;
Whate'er may be your future lot,
Whether in Palace, Hall or Cot.
Whene'er his hand salutes our gate,
No lie will serve to make him wait:
Whene'er he puts us to the trial,
The scare-crow will take no denial;
For, at the time he's pleas'd to come,
We all of us, must be at Home.
| The English Dance of Death | |