1816. _The Relics of a Saint. A Right Merry Tale, by Ferdinand

Farquhar._ Frontispiece by T. Rowlandson. London: Printed for T. Tegg, Cheapside. 'Relics!' roar'd Jaconetta, holding both her sides To give her ease, 'Sir, if you please They're only what you gentlemen would call A pair of _Galligaskins_, and that's all.' 1814-1816. _The English Dance of Death._ Published at R. Ackermann's, 101 Strand.--A selection from Rowlandson's famous illustrations to the _Dance of Death_; an ingenious series, quite suited, in spite of the grimness of the performance, to the artist's humour. The publication secured great praise during the designer's lifetime; in point of execution the set leaves nothing to be desired; in regard to picturesque action and easy grouping, the illustrations will bear comparison with any of the artist's works. As in the well-known series by Holbein, Della Bella, &c., Death appears at the most unexpected and inopportune moments, with that stern and ghastly reminder of the futility of human pleasures, successes, and pursuits, of which the most playful satirists have never been able to lose sight. Death, in Rowlandson's series, displays his acknowledged ubiquity; he knocks without ceremony at everyone's portal, and none can deny him admission. Both artist and author seem to have appreciated the resources of their subject so thoroughly, and have worked out its grotesque spirit with such appropriateness, that the _Dance of Death_ must remain a fitting monument of their genius. A large circulation could hardly be anticipated for a work conceived in this realistically fearful vein. Rowlandson has drawn the various episodes which his invention suggested with a completeness of detail rarely found in his later designs, and the plates are executed with the fulness and attention of finished drawings; the figures are delineated with power and spirit, and the backgrounds are most delicate and suggestive. The impressions are also coloured by hand with a judicious eye to effect and harmony. Combe has worked with a vigour worthy of the occasion; and for wit, point, and felicity we are inclined to believe the versification to the _Dance of Death_ surpasses all his other contributions to literature in this branch. The entire series may be accepted as a work of higher character, in all respects, than its popular predecessors, the better recognised _Tours of Doctor Syntax_; and it is superior, beyond comparison, to the works which followed it. THE ENGLISH DANCE OF DEATH. FROM THE DESIGNS OF THOMAS ROWLANDSON. _With Metrical Illustrations by the Author of 'Doctor Syntax.'_ LONDON: PUBLISHED AT R. ACKERMANN'S REPOSITORY OF ARTS. Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas Regúmque turres.--Hor. lib. i. od. 4. With equal pace, impartial Fate Knocks at the palace, as the Cottage Gate. This series was begun in 1814, and finished in 1816; being issued from the Repository of Arts in monthly parts, like the _Tour of Doctor Syntax_ and successive works. The circumstances of its publication are set forth by 'the anonymous author' (William Combe) in one of his brief explanatory 'introductions.' '_The Dance of Death_ is a subject so well known to have employed the talents of distinguished painters in the age of superstition, that little is required to recall it to the recollection of the antiquary, the lover of the arts, and the artist. 'Holbein is more particularly recorded as having employed his pencil upon a work of this kind; but, without entering into a detail of those masters who have treated the subject of the _Dance of Death_, the present object is merely to attract the public attention to the subject itself. Few remains are now visible of the original paintings which represented it, but they have been perpetuated by the more durable skill of the engraver, and the volumes which contain them in the latter form are to be found on the shelves of the learned and curious collector. The subject is the same in them all, but varied according to the fancy of the painters, or perhaps from local circumstances attached to the places which they were respectively intended to decorate. The predominant feature is, without exception, the representation of one or more skeletons, sometimes indeed in grotesque attitudes, and with rather a comic effect, conducting persons of all ranks, conditions, and ages to the tomb. 'Mr. Rowlandson had contemplated the subject with the view of applying it exclusively to the manners, customs, and character of this country. His pencil has accordingly produced the designs, which, in the order they were delivered to me, I have accompanied with metrical illustrations, a mode of proceeding which has been sanctioned by the success of our joint labours in the _Tour of Doctor Syntax_. The first volume, therefore, of the English _Dance of Death_, which has appeared in twelve successive numbers, is now presented to the public in a collected form. The second volume will follow in the same mode of publication. Though the name and tenour of the work is borrowed, it may, perhaps, be allowed some claim to local and characteristic originality. The most serious subject attached to our nature is, indeed, presented with a degree of familiar pleasantry which is not common to it. But in this particular the example of the painters who first suggested and propagated the idea has been followed, and no other vivacity has been displayed in these pages than has been found on the walls of edifices dedicated to religion, and was thus represented in the cloisters of St. Paul's, before the sacrilegious pride of the Protector Somerset caused the dilapidation of that appendage to the metropolitan church of the kingdom. But I am not afraid of being accused by reflecting minds of having introduced an unbecoming levity into the following pages, for that writer may surely claim the approbation of the grave and the good who familiarises the mind with Death by connecting it in any way with the various situations and circumstances of life. 'THE AUTHOR.' The _Frontispiece_ represents the grim form of the spectral foe, his skeleton frame calmly seated on the globe, his grim jaw resting on his arm, and his elbow on his knees; at his feet is the hourglass he has borrowed from Time; he wears the crown, which indicates his universal sovereignty, and in his grasp is the dart which must touch all humanity in turn, and speed them hence. A pipe and tabor are suspended overhead, and bats are flitting above. Round the effigy of destruction are strewn the means wherewith his ends are wrought. A portly register, '_Death's Dance_,' is open; beside it are the symbolical instruments of his decrees--pistols, bullets, daggers, guns, dice, cards, the executioner's axe, a barrel of gunpowder, compounds, drugs, opium, arsenic, mercury, and the various fatal agencies arrayed against the natural preservation of life. A vignette on the engraved _Title-page_ further elucidates the uses of Death's pipe and tabor. The grim King is enjoying himself in his own fashion, dancing his rattling bones right merrily to his own music, which he is congenially piping forth in a cemetery; while the fatal hourglass and dart are laid aside upon the slab of a grave. Death's grim legions, the skeleton messengers of his decrees, are dancing fantastic figures with fiendish gaiety among the tombstones, performing ghastly quadrilles sufficient to scare an involuntary beholder out of his senses. Plate 1. _Time and Death._ Time and Death their thoughts impart, On works of Learning and of Art. The first scene, which we presume is simply introductory, and that Death and his comrade, old Time, have dropped in unprofessionally or as critics, represents two youthful students of the past. The apartment is surrounded with shelves, loaded with piles of busts and figures of the illustrious dead, the effigies of renowned poets, generals, philosophers, statesmen, and all classes of the community, from the earliest times, being presented indiscriminately. From these memorials the artist is sketching the portrait of a departed worthy. A literary gentleman, of a somewhat conventional type, with an open collar, a flowing dressing-gown, slippers, and general easy looseness of attire, having papers before him, and various manuscripts and ponderous volumes scattered around, is about, with a flourish of his quill, to record his impressions of the past; old Father Time, with his bald crown, and grey beard and spectacles on nose, is leaning on his scythe; while the grim King of Terrors is grinning by his side, curiously peering over the shoulders of the unconscious workers, and suggesting-- The time-worn burden of the song That Life is short--but Art is long. Plate 2. _The Antiquarian and Death._ Fungus, at length, contrives to get Death's Dart into his Cabinet. The second plate introduces us to the apartment of an elderly antiquary, who, nightcap on head, is propped up on his couch, with learned tomes littered around him, trying to peer into the pages, with the light of a candle held in a gilt sconce. The chamber of the invalid is surrounded by trophies and relics, and apparatus implying a diversity of tastes, and the means of humouring them. Suits of armour, suits of costume, weapons, busts, ancient plate, musical instruments, vases, urns, idols, &c., are mixed up with sketches, folios of prints, palettes, books, architectural instruments, mortars, retorts, chemicals, and other appliances. A bull-dog is chasing rats, which are invading these richly lumbered domains. Wine, and a flask of vain 'elixir,' are at the antiquary's elbow; but his candle is flickering, and he is already sinking into stupefaction, while the grim King of Terrors,--to the horrent affright of a cat perched on the invalid's bed,--has stealthily stolen into the chamber; and the last unique curiosity, '_Death's dart_,' is about to become the property of the semi-conscious collector. Plate 3. _The Last Chase._ Such mortal sport the chase attends. At Break-neck Hill the hunting ends. The chase is a stag, the dogs have just run the noble beast down; the hunters are making alarming efforts to come in 'at the death,' and accordingly they are piloted by the grim hunter in person, mounted on a skeleton steed, over the edge of a cliff which they perceive too late. The frightened horses rear and plunge, and dash themselves and their riders headlong to destruction. DEATH follow'd on his courser pale, Up the steep hill, or through the dale: But, 'till the fatal hour drew nigh, He veil'd himself from ev'ry eye. 'Twas then his horrid shape appear'd, And his shrill voice the hunters heard: With his fell dart he points the way, Til' astonish'd hunters all obey; Nor can they stop the courser's speed, Nor can they shun the deadly deed; But follow with impetuous force, The potent phantom's mortal course, Down the steep cliff--the Chase is o'er-- The hunters fall--to rise no more! * * * * * Still fate pursues--still mortals fly, The chase continues till they die. Howe'er they live, where'er they fall, DEATH--MIGHTY HUNTER--earths them all! Plate 4. _The Statesman._ Not all the statesman's power, or art, Can turn aside Death's certain dart. Death, according to another picture, has asserted his supremacy in the presence of that very exalted personage, a statesman--whose table, covered with deeds and bags of money, and whose office, attended by numerous suitors, bearing heavy contributions, seem to indicate that the owner has not failed to provide for himself. The portrait of Midas tops the book-case. A footman is pouring out a glass of wine for the great man's refreshment, when the Universal Ruler, the 'King of Terrors,' who in this instance, out of respect possibly to the object of his call, has assumed his crown--is peering forth on the pair from behind a screen; the ghastly summons has driven the colour from the cheeks of his victim, and drawn the power from his limbs. Plate 5. _Tom Higgins._ His blood is stopp'd in ev'ry vein, He ne'er will eat or drink again. The story of Tom Higgins is instructive. He began life as a bricklayer's lad, rose gradually, by care and industry, to a position of influence, and then turned his means to account. A more important line he sought; Houses he jointly built, and bought; Nay, he had somehow learn'd to waste The gay man's wealth in works of taste. After a life devoted to various building schemes and other speculations, whereby Tom Higgins has grown into a man of great estate, he is persuaded to become a squire, and to retire to the country, where his new position and state of being fail to afford him the gratification he had anticipated, and he sighs for the simple joys of his early days. Coombe's easy verses best describe the artist's picture, in which the end of wealth and consequence is graphically set forth, when Death finally drops in and discovers a passive and not unwilling victim in Tom Higgins. At length, wheel'd forth in easy chair, His sole delight was to repair To a small, shaded inn, that stood Contiguous to the turnpike-road: There he could eat, and drink, and smoke, And with the merry curate joke: For though so chang'd in form and feature, He still retain'd his pleasant nature: And, as he took his brimming glass, Was pleas'd to see the coaches pass: Nor did he hesitate to own He envied those who went to town, And long'd to be at Islington. 'Nay, there I'll go once more,' he said, 'But that won't be till I am dead: For wheresoe'er fat Tom shall die, At Islington his bones shall lie. There, where, when I was young and poor, I smok'd my pipe at ale-house door; And now, nor can I Fortune blame, When old and rich, I do the same; And all the good that pass'd between, Will be as if it ne'er had been. But still, I trust, whene'er it ends, Death and Tom Higgins will be friends.' He spoke, and straight a gentle sleep Did o'er his yielding senses creep. The pipe's last ling'ring whiff was o'er, The hand could hold the tube no more; It fell, unheeded, on the floor. Death then appear'd, with gentle tread; Just show'd his dart, and whisp'ring said, 'Spirits, to your protection take him: For nothing in this world can wake him.' Plate 6. _The Shipwreck._ The dangers of the ocean o'er Death wrecks the sailors on the shore. The good ship is sunk in the deep; all is lost; a few fragments of a longboat are thrown upon the beach; the coast is rocky and inaccessible; two exhausted and starving mariners, the remnant of the crew, are the sole survivors, and they have only escaped the dangers of the deep to face a more lingering fate from exposure and want. They are cast down without strength to assist themselves, or encouragement to prolong their miserable existence. Seated on a rock before them, confronting their blank, hopeless, starved faces, sits the grim foe, from whose clutches by sea they have barely escaped. Death in this case is merciful, for he is welcomed as the deliverer. Cries Joe: 'Come, Death, and ease me of my pain, Oh plunge me in the stormy main: Hear my last prayer, and be my friend: Thus let my life and suff'rings end!' He spoke; and lo! before him sat The summon'd messenger of fate. 'Ah! thou art there (the seaman said), I know thee well--but who's afraid? I fear'd thee not, when, at my gun, I've seen the mischief thou hast done! Upon the deck, from helm to prow, Nor, old one, do I fear thee now; But yield me in thy friendly power, And welcome this my final hour.' Death wav'd his arm:--with furious shock, The billows dash'd against the rock! Then, with returning force, they bore The helpless victims from the shore: There sinking, 'neath the foaming wave-- The sailors found--the SAILOR'S GRAVE. Plate 7. _The Virago._ Her tongue and temper to subdue Can only be performed by you. Death is shown, in another plate, as the advocate of peace. It is night, and roysterers are staggering home, assisted by friends, or plundered by the harpies of darkness, according to their fortune. The watch is calling the hour, when good souls should sleep in peace. A fury of an old wife, kicking, fuming, and tearing, is considerately taken in hand by Death, the most effective tranquillising agent; her husband is bowing and lighting his reviling spouse, and her trusty keeper, to the door, while she is vainly screaming for the assistance of the watch. Her departure is viewed with rejoicing. Her husband follow'd to the gate Submissive to the will of fate. 'Farewell (he cried), my dearest dear! As I no more shall see you here, To my fond wish it may be given That we may meet again in Heaven; And since your daily clamours cease, On earth I hope to live in peace. Death, far away, my cares has carried. _Molly,--to-morrow we'll be married!_' Plate 8. _The Glutton._ What, do these sav'ry meats delight you? Begone, and stay till I invite you. A well-to-do gourmand has taken his place at a plentifully supplied table, whereon is spread all kinds of fare; attendants are ministering to his wants, and a handsome and elegantly dressed female is at his side; the arch-jester, Death, has suddenly dropped into a vacant arm-chair at the festive board; joints are scattered, plates are thrown down, the founder of the feast is starting forward in consternation; a male cook, and serving maids, bringing in fresh dishes, are losing their grasp of delicacies which will never, as it now appears, regale the gluttony of their master. The foot of the ghastly skeleton has touched an over-fed spaniel, and the dog lies stiff. Death is politely handing forth his hourglass like a goblet, wherein to pledge his host, and enjoying a cruel pleasantry at the expense of the master of the house. When the knight thought 'twere best be civil, And hold a candle to the devil, 'Do lay that ugly dart aside; A knife and fork shall be supplied; Come, change your glass for one of mine, That shall appear brimfull of wine; Perhaps you're hungry, and may feel A hankering to make a meal, So without compliment or words, Partake of what the house affords.' 'Avaunt,' cried Death, 'no more ado; I'm come to make a _meal_ of _you_!' Plate 9. _The Recruit._ I list you, and you'll soon be found One of my regiment under ground. A party of farm labourers, wearing bunches of ribands in their caps, are being recruited for the wars; they are led by a drummer, with whose steps they are clumsily attempting to keep time. One fine, tall, healthy-looking young fellow is taking leave of his sweetheart; his father, mother, and the rest of his family and friends, grouped around--down to a grotesque-looking dog--are plunged into grief at his departure. Death, who is wearing a plumed hat, a jaunty cloak, and who carries his dart like a halbert, is clutching the shoulder of the recruit, and hurrying forward his legions; the universal captain is reminding his followers of the everlasting burden--_Death_ and _Glory_. Plate 10. _The Maiden Ladies._ Be not alarm'd, I'm only come To choose a wife, and light her home. Death, with an air of awful gallantry, wearing a gay cap, rakishly set on one side of his grim bare skull, with his dart put up guitar-wise, and laying a bony hand on the part of his structure where his heart should be, has arrived, unannounced, with a lantern to offer the courtesies of his escort to a large gathering of elderly spinsters--a 'tabby party' of weird and wizened-looking ancient anatomies--who are met for the joint distractions of scandal and gambling. The cards, the stakes, and the play-table are capsized; a fat footman is gazing with wonder at the guest last arrived, but the old maids are sensible of the nature of his attentions, and they are fluttering about in consternation and terror, as to whose turn has come. Death, it seems, is making a jest of offering what these frozen old maids have lacked through life--a husband. 'Tis Fate commands, and I with pride, Embrace Miss _Mustard_ as my bride. A well-appointed hearse-and-four, Attends her pleasure at the door. The marriage ceremonies wait Her presence at the churchyard gate: My lantern shines with nuptial light; The bells in muffled peal invite; And she shall be--_A bride to-night_. Plate 11. _The Quack Doctor._ I have a secret art to cure Each malady which men endure. Apothecaries' Hall, it might reasonably be hinted by the satirists, was a likely spot for Death's visitations. In Rowlandson's print we find the grim foe in the full exercise of his privileges, pounding away with fatal energy. An apothecary is dispensing various noxious drugs to a considerable crowd of patients, who are disfigured by various sufferings. They will not be kept waiting long apparently, for behind a curtain, Death, grinning at himself with a satisfied air in a mirror, and surrounded by the seeds of mortality, is grinding slow poisons with a will; the motive power of the situation; as an able assistant to the quacks, whose master he knows himself to be. Plate 12. _The Sot._ Drunk and alive, the man was thine, But dead and drunk, why--he is mine. Veteran topers are soaking at the sign of _The Goat_ on the village green; they are bloated and gouty, but convivial and careless. The landlord is looking somewhat horrified to find one of his best and most unwieldy customers carried off by his enraged and scolding wife, for whose assistance Death has himself brought a wheelbarrow in which to cart away her incapable spouse, and in reply to the railings of the vixen the grim death's-head is comically wagging his nether jaw, and logically stating his just claim to this burden of well-saturated clay. Plate 13. _The Honeymoon._ When the old fool has drunk his wine And gone to rest,--I will be thine. A wealthy old dotard, already half in the grave, has committed the last supreme folly of decrepitude, and married a young, beautiful, and blooming maid, whose troth and affections are plighted in advance to a more suitable but less prosperous suitor. The artist has drawn the enjoyments of the honeymoon; the imbecile and antiquated 'happy man,' nightcap on head, is plunged in an invalid chair; a well-stuffed cushion gives ease to his gouty extremities; a table at his side is spread with a costly dessert service. The palsied hands of the venerable idiot are vainly striving to steady a goblet for a bumper; the eager toper does not distinguish the hand which is filling his last glass. The grim skeleton, Death, stooping over a screen, is supplying the final dose from his own fatal decanter. The blushing fair, who has been trying to soothe the gouty torments of her superannuated spouse with music and poetry, is awakened to the sound of a window opening at her back, her name is pronounced; 'tis the gallant and dashing young officer, the man of her choice. Nothing abashed, and without disturbing her attitude beside the invalid, or turning her head, her rounded arm and taper hand are leant over the casement by way of encouragement to her lover, who is availing himself of the opportunity and is embracing her fingers. Think me not false, for I am true: Nay, frown not--yes,--to Love and you. Reason and int'rest told me both, To this old man to plight my troth. I had but little--you had less; No brilliant view of happiness: And though, within the lowest cot, I would have shar'd your humble lot, Yet, when the means I could possess Which would our future union bless, I gave my hand, th' allotted price, And made myself the sacrifice. When I was to the altar led, Age and decrepitude to wed, The old man's wealth seduc'd me there, Which gen'rous Hymen bid me share; And all, within a month or two, I hope, brave boy, to give to you. Behold, and see the stroke of Fate Suspended o'er my palsied mate: For Death, who fills his goblet high, Tells him to drink it, and to die. And now, my Henry dear, depart With this assurance from my heart. I married him, by Heaven, 'tis true, With all his riches in my view, TO SEE HIM DIE--AND MARRY YOU. Plate 14. _The Fox Hunter Unkennelled._ Yes, Nimrod, you may look aghast. I have unkennel'd you at last. A party of fox-hunters, getting ready to start for the chase, are refreshing themselves from substantial joints, and potent stirrup-cups. Death, the grim hunter, uninvited and unannounced, has joined the party, to the consternation of both men and dogs; one disconcerted Nimrod, in palsied affright, has vainly sought concealment under the table; Death, with true sportsman's instinct, is raising the cloth, and simultaneously striking the refugee, 'run to cover,' with his weapon. While Jack, as quick as he was able, Sunk, slyly, underneath the table. The phantom drew the drap'ry back, And, in a trice, unkennell'd Jack: When, after crying Tally-ho!-- He pois'd his dart and gave the blow: Then told his friends to shove Jack Rover Into the hearse which he leap'd over. One or two prints of the series are not treated from a grotesquely horrible point of view. Plate 15. _The Good Man, Death, and the Doctor._ No scene so blest in virtue's eyes, As when the man of virtue dies. In this picture the artist has been at the pains to illustrate, without travesty, the end of a good man, stretched stiff on his last couch. By the side of his bed kneel various members of his family, plunged into the deepest affliction; at the head of the bed stands a benevolent-visaged pastor of the church, who has evidently just administered the last consolations of religion to the departed. The burlesque element, which does not interfere with the main group of the sketch, is settled on the action of Death, who, emblematic as usual, is thrusting before him an evil-looking and overfed quackish practitioner, the extortionate physician, who has boldly declared 'he has no time for praying, but demands his honorarium.' The arch foe has fixed his unrelaxing grip upon the shoulder of Doctor Bolus, who it may be presumed has received his last fee. Plate 16. _Death and the Portrait._ Nature and Truth are not at strife, Death draws his pictures after life. A gouty and decrepit corpulent sitter is propped up by cushions and pillows in an arm-chair placed on a raised stage in a painter's studio. From the canvas it appears that the original of this last act of vanity is a judge. The sitter has evidently reached a state of dotage, and the artist has left his slumbering subject to enjoy a more congenial occupation; he is showing a blushing young damsel, who has accompanied the gout-ridden old judge, certain designs, groups of cupids, and the young couple have seemingly established a very agreeable understanding. Death has fantastically perched himself in the artist's seat, and having assumed his brush and palette, is putting the finishing touches both to portrait and sitter. The painter brings the promis'd aid, And views the change that has been made. He sees the picture's altered state, And owns the master-hand of Fate. 'But, why,' he cries, 'should artists grieve When models die,--if _pictures_ live?' Plate 17. _The Genealogist._ On that illumin'd roll of fame Death waits to write your lordship's name. In the escutcheon-panelled ancestral hall of the peer, surrounded by the evidences of antiquity and wealthy ease, the sepulchral visitor, unbidden, lays down his hourglass, and is shown displaying to the affrighted gaze of a fashionably apparelled old couple, the family genealogical table which he has taken the liberty of unrolling for an unexpected addition he is about to make. On that illumined roll of fame Death waits to write your lordship's name. 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_! Plate 18. _The Catchpole._ The catchpole need not fear a jail, The undertaker is his bail. A bailiff is serving a writ outside the Debtors' Prison, the barred windows of which are filled with the faces of persons captured by one _Catchpole, Sheriff's Officer_. The unfortunate prisoners, crowded behind the bars of their jail, are enjoying a grim instance of retributive justice. While the bailiff is startling his victim with his unexpected capture-bespeaking tap, Death, dart in hand, is lightly performing the same ceremony for the stalwart sheriffs officer, who is summoned in his turn, and conclusively. Thus, as he told his stern command, A grisly spectre's fleshless hand His shoulder touch'd. It chill'd his blood, And at the sight he trembling stood. 'You long have ow'd,' the Phantom said, 'What now must instantly be paid.' 'O give me time!' 'Thou caitiff dun, You know full well you gave _him_ none. Your life's the debt that I am suing; 'Tis the last process, Master Bruin.' 'I'll put in bail above.' 'No, no: OLD NICK shall be your BAIL BELOW.' Plate 19. _The Insurance Office._ Insure his life, but to your sorrow You'll pay a good round sum to-morrow. A country squire, in the prime of life, has married a young bride; he is persuaded by his frugal spouse to insure his life as a provision for her maintenance, from prudential reasons. As the young wife sensibly states the case:-- Nature, in all her freaks and fun, Has never given us a son; And there's no jointure, sir, for me Without that same contingency. For your estate's so bound and tied, So settled and transmogrified, (A thing one scarcely can believe) You've not a thousand pounds to leave. The artist has represented the couple arrived in town, and visiting the insurance office, the 'Globe,' or 'Pelican;' the actuary, the secretary, and the doctor are there to pass the customer's life, and Death--spectacles on nose and dart in hand--is also one of the party; unperceived, he is stooping down behind the seemingly robust applicant, and gloating over the mischievous prank he has in contemplation. To this the doctor sage agreed, The office then was duly fee'd, And sign'd and seal'd each formal deed. Now Death, who sometimes loves to wait At an insurance office gate, To baffle the accountant's skill And mock the calculating quill, Had just prepar'd his cunning dart To pierce _Ned Freeman's_ tranquil heart: But lest the stroke should cause dispute, And lawyers conjure up a suit, Death was determined to delay _Ned's_ exit to a future day; And the dull moment to amuse, He turn'd and kill'd a pair of Jews. Thus was the husband's life insur'd, And the wife's future wealth secur'd. But _Death_ had not forgot his fiat, So bid a fever set him quiet; And ere, alas, ten days were past, Honest Ned Freeman breath'd his last. The doctor call'd to certify His glowing health now saw him die. Thus she who lately came to town With not a doit that was her own, Weeping attends her husband's hearse, With many a thousand in her purse, And proves that she's of wives the best Who knows her _real interest_. Plate 20. _The Schoolmaster._ Death with his dart proceeds to flog Th' astonished, flogging pedagogue. The learned schoolmaster, whose years have reached a respectable longevity, is surprised in the midst of his tasks, while training the minds of the youths around him, to discover the grim skeleton Death, _mors pulsat_, concerning whose approach he is well stored with classic instances, seated astride of the terrestrial globe, to the consternation of the scared and flying scholars. The well-read pedagogue is inclined to give his visitor a lesson from Horace in good manners. That he at least should knock, and wait Till some one opes th' unwilling gate. To which Death retorts in reply:-- Doctor, this dart will neither speak In Hebrew, Latin, or in Greek, But has a certain language known In ev'ry age as in our own. The pale spectre proceeds to remind his charge of the prolonged allowance of life which has been allotted to the pedagogue, although he finds his years have proved too short to allow him to complete the legacy of learning it was his fond ambition to leave behind him. The doctor, who seems a kindly preceptor, and one whose self-composure it is difficult to disturb, while resigning his mind to his own fate, is interceding for his pupils. 'But you'll at least these urchins spare, They are my last, my only care.' 'I'll hurt them not, I'll only scare 'em: So die, and _Mors est finis rerum_, Which, for your scholars, I'll translate, Death strikes the learn'd, the little, and the great!' Plate 21. _The Coquette._ I'll lead you to the splendid crowd: But your next dress will be a shroud. A dashing belle, of majestic presence--according to Rowlandson's design--is standing before a toilette table which is elegantly fitted; her costume is just completed, and her tire-woman is holding a light wrapper, when, in spite of the exertions made by a duenna to restrain his brusque invasion, an unexpected intruder is gliding into the handsome chamber. Bowing with the extreme of mock politeness, Death has come as cavalier to escort the lady, who was preparing for a masquerade; his hourglass and dart are slung by his side, he sports a fashionable powdered wig, with a solitaire, a red coat, a cocked hat, dandified pumps, and a frill, which he is fingering with the air of a _petit maître_. According to Coombe's verses, we learn that Flavia, a young lady of _ton_, whose sister is but recently dead, cannot resist the temptation to cast off her mourning for one evening, and apparel herself as the 'Queen of Beauty,' to appear at midnight at Lady Mary's ball. But, as her lovely form receiv'd The robe which Fashion's hand had weav'd, A shape appear'd of such a mien As Flavia's eyes had never seen. 'How dare you enter here,' she said, 'And what's this saucy masquerade? Who are you? Betty, ring the bell.' The Shape replied--''Twill be your knell. I'll save you from the swelt'ring crowd, Form'd by the vain, the gay, the proud, For which your tawdry mind prepares Its fruitless, its coquettish airs. Lady, you now must quit your home For the cool grotto of a tomb. Be not dismay'd; my gallant dart Will ease the flutt'rings of your heart.' He grinn'd a smile; the jav'lin flies, When Betty screams--and Flavia dies! Plate 22. _Time, Death, and Goody Barton. A Causette._ On with your dead, and I'll contrive To bury this old fool alive. Old Time, armed with his scythe, is driving his mortuary cart through a village; the horse is a mere skeleton, but the vehicle is heavily loaded, humanity is heaped up like carcases of no account, in fact the melancholy receptacle is as full as it will hold, and the wheel is passing over the neck of a frightened cur. Death is acting as collector, and has picked up one of the plagues of the village, a troublesome old man, who is kicking, fighting, and protesting against the violent illegality of Death's treatment in throwing his lot amongst the defunct. Stern Time, on the box, is turning round to remonstrate with his assistant. _Time._ While he shows that living face, With me he cannot have a place. _Death._ 'Tis true the fellow makes a riot: There's one jerk more--and now he's quiet. A young wife, who has a soldier-lad in attendance waiting for the shoes of her old husband, is dragging forth an ancient cripple, and pushing him on against his will:-- _Death._ My goody, 'tis too late to-day, Time's moving on, and will not stay; But be at rest and save your sorrow, The cart will call again to-morrow. Plate 23. _The Undertaker and the Quack._ The doctor's sick'ning toil to close, 'Recipe coffin' is the dose. A prosperous quack practitioner, meditating over his specific _sovereign pill to cure all ills_, is riding gravely through the streets of a picturesque country town. As his hack is passing Screwtight the undertaker's window, that worthy is thrown into consternation, for he recognises, immovably perched behind the cogitating empiric, the figure of a grim rider with whose presence he is too professionally familiar to be deceived. And leaping on the doctor's hack, Sat close and snugly at his back; And as they reach'd Ned Screwtight's door, Death sneez'd--and Nostrum was no more. The undertaker is plunged into sincere mourning for the loss of his great patron; his less far-seeing wife declares he ought to rejoice at his good fortune, since there's the job of burying the deceased doctor. Screwtight hung down his head and sigh'd: 'You foolish woman,' he replied, 'Old Nostrum there stretch'd on the ground Was the best friend I ever found. The good man lies upon his back, And trade will now be very slack. How shall we undertakers thrive, With doctors who keep folks alive? You talk of jobs; I swear 'tis true, I'd sooner do the job for you. We've cause to grieve, say what you will, For when quacks die, they cease to kill.' Plate 24. _The Masquerade._ Such is the power and such the strife That ends the masquerade of life. A masked ball is represented at its height, gaily attended, and held in the Pantheon or some similar building. A dance is proceeding; the most diversified scenes meet the eye on all sides, and Rowlandson has given full play to his humorous inventive faculties. In the front of the picture the crowd of merrymakers, all unthinking and unprepared, are horrified to discover a new turn abruptly given to the travesty; the tall figure of Death has suddenly cast away his disguising domino, and holding aside a demoniac mask, is revealing to the terrified spectators the actual figure of the skeleton-destroyer, armed with his dart, and in grim earnest to strike. Harlequins, nuns, monks, devils, Turks, toxopholites, bacchantes, jockeys, Punch, Falstaff, Jupiter, Ophelia, Friar Tuck, watchmen, magicians, fair enchantresses and Circassians, archbishops, Roman heroes, and Grand Signiors--characters in vogue in Rowlandson's day--are thrown down pell-mell and trampling one over the other in their eagerness to get as far away as possible from this unwelcome and awful addition to the excitement of the revelry; this ghastly joker who with unequivocal reality is threatening to extinguish their gaieties for ever. Plate 25. _The Deathblow_. How vain are all your triumphs past, For this set-to will be your last. Two prize-fighters have met on Epsom Downs to decide the championship of the 'Ring,' with umpires, bottle-holders, and all the paraphernalia of the 'fancy.' In the artist's picture one of the combatants has received a fatal blow, and he is stretched lifeless on the turf. The grim figure of Death, the bony personification which permeates the series, has suddenly joined the sport, and he is squaring up to the scared victor in a scientific and confident attitude; the horrified champion is unconsciously raising his strong arms to guard himself against this new opponent, though justly disinclined to continue such an unequal contest. Impressed by the fatal ending of the man he has beaten the winner has conscientiously registered a vow, on the spur of the moment, 'to never fight again.' But Death appear'd! Once more, my friend, Yes, one round more, and all will end. The crowds of fashionable and sporting spectators are all dispersing at the top of their speed, running and driving away from this unexpected opponent, and turning their backs on this involuntary renewal of their favourite diversion. Confusion reign'd throughout the scene, And the crowds hurried from the Green. The roads were quickly covered o'er With chaise and pair and chaise and four, While curricles and gigs display The rapid fury of their way, And many a downfall grac'd the day. As _Playgame_ claim'd a flying bet, His new-built tilb'ry was o'erset: Lord Gammon's barouche met its fate In contact with a turnpike-gate; And _Ned Fly's_ gig, that hurried after, Was plung'd into a pond of water. But, would it not be vain to tell The various chances that befel Horsemen and footmen who that day From _Death's_ dread challenge ran away? For when th' affrighted crowd was gone, And DEATH and HARRY were alone, The spectre hasten'd to propose That they should forthwith come to blows; But Harry thought it right to say, 'As no one's here to see fair play, I'll try your strength another day. Besides, I know not how you're made, I look for substance, you're a Shade, A bag of bones; for aught I know, Old _Broughton_, from the shades below: And though alive I should not dread His power, I war not with the dead.' Thus keeping well his guard he spoke, When grinning Death put in a stroke Which did the short-liv'd round decide, And _Sheffield Harry_, in his pride, Was laid by _Tom from London's_ side. Plate 26. _The Vision of Skulls. (In the Catacombs.)_ As it appears, though dead so long, Each skull is found to have a tongue. A party of the fashionably curious are carrying their taste for sight-seeing down into the catacombs, and the fragments of decaying humanity are lighted up for their ghastly entertainment. In the instance designed by Rowlandson the visitors are lost in horror at the spectacle of the grinning human skulls arranged in trim arcades; they do not notice the person of their conductor, who is more fearful to look upon than the relics around. Death himself, dart in hand, is condescending to act as showman to the gallery of his own furnishing; the torch he holds is whirled aloft in his grisly left arm, in an instant it will be flung into a well of water, which the holiday-makers have not distinguished; darkness must succeed, and many of the spectators may follow the flambeau or lose their way in terror-striking and fearful labyrinths which extend for leagues under the city. Plate 27. _The Porter's Chair._ What watchful care the portal keeps! A porter he who never sleeps. Seated snugly in the hall-porter's easy-chair before the handsome mantel and cheerful fire in the marble-paved hall of a nobleman's mansion, with its statues and embellishments telling of ease, taste, and profusion, is our old friend the grim hero of the series. He is waiting quite tranquilly, impatience is foreign to his impassive temperament; his hourglass is on the ground at his side; his dart is held negligently, but in readiness; a nocturnal bird is hovering suggestively over his fleshless head; he has supplanted the night-porter, and is probably sitting there attending the return of the unprepared owner of these rich surroundings. Some sound has alarmed the servants; the butler has stolen down in his nightcap, armed with sword and pistol; he is collapsed with terror, and his defences are dropping from his hand on making the discovery that Death has established himself in the hall; and the fat cook, who is also paralysed with horror, has taken a false step, and is falling giddily down the staircase, whence her head will come in violent contact with the marble floor; and Death without turning in his seat may confidently count upon one victim in advance. For at the time Death's pleas'd to come, We all of us must be at home. Plate 28. _The Pantomime._ Behold the signal of Old Time, That bids you close your pantomime. A pantomimic scene is transpiring; according to the artist's picture, it is the very last place where Death's ghastly impersonation could be considered a diverting addition to the company. The background represents the sea-shore; Columbine, supported on the arm of Harlequin, is pirouetting and posturing in amorous poses; the other personages of the mimic theatre are thrown into actions which are entirely unpremeditated, while their countenances wear expressions which supply ghastly contrasts to their motley. Death once more has intruded his bony person on the stage, the inevitable dart is held slily behind him, and in the painted and terror-stricken faces of Pierrot and Pantaloon the tale-telling hourglass is held up, the sand has run through, and the mummers must away hence. The stage wizard is stretched at length on his back, and his wonder-working magic sword is mere lath and tinsel before the weapon of this grim supernatural actor, who has come, unengaged, to give a new turn to the show. Thus may Death's image aid delight, 'Mid the gay scen'ry of the night: But in the pantomime of years, 'Tis serious all when Death appears. For then no grin can Pierrot save; He finds the trap a real grave; Old Pantaloon, with all his care, Will cease to be an actor there; _Lun's_ magic sword, with all its art, Must yield to Fate's resistless dart, And when life's closing scene is o'er, The curtain falls to rise no more. Plate 29. _The Horse Race._ This is a very break-neck heat; And, squire jockey, you are beat. The artist has pictured a race-course; in the distance the grand stand, a group of tents, and crowds of equestrians and equipages may be distinguished. A file of race-horses, with their jockeys and trainers, are being walked up to the starting point. A crowd of mounted 'sporting gents,' the _élite_ of the patrons of the turf, are assembled round the 'betting post,' shouting the odds and eagerly making their engagements before the approaching start. Nearer the spectator is displayed some of the fun of the course, which never failed to strike Rowlandson's eye. An old dame has a table and an arrow, at which sundry juvenile rustics are gambling for cakes, and a Jew pedlar is tossing with two sportive urchins for nuts. The _Dead Heat_ referred to in Coombe's lines is shown in the person of an anxious country squire, who, afraid of arriving at the betting post too late to speculate, is pushing his horse along madly to arrive in time, without noticing a skeleton steed, neck and neck with his own, whose jockey is the inevitable skeleton, _Mors_, wearing a gay cap and feather, and turning his dart to account as a riding-whip. Now Jack was making to the post, The busy scene of won and lost, When to all those he saw around, He cried, 'I offer fifty pound, That to yon gambling place I get Before you all.' Death took the bet. The squire's mare was _Merry Joan_, And Death rode _Scrambling Skeleton_. They started, nor much time was lost Before they reach'd the gambling host: But ere they reach'd the betting pole, Which was the terminating goal, O'er a blind fiddler _Joan_ came down, With fatal force poor Jack was thrown, When a stone on the verdure laid Prov'd harder than the rider's head. Death way'd aloft his dart and fled. Plate 30. _The Dram-Shop._ Some find their death by sword and bullet, And some by fluids down the gullet. Death is discovered nefariously at work adulterating the spirit-casks with vitriol and aquafortis. Plate 31. _The Gaming-Table._ Whene'er Death plays, he's sure to win! He'll take each knowing gamester in. Death, the successful player, is shown stripping the table of the stakes and breaking the bank by force. But Death, who, as he roams about, May find the _Gaming Table_ out; * * * * * He enters; when the fearful shout Echoes around of 'turn him out.' 'No,' he replies, 'that gold is mine: Gamester, that gold you must resign. Now life's the main,' the spectre cries: He throws, and lo! the gamester dies. Plate 32. _The Battle._ Such is, alas, the common story Of blood and wounds, of death and glory. Death is engaged in serving a battery which is sweeping all before it. Plate 33. _The Wedding._ Plutus commands, and to the arms Of doting age she yields her charms. Death, with a wig, bands, and gown, is within the altar railings performing the marriage service with an air of mocking reverence; the actors in the marriage ceremony do not appear to have recognised the dread personage who is tying the nuptial knot, to be instantly cut asunder by the end of the effete bridegroom. Plate 34. _The Skaters._ On the frail ice, the whirring skate Becomes an instrument of fate. The scene represents one of the parks, the waters are frozen over and crowded with pleasure-seekers of both sexes indulging their amusement in the teeth of danger--nay, as it appears in the picture, in the very jaws of death. The skeleton foe is taking his pastime amongst the crowd, and combining relaxation with business. The ice is suddenly giving way in all directions, and the skaters are tripped up by the grim evolutionist. They are falling headlong into the water, fatal casualties are occurring on all sides, and the distant crowds, who are scrambling away incontinently since the arch-enemy has volunteered to share their pastime, are coming into violent collision, and falling on the ice, breaking their limbs or suffering fatal concussions. Plate 35. _The Duel._ Here honour, as it is the mode, To Death consigns the weighty load. Nowhere could Death's presence be more suitably manifested than on the field of honour; and, as the artist has pictured the situation, the parties are met to settle some trifling dispute; seconds and surgeons are naturally in attendance. Death is promptly dashing in and dragging off a stout combatant in the prime of life, who, having just received his quietus, is caught in the arms of the omniscient and universal antagonist before his falling body can touch his mother earth. Plate 36. _The Bishop and Death._ Though I may yield my forfeit breath, The Word of Life defies thee, Death. The artist, with that talent which distinguished him above his contemporaries, has concluded the first volume of the _Dance of Death_ with a nobler design; an occasion is presented with deeper purpose wherein Death is shorn of the majesty of terror. A venerable bishop, seated in a handsome Gothic apartment of the episcopal palace, with the Book of Life open before him, and his chaplain in attendance, is receiving an abrupt visitation from the ghastly spectre. The difficulty of frightening the reverend victim, whose mind seems well prepared for the end, however premature, has made Death put himself somewhat out of the way to appear sensationally startling; his grim humour seems to have been laid aside for once, and he is weakly seeking effect in a theatrical pose, striking a stagey attitude, poising his weapon, and holding on high his warning hourglass. The whole impression is admirably conveyed. The Destroyer's posture is pretentious without being imposing; he has missed his point; this bombastical terrorism has nothing of the terrific left in it, and Death looks somewhat disappointed on failing to produce more consternation. The bishop is calmly receiving his turbulent visitor, with an air which seems to demand, without perturbation: 'O Death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?' THE ENGLISH DANCE OF DEATH. SECOND VOLUME. Plate 1. _The Suicide._ Death smiles, and seems his dart to hide, When he beholds the suicide. Upon a rock-bound shore, whose jagged boulders come down to the deep, dashes a troubled sea, the waters of which are settling down after a tempest. Upon the foam floats the form of a drowned man; above is seen the figure of a female, forlorn and reckless, who has come to meet her future husband, and finds only his corpse--his life lost in a valiant effort to succour a sinking fellow-creature from a wreck. The tidings to the bride were brought, In frantic haste the spot she sought, And viewing from the heights above All that remain'd for her to love, She darted headlong to the tide, And on her Henry's bosom died. Death is present at this moving scene, lolling at his ease on the rock from whence the maiden is plunging; his dart is affectedly put aside, and he is pretending to wipe away a sentimental tear. Plate 2. _Champagne, Sherry, and Water-Gruel._ Have patience, Death, nor be so cruel To spoil the sick man's water-gruel. The verses intended to illustrate this picture of Death's visitations contain an argument between three friends on the best means of regulating their lives; the artist has worked out this theory in his plate. One member of the party assembled, a stout florid old gentleman, declares his golden rule in life has been to please himself, so he and his daughter are illustrating his text by drinking full bumpers of champagne; beside him, sipping his thimblefuls of sherry, is another theorist, who has passed his days in moderate indulgences. In an invalid chair beside the fire sits their host, a vaporous hypochondriac, who has passed his existence in humouring imaginary ills on a diet of sago and doctor's stuff. His nurse is preparing a saucepan of gruel, which the _Mortis Imago_, as his convivial friend has christened him, is preferring to more exhilarating beverages. Death has stepped in and settled the question as to which of these old schoolfellows shall last the longest; he has placed his bony hand on the shoulder of the great patron of doctors, and before departing with his 'meagre meal' he is giving the friends, who are allowed to survive for the time being, this piece of gratuitous advice if they would put off his visits as long as possible:-- Extremes endeavour to forego, Nor feed too high, nor feed too low. Plate 3. _The Nursery._ Death rocks the cradle: life is o'er: The infant sleeps, to wake no more. This picture may be designated a warning to fashionable mothers. A fine infant has been 'put out to nurse;' it is evident that the child would have been better at home. The 'foster mother' is a coarse sloven, and has neglected her charge for her self-indulgence. The natural parent, a handsome young woman, dressed in the height of the mode, and accompanied by friends of quality, has yielded to a sudden impulse to pay a visit to her offspring. The door of the cottage is opened, and this is what meets the horrified eyes of the party. The nurse sunk in a drunken sleep, her head on a cushion, another cushion at her feet, a flagon of spirits at her elbow and a glass in her hand, and a starved cat on her chair; the infant's food upset on the floor, the apartment neglected, a clothes-line and damp linen stretched over the infant's head, and Death sitting by, grotesquely rocking the cradle, and singing his mortal lullaby. No shrieks, no cries will now its slumbers break, The infant sleeps,--ah, never to awake! Plate 4. _The Astronomer._ Why, I was looking at the Bear: But what strange planet see I there! The astronomer, who from his surroundings would also seem a student of miscellaneous sciences, is seated in his observatory, deep in the contemplation of the planets. Grim Death has called to summon the 'learned Senex' hence, and he is playing his victim a final prank. One evening, as he view'd the sky Through his best tube with curious eye, And 'mid the azure wilds of air Pursu'd the progress of a star, A figure seem'd to intervene, Which in the sky he ne'er had seen, But thought it some new planet given, To dignify his views of heaven. 'Oh, this will be a precious boon! Herschel's volcanoes in the Moon Are nought to this,' old Senex said; 'My fortune is for ever made.' 'It is, indeed,' a voice replied: The old man heard it, terrified; And as Fear threw him to the ground, Through the long tube Death gave the wound. Plate 5. _The Father of the Family._ The doctors say that you're my booty; Come, sir, for I must do my duty. Death, in this picture, has rather a hard tussle for it. His friends, the learned physicians, who are pocketing their fees, and turning their backs on their late patient, are hurrying away. Death, with a great show of force, has seized his victim, still in the pride of manhood, by the dressing-gown, and is seeking to drag him from the frantic embraces of those to whom his life is dear. The father and mother are remonstrating with this merciless abductor; the blooming wife and infants of the unfortunate are cast down in despair; his sisters have seized him boldly round the waist, and, one behind the other, are making a sturdy stand against the fatal messenger; the servants and all the inmates of the noble mansion have rushed out, and are endeavouring by their entreaties, or by a show of resistance, to stay the steps of the tyrant. Plate 6. _The Fall of Four-in-Hand._ Death can contrive to strike his blows By overturns and overthrows. Death has come again, in his irresistible shape, and he has found the occasion ready to his hand. A dashing charioteer, a man of wealth and fashion, with a gaily attired female by his side, is tearing along, eager to leave behind The common coursers of the wind, In more than phaetonic state, For every horse had won a plate. But on arriving at a low bridge, which spans a torrent, the blood horses become unmanageable; the driver sighs for a 'tight postilion,' and behold on the 'leader' is seated one who will spur the whole team to destruction; the horses are sent over the narrow bridge, the tall curricle is capsized, and eternity is instantly opened to the careless pleasure-seekers. Plate 7. _Gaffer Goodman._ Another whiff, and all is o'er, And Gaffer Goodman is no more. Gaffer Goodman is a selfish sybarite, who has secured a charming rustic maiden for his wife, as being a proceeding more economical than engaging a nurse. The gaffer, whose existence is centred on creature comforts, is seated in his huge easy-chair, under a row of goodly hams, a provision for the future, before his Brobdingnagian fireplace, with a cosy nightcap, dressing-gown, and slippers for ease, meditating over the good things preparing for dinner, his beer jug ready to hand and warming, sunk in the tranquil enjoyment of his pipe. Another smoker has, unperceived by the gaffer, planted himself by his side, burlesquing his enjoyment, and timing his whiffs to the final puff. The neat and pretty wife, sacrificed to the selfishness of the old yeoman, is cheerfully spinning her flax at the open window, leaning through which the artist has introduced a well-favoured youth, her late sweetheart, discarded by necessity, but soon to be consoled, as the lady is assuring the lad of her heart. 'When I declare that I'll be true To Gaffer Goodman, and to you: And when he does his breath resign, Be wise--and Strephon, I'll be thine.' 'Then take her, Strephon,' Death replied, Who smoking sat by Goodman's side: 'Her husband's gone, as you may see, For his last pipe he smok'd with me.' Plate 8. _The Urchin Robbers._ O the unconscionable brute! To murder for a little fruit! The plate represents a pretty, trimly kept garden, belonging to a mansion of some pretensions. A group of young marauders have been stripping the orchard. They are suddenly scared by the apparition of the gardener, whose person is disclosed over a bush beside his greenhouses, where, gun in hand, he has been lying in ambush, to teach his troublesome tormentors a lesson. Some of the marauders have gained the wall, and are dragging up their comrades. Others are following, loaded with well-filled bags of plunder; a bigger lad is seized in the rear by the gardener's dog. The man has no deadly intentions, he merely wishes to frighten the urchins as a warning; but the grim figure is lurking undiscovered by his side; the musket is discharged, and to the affright of the custodian of the fruit, a youth falls lifeless to the ground. 'Twas not his aim which had wrought this mischief; the whole affair was pre-arranged by his unperceived companion, with the most plausible motives, as Death himself confesses. I drove the boy to scale the wall, I made th' affrighted robber fall, I plac'd beneath the pointed stone That he had crack'd his skull upon. I've been his best and guardian friend, And sav'd him from a felon's end: Scourging and lectures had been vain! The rascal was a rogue in grain, And, had I lengthen'd out his date, The gallows would have been his fate. You living people oft mistake me, I'm not so cruel as you make me. Plate 9. _Death turned Pilot._ The fatal pilot grasps the helm, And steers the crew to Pluto's realm. The sea is in a tempest, and the wrecks of two good ships are battling with the foaming waters. A number of unfortunate creatures are endeavouring to escape in a longboat, pulled by the rowers with the vigour of despair; but the struggle for life is cut short; grim Death has taken his place in the stern, he is exultingly flourishing Time's hourglass before the horrified survivors, and wilfully steering the bark to destruction; the head of the boat is dipping beneath the waves, and a watery grave completes Death's handiwork. Plate 10. _The Winding-up of the Clock._ No one but me shall set my clock: He set it, and behold the shock. The picture represents a general scene of downfall. A stout clergyman has obstinately insisted on his right to attend to his own timepiece over the chimney-glass. His fat body has lost its balance, the steps are overturned, the breakfast table and its equipage are brought to ruin; the shock, aided by the sly hand of Death in ambush, has upset his portly wife in her arm-chair, and a general destruction is hinted of persons and property alike. Plate 11. _The Family of Children._ 'Twere well to spare me two or three Out of your num'rous family. In this plate we are introduced to a scene of extensive domestic felicity; at a breakfast-table is seated the father of a numerous family, surrounded by fourteen pledges of conjugal affection; another child is in a nurse's arms, and in the apartment beyond may be perceived the worthy and prolific partner of his joys, who has lately presented her husband with their sixteenth infant. Death proposes to take one or two of these children under his charge, but the good father will not hear of it. 'Well then, let it be the infant,' proposes the greedy fiend. 'No, 'twould break the mother's heart!' 'Whom shall I strike then?' Death demands. The benevolent parent can only suggest 'the nurse.' Plate 12. _Death's Door._ In this world all our comfort's o'er, So let us find it at Death's door. Death's bony person is half thrust through his portals--which lead to the grave--as he has been disturbed by a boisterous summons thundered at his gate. He seems quite shocked at the importunities of a crowd of unfortunates who are clamorous in their demands for instant admittance to the unknown realms. Madmen, the extremely aged, the gouty, the bereaved, those afflicted with poverty, disease, scolding wives, the hungering, cripples, forsaken ones, and a multitude of various sufferers to whom the buffets of life have proved insupportable, are supplicating refuge from an unkindly world. Plate 13. _The Fire._ Let him go on with all his rigs; We're safe; he'll only burn the pigs. Death in this plate is represented as a reckless incendiary; he is flourishing a brace of flaming torches, and is bent on doing all the mischief within his power. A farmhouse is the object of his destructiveness; the cattle are escaping, and the family, disturbed from their slumbers by fire, are huddled together with such articles as could be secured in a hurried flight when their own lives were endangered. The unfortunate pigs may count on being roasted, as nothing can save the farm from the flames. Plate 14. _The Miser's End._ Old dad at length is grown so kind, He dies, and leaves his wealth behind. The miser is laid out prone, half-starved, his stiffening hands are still grasping bonds, notes, and a bag of money; his body is propped up by a 'book of interest,' and he has died, without the ease of a bed, on a mattress placed on the floor of his strong room. His iron boxes and money chests are opened by Death, who is leading the miser's delighted heirs into the treasure-chamber, where the bags of wealth, heaps of coin, and files of securities have banished all remembrance of the miserable corpse, lately the self-denying hoarder of these superfluous riches. Plate 15. _Gretna Green._ Love, spread your wings, I'll not outstrip 'em, Though Death's behind, he will not clip 'em. A coach-and-four, driven by two postilions, is speeding off to Scotland; it contains a fair ward, and a captain, her abductor. This hopeful pair are eloping to Gretna Green; the ward is escaping from the house of her old guardian, who had a desire to marry her himself for her wealth; the baffled and avaricious tyrant is riding his hardest to overtake the fugitives, who are threatening him with pistols held out of either window. Death, mounted on a skeleton steed, is riding step for step with the pursuer, whose horse will presently stumble, the chase will be over, and the greedy guardian's schemes will be abruptly brought to an end. Plate 16. _The Waltz._ By Gar, that horrid, strange buffoon Cannot keep time to any tune. A French dancing-master, while playing on the fiddle, is exercising a pretty and graceful maiden in the dance; the professor is out of temper with the fair pupil's partner, although the lady seems absorbed in the excitement of the motion. 'Tis Death waltzing his delicate victim--entranced and unsuspicious--into a consumption, which will end in the churchyard. Plate 17. _Maternal Tenderness._ Thus it appears a pond of water May prove an instrument of slaughter. The picture in this instance represents a lake situated in a noble park. Two youths have been tempted to bathe; one is lifted out of the water apparently lifeless. His mother, who has been alarmed by the intelligence of her son's danger, has just arrived, at the instant that the seemingly dead body is borne to the bank. The sudden shock has proved too much for nature to withstand. The tender parent falls back overpowered and unconscious, and Death, with an air of solicitude, is ready there to catch her falling form in his bony support, since she has become his charge. Plate 18. _The Kitchen._ Thou slave to ev'ry gorging glutton, I'll spit thee like a leg of mutton. While dinner is just prepared for my lord's table the stout _chef_ and his attendant myrmidons are thrown into disorder by the appearance of an unwelcome intruder. Dishes are dropped, everything is forgotten but personal security. The fat first male cook is the object of Death's attack, and the grim skeleton, armed with a long roasting spit, is trampling over the fallen person of a frightened kitchen-maid, and is proceeding to impale the great _chef_, who is the only person present that is making a stand against the assassin. Plate 19. _The Gig._ Away they go, in chaise and one, Or to undo or be undone. A sporting tradesman, driving a highly spirited horse, is taking his lady out for exercise on an excursion. Frightened by a dog, the mettlesome horse is dashing away distracted; another object, the figure of Death seated on a milestone, has completed the scare; the steed is tearing wildly towards the margin of a cliff which overhangs the sea; the driver is trying to pull up, the reins snap, and he is dashed out on his head, while his companion leaps off, to fall a corpse at the feet of the grim figure perched on the milestone. Plate 20. _The Mausoleum._ Your crabbed dad is just gone home: And now we look for joys to come. The heroine of this adventure is an heiress who is loved by a certain lord, but in spite of the daughter's inclinations and the quality of the suitor, the crabbed father will neither part with his child nor his wealth while he retains his place in life. This impediment is removed in the picture. While the unreasonable parent is hobbling on his crutches into the entrance of a mausoleum, the door of which Death is assiduous to open for the reception of his expected visitor, the happy couple, overjoyed, are walking, locked in a tender embrace, to his lordship's equipage, at the door of which two footmen are standing in readiness, while the coachman is waiting to drive the delighted pair to be married. Plate 21. _The Courtship._ It is in vain that you decide: Death claims you as his destin'd bride. Another fair heiress forms the subject of this fresh whim of Death's fancy. The lady is what the author terms a 'philosopher in love,' and she cannot decide to quit her state of independence. A conclave of her suitors are assembled to argue the marriage question, and, by the maiden's wish, to allow her a chance of judging by comparison. The array of aspirants is comprehensive; there is a colonel, a lawyer, a parson, a doctor, a quaker, and a baronet. Each pretender to her hand and fortune in turn argues the inducements he has to plead; this done, it rests with the lady to reply to the respective arguments and examine their motives. While logically disposing of all their fine persuasions, the intractable fair is claimed by a suitor who will take no denial. The reasoning of the arch-enemy is unanswerable:-- She is not fit, strange maid, to wed With living wight, but with the dead: I therefore seize her as my bride. Belinda trembled, gasp'd, and died. Plate 22. _The Toastmaster._ 'The end of life,' the chairman cries; 'Tis drank--and many a toper dies. A scene of gross intoxication is proceeding. A convivial company is assembled; the effort of every individual's ambition is apparently the downfall of his neighbour by successive toasts; bowl succeeds bowl, and half the assembly are _hors de combat_. A new chairman has, uninvited, installed himself at the head of the table, and he is making the liquor circulate with such hearty goodwill that the topers have received him, in spite of his repellant exterior, as one of themselves. Death has ordered in fresh supplies of steaming punch, which he is ladling out to the fascinated tipplers; it is the final toast, and no one dares refuse to pledge it. 'One bumper more,' and the jovial meeting will be dissolved for ever. Plate 23. _The Careless and the Careful._ The careful and the careless led To join the living and the dead. The picture introduces us to the gate of Vauxhall Gardens; the light-hearted visitors are quitting the entertainment. The wise virgins are carefully wrapped up with cloaks, hoods, scarves, and muffs, and duly lighted home by cautious guardians carrying lanterns. In the foreground the foolish revellers are portrayed. They have left the heated dancing room in their light attire; a couple of giddy maidens, who are too careless to wait for their coach, are skipping off into the damp and chilling atmosphere without a wrapper, their thin dresses blowing in the wind, and running home under the escort of a gallant major. Death, with a jaunty cap on his head, and muffled in a cloak which disguises his ghostly frame, is dancing before, a very 'will-o'-the-wisp,' dangling about a flickering lantern, a dangerous guide whom they fail to recognise. 'Twas Death, alas, who lit them home, And the fools' frolic seal'd their doom. Plate 24. _The Law Overthrown._ The serjeant's tongue will cease to brawl In every court of yonder Hall. A busy lawyer, hastening away from Westminster Hall, where he has been exercising his lungs, has jumped into a chariot without noticing the driver on the box-seat. In this case Death is officiating as charioteer; he is whipping his horses with a vengeance. The serjeant's coach is endangering the life of a brother counsel, a dog is running between the frightened barrister's legs, and his end seems imminent. Death has chosen to wreck the carriage over a pile of stones and a heavily-loaded wheelbarrow which the paviours have left in the course of road-mending. The serjeant, brief in hand, is thrusting his angry face through the front of the capsizing vehicle, vehemently threatening penalties and vowing to bring an action against his coachman. Fate to the stones his head applies; The action's brought--the serjeant dies. Plate 25. _The Fortune-teller._ All fates he vow'd to him were known, And yet he could not tell his own. In this instance we are introduced to the 'chamber of mystery' of a pretended fortune-teller. The empiric seer is surrounded by the paraphernalia of his profession; a crocodile is suspended to the ceiling, above a mystic string of orbs, and the globes have an uncanny black cat perched thereon, a witch at the least. Two credulous ladies of fashion have called to consult the pretentious impostor, who rejoices in the fur cap, flowing robes, long beard, and divining rod of a magician; a book of nativities is open before him:--'To me all fates, all fortunes known;' to which Death retorts, in hollow voice: 'Vain boaster, tell your own.' A greater conjuror is present concealed behind Merlin's seat; a jerk, and the wizard is no longer above deception; he is overturned, his neck is broken amidst the wreck of his mummeries scattered around. Plate 26. _The Lottery Office._ To trust to fortune's smiles alone, Is the high road to be undone. The evil of permitting lotteries, which were still in existence and flourishing at the time this plate was projected, is set forth in a graphic design. A crowd of needy adventurers have hurried to the lottery office, eager to know if fortune has assigned them lucky numbers. Jews, misers, and all sorts of gamblers, including a mob of hardy rogues who have purloined their employers' property to tempt the smiles of the fickle goddess, are darting from the office in dismay. An unlucky female, who has ventured her all, and even risked the means and belongings of others on the chance of winning a prize, has come to inquire her fate. The grim foe has exultingly taken his place among the clerks; he is holding out two blanks with an air of fiendish malice, and the shock is proving a deathblow to the unfortunate fair gambler, she is expiring in the office. Plate 27. _The Prisoner Discharged._ Death, without either bribe or fee, Can set the hopeless pris'ner free. Death in this case is still shown interfering with the course of others' business. The picture represents a debtors' prison; a wife and two daughters have come to visit an unhappy captive, the head of the family, who is detained by a relentless creditor. They just arrive in time to see their relative released beyond the resistance of mortal detainers. The deadly foe has called at the gate, the prisoner is summoned forth, warders and turnkeys dare not refuse to let him free in such company. A mortified Shylock and his disappointed lawyer are furiously pointing to their bonds, and dancing with rage to find their ends defeated by the grim joker, who is grinning at their manifest discomfiture. Plate 28. _The Gallants Downfall._ Th' assailant does not feel a wound, But yet he dies--for he is drown'd. A military Don Juan is the unfortunate hero of this adventure. He loves the beauteous daughter of a fire-eating superannuated colonel, Full of romantic gallantry, he has planted a ladder at his mistress's window, and is mounting nimbly where Cupid invites him, without observing the grim figure which has hold of his scaling-ladder. The sturdy colonel, awakened by the unaccustomed and suspicious sounds in his grounds, has fired his evening gun into the darkness, at most expecting to startle the cats. Death capsizes the ladder, the youthful lieutenant loses his balance and falls headlong into a pond on the lawn, whence his body is fished out in the morning, to the surprise of the household. Plate 29. _The Churchyard Debate._ 'Tis strange, but true, in this world's strife, That Death affords the means of life. The picture in this instance gives a philosophic view of the end of man, and represents a snug assembly of the fortunate individuals who prosper professionally by the influence of the grim foe's assistance. Seated convivially on tomb-slabs, awaiting the arrival of a hearse and mourning _cortége_, is the author of the mischief hobnobbing with his friends and allies. Death and the doctor are blowing a cloud together in cheerful company, for the parson, the lawyer, and the sexton are pleased with his society. The undertaker is no less grateful to his useful patron, and even the distant bell-ringer acknowledges the value of his acquaintanceship. Plate 30. _The Good and Great._ What heartfelt tears bedew the dust Of him whose ev'ry thought was just. The funeral of a great and benevolent man is the subject of this cartoon. The venerable lord of the manor is dead; the stately funeral is setting out with its doleful attendants from the lordly hall. The coffin, with its emblazoned pall, is followed by a long train of mourners, whose sorrow is sincere; Death is congenially employing himself as bearer of the funeral plumes; and in this capacity, bending under the melancholy feathers, he is taking the lead of the procession. The tenants and villagers are standing uncovered as the body of their best friend is borne past; aged and young alike are giving way to unaffected grief, and it is evident that they regret the loss of a respected and kindly landlord, who has made himself loved by his neighbours. Plate 31. _The Next Heir._ 'Tis not the time to meet one's fate, Just ent'ring on a large estate. The _Next Heir_ forms a pendant to the _Good and Great_, and exhibits a picture the contrast of the foregoing. The nephew, a dashing London blade, has succeeded to the title and the estates. He is supposed to arrive post haste at the mansion, which is still plunged in mourning for the late owner. The pastor and the tenants are drawn up to receive their new master. The approach of the departed lord's successor is filling their faces with dismay. The devil-may-care 'blood' is tearing up to the hall in a tandem, his followers are clothed in deep black, but beyond this he displays no regard for the dead; his servants are clashing up on horseback, his huntsman is giving a blast of his horn, his grooms are shouting 'Tally-ho!' and a pack of hounds are barking on all sides. Death is acting as postilion, and as this unthinking heir drives up to the entrance-court his head is caught by the hatchment put up to the late lord, and his mad career is cut short at the very threshold. Plate 32. _The Chamber War._ When doctors three the labour share, No wonder Death attends them there. The case of the invalid who forms the principal figure in the present subject must indeed be a desperate one, since the doctors, after a wordy warfare disputing over the case of the patient and the proper treatment, have come to blows in real earnest. Medicine bottles, and all the accessories of a sick chamber, are thrown to the ground, the table is overturned, wigs are sent flying, and a regular scrimmage with fisticuffs is taking place. Four practitioners are cuffing one another in the presence of their victim, with professional energy, and the sick nurse is cutting in, attacking the shaven crowns indiscriminately with the utensils which first come to hand. The sufferer is thrown into a mortal fright, but Death has very considerately called in to attend to his wants, and his disquietude will soon cease beyond the fear of a relapse. Plate 33. _Death and the Antiquaries._ Death, jealous of his right, stands sentry Over the strange burglarious entry. A party of ardent archæologists are holding a meeting in the abbey. They have obtained permission to open a royal grave, and the sexton has performed his part, and raised the slab of the vault in which the body of a king has reposed undisturbed for centuries. The coffin is raised, the lid removed, and the corpse, with its regal trappings, is laid open to their inspection. Full of enthusiasm, the antiquaries are clustering round the coffin in crowds, eager to get a sight of the decaying monarch. Nor do they heed the risk they run, for Death, jealous of this interference with his rights, is prepared to resent their intrusion; and, mounted on an adjacent tomb, he is about to plunge his dart into the thickest of the learned throng. Plate 34. _The Dainty Dish._ This fine hot feast's a preparation To some for Death's last cold collation. A sumptuous feast is represented: the handsome dining-room is filled with voracious guests; footmen are waiting on the diners, or attending to side tables; butlers are drawing corks, course is following course, the cook and his assistant train are hurrying in with fresh dishes. Among the waiters, undetected, is our friend the grisly skeleton, who is busying himself with a dish he is conveying to the table. It is the favourite delicacy of the corpulent host, and he has expressed a desire for 'just one slice more' of his esteemed dainty. The grim foe is determined to take the entertainer at his word, and that 'one slice more' will be his last indulgence. Plate 35. _The Last Stage._ From hour to hour, from youth to age, Life's traveller takes th' uncertain stage. The sketch in this suggestive plate introduces us to the court-yard of the _Dolphin Inn_, a famous posting-house. The life to be found in these coach-yards was attractive material to our artist, and he has delineated with rare skill all the bustle and preparation of a departure. The coach is 'braced' up, the horses are put-to, the guard and his 'helps' are busied in loading luggage on the roof, and stowing parcels in the boot and under the box-seat. Bills are being settled, and farewells said by the passengers, who are booked to travel by the 'stage.' Death is assiduously attending to the loading of the coach, and he is courteously wedging a stout lady through the doorway. It is likely that he will not quit the travellers yet, but will ride, unobserved, a part of the journey, until, perhaps, in the night he will contrive some fatal upset, and his evil whim will be accomplished. Plate 36. _Time, Death, and Eternity._ The song now bursts beyond the bounds of time, And Immortality concludes the rhyme. After tracing Death's farcical pranks through seventy-one plates, in nearly all of which the mischief projected by the arch-foe is crowned with success, the artist has thought proper to abandon Death's triumphs and to show the enemy at a disadvantage. The scene is allegorically set forth in the despair and overthrow of Time, and the banishment of Death before the Everlasting Angel. The Spirit of Eternity is blowing the last trump. Time is vainly tearing out his forelock; his wings are useless; he is cast on his back, the scythe and hourglass broken, amidst the crumbling monuments around him; pyramids and temples are melting away; the monuments raised by vain man are dissolving, and Death has forfeited his fell sovereignty of destruction. The slayer is slain in turn; his crown has fallen into the abyss, his fatal dart is harmless and snapped asunder, and he, abashed and disconcerted, is crouching from his doom, and falling through to the bottomless pit. So much for the pictorial allegory. We have specially dwelt on the illustration which Rowlandson designed to finish the first part of the _Dance of Death_, wherein the spectral tyrant is displayed shorn of his terrors. The artist on occasions could sink the ludicrous and rise to the sublime. The author, as we are inclined to believe, was elevated by the subject brought under his treatment, and, finding the theme congenial to his talents, he exerted himself to bring out its stronger points. In the last picture which concludes the series we are still more impressed with the sense of his fitness for the task. Coombe, when he wrote the concluding verses to this diversified poem, was on the verge of four score; he had fought the battle of life, and found little glory and less profit in the struggle. Nature had endowed him with an agreeable person and sound health, and he was by disposition studious. He had been the idol of an hour, and (rare chance for a scholar) had found a large sum of money at his command, and dissipated sufficient wealth to realise to the full the emptiness of gratifications which depend on mere monetary advantages; he had been taught the worthlessness of fair-weather friends, the hollowness of flatterers, and knew the folly of trusting in the great; he had learned other lessons of life, and could, from his own heart, read many a homily on the deceptiveness of beauty and the quickly withered flowers of passion. He had incessantly pursued happiness through life; he had been rich, courted, cultivated, temperate, and a discriminating judge of most things that are counted desirable in the world; a ripe scholar and a perfect gentleman--if we may believe contemporary accounts--and he found all this led him to disappointment and the confinement of a debtor's prison. When evil tongues hiss forth the foul abuse, When Fortune turns away, and friends prove false, Man's peaceful refuge is the tomb. From the depths of his rich experience he had realised that the harbour of refuge 'from life's frequent storms' is found, _not_-- In the flowery vales where Pleasure sports, Nor where Ambition rears the tottering seat; 'Tis not within the miser's gloomy cave; 'Tis not within the roseate bowers of Love, Nor where the pale lamp lights the studious sage To midnight toil: alas! it is not there. And while we seek in vain amid the great, Or on the gorgeous thrones where monarchs sit, It often may be found in humble cot Where Virtue with the honest peasant dwells. And what is virtue? 'Tis the conscious power Of acting right in spite of every foe That may oppose its base, malicious aim To check the pure designs which it inspires. It is to stem the tide Corruption rolls O'er half the world, to curb the impetuous will Of lawless passion, and, on life's vast stage, To act that noble part which will attain The good man's praise and the applause of Heaven. Yes, virtue, potent virtue, can secure 'Gainst every peril; 'tis a triple shield To him who has it 'gainst the pointed darts Of ev'ry enemy; the hour of death, With all its gloom, gives not a fear to him Who triumphs o'er the grave; he stands secure Amid the ruins of a fallen world. Virtue will listen to the trumpet's sound With holy awe, yet hear it unappall'd, And feels ETERNITY its destin'd sphere: When all the works of man shake to their base, And the world melts away whereon they stood; When TIME'S last agonising hour is come, And DEATH, who from Creation's pregnant hour Has made the world a grave, himself shall die; When man from his long slumber shall awake, And the day breaks that never more shall close; Then Virtue shall its promis'd glory claim, And find it, too, at the o'erflowing source Of Heaven's stupendous and eternal joys. FOOTNOTES: [26] Now known as the Egyptian Hall. [27] _Marcus Flaminius; or, the Life of the Romans_, 1795. 1817. [Illustration: THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.] 1817-1823. _The Vicar of Wakefield, a Tale, by Doctor Goldsmith._ Illustrated with twenty-four designs by Thomas Rowlandson. Etchings dated May 1, 1817. London, published by R. Ackermann, at the Repository of Arts. Republished 1823. Sperate Miseri, Cavete Felices. Frontispiece.--The Vicar of Wakefield, a character eminently calculated to inculcate benevolence, humanity, patience in sufferings, and reliance on Providence.