Chapter XIII: Part 13

'My punch,' he continues, 'found much favour with all present, the ladies not excepted, who emptied their glasses as rapidly as if it had been lemonade. Although not dancing, I was fully employed in another way. With all our windows open, the strains of my numerous orchestra propagated their sound over the whole neighbourhood, some of whose inhabitants, impelled by the attraction of sweet sounds, could not resist favouring me with their company. The circumstance of their not being invited to the feast appeared to them a mere trifle not worthy of their attention; and an extraordinary celerity in decorating their exterior (which is all the essential part of a Neapolitan's full dress), would soon enable them to appear in company with Neapolitan decency. To my great surprise, therefore, Don Michele and I had to receive, from time to time, an influx of these unbidden guests, who in most submissive language begged a thousand pardons for their freedom and intrusion. As Don Michele, my master of the ceremonies, seemed to know them all, and, moreover, as I could neither help their coming, nor, when once arrived, turn them out, I thought it best to put a good face on the matter, and receive every one, especially the ladies, with a hearty welcome (as pictured forth in the plate), assigning them places in the adjoining room, where I contrived to form another set of dances; for the number of these parasitical guests soon grew nearly equal to that of my standard company. As my company were now capering away in two of my apartments, I blush to confess that my resolution to keep my toes in a state of quiet quiescence was shaken at last. I could have withstood the pressing solicitations of half-a-dozen of these exhilarated damsels, but for the irresistible temptation of their animated example, and of the excellent music. Fancy the loving smiles, the glistening eyes, the seducing attitudes of these pretty Neapolitan bacchantes, and then ask your conscience how long any Christian, were he even a Quaker or Moravian, could have stood proof against such attraction? The worst of the thing was, that having once broken my vow by dancing with Miss Carlina, a kind of rivalry ensued among the other ladies, most of whom now laid a successive claim to be led down a country dance by _il Signor Colonello_.

'In the course of these pedestrian evolutions I thought I observed in several of my fair partners, cheerful as they had been before, an unusual and extraordinary access of spirits and gaiety; which, with every allowance for the southern latitude and the ice punch (now administered to them the more frugally by reason of the unlooked-for increase in my numbers), I was at a loss to account for, till I saw my man Benedetto whisper something into Don Michele's ear, which the latter telegraphed into mine.

'But before I let you into this secret it is proper that, like a skilful general, I should in my report give a correct description of the localities of the field of battle. The kitchen belonging to my apartments is on the same floor with them, and in this particular the Neapolitan system of domestic architecture is not different from what you may have observed in a set of chambers, or in many old-fashioned mansions in England. Right opposite to the entrance of this kitchen of mine there is an elevated shelf, on which stand (I had better say _stood_) my three wine-bottles, of immense calibre; the first (having been emptied since my stay in the _Infrescata_) then, and now, containing from six to eight gallons of excellent atmospheric air (such as you breathe at this altitude); the second, of similar dimensions, about half full of delicious old _Pozzuoli_ wine; and the third, not less in size, brim-full of the like grape-juice, with its fluid oil-bung floating at the top.

'No sooner did one of the damsels espy the forbidden shelf than the assault thereon was a settled matter: _veni, vidi, bibi_, was the word; and my delicious _Pozzuoli_ wine fell an easy prey to their sacrilegious hands and palate. _Implentur veteris Bacchi_, or, in plain English, mesdames tippled till they had their fill, and what they left was very nearly finished by four or five half-starved footmen and other hall rabble in attendance on their worthy masters; for when Don Michele went into the kitchen he found but a small remnant in one of the bottles, which he secured in his own room.

'Inspired with the juice and further excited by the agitation of dancing, most of my fair guests became still more exhilarated; some grew ecstatically merry, and a few scarcely manageable. Surrounded by these voluptuous "bacchæ," I feared the fate of Orpheus. Their frolics, however, I must say to their credit, were chiefly levelled at Don Michele, probably because he had spoiled the continuation of their sport. The poor man had now to suffer all sorts of mischief for refusing to join in their revels, till at last, for the sake of peace, he consented to dance _one_ minuet, and no more. All was hushed in an instant, when he placed himself with his fortunate partner in the middle of the room, as stiff as buckram and as serious as if he were occupied with the solution of an algebraic problem. But no sooner had he performed the first step or two, than, in turning his body with grave elegance on the pivot of his toe, a pair of white silk garters were seen gracefully dangling down his back, and describing, at every turn of his automaton body, a variety of flowing irregular curves in the circumambient air. The merriment which this unusual sight occasioned, was in vain attempted to be stifled in a muttered titter; it soon burst out with increased violence, his wife not excepted, who heartily joined the general laugh, but informed her better half of the cause of the satisfaction he gave the company. When I learned the extent of the spoliation committed upon my bin, I did not so much regret the actual loss I thereby sustained, as apprehend some unpleasant scenes of interruption to our festivity and mirth from the excessive indulgence in the forbidden juice. However, whether it was owing to the excellence of the vintage, or to strength of constitution in the fair partakers, only one casualty occurred.

'The dawn of morn was the signal for the gradual separation of the company, from all of whom, whether of the establishment or extra guests, I had received in the course of the evening the most pressing requests to make their house my own; and to their credit I must say that, as far as I have yet had time or inclination to try the sincerity of their invitations, I have had no cause to regret my complaisance.

'When I relate that five leaden ice-moulds and eight of the confectioner's pewter spoons were missing, you will scarcely suppose that any of the good things, such as cakes, sweetmeats, &c., were suffered to remain on the sideboard at the departure of my guests. Whether this practice not to "leave a wreck behind" is as general here as in Malta, I am unable to decide. At the latter place, let the provision be ever so abundant, what the stomach cannot compass the pockets are sure to hold, and in stuffing those no great nicety is observed; so the article is portable at all, it finds its way into one or the other of the pedestrian saddle-bags as by instinct. I have been assured by one of our officers that, at a great fête which General Fox recently gave at Malta, one of the inhabitants (of sufficient rank to be of the party) very dexterously, and, as he fancied, unobserved, slipped a small pullet, wrapt in his pocket-handkerchief, into one of his side receptacles. Unfortunately, an officer near him, seeing the sleight-of-hand transaction, poured a dose of parsley and butter after it, saying very coolly, "Allow me, sir, to help you to a little sauce at the same time."'

1815. _The Dance of Death._ With illustrations, 2 vols., royal 8vo. Published by R. Ackermann. (See 1816.)

1816.

_January 10, 1816._ _Exhibition at Bullock's Museum of Bonaparte's Carriage taken at Waterloo._ Published by R. Ackermann, 101 Strand.--Bullock's museum of natural curiosities was the receptacle for most of the novelties introduced to the British public at the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries. It was here that the sight-seer might view the Laplanders with their deer and sledges, the Hottentot Venus, the Polish dwarf, the Irish giant, and other marvels for the curious which happened to hit the capricious taste of the hour. It seems that the relics of the first Napoleon, made familiar enough to our generation at Madame Tussaud's Baker Street Museum, were the chief attractions held out by the earlier Bullock in 1816. The central point of the collection is the Emperor's travelling carriage; ladies are swarming and climbing over the vehicle, being pushed, dragged, and lifted into the inside, on to the driving-box, over the roof, into the boot behind, on the wheels, and, in fact, wherever a foothold can be secured. There is an animated attendance of visitors; the fair sex are particularly distinguishing themselves. Other personal relics of the Corsican are spread about, much as we see them in our day; the bust of the exile is placed by the side of a monkey, an illustration of the prejudice in which Napoleon was held at that period, which, by the way, is not unnatural, considering the exertions which the European bugbear had employed to ruin English commerce and to alienate our possessions abroad.

1816. _Bullock's London Museum, Piccadilly._[26]--'Mr. Bullock, having purchased Bonaparte's carriage of Major von Keller, has here exhibited it. It was taken by him at the entrance of the small town of Jenappe, at eleven o'clock on the night of June 18, 1815. A full account of the carriage and its ingenious contents is to be found in the _Repository of Arts_ for February 1816.'

_March 31, 1816._ _The Attempt to Wash the Blackamoor White. In the Whitehall, City of Laputa._--There is no publisher's name on this plate, and the explanation of the subject, a military scandal, is not so clear as could be desired. An officer, dressed as a hussar, is standing in the centre, while being submitted to the whitewashing process; he wears no sword, and is holding a written defence in one hand. Above his head appears an arm, also belonging to an officer, which is menacing the hussar, who is appealing to his friends: 'O save my honour. Rub away, my friend, rub it _home_. O, 'tis the phantom of a horrid dream.' Another officer, from his uniform apparently in the Guards, is treading on a written 'oath,' and, with a pail of whitewash, is doing his best for the so-called 'Blackamoor,' declaring, 'We'll say nothing about your honour!' Another friend, in a Highland uniform, evidently a person of rank, since he wears a red riband, and has a star on his breast, is trying to obliterate the mark of a kick, which has left an ugly outline of a foot on the white pantaloons of the injured individual, but the impression is ineradicable: 'Deel o' me saul, mon, but the stain of the foot will ne'er come oot.'

1816 (?) _Bostonian Electors of Lancashire._ Published by W. Holland.

1816. _Lady Hamilton at Home, or a Neapolitan Ambassador._--The outline of this subject, which is not without its interest as a contemporary sketch of a celebrated trio, is from an original drawing in the collection of the present writer. There seems some discrepancy about the date, since Sir William Hamilton died in 1803, and the sketch evidently belongs to the latter period of the ambassador's life. Sir William Hamilton, whose collection of antiques formed a valuable addition to the national collection in the British Museum, was, it will be remembered, successful in rendering such services to Admiral Nelson, by his influence with the court of Naples, where he resided as British ambassador, that our naval hero was enabled to refit and victual his fleet entirely, without losing the time which would have been sacrificed in returning to England, and thus contributed in a marked degree to assist Nelson in surprising the French fleet in Aboukir Bay, resulting in the famous victory of the Nile, which first checked the tide of Napoleon's career, crippled the power of France, and finally compelled the armies of the Republic to withdraw from Egypt. Lady Hamilton's exertions with the Queen of Naples, over whom she had gained considerable ascendency, were not without their national importance, although her services were entirely ignored in the lady's last days, at a time when the Government left her without that future provision which Nelson, in falling fighting in his country's cause, and bequeathing her claims as a legacy to the nation, imagined he was securing for the support of his friend, who, it is reported, died in abject poverty, if she did not perish of actual want, as it has been hinted. In Rowlandson's drawing, Lady Hamilton, in classic garb, is watering a plant placed in a classic vase; ancient busts, candelabra, and urns are standing about; the furniture, implements, and accessories are all fashioned after the antique. The caricaturist has taken certain freedoms with the person of the Neapolitan ambassador, and Sir William is travestied as a stout personage, suffering from the gout. Another female figure, also draped after the antique, is touching a lyre, and chanting certain ditties of her own composition; this lady represents Miss Cornelia Knight (an authoress of some repute in her day, whose small notoriety rests on her _Continuation of Rasselas_, and her _Private Life of the Romans_)[27] who travelled in the suite of the ambassador with his lady.

A familiar description of Lady Hamilton and her party occurs in a diary by Mrs. Colonel St. George, written during her sojourn among the German courts, 1799 and 1800, and privately printed. The traveller happened to be stopping in Dresden in October 1800, when Lord Nelson, Sir William Hamilton, Lady Hamilton, her mother Mrs. Cadogan, and the poetess arrived, and were received by Mr. Elliot, the English ambassador.

The portrait of Lady Hamilton is firmly drawn. Mrs. St. George thus describes the famous 'Emma,' of whose features so many admirable paintings exist limned by the hand of Romney. 'Her figure is colossal, but, excepting her feet, well shaped. Her bones are large, and she is exceedingly _embonpoint_. She resembles the bust of Ariadne: the shape of all her features is fine, as is the form of her head, and particularly her ears; her teeth are a little irregular, but tolerably white; her eyes light blue, with a brown spot in one, which, though a defect, takes nothing away from their beauty and expression. Her eyebrows and hair are dark, and her complexion coarse. Her expression is strongly marked, variable, and interesting; her movements in common life ungraceful; her voice loud yet not disagreeable. Sir William is old, infirm, all admiration of his wife, and never spoke to-day but to applaud her. Miss Cornelia Knight seems the decided flatterer of the two, and never opens her mouth but to show forth their praise; and Mrs. Cadogan, Lady Hamilton's mother, is what one might expect. After dinner we had several songs in honour of Lord Nelson, written by Miss Knight, and sung by Lady Hamilton. She puffs the incense full in his face, but he receives it with pleasure, and sniffs it up very cordially.

'_October 7._--Breakfasted with Lady Hamilton, and saw her represent in succession the best statues and paintings extant. She assumes their attitude, expression, and drapery, with great facility, swiftness, and accuracy. Several Indian shawls, a chair, some antique vases, a wreath of roses, a tamborine, and a few children are her whole apparatus. She stands at one end of the room with a strong light on her left, and every other window closed. Her hair is short, dressed like an antique, and her gown a simple calico chemise, very easy, with loose sleeves to the wrists. She disposes of the shawls so as to form Grecian, Turkish, and other drapery, as well as a variety of turbans. Her arrangement of the turbans is absolutely sleight-of-hand, she does it so quickly, so easily, and so well. It is a beautiful performance, amusing to the most ignorant, and highly interesting to the lovers of art. The chief of her imitations are from the antique. Each representation lasts about ten minutes. It is remarkable that, coarse and ungraceful in common life, she becomes highly graceful, and even beautiful, during this performance. After showing her attitudes, she sang, and I accompanied. Her voice is good and very strong, but she is frequently out of tune; her expression strongly marked and various; but she has no flexibility, and no sweetness. She acts her songs.'

1816. _Adventures of Johnny Newcome._ Republished. (See 1815.)

1816. _Relics of a Saint, by Ferdinand._ Frontispiece by Rowlandson, 12mo.

1816. _Rowlandson's World in Miniature, consisting of groups of figures, for the illustration of landscape scenery, drawn and etched by T. Rowlandson. To be completed in eight monthly numbers, price 2s. 6d. each._ London: Published by R. Ackermann, Repository of Arts, 101 Strand.

_Richardson's Show._

_March 1, 1816._ _A Lying-in Visit._

_March 1, 1816._ _A Round Dance._

_March 1, 1816._ _Recruiting._

_April 1, 1816._ _The Ale-house Door._

_July 1, 1816._ _A Landing Place._

_August 1, 1816._ _A Flying Waggon._

_August 1, 1816._ _The Social Day._

_September 1, 1816._ _Rustic Recreations._

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.