Chapter 16

A FLYING WAGGON.

August 1, 1816.The Social Day.

THE SOCIAL DAY.

September 1, 1816.Rustic Recreations.

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 sidesTo give her ease,'Sir, if you pleaseThey're only what you gentlemen would callA pair ofGalligaskins, 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 theDance 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 theDance of Deathmust 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 theDance of Deathsurpasses 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 recognisedTours 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 tabernasRegúmque turres.—Hor. lib. i. od. 4.With equal pace, impartial FateKnocks at the palace, as the Cottage Gate.

Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernasRegúmque turres.—Hor. lib. i. od. 4.

With equal pace, impartial FateKnocks 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 theTour of Doctor Syntaxand 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 Deathis 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 theDance 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 theTour of Doctor Syntax. The first volume, therefore, of the EnglishDance 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.'

TheFrontispiecerepresents 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 engravedTitle-pagefurther 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, representstwo 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, andsuggesting—

The time-worn burden of the songThat Life is short—but Art is long.

Plate 2.The Antiquarian and Death.

Fungus, at length, contrives to getDeath'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.

Deathfollow'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!

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 wasteThe 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 repairTo a small, shaded inn, that stoodContiguous 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 ownHe 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 sleepDid 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'erDeath 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 satThe 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 boreThe helpless victims from the shore:There sinking, 'neath the foaming wave—The sailors found—thesailor's grave.

Plate 7.The Virago.

Her tongue and temper to subdueCan 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 gateSubmissive 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 givenThat 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 feelA 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 amealofyou!'

Plate 9.The Recruit.

I list you, and you'll soon be foundOne 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 fellowis 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—DeathandGlory.

Plate 10.The Maiden Ladies.

Be not alarm'd, I'm only comeTo 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 MissMustardas my bride.A well-appointed hearse-and-four,Attends her pleasure at the door.The marriage ceremonies waitHer 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 cureEach 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 ofThe Goaton 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 wineAnd 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 possessWhich 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 FateSuspended 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, departWith 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 RoverInto 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 grieveWhen models die,—ifpictureslive?'

Plate 17.The Genealogist.

On that illumin'd roll of fameDeath 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 fashionablyapparelled 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 fameDeath 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 pedigreeBegins withTime, it ends withme!

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 oneCatchpole, 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 handHis 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 gavehimnone.Your life's the debt that I am suing;'Tis the last process, Master Bruin.''I'll put in bail above.' 'No, no:Old Nickshall be yourbail below.'

Plate 19.The Insurance Office.

Insure his life, but to your sorrowYou'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 meWithout 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 waitAt an insurance office gate,To baffle the accountant's skillAnd mock the calculating quill,Had just prepar'd his cunning dartTo pierceNed Freeman'stranquil heart:But lest the stroke should cause dispute,And lawyers conjure up a suit,Death was determined to delayNed'sexit 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.ButDeathhad 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 certifyHis glowing health now saw him die.Thus she who lately came to townWith 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 bestWho knows herreal interest.

Plate 20.The Schoolmaster.

Death with his dart proceeds to flogTh' 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 waitTill some one opes th' unwilling gate.

To which Death retorts in reply:—

Doctor, this dart will neither speakIn Hebrew, Latin, or in Greek,But has a certain language knownIn 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.

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