Chapter 17

'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, andMors 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 apetit maître. According to Coombe's verses, we learn that Flavia, a young lady ofton, whose sisteris 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'dThe robe which Fashion's hand had weav'd,A shape appear'd of such a mienAs 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 preparesIts fruitless, its coquettish airs.Lady, you now must quit your homeFor the cool grotto of a tomb.Be not dismay'd; my gallant dartWill 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 contriveTo 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 specificsovereign 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 groundWas 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 strifeThat 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 tohis 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'erWith chaise and pair and chaise and four,While curricles and gigs displayThe rapid fury of their way,And many a downfall grac'd the day.AsPlaygameclaim'd a flying bet,His new-built tilb'ry was o'erset:Lord Gammon's barouche met its fateIn contact with a turnpike-gate;AndNed Fly'sgig, that hurried after,Was plung'd into a pond of water.But, would it not be vain to tellThe various chances that befelHorsemen and footmen who that dayFromDeath'sdread challenge ran away?For when th' affrighted crowd was gone,AndDeathandHarrywere alone,The spectre hasten'd to proposeThat 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,OldBroughton, from the shades below:And though alive I should not dreadHis power, I war not with the dead.'Thus keeping well his guard he spoke,When grinning Death put in a strokeWhich did the short-liv'd round decide,AndSheffield Harry, in his pride,Was laid byTom from London'sside.

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'smagic 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,' theéliteof 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. TheDead Heatreferred 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 getBefore you all.' Death took the bet.The squire's mare wasMerry Joan,And Death rodeScrambling Skeleton.They started, nor much time was lostBefore they reach'd the gambling host:But ere they reach'd the betting pole,Which was the terminating goal,O'er a blind fiddlerJoancame down,With fatal force poor Jack was thrown,When a stone on the verdure laidProv'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 theGaming Tableout;He enters; when the fearful shoutEchoes 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.

But Death, who, as he roams about,May find theGaming Tableout;

He enters; when the fearful shoutEchoes 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 storyOf 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 armsOf 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 skateBecomes 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 skatersare 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 theDance of Deathwith 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 aboveAll 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 cruelTo 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 theMortis 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 thefriends, 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 skyThrough his best tube with curious eye,And 'mid the azure wilds of airPursu'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 MoonAre 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 blowsBy 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 behindThe 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 trueTo 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 stoneThat 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 threeOut 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 fatherwill 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 buffoonCannot 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.

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