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.