the evidences of antiquity and wealthy ease, the sepulchral visitor,
unbidden, lays down his hourglass, and is shown displaying to the
affrighted gaze of a fashionably apparelled old couple, the family
genealogical table which he has taken the liberty of unrolling for an
unexpected addition he is about to make.
On that illumined roll of fame
Death waits to write your lordship's name.
Whether from Priam you descend,
Or your dad cried--_Old chairs to mend_,
When you are summon'd to your end,
You will not shun the fatal blow;
And sure you're old enough to know,
That though each varying pedigree
Begins with _Time_, it ends with _me_!
Plate 18. _The Catchpole._
The catchpole need not fear a jail,
The undertaker is his bail.
A bailiff is serving a writ outside the Debtors' Prison, the barred
windows of which are filled with the faces of persons captured by one
_Catchpole, Sheriff's Officer_. The unfortunate prisoners, crowded
behind the bars of their jail, are enjoying a grim instance of
retributive justice. While the bailiff is startling his victim with
his unexpected capture-bespeaking tap, Death, dart in hand, is lightly
performing the same ceremony for the stalwart sheriffs officer, who is
summoned in his turn, and conclusively.
Thus, as he told his stern command,
A grisly spectre's fleshless hand
His shoulder touch'd. It chill'd his blood,
And at the sight he trembling stood.
'You long have ow'd,' the Phantom said,
'What now must instantly be paid.'
'O give me time!' 'Thou caitiff dun,
You know full well you gave _him_ none.
Your life's the debt that I am suing;
'Tis the last process, Master Bruin.'
'I'll put in bail above.' 'No, no:
OLD NICK shall be your BAIL BELOW.'
Plate 19. _The Insurance Office._
Insure his life, but to your sorrow
You'll pay a good round sum to-morrow.
A country squire, in the prime of life, has married a young bride; he
is persuaded by his frugal spouse to insure his life as a provision for
her maintenance, from prudential reasons. As the young wife sensibly
states the case:--
Nature, in all her freaks and fun,
Has never given us a son;
And there's no jointure, sir, for me
Without that same contingency.
For your estate's so bound and tied,
So settled and transmogrified,
(A thing one scarcely can believe)
You've not a thousand pounds to leave.
The artist has represented the couple arrived in town, and visiting
the insurance office, the 'Globe,' or 'Pelican;' the actuary, the
secretary, and the doctor are there to pass the customer's life, and
Death--spectacles on nose and dart in hand--is also one of the party;
unperceived, he is stooping down behind the seemingly robust applicant,
and gloating over the mischievous prank he has in contemplation.
To this the doctor sage agreed,
The office then was duly fee'd,
And sign'd and seal'd each formal deed.
Now Death, who sometimes loves to wait
At an insurance office gate,
To baffle the accountant's skill
And mock the calculating quill,
Had just prepar'd his cunning dart
To pierce _Ned Freeman's_ tranquil heart:
But lest the stroke should cause dispute,
And lawyers conjure up a suit,
Death was determined to delay
_Ned's_ exit to a future day;
And the dull moment to amuse,
He turn'd and kill'd a pair of Jews.
Thus was the husband's life insur'd,
And the wife's future wealth secur'd.
But _Death_ had not forgot his fiat,
So bid a fever set him quiet;
And ere, alas, ten days were past,
Honest Ned Freeman breath'd his last.
The doctor call'd to certify
His glowing health now saw him die.
Thus she who lately came to town
With not a doit that was her own,
Weeping attends her husband's hearse,
With many a thousand in her purse,
And proves that she's of wives the best
Who knows her _real interest_.
Plate 20. _The Schoolmaster._
Death with his dart proceeds to flog
Th' astonished, flogging pedagogue.
The learned schoolmaster, whose years have reached a respectable
longevity, is surprised in the midst of his tasks, while training
the minds of the youths around him, to discover the grim skeleton
Death, _mors pulsat_, concerning whose approach he is well stored
with classic instances, seated astride of the terrestrial globe, to
the consternation of the scared and flying scholars. The well-read
pedagogue is inclined to give his visitor a lesson from Horace in good
manners.
That he at least should knock, and wait
Till some one opes th' unwilling gate.
To which Death retorts in reply:--
Doctor, this dart will neither speak
In Hebrew, Latin, or in Greek,
But has a certain language known
In ev'ry age as in our own.
The pale spectre proceeds to remind his charge of the prolonged
allowance of life which has been allotted to the pedagogue, although
he finds his years have proved too short to allow him to complete the
legacy of learning it was his fond ambition to leave behind him.
The doctor, who seems a kindly preceptor, and one whose self-composure
it is difficult to disturb, while resigning his mind to his own fate,
is interceding for his pupils.
'But you'll at least these urchins spare,
They are my last, my only care.'
'I'll hurt them not, I'll only scare 'em:
So die, and _Mors est finis rerum_,
Which, for your scholars, I'll translate,
Death strikes the learn'd, the little, and the great!'
Plate 21. _The Coquette._
I'll lead you to the splendid crowd:
But your next dress will be a shroud.
A dashing belle, of majestic presence--according to Rowlandson's
design--is standing before a toilette table which is elegantly fitted;
her costume is just completed, and her tire-woman is holding a light
wrapper, when, in spite of the exertions made by a duenna to restrain
his brusque invasion, an unexpected intruder is gliding into the
handsome chamber. Bowing with the extreme of mock politeness, Death
has come as cavalier to escort the lady, who was preparing for a
masquerade; his hourglass and dart are slung by his side, he sports a
fashionable powdered wig, with a solitaire, a red coat, a cocked hat,
dandified pumps, and a frill, which he is fingering with the air of a
_petit maître_. According to Coombe's verses, we learn that Flavia, a
young lady of _ton_, whose sister is but recently dead, cannot resist
the temptation to cast off her mourning for one evening, and apparel
herself as the 'Queen of Beauty,' to appear at midnight at Lady Mary's
ball.
But, as her lovely form receiv'd
The robe which Fashion's hand had weav'd,
A shape appear'd of such a mien
As Flavia's eyes had never seen.
'How dare you enter here,' she said,
'And what's this saucy masquerade?
Who are you? Betty, ring the bell.'
The Shape replied--''Twill be your knell.
I'll save you from the swelt'ring crowd,
Form'd by the vain, the gay, the proud,
For which your tawdry mind prepares
Its fruitless, its coquettish airs.
Lady, you now must quit your home
For the cool grotto of a tomb.
Be not dismay'd; my gallant dart
Will ease the flutt'rings of your heart.'
He grinn'd a smile; the jav'lin flies,
When Betty screams--and Flavia dies!
Plate 22. _Time, Death, and Goody Barton. A Causette._
On with your dead, and I'll contrive
To bury this old fool alive.
Old Time, armed with his scythe, is driving his mortuary cart through
a village; the horse is a mere skeleton, but the vehicle is heavily
loaded, humanity is heaped up like carcases of no account, in fact
the melancholy receptacle is as full as it will hold, and the wheel
is passing over the neck of a frightened cur. Death is acting as
collector, and has picked up one of the plagues of the village, a
troublesome old man, who is kicking, fighting, and protesting against
the violent illegality of Death's treatment in throwing his lot amongst
the defunct. Stern Time, on the box, is turning round to remonstrate
with his assistant.
_Time._
While he shows that living face,
With me he cannot have a place.
_Death._
'Tis true the fellow makes a riot:
There's one jerk more--and now he's quiet.
A young wife, who has a soldier-lad in attendance waiting for the shoes
of her old husband, is dragging forth an ancient cripple, and pushing
him on against his will:--
_Death._
My goody, 'tis too late to-day,
Time's moving on, and will not stay;
But be at rest and save your sorrow,
The cart will call again to-morrow.
Plate 23. _The Undertaker and the Quack._
The doctor's sick'ning toil to close,
'Recipe coffin' is the dose.
A prosperous quack practitioner, meditating over his specific
_sovereign pill to cure all ills_, is riding gravely through the
streets of a picturesque country town. As his hack is passing
Screwtight the undertaker's window, that worthy is thrown into
consternation, for he recognises, immovably perched behind the
cogitating empiric, the figure of a grim rider with whose presence he
is too professionally familiar to be deceived.
And leaping on the doctor's hack,
Sat close and snugly at his back;
And as they reach'd Ned Screwtight's door,
Death sneez'd--and Nostrum was no more.
The undertaker is plunged into sincere mourning for the loss of his
great patron; his less far-seeing wife declares he ought to rejoice at
his good fortune, since there's the job of burying the deceased doctor.
Screwtight hung down his head and sigh'd:
'You foolish woman,' he replied,
'Old Nostrum there stretch'd on the ground
Was the best friend I ever found.
The good man lies upon his back,
And trade will now be very slack.
How shall we undertakers thrive,
With doctors who keep folks alive?
You talk of jobs; I swear 'tis true,
I'd sooner do the job for you.
We've cause to grieve, say what you will,
For when quacks die, they cease to kill.'
Plate 24. _The Masquerade._
Such is the power and such the strife
That ends the masquerade of life.
A masked ball is represented at its height, gaily attended, and held in
the Pantheon or some similar building. A dance is proceeding; the most
diversified scenes meet the eye on all sides, and Rowlandson has given
full play to his humorous inventive faculties. In the front of the
picture the crowd of merrymakers, all unthinking and unprepared, are
horrified to discover a new turn abruptly given to the travesty; the
tall figure of Death has suddenly cast away his disguising domino, and
holding aside a demoniac mask, is revealing to the terrified spectators
the actual figure of the skeleton-destroyer, armed with his dart, and
in grim earnest to strike. Harlequins, nuns, monks, devils, Turks,
toxopholites, bacchantes, jockeys, Punch, Falstaff, Jupiter, Ophelia,
Friar Tuck, watchmen, magicians, fair enchantresses and Circassians,
archbishops, Roman heroes, and Grand Signiors--characters in vogue in
Rowlandson's day--are thrown down pell-mell and trampling one over
the other in their eagerness to get as far away as possible from this
unwelcome and awful addition to the excitement of the revelry; this
ghastly joker who with unequivocal reality is threatening to extinguish
their gaieties for ever.
Plate 25. _The Deathblow_.
How vain are all your triumphs past,
For this set-to will be your last.
Two prize-fighters have met on Epsom Downs to decide the championship
of the 'Ring,' with umpires, bottle-holders, and all the paraphernalia
of the 'fancy.' In the artist's picture one of the combatants has
received a fatal blow, and he is stretched lifeless on the turf. The
grim figure of Death, the bony personification which permeates the
series, has suddenly joined the sport, and he is squaring up to the
scared victor in a scientific and confident attitude; the horrified
champion is unconsciously raising his strong arms to guard himself
against this new opponent, though justly disinclined to continue such
an unequal contest. Impressed by the fatal ending of the man he has
beaten the winner has conscientiously registered a vow, on the spur of
the moment, 'to never fight again.'
But Death appear'd! Once more, my friend,
Yes, one round more, and all will end.
The crowds of fashionable and sporting spectators are all dispersing at
the top of their speed, running and driving away from this unexpected
opponent, and turning their backs on this involuntary renewal of their
favourite diversion.
Confusion reign'd throughout the scene,
And the crowds hurried from the Green.
The roads were quickly covered o'er
With chaise and pair and chaise and four,
While curricles and gigs display
The rapid fury of their way,
And many a downfall grac'd the day.
As _Playgame_ claim'd a flying bet,
His new-built tilb'ry was o'erset:
Lord Gammon's barouche met its fate
In contact with a turnpike-gate;
And _Ned Fly's_ gig, that hurried after,
Was plung'd into a pond of water.
But, would it not be vain to tell
The various chances that befel
Horsemen and footmen who that day
From _Death's_ dread challenge ran away?
For when th' affrighted crowd was gone,
And DEATH and HARRY were alone,
The spectre hasten'd to propose
That they should forthwith come to blows;
But Harry thought it right to say,
'As no one's here to see fair play,
I'll try your strength another day.
Besides, I know not how you're made,
I look for substance, you're a Shade,
A bag of bones; for aught I know,
Old _Broughton_, from the shades below:
And though alive I should not dread
His power, I war not with the dead.'
Thus keeping well his guard he spoke,
When grinning Death put in a stroke
Which did the short-liv'd round decide,
And _Sheffield Harry_, in his pride,
Was laid by _Tom from London's_ side.
Plate 26. _The Vision of Skulls. (In the Catacombs.)_
As it appears, though dead so long,
Each skull is found to have a tongue.
A party of the fashionably curious are carrying their taste for
sight-seeing down into the catacombs, and the fragments of decaying
humanity are lighted up for their ghastly entertainment. In the
instance designed by Rowlandson the visitors are lost in horror at
the spectacle of the grinning human skulls arranged in trim arcades;
they do not notice the person of their conductor, who is more fearful
to look upon than the relics around. Death himself, dart in hand, is
condescending to act as showman to the gallery of his own furnishing;
the torch he holds is whirled aloft in his grisly left arm, in an
instant it will be flung into a well of water, which the holiday-makers
have not distinguished; darkness must succeed, and many of the
spectators may follow the flambeau or lose their way in terror-striking
and fearful labyrinths which extend for leagues under the city.
Plate 27. _The Porter's Chair._
What watchful care the portal keeps!
A porter he who never sleeps.
Seated snugly in the hall-porter's easy-chair before the handsome
mantel and cheerful fire in the marble-paved hall of a nobleman's
mansion, with its statues and embellishments telling of ease, taste,
and profusion, is our old friend the grim hero of the series. He is
waiting quite tranquilly, impatience is foreign to his impassive
temperament; his hourglass is on the ground at his side; his
dart is held negligently, but in readiness; a nocturnal bird is
hovering suggestively over his fleshless head; he has supplanted the
night-porter, and is probably sitting there attending the return of the
unprepared owner of these rich surroundings. Some sound has alarmed the
servants; the butler has stolen down in his nightcap, armed with sword
and pistol; he is collapsed with terror, and his defences are dropping
from his hand on making the discovery that Death has established
himself in the hall; and the fat cook, who is also paralysed with
horror, has taken a false step, and is falling giddily down the
staircase, whence her head will come in violent contact with the marble
floor; and Death without turning in his seat may confidently count upon
one victim in advance.
For at the time Death's pleas'd to come,
We all of us must be at home.
Plate 28. _The Pantomime._
Behold the signal of Old Time,
That bids you close your pantomime.
A pantomimic scene is transpiring; according to the artist's picture,
it is the very last place where Death's ghastly impersonation could
be considered a diverting addition to the company. The background
represents the sea-shore; Columbine, supported on the arm of Harlequin,
is pirouetting and posturing in amorous poses; the other personages
of the mimic theatre are thrown into actions which are entirely
unpremeditated, while their countenances wear expressions which supply
ghastly contrasts to their motley. Death once more has intruded his
bony person on the stage, the inevitable dart is held slily behind him,
and in the painted and terror-stricken faces of Pierrot and Pantaloon
the tale-telling hourglass is held up, the sand has run through, and
the mummers must away hence. The stage wizard is stretched at length on
his back, and his wonder-working magic sword is mere lath and tinsel
before the weapon of this grim supernatural actor, who has come,
unengaged, to give a new turn to the show.
Thus may Death's image aid delight,
'Mid the gay scen'ry of the night:
But in the pantomime of years,
'Tis serious all when Death appears.
For then no grin can Pierrot save;
He finds the trap a real grave;
Old Pantaloon, with all his care,
Will cease to be an actor there;
_Lun's_ magic sword, with all its art,
Must yield to Fate's resistless dart,
And when life's closing scene is o'er,
The curtain falls to rise no more.
Plate 29. _The Horse Race._
This is a very break-neck heat;
And, squire jockey, you are beat.
The artist has pictured a race-course; in the distance the grand stand,
a group of tents, and crowds of equestrians and equipages may be
distinguished. A file of race-horses, with their jockeys and trainers,
are being walked up to the starting point. A crowd of mounted 'sporting
gents,' the _élite_ of the patrons of the turf, are assembled round the
'betting post,' shouting the odds and eagerly making their engagements
before the approaching start. Nearer the spectator is displayed some
of the fun of the course, which never failed to strike Rowlandson's
eye. An old dame has a table and an arrow, at which sundry juvenile
rustics are gambling for cakes, and a Jew pedlar is tossing with two
sportive urchins for nuts. The _Dead Heat_ referred to in Coombe's
lines is shown in the person of an anxious country squire, who, afraid
of arriving at the betting post too late to speculate, is pushing his
horse along madly to arrive in time, without noticing a skeleton steed,
neck and neck with his own, whose jockey is the inevitable skeleton,
_Mors_, wearing a gay cap and feather, and turning his dart to account
as a riding-whip.
Now Jack was making to the post,
The busy scene of won and lost,
When to all those he saw around,
He cried, 'I offer fifty pound,
That to yon gambling place I get
Before you all.' Death took the bet.
The squire's mare was _Merry Joan_,
And Death rode _Scrambling Skeleton_.
They started, nor much time was lost
Before they reach'd the gambling host:
But ere they reach'd the betting pole,
Which was the terminating goal,
O'er a blind fiddler _Joan_ came down,
With fatal force poor Jack was thrown,
When a stone on the verdure laid
Prov'd harder than the rider's head.
Death way'd aloft his dart and fled.
Plate 30. _The Dram-Shop._
Some find their death by sword and bullet,
And some by fluids down the gullet.
Death is discovered nefariously at work adulterating the spirit-casks
with vitriol and aquafortis.
Plate 31. _The Gaming-Table._
Whene'er Death plays, he's sure to win!
He'll take each knowing gamester in.
Death, the successful player, is shown stripping the table of the
stakes and breaking the bank by force.
But Death, who, as he roams about,
May find the _Gaming Table_ out;
* * * * *
He enters; when the fearful shout
Echoes around of 'turn him out.'
'No,' he replies, 'that gold is mine:
Gamester, that gold you must resign.
Now life's the main,' the spectre cries:
He throws, and lo! the gamester dies.
Plate 32. _The Battle._
Such is, alas, the common story
Of blood and wounds, of death and glory.
Death is engaged in serving a battery which is sweeping all before it.
Plate 33. _The Wedding._
Plutus commands, and to the arms
Of doting age she yields her charms.
Death, with a wig, bands, and gown, is within the altar railings
performing the marriage service with an air of mocking reverence; the
actors in the marriage ceremony do not appear to have recognised the
dread personage who is tying the nuptial knot, to be instantly cut
asunder by the end of the effete bridegroom.
Plate 34. _The Skaters._
On the frail ice, the whirring skate
Becomes an instrument of fate.
The scene represents one of the parks, the waters are frozen over and
crowded with pleasure-seekers of both sexes indulging their amusement
in the teeth of danger--nay, as it appears in the picture, in the very
jaws of death. The skeleton foe is taking his pastime amongst the
crowd, and combining relaxation with business. The ice is suddenly
giving way in all directions, and the skaters are tripped up by the
grim evolutionist. They are falling headlong into the water, fatal
casualties are occurring on all sides, and the distant crowds, who are
scrambling away incontinently since the arch-enemy has volunteered to
share their pastime, are coming into violent collision, and falling on
the ice, breaking their limbs or suffering fatal concussions.
Plate 35. _The Duel._
Here honour, as it is the mode,
To Death consigns the weighty load.
Nowhere could Death's presence be more suitably manifested than on the
field of honour; and, as the artist has pictured the situation, the
parties are met to settle some trifling dispute; seconds and surgeons
are naturally in attendance. Death is promptly dashing in and dragging
off a stout combatant in the prime of life, who, having just received
his quietus, is caught in the arms of the omniscient and universal
antagonist before his falling body can touch his mother earth.
Plate 36. _The Bishop and Death._
Though I may yield my forfeit breath,
The Word of Life defies thee, Death.
The artist, with that talent which distinguished him above his
contemporaries, has concluded the first volume of the _Dance of Death_
with a nobler design; an occasion is presented with deeper purpose
wherein Death is shorn of the majesty of terror. A venerable bishop,
seated in a handsome Gothic apartment of the episcopal palace, with
the Book of Life open before him, and his chaplain in attendance, is
receiving an abrupt visitation from the ghastly spectre. The difficulty
of frightening the reverend victim, whose mind seems well prepared for
the end, however premature, has made Death put himself somewhat out
of the way to appear sensationally startling; his grim humour seems
to have been laid aside for once, and he is weakly seeking effect in
a theatrical pose, striking a stagey attitude, poising his weapon,
and holding on high his warning hourglass. The whole impression is
admirably conveyed. The Destroyer's posture is pretentious without
being imposing; he has missed his point; this bombastical terrorism
has nothing of the terrific left in it, and Death looks somewhat
disappointed on failing to produce more consternation. The bishop is
calmly receiving his turbulent visitor, with an air which seems to
demand, without perturbation: 'O Death, where is thy sting? O grave,
where is thy victory?'
THE ENGLISH DANCE OF DEATH.
SECOND VOLUME.
Plate 1. _The Suicide._
Death smiles, and seems his dart to hide,
When he beholds the suicide.
Upon a rock-bound shore, whose jagged boulders come down to the deep,
dashes a troubled sea, the waters of which are settling down after a
tempest. Upon the foam floats the form of a drowned man; above is seen
the figure of a female, forlorn and reckless, who has come to meet her
future husband, and finds only his corpse--his life lost in a valiant
effort to succour a sinking fellow-creature from a wreck.
The tidings to the bride were brought,
In frantic haste the spot she sought,
And viewing from the heights above
All that remain'd for her to love,
She darted headlong to the tide,
And on her Henry's bosom died.