What heartfelt tears bedew the dust
Of him whose ev'ry thought was just.
The funeral of a great and benevolent man is the subject of this
cartoon. The venerable lord of the manor is dead; the stately funeral
is setting out with its doleful attendants from the lordly hall. The
coffin, with its emblazoned pall, is followed by a long train of
mourners, whose sorrow is sincere; Death is congenially employing
himself as bearer of the funeral plumes; and in this capacity, bending
under the melancholy feathers, he is taking the lead of the procession.
The tenants and villagers are standing uncovered as the body of their
best friend is borne past; aged and young alike are giving way to
unaffected grief, and it is evident that they regret the loss of a
respected and kindly landlord, who has made himself loved by his
neighbours.
Plate 31. _The Next Heir._
'Tis not the time to meet one's fate,
Just ent'ring on a large estate.
The _Next Heir_ forms a pendant to the _Good and Great_, and exhibits
a picture the contrast of the foregoing. The nephew, a dashing London
blade, has succeeded to the title and the estates. He is supposed to
arrive post haste at the mansion, which is still plunged in mourning
for the late owner. The pastor and the tenants are drawn up to receive
their new master. The approach of the departed lord's successor is
filling their faces with dismay. The devil-may-care 'blood' is tearing
up to the hall in a tandem, his followers are clothed in deep black,
but beyond this he displays no regard for the dead; his servants are
clashing up on horseback, his huntsman is giving a blast of his horn,
his grooms are shouting 'Tally-ho!' and a pack of hounds are barking on
all sides. Death is acting as postilion, and as this unthinking heir
drives up to the entrance-court his head is caught by the hatchment
put up to the late lord, and his mad career is cut short at the very
threshold.
Plate 32. _The Chamber War._
When doctors three the labour share,
No wonder Death attends them there.
The case of the invalid who forms the principal figure in the present
subject must indeed be a desperate one, since the doctors, after a
wordy warfare disputing over the case of the patient and the proper
treatment, have come to blows in real earnest. Medicine bottles, and
all the accessories of a sick chamber, are thrown to the ground, the
table is overturned, wigs are sent flying, and a regular scrimmage with
fisticuffs is taking place. Four practitioners are cuffing one another
in the presence of their victim, with professional energy, and the sick
nurse is cutting in, attacking the shaven crowns indiscriminately with
the utensils which first come to hand. The sufferer is thrown into a
mortal fright, but Death has very considerately called in to attend
to his wants, and his disquietude will soon cease beyond the fear of a
relapse.
Plate 33. _Death and the Antiquaries._
Death, jealous of his right, stands sentry
Over the strange burglarious entry.
A party of ardent archæologists are holding a meeting in the abbey.
They have obtained permission to open a royal grave, and the sexton has
performed his part, and raised the slab of the vault in which the body
of a king has reposed undisturbed for centuries. The coffin is raised,
the lid removed, and the corpse, with its regal trappings, is laid open
to their inspection. Full of enthusiasm, the antiquaries are clustering
round the coffin in crowds, eager to get a sight of the decaying
monarch. Nor do they heed the risk they run, for Death, jealous of this
interference with his rights, is prepared to resent their intrusion;
and, mounted on an adjacent tomb, he is about to plunge his dart into
the thickest of the learned throng.
Plate 34. _The Dainty Dish._
This fine hot feast's a preparation
To some for Death's last cold collation.
A sumptuous feast is represented: the handsome dining-room is filled
with voracious guests; footmen are waiting on the diners, or attending
to side tables; butlers are drawing corks, course is following course,
the cook and his assistant train are hurrying in with fresh dishes.
Among the waiters, undetected, is our friend the grisly skeleton, who
is busying himself with a dish he is conveying to the table. It is
the favourite delicacy of the corpulent host, and he has expressed a
desire for 'just one slice more' of his esteemed dainty. The grim foe
is determined to take the entertainer at his word, and that 'one slice
more' will be his last indulgence.
Plate 35. _The Last Stage._
From hour to hour, from youth to age,
Life's traveller takes th' uncertain stage.
The sketch in this suggestive plate introduces us to the court-yard
of the _Dolphin Inn_, a famous posting-house. The life to be found
in these coach-yards was attractive material to our artist, and he
has delineated with rare skill all the bustle and preparation of a
departure. The coach is 'braced' up, the horses are put-to, the guard
and his 'helps' are busied in loading luggage on the roof, and stowing
parcels in the boot and under the box-seat. Bills are being settled,
and farewells said by the passengers, who are booked to travel by the
'stage.' Death is assiduously attending to the loading of the coach,
and he is courteously wedging a stout lady through the doorway. It
is likely that he will not quit the travellers yet, but will ride,
unobserved, a part of the journey, until, perhaps, in the night he will
contrive some fatal upset, and his evil whim will be accomplished.
Plate 36. _Time, Death, and Eternity._
The song now bursts beyond the bounds of time,
And Immortality concludes the rhyme.
After tracing Death's farcical pranks through seventy-one plates, in
nearly all of which the mischief projected by the arch-foe is crowned
with success, the artist has thought proper to abandon Death's triumphs
and to show the enemy at a disadvantage. The scene is allegorically
set forth in the despair and overthrow of Time, and the banishment of
Death before the Everlasting Angel. The Spirit of Eternity is blowing
the last trump. Time is vainly tearing out his forelock; his wings
are useless; he is cast on his back, the scythe and hourglass broken,
amidst the crumbling monuments around him; pyramids and temples are
melting away; the monuments raised by vain man are dissolving, and
Death has forfeited his fell sovereignty of destruction. The slayer
is slain in turn; his crown has fallen into the abyss, his fatal dart
is harmless and snapped asunder, and he, abashed and disconcerted, is
crouching from his doom, and falling through to the bottomless pit. So
much for the pictorial allegory.
We have specially dwelt on the illustration which Rowlandson designed
to finish the first part of the _Dance of Death_, wherein the spectral
tyrant is displayed shorn of his terrors. The artist on occasions could
sink the ludicrous and rise to the sublime.
The author, as we are inclined to believe, was elevated by the subject
brought under his treatment, and, finding the theme congenial to his
talents, he exerted himself to bring out its stronger points. In the
last picture which concludes the series we are still more impressed
with the sense of his fitness for the task. Coombe, when he wrote the
concluding verses to this diversified poem, was on the verge of four
score; he had fought the battle of life, and found little glory and
less profit in the struggle. Nature had endowed him with an agreeable
person and sound health, and he was by disposition studious. He had
been the idol of an hour, and (rare chance for a scholar) had found a
large sum of money at his command, and dissipated sufficient wealth
to realise to the full the emptiness of gratifications which depend
on mere monetary advantages; he had been taught the worthlessness of
fair-weather friends, the hollowness of flatterers, and knew the folly
of trusting in the great; he had learned other lessons of life, and
could, from his own heart, read many a homily on the deceptiveness of
beauty and the quickly withered flowers of passion. He had incessantly
pursued happiness through life; he had been rich, courted, cultivated,
temperate, and a discriminating judge of most things that are counted
desirable in the world; a ripe scholar and a perfect gentleman--if we
may believe contemporary accounts--and he found all this led him to
disappointment and the confinement of a debtor's prison.
When evil tongues hiss forth the foul abuse,
When Fortune turns away, and friends prove false,
Man's peaceful refuge is the tomb.
From the depths of his rich experience he had realised that the harbour
of refuge 'from life's frequent storms' is found, _not_--
In the flowery vales where Pleasure sports,
Nor where Ambition rears the tottering seat;
'Tis not within the miser's gloomy cave;
'Tis not within the roseate bowers of Love,
Nor where the pale lamp lights the studious sage
To midnight toil: alas! it is not there.
And while we seek in vain amid the great,
Or on the gorgeous thrones where monarchs sit,
It often may be found in humble cot
Where Virtue with the honest peasant dwells.
And what is virtue? 'Tis the conscious power
Of acting right in spite of every foe
That may oppose its base, malicious aim
To check the pure designs which it inspires.
It is to stem the tide Corruption rolls
O'er half the world, to curb the impetuous will
Of lawless passion, and, on life's vast stage,
To act that noble part which will attain
The good man's praise and the applause of Heaven.
Yes, virtue, potent virtue, can secure
'Gainst every peril; 'tis a triple shield
To him who has it 'gainst the pointed darts
Of ev'ry enemy; the hour of death,
With all its gloom, gives not a fear to him
Who triumphs o'er the grave; he stands secure
Amid the ruins of a fallen world.
Virtue will listen to the trumpet's sound
With holy awe, yet hear it unappall'd,
And feels ETERNITY its destin'd sphere:
When all the works of man shake to their base,
And the world melts away whereon they stood;
When TIME'S last agonising hour is come,
And DEATH, who from Creation's pregnant hour
Has made the world a grave, himself shall die;
When man from his long slumber shall awake,
And the day breaks that never more shall close;
Then Virtue shall its promis'd glory claim,
And find it, too, at the o'erflowing source
Of Heaven's stupendous and eternal joys.
FOOTNOTES:
[26] Now known as the Egyptian Hall.
[27] _Marcus Flaminius; or, the Life of the Romans_, 1795.
1817.
[Illustration: THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.]
1817-1823. _The Vicar of Wakefield, a Tale, by Doctor Goldsmith._
Illustrated with twenty-four designs by Thomas Rowlandson. Etchings
dated May 1, 1817. London, published by R. Ackermann, at the Repository
of Arts. Republished 1823.
Sperate Miseri, Cavete Felices.
Frontispiece.--The Vicar of Wakefield, a character eminently
calculated to inculcate benevolence, humanity, patience in
sufferings, and reliance on Providence.
2. The Social Evening.
3. The Departure for Wakefield.
4. Sophia Rescued from the Water.
5. The Welcome.
6. The Squire's Intrusion.
7. Mr. Burchell's First Visit.
8. The Dance.
9. Fortune-telling.
10. The Vicar's Family on their Road to Church.
11. Hunting the Slipper.
12. The Gross of Green Spectacles.
13. The Vicar Selling his Horse.
14. The Family Picture.
15. The Vicar in company with Strolling Players.
16. The Surprise.
17. The Stage. George Primrose as 'Horatio.'
18. Attendance on a Nobleman.
19. A Connoisseur Mellowing the Tone of a Picture.
20. The Scold, with News of Olivia.
21. The Fair Penitent.
22. Domestic Arrangements in Prison.
23. The Vicar Preaching to the Prisoners.
24. The Wedding.
[Illustration: THE FAMILY PICTURE.]
_The Family Picture._--'My wife and daughters, happening to return a
visit to neighbour Flamborough's, found that family had lately got
their pictures drawn by a limner who travelled the country and took
likenesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours had
long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the alarm at
this stolen march upon us; and notwithstanding all I could say, and I
said much, it was resolved that we should have our pictures done too.
Having, therefore, engaged the limner--for what else could I do?--our
next deliberation was to show the superiority of our taste in the
attitudes. As for our neighbour's family, there were seven of them,
and they were drawn with seven oranges, a thing quite out of taste--no
variety in life, no composition in the world. We desired to have
something in a brighter style; and after many debates at length came to
a unanimous resolution of being drawn together in one large historical
family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for
all, and it would be infinitely more genteel, for all families of any
taste were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not immediately
recollect an historical subject to hit us we were contented each with
being drawn as independent historical figures. My wife desired to
be represented as Venus, and the painter was desired not to be too
frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones
were to be as Cupids by her side; while I, in my gown and band, was
to present her with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia
would be drawn as an Amazon, sitting on a bank of flowers, dressed
in a green joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand.
Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could
put in for nothing; and Moses was to be dressed out with a hat and
white feather. Our taste so much pleased the Squire that he insisted
on being put in as one of the family, in the character of Alexander
the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all as an
indication of his desire to be introduced into the family; nor could
we refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work; and as
he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the
whole was completed. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did
not spare his colours, for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We
were all perfectly satisfied with his performance; but an unfortunate
circumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now
struck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in
the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point
is inconceivable; but certain it is we had been all greatly remiss.
The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped,
leaned in a most mortifying manner against the kitchen wall, where the
canvas was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through any
of the doors, and the jest of all our neighbours. One compared it to
Robinson Crusoe's longboat, too large to be removed; another thought it
more resembled a reel in a bottle; some wondered how it could be got
out, but still more were amazed how it got in.'
* * * * *
THE DANCE OF LIFE: A POEM.
_By the Author of 'Doctor Syntax' (William Coombe)._
ILLUSTRATED WITH TWENTY-SIX COLOURED ENGRAVINGS BY THOMAS ROWLANDSON.
LONDON: PUBLISHED BY R. ACKERMANN, REPOSITORY OF ARTS, 101 STRAND. 8vo.
'_Advertisement._--The eight monthly numbers to which this work
was limited being completed, it is presented to the public in an
accumulated volume. Though an acquaintance has taken place between
the artist and the writer, the same principle has in a great degree,
if not altogether, predominated in the originality of the designs and
attendant illustrations of them as produced the _Tour of Doctor Syntax_
and the _Dance of Death_.'
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Frontispiece.--_The Dance of Life_; a panoramic scroll, on which
Rowlandson's pictures which illustrate the series are represented in
miniature. Father Time, with his accessories of scythe, hourglass, and
globe, is acting as showman and pointing out the subjects of the work
to a group of spectators, whose faces and attitudes are expressive of
the admiration and interest which the pictorial history is exciting.
Titlepage.--The vignette of a lightly touched and gracefully drawn
female dancing figure, with a scarf airily floating from her shoulders.
The nymph is encircled by a ring of pretty children, hand in hand, who
are dancing round her; while roses are scattered at the feet of the
group.
1. _Infancy._--The hero is introduced to the world as an infant.
The Dance of Life begins, with all its charms
In the fond dandling of the nurse's arms.
2. _Childhood._--The first tutor.
The tender nurse's care is now resign'd
To the first grave instructor of the mind.
3. _Boyhood._--The public school.
The stern preceptor, with his threat'ning nod,
Calls in the wise correction of the rod.
4. _Youth._--An undergraduate at Oxford.
Wine makes the head to ache; but will the art
Of the grave, solemn lecture reach the heart?
5. _Foreign Tour._--Setting forth on his Continental travels. The
parting from home.
To part with thee, my boy, how great the pain!
How great the joy to see thee once again!
6. _Foreign Tour._--Posting in France.
'Tis hop'd, midst foreign scenes some power he'll find
To mend his manners and improve his mind.
7. _Foreign Tour._--A scene in the Palais-Royal.
He pays his lively court, as 'tis the _ton_,
To the fat Princess of the Mille Colonnes.
8. _The Return._--The traveller hurries home on the death of his
father.
The widow'd mother hastens forth to meet
Her son, Sir Henry, at his ancient seat.
9. _The Chase._--A fatal fall; his affianced bride is thrown and
killed.
The hounds the flying stag pursue;
But Dian does the hunting rue.
10. _Fashionable Life._--Plan for new buildings. The architect, &c.
At the first step in folly's wanton waste
He pulls his mansion down, to show his taste.
11. Coaching on Hounslow Heath.
Of four-in-hand he gains the vulgar rage:
Wields his long whip, and overturns a stage.
12. The Midnight Masquerade.
The mask, that scene of wanton folly,
May convert mirth to melancholy.
13. The Billiard-table and its votaries.
By gamblers link'd in Folly's noose,
Play ill or well, he's sure to lose.
14. The Ring, Newmarket Heath.
The victim of the betting-post:
His bets as soon as made are lost.
15. A Mistress _à la mode._
For such a wild and placid dear
Me pays two thousand pounds a year.
16. The Election: close of the poll: chairing the member.
For my own good, and yours, I'm bent,
My worthy friends, tow'rds Parliament.
17. Imprisoned for debt, the hero resists the temptations held out by
a Jew and a scrivener.
In his oppress'd and adverse hour
Virtue assumes its former power.
18. A change of circumstances: coming into an unexpected fortune, left
the hero by the father of his affianced bride, whose death is shown
(plate 9).
The wild exuberance of joy
May reason's sober power destroy.
19. A social gathering in the new mansion. Ladies and a musical
evening.
Sweet is the voice whose powers can move
And call the vagrant heart to love.
20. The hero selects a wife. The nuptial ceremony.
Blest Hymen, whose propitious hour
Restores to Virtue all its power.
21. Dragging the lake.
Rural sports are better far
Than all his former pleasures were.
22. A case of poaching. Sir Henry is sitting as magistrate at Graceful
Hall. His wife is pleading for the unfortunate prisoners (poachers).
To soothe the rigours of the laws
Let beauty plead the culprits' cause.
23. Worshipping on the Sabbath. The Squire in his pew.
By piety's due rights 'tis given
To hold communion with Heaven.
24. Sir Henry, surrounded by his children and his friends, is
tranquilly passing his declining years.
Here Virtue views, with smiling pride,
The pleasures of her fireside.
1817. _Grotesque Drawing Book; the World in Miniature, consisting of
groups of figures for the illustration of landscape scenery._ Forty
plates, 8vo. London.
1817. _Journal of Sentimental Travels in the Southern Provinces of
France._ Illustrated with eighteen plates by T. Rowlandson. 8vo.
Published by R. Ackermann. (See 1821.)
1817. _World in Miniature._ Containing fifty-eight etchings. 4to. (See
1816.)
1817. _Pleasures of Human Life._
1818.
_January 20, 1818._ _The Last Jig, or Adieu to Old England._ Published
by T. Tegg.
1818. _Wild Irish, or Paddy from Cork, with his coat buttoned behind._
Designed, etched, and published by T. Rowlandson, 1 James Street,
Adelphi. Republished 1818.--One of the series published by the artist,
to the finish, execution, and colouring of which he devoted extra care.
The scene pictures a haymaking festivity. Paddy from Cork, hayfork in
hand, has literally turned his coat hind part before; he is dancing
in company with another swain, who is holding a whisky-jug, and a
fellow Patlander, fiddling and capering for very life, beside two buxom
lasses, who are flourishing hayrakes and throwing themselves into the
most attractive attitudes. Groups suggestive of both rural felicity and
a terrific combat in combination are figured in the distance, as the
true Patland ideal of finishing a day's pleasure.
1818(?). _Doncaster Fair, or the Industrious Yorkshire Bites._
Designed, etched, and published by T. Rowlandson, 1 James Street,
Adelphi.--The principal figure in the foreground group is a buxom but
hardly gentle keeperess of a _knock-'em-down_ stand. The lady, clad
in a soldier's old jacket, with ragged skirts and defective hose, is
holding in one arm an instalment of sticks--'three throws a penny'--and
is demanding her fee, a trifle boisterously, from a smock-clad yokel,
who is diving into his short-clothes pocket for the coppers which do
not appear to be forthcoming. Other rustics are taking their pastime
at the same amusement, and one, in perplexity, is scratching his head.
The bustle of a country fair is set forth in the distance; there is
the usual display of booths and mountebanks, countrymen on horseback,
love-making in carts, stalls, and struggling groups of sightseers.
1818. _The Adventures of Johnny Newcome in the Navy._ A Poem, in four
cantos, with Plates by Rowlandson, from the Author's designs. By Alfred
Burton. Published by W. Simpkin and R. Marshall, Stationers' Court,
Ludgate Street.
Dulce Bellum Inexpertis.
Frontispiece.--Asleep on the Masthead.
Leaving Home.
'The Admiral has made it sunset, sir!'
Turning in--and out again.
Seasick.
Sent to hear the dog fish bark.
Seized up in the Rigging.
Cobbed--Watch! Watch!
Crossing the Line.
Sheerness Boat.
Plymouth Playhouse.
Going to Ivy Bridge.
In the Grocer's Shop.
Johnny and Maria.
Mast-headed.
'The Captain's going out of the ship, gentlemen!'
1819.