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.