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 true
To 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 stone
That 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.