With some Account of THE Dance of DeatH. THE celebrity of a subject which has been distinguished by the labours of so great an artist as Holbein, and which forms the subject of the embellishment of this number, seems necessarily to demand some investigation of its origin. In the dark ages of monkish bigotry and superstition, the deluded people, terrified into a belief that the fear of death was acceptable to the great Author of their existence, had placed one of their principal gratifications in contemplating it amidst ideas the most horrid and disgusting: hence the frequent descriptions of mortality in all its shapes amongst their writers, and the representations of this kind, in their books of religious offices, and the paintings and sculptures of their ecclesiastic buildings. They had altogether lost sight of the consolatory doctrines of the Gospel, which regard death in no terrific point of view whatever; a discovery reserved for the discernment of modern and enlightened Christians, who contemplate scenes which excited gloom and melancholy in the minds of their forefathers, with the gratification of philosophic curiosity. Some exceptions, however, to this remark are not wanting, for we may yet trace the imbecility of former ages in the decorations of many of our monuments, tricked out in all the silly ornaments of deaths' heads and marrowbones. The most favourite subject of the kind, however, was what is usually denominated the Dance of Death, or a representation of Death in the act of leading all ranks and conditions of men to the grave; with gesticulations not a little bordering upon the grotesque, though probably without any view to provoke the mirth of the spectator in those times. The origin is perhaps to be sought for in an ancient pageant, or religious farce, invented by the clergy, for the purpose of at once amusing and keeping the people in ignorance. In this all ranks and conditions of life were personated and mixed together in a general dance, in the course of which every one in his turn vanishes from the scene, to shew that none were exempted from the stroke of death. This dance was performed in the churches, and can be traced back as far as the year 1424*; it was called the Dance of Macaber, from a German poet of that name, who first composed some verses under the same title. Of this person very little is known, but Fabricius thinks the poem more ancient than the paintings t. His work has Glossar. Carpentier, tom. ii. 1103. + Bibl, med, & infim, Etat * been translated into Latin and French, in the last of which languages there are some very ancient and very modern editions. The earliest allusion, to the subject, but whether to the above-mentioned farce or to the paintings seems uncertain, is in the following lines, from the Visions of Pierce the Plowman, who wrote about 1350 : Death came drivynge after, and all to dust Kynges and kaysers, knights and popes Many a lovely ladie, and lemmans of knights When the arts of printing and engraving became established, various copies of the Dance of Macaber made their appearance, particularly in the Hours, Breviaries, Missals, and other service books of the church, few of which were unaccompanied with a Dance of Death; and in these the designs sometimes varied. Many of our own service books for the use of Salisbury were thus decorated, and the fashion at length terminated in a book of Christian prayers, printed more than once during the reign of Elizabeth, since which time nothing of the kind has appeared. In all these are to be found the same dull and uniform representation of Death leading a single figure, without much attempt at character or execution, until at length there appeared, in 1538, a book, entitled "Les simulachres & historiees faces de la Mort, autant elegamment pourtraictes, que artificiellement imaginees." It was printed at Lyons by Melchior and Gasper Trechsel, and is accompanied with forty-one of the most beautiful groups of figures that can be well conceived, both for their composition and execution, being most delicately cut on wood, and surpassing in this branch of art almost every thing of the kind that has appeared before or since. This work was often republished, as well in the French, as in the Latin and Italian languages, and has been usually denominated by most of the writers upon the arts of painting and engraving, as well as by many travellers, Holbein's Dance of Death. It is extremely clear, however, that Holbein did not invent these subjects, for it appears in a dedication, which is only to be found in the first edition of this work, that the painter was then dead, and that he had not lived to finish some of the designs, which, however, afterwards appeared in a subsequent edition. The painter must therefore have died before 1538, and it is well known that Holbein was at this time living, and continued so until 1555. Unluckily no evidence whatever, nor even tradition, has been preserved relating to this great artist, and it is feared that he will ever remain undiscovered. After what has been said, it becomes necessary to attempt at least to give some reason for the almost universal opinion, that these designs were the offspring of Holbein's pencil. Most of those writers who have described the town of Basil, as well as the compilers of the lives of the painters, speak of a Dance of Death by Holbein, some referring to the old Dance of Macaber, and others to the more modern one; but it is not difficult to see, that they have but transcribed from each other, without taking pains to examine the subject. Certain it is, however, that Holbeir did paint a Death's Dance in its improved state, and likewise more than once. Bishop Burnet, in his travels in Switzerland, speaks of a Dance of Death, painted by Holbein, "on the walls of a house where he used to drink," which was then so worn out, that very little was to be seen except shapes and postures. He then mentions the old Death's Dance at the Dominicans' convent *, which, he says, was worn out "some time ago, that they ordered the "best painter they had to lay new "colours on it; but this is so ill done, "that one had rather see the dead "shadows of Holbein's pencil, (i. e. on "the walls of the house), than this coarse "work." This account is corroborated by Keysler, who adds, that the painting on the house was then entirely obliterated. Patin, in his travels, also speaks of a house at Basil, curiously painted by Holbein, but does not mention the subject; it was probably the same as Burnet saw. These are the only travellers who have spoken upon this subject with any degree of accuracy, and fortunately their testimony throws much light upon it. an intruder,-a listener, perhaps; and that listeners hear no good of themselves, is an adage twenty times as old as any old woman that has made use of it for the last century. Now, as I have an insurmountable aversion to all old women whom the courtesy of society may include under the masculine gender, I must beg to refute the infallibility of this long-established axiom. I really did listen, and (I blush while I relate it) did actually hear some good of myself. "Somebody is in the next room," said the afflicted girl, half suppressing her sorrow in the delicacy of innocent shame, "Somebody is in the next room." "It is only our new gentleman customer," replied the mother soothingly; and I am sure, if we judge by his face, he is the genteelest, and the kindest hearted"here there was a disciple of Lavater, who had doubtless never heard of his name-a convincing proof that his theory, however ridiculous it may appear, is yet founded on human nature, and has silent, unconscious supporters in every bosom. This was also sufficient practical experience to overturn the prejudice against listeners for ever. I silently acknowledged the conviction with a smile, and as if fearful that some after-shadow of opinion might give an unfavourable shade to the pleasing resemblance mine hostess had begun to delineate, I stepped suddenly into the room, and whether it was the favourable character I had previously obtained, or the spell of a vagrant tear which had gushed almost unconsciously from the heart, I will not attempt to decide; but certainly a few minutes saw me seated between the parent and her weeping child, with as much of the eager warmth and mutual confidence of friendship as if Time had enrolled us for old acquaintance in the annals of the village. We have heard much in our time of sympathy and antipathy: the latter, I know, is a very fashionable emotion, and every metaphyisician in the great world will tell us it is a very natural one. The ladies feel an antipathy to old ⚫By mistake called the convent of the Augus- dresses, because their friends can afford tinians. THE FUGITIVE: A SCENE FROM NATURE. -Sweet mutual love! I did not, however, proceed so lightly to the door of the apartment, as to pre vent the creaking of the polished oak boards from announcing the approach of (or contrive) to sport new ones; to old lovers, if richer ones make their appearance; and to old women, because with the aid of cold cream, pearl powder, and rouge, they presume to look as blooming as their young friends, in despite of crows' feet, sunken eyes, and the very troublesome recollections of some real old ladies, who have long memories and still longer tongues. The gentlemen too have their antipathies: they hate an old friend with an old coat,-a certain indication that the world's kind ness has worn out before it. They also avoid a young one, after they have rioted in his prosperity, and contributed to his ruin! and they have at all times an invincible antipathy to prudence, advice, and reformation. The fashionable world have also their favourite sympathies, which cling instinctively to the forms of wealth, and rank, and power: they delight to sympathize in the joys of the affluent, nay, even in their sorrows; for they know that they will be enjoyed in all the elegant luxuries of grief, and only for the period prescribed by fashion; after which their dear attractive friends will be as thoughtless, as selfish, and as dissipated as ever. So much for fashionable impulses. I scarcely know how I became induced to mention them, for I am but a fugitivean oddity, in search of oddities of value; and knowing that the choicest flowers are not often found in the most frequented path, nor the most estimable diamond in the long-opened mine. I delight to wander along the bye-ways of the world, and feel my sensibility most fondly attracted in those serene and sequestered scenes of humble life, where innocence sports like a lamb in her native fold, and mirth, and health, and peace, entwine a chaplet for the brows of age and virtue! Methinks I hear some simpering young damsel of quality exclaim, "Good heaven! what a taste!" Read on, my dear madam, and recollect I am but a fugitive.—Ellen Watkins had been long and tenderly attached to a young man, the son of a neighbour, who, possessing a small freehold, was just enabled to live in decent independence, and to spare enough to rejoice with an old friend, or enable him humbly to assist the distresses of those whose utmost efforts could not keep the wolf from the door. Edward Morgan was an only child, and, as such, was the more tenderly beloved; but rustic indulgence very rarely will corrupt a good heart; if possible, it only adds stronger impulse to the bands of filial love and duty, and a nobler stimulus to exertions from the holy fervour of gratitude. Edward and Ellen had been born on the same day, and a few weeks after saw them received into the bosom of the Church, smiling like terrestrial cherubs beneath the dove-like wings of Christianity; and many a happy group, in the innocent joy of their hearts, already destined them for each other, and with a nod of conscious sagacity uttered some of those guileless predictions, without which hope would sicken at the very onset of life's journey, and lave us to a weary pilgrimage through the world. The playmates of infancy, and the sweethearts of childhood, soon matured into ardent lovers at eighteen: during the hours of rustic labour, Edward was never far distant from his Ellen; at church they read out of the same prayer-book, and the guileless love of their hearts gave a loftier wing to their devotion to Heaven. Arm in arm, they would return smiling after their venerable parents, who were discussing some obscure sentence in the sermon; and many a village girl gave a sigh for ribbands so gay, and a handkerchief as clear,-for they were the gifts of Edward at the annual fair, at the expence of the savings of several months; and at their evening gambols on the green, they tripped over the smooth turf as light as fairies, and as happy as love and innocence could make them. They had quarrels sometimes, for it is impossible to enjoy the sweetness of passion without them; and the maiden would pout and look angry, until the kiss of contrition received the pledge of pardon back again. Thus the hour of silent sullenness only gave the brighter contrast to the joy of reconciliation, and their hearts never felt half so light as they did after those little peevish conflicts of erring nature: like the sudden wind through the woodbine, that only breathes a stronger gale of perfume; or the moon hid for a moment within the cloud, to break forth again with purer lustre ! But though quarrels often give a zest to the lover's felicity, they do not at all times terminate so happily. It happened, the day before my arrival at Oatvale was that of the annual fair, to which for the last three years the lovers had gone with all that innocent anticipation of heart, which gilds the hours of actual enjoyment, when hope, young and sportive as ourselves, disdains to break the spell of happiness which surrounds us, and innocence drinks sweetly from the cup of life, unconscious of the bitterness of its dregs! It seemed that Ellen had fixed her heart upon going to this fair,-"for there had never been such sights to be seen as now,"-a real fireeater, a lioness, and a recruiting party-who had but lately arrived to beat up for heroes,—that is, recruits,to spread carnage and desolation into distant lands,-while they leave anguish and desolation at home to leave the humble abodes of peace and domestic happiness, and the aged parents who had doated on their infancy, and gazed with proud delight on the sturdy props which Nature had given to their declining years, to renounce every hope, and every tie, and for what?-to spread ravage, and blood, and flame through the earth, and offer up the bleeding lamb of social happiness to the bloodstained Moloch of ambition, while the philosopher and moralist shrink aghast, that Nature should rear such dæmons in her bosom. Ellen had never seen the soldiers, and many a bleeding heart at that moment would have given the world to be as ignorant; so she was determined to go with Edward, who had saved up a little store for the occasion, and also to have a new gown to appear decent, a favourite term with the fair sex, when they desire to appear fine. But her father could see no reason why she could not go with an old one, as good as new; and to add to her distress, her mother (perhaps from economical reasons) thought the same there was to be no new gown, and Ellen resolved she would not go without one. The morning came, and Edward appeared in his Sunday clothes with an anxious countenance, and a pleading tear in each eye; but all to no purpose. The parents scolded, and the lover pleaded and wept; still Ellen was inexorable, go she would not." The lover was but a man, and men will be desperate, so he bade her "farewell for ever!" and went sullenly by himself. Now Ellen did not think he would go without her; and even if he did, that he would soon return, and bring her some fairing to bribe her ill humour. All day she sat sullenly in her chamber; and when evening came, endeavoured to forget the agony of her repentance, in unnatural merriment, and more than usual bustle in the household. Night came on: every one else had returned, but no Edward, and she remarked too, that the young folks who were her most intimate companions, now endeavoured to avoid her, and looked another way, as they passed the window where she sat. Farewell for ever! now struck like a death knell on her heartstrings. "He is gone then," she cried, and with that eager anxiety of mind which seeks the fatal intelligence that it dreads, she ran after the last couple that had passed her. "Where is Edward?" "We don't know." "Have you seen him?" "Yes." "Where?" "Don't ask us, Ellen, -Good night - God bless you!" "It is all over then," exclaimed the penitent; and she ran into the garden and wept. Morning at length dawned upon the anxious girl, after a sleepless night, during which her pillow had been wet with tears. There is no human misery so acute as that which we feel to have brought upon ourselves. Ellen felt as if she did not deserve pity: all she wished to obtain was the truth, yet no one, not even her parents, would tell her what had happened. At length an old pedlar called in for his pint of ale; and as Ellen had formerly been a customer of bis, he took that opportunity of displaying some of the identical finery that had figured at the fair. Ellen could not look,-she was ill, very ill, and a tear at the moment told the complaint was at her heart. All this was not lost upon the itinerant dealer-and kindly (for he meant kindness,) pressing her hand, he bade her take comfort :-"I saw your poor lover yesterday,"-added he,before-before-"What!' gasped the agonized girl-"before what!"-" Before he listed for a soldier.". -The blood rushed wildly to her heart;-a cry of despair sunk to the heart of the affrighted old man, and she fell senseless at his feet! It was just after her recovery from this trance of bitter feeling, that I introduced myself to the sorrowing Ellen: her little history was soon told, and on her mother's enquiry if there was any hope, she fixed a look upon me, so tear ful, and yet so pleadingly energetic, that I would have gone a pilgrimage to Loretto to recover her bosom's happiness. Yes! there was hope, and I lost no time in setting out for the town where the recruiting party had fixed their quarters. Mine host offered to accompany me, which I refused. The afflicted father of poor Edward could not, for his grief had laid him on his bed, from which he hoped never to arise, except to welcome his unfortunate son. Accompanied by blessings, and hopes and prayers, 1 proceeded on my journey, and surely a man cannot have better travelling companions; for my heart felt light with the buoyancy of hope, and the happiness it would be in my power to bestow. An hour's hard riding, brought me to the military rendezvous. The noise of brutal mirth-loud oaths-and vulgar songs— led me to this disgraceful repository of human victims: the serjeant and his confederates were endeavouring to drown every feeling of delicacy or repentance in the bosoms of their prey, by copious draughts of maddening liquor, which heated them into frantic gaiety, or happier insensibility:-yet in some eyes I could discover a tear mingling with the excitement of inebriation, and the recol lections of home,-that home they had renounced for ever,-stealing like spec tred shadows of former blessedness, amid the misery of hope's wild ruin!-I looked around;-Edward could not be there, where all was intemperance and maddening riot. This was no place for the weeping lover, · the renegade from domestic happiness,-misconduct's victim, and yet virtue's child! I thought I should have known him in a single glance; I looked again.-Yes,—he was there:remote from his boisterous companions, in a solitary corner, sat the late happy Edward; - his hands were clenched in mental agony; and his face, so lately blooming in health, was pale, and wet with tears. He seemed to have no eye-no ear-all was solitude!-the desolation of a young fond heart, swept by the whirlwind of sudden passion, when thought is misery, and conviction madness! I did not address him, to awaken hopes which I might not be able to realize, until I had first intimated my business to the commanding officer. He was soon found, and a short arrangement enabled me to restore young Edward to his home, his mistress, and himself. I will not attempt the description of his gratitude-his rapture: we were once more on the road to his native village, the scenes of his childhood, and the shrine of his heart: the sun shone brightly on its humble spire,-nay, even "The Silver Cow" was to be seen, as if in welcome of his return. A group of villagers were fast advancing to receive us, and there was one that seemed more eager than the rest. Edward's heart knew that person well,-he ran to meet her; and as she exclaimed, "Are you safe? are you free?"—"Free! and only thine!" he sobbed aloud, and they rushed into each other's arms. If there are any that would not weep at such a scene, as I did, I would not exchange feelings for the world! GARRETS, And Associations connected with them. We never think of a garret, but an infinitude of melancholy and lanky associations of skin and bone, poets and authors, come thronging on our imaginations. All ideas of the sins of the flesh evaporate on our entrance, for if all the flesh that has ever inhabited a garret were to be duly weighed in the balances, we are of opinion, that would not altogether amount to a tun. In walking up the steps that lead to this domiciliary appendage of genius, we are wholly overcome by the sanctity of the spot. We think of it as the resort of greatness, the cradle and grave of departed intellect, and pay homage to it in a sullen smile, or a flood of tears. A palace, a church, or a theatre, we can contrive to pass with some degree of indifference; but a garret, a place where Goldsmith flourished, and Chatterton died, we can never presume to enter without first paying a tribute of reverence to the presiding deity of the place. How venerable does it appear, at least if it is a genuine garret, with its angular projections, like the fractures in poor Goldsmith's face, its tattered and thread-bare walls like old Johnson's wig, and its numberless "loop holes of retreat," for the north wind to peep through and cool the poet's imagination. The very forlornness of its situation inspires elevated ideas in proportion to its attitude, it seems isolated from the world, and adapted solely to the intimate connexion that genius holds with heaven. It was in a lonely garret far removed from all connexion with mortality, that Otway conceived and planned his affecting tragedy of "Venice Preserved;" and it was in a garret that he ate the stolen roll, which ultimately terminated in his death. It was in a garret that poor Butler indited his inimitable Hudibras, and convulsed the king and the court with laughter, while he himself writhed in the gnawing pangs of starvation. Some one has thus aptly alluded to the circumstance: When Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him resolved to clay, and turned to dust, Presented with a monumental bust; The poet's fate is here in emblem shown,. He asked for bread, and he received a stone. A gentleman found Dryden in his old age exposed to the attacks of poverty, and pining in a garret, in an obscure situation," exclaimed the venerable poet corner of London: " you weep for my on seeing him, "but never mind, my young friend, the pang will be over soon. He died a few days afterwards. Poor Chatterton! "the sleepless boy who perished in his pride," overcome by the pressure of poverty, and stung to the quick by the heartless neglect of a bigotted aristocrat, commenced his immortality in a garret in Shoreditch. For two days previous to his death, he had eaten nothing; his landlady pitying his desolate condition, invited him to sup with her, he spurned the invitation with contempt, and put an end to his existence by poison. Crowds inflicted elegies on his memory, the length and breadth of which filled volumes, while the subject of these doleful tributes lies buried in a common workhouse in Shoe-lane, unnoticed by epitaph or eulogy. When a nobleman happened by chance to call upon Johnson, he found this great author |