A party of farm labourers, wearing bunches of ribands in their caps, are being recruited for the wars; they are led by a drummer, with whose steps they are clumsily attempting to keep time. One fine, tall, healthy-looking young fellow is taking leave of his sweetheart; his father, mother, and the rest of his family and friends, grouped around--down to a grotesque-looking dog--are plunged into grief at his departure. Death, who is wearing a plumed hat, a jaunty cloak, and who carries his dart like a halbert, is clutching the shoulder of the recruit, and hurrying forward his legions; the universal captain is reminding his followers of the everlasting burden--_Death_ and _Glory_. Plate 10. _The Maiden Ladies._ Be not alarm'd, I'm only come To choose a wife, and light her home. Death, with an air of awful gallantry, wearing a gay cap, rakishly set on one side of his grim bare skull, with his dart put up guitar-wise, and laying a bony hand on the part of his structure where his heart should be, has arrived, unannounced, with a lantern to offer the courtesies of his escort to a large gathering of elderly spinsters--a 'tabby party' of weird and wizened-looking ancient anatomies--who are met for the joint distractions of scandal and gambling. The cards, the stakes, and the play-table are capsized; a fat footman is gazing with wonder at the guest last arrived, but the old maids are sensible of the nature of his attentions, and they are fluttering about in consternation and terror, as to whose turn has come. Death, it seems, is making a jest of offering what these frozen old maids have lacked through life--a husband. 'Tis Fate commands, and I with pride, Embrace Miss _Mustard_ as my bride. A well-appointed hearse-and-four, Attends her pleasure at the door. The marriage ceremonies wait Her presence at the churchyard gate: My lantern shines with nuptial light; The bells in muffled peal invite; And she shall be--_A bride to-night_. Plate 11. _The Quack Doctor._ I have a secret art to cure Each malady which men endure. Apothecaries' Hall, it might reasonably be hinted by the satirists, was a likely spot for Death's visitations. In Rowlandson's print we find the grim foe in the full exercise of his privileges, pounding away with fatal energy. An apothecary is dispensing various noxious drugs to a considerable crowd of patients, who are disfigured by various sufferings. They will not be kept waiting long apparently, for behind a curtain, Death, grinning at himself with a satisfied air in a mirror, and surrounded by the seeds of mortality, is grinding slow poisons with a will; the motive power of the situation; as an able assistant to the quacks, whose master he knows himself to be. Plate 12. _The Sot._ Drunk and alive, the man was thine, But dead and drunk, why--he is mine.