A dashing belle, of majestic presence--according to Rowlandson's design--is standing before a toilette table which is elegantly fitted; her costume is just completed, and her tire-woman is holding a light wrapper, when, in spite of the exertions made by a duenna to restrain his brusque invasion, an unexpected intruder is gliding into the handsome chamber. Bowing with the extreme of mock politeness, Death has come as cavalier to escort the lady, who was preparing for a masquerade; his hourglass and dart are slung by his side, he sports a fashionable powdered wig, with a solitaire, a red coat, a cocked hat, dandified pumps, and a frill, which he is fingering with the air of a _petit maître_. According to Coombe's verses, we learn that Flavia, a young lady of _ton_, whose sister is but recently dead, cannot resist the temptation to cast off her mourning for one evening, and apparel herself as the 'Queen of Beauty,' to appear at midnight at Lady Mary's ball. But, as her lovely form receiv'd The robe which Fashion's hand had weav'd, A shape appear'd of such a mien As Flavia's eyes had never seen. 'How dare you enter here,' she said, 'And what's this saucy masquerade? Who are you? Betty, ring the bell.' The Shape replied--''Twill be your knell. I'll save you from the swelt'ring crowd, Form'd by the vain, the gay, the proud, For which your tawdry mind prepares Its fruitless, its coquettish airs. Lady, you now must quit your home For the cool grotto of a tomb. Be not dismay'd; my gallant dart Will ease the flutt'rings of your heart.' He grinn'd a smile; the jav'lin flies, When Betty screams--and Flavia dies! Plate 22. _Time, Death, and Goody Barton. A Causette._ On with your dead, and I'll contrive To bury this old fool alive. Old Time, armed with his scythe, is driving his mortuary cart through a village; the horse is a mere skeleton, but the vehicle is heavily loaded, humanity is heaped up like carcases of no account, in fact the melancholy receptacle is as full as it will hold, and the wheel is passing over the neck of a frightened cur. Death is acting as collector, and has picked up one of the plagues of the village, a troublesome old man, who is kicking, fighting, and protesting against the violent illegality of Death's treatment in throwing his lot amongst the defunct. Stern Time, on the box, is turning round to remonstrate with his assistant. _Time._ While he shows that living face, With me he cannot have a place. _Death._ 'Tis true the fellow makes a riot: There's one jerk more--and now he's quiet. A young wife, who has a soldier-lad in attendance waiting for the shoes of her old husband, is dragging forth an ancient cripple, and pushing him on against his will:-- _Death._