Behind the sufferer, whose last hour, it seems, is approaching--since Death has thrust his head, arm, and hour-glass through a window above his head--is seated a blooming young damsel, decked out in all the attractiveness of an evening toilette; planted at a table by her side is a dandified admirer; before them a dessert is arranged, and decanters of wine are ready to hand. The nonchalant pair are pledging one another amorously in bumpers, while the spirit of the founder of the feast is departing. A painting of Democritus, his face wearing an expression of grief on one side, and laughter on the other, explains the transitory nature of sorrow, and the key of the situation is further offered by certain lines inscribed on a paper under the lady's hand: 'Come what may, the cat will mew, the dog will have his day.' _May 21, 1808._ _The Mother's Hope._ Woodward del., Rowlandson sculp. Published by T. Tegg, 111 Cheapside. (No. 228.)--The Mothers Hope is a pretty juvenile termagant, a Turk of the most irreclaimable order. The young rebel is dancing about in a fine rage, scattering his playthings, and 'making a bobbery' which is setting the entire house by the ears. The screams of the intractable elder are imitated by an infant in arms, and a canary is adding its shrill pipings to the general squall, after the nature of little warblers. [Illustration: THE MOTHER'S HOPE.] The wilful child is making a general statement of refractory resolutions:--'I don't like dolls--I don't like canary birds--I hate battledore and shuttlecock--I like drums and trumpets--I won't go to school--I will stay at home--I will have my own way in everything!' The horrified grandmother is growing prophetic on the strength of this irreconcilable prodigy: 'Bless the Baby--what an aspiring spirit--if he goes on in this way he will be a second Buonaparte!' _June 4, 1808._ _The Sweet Little Girl that I Love._ Woodward del., Rowlandson sculp. Published by T. Tegg. (167.)--A long military gentleman, wearing spectacles, a pigtail, and a powdered wig and whiskers, in the course of his perambulations has come across a quaint round little body, as broad as she is long, and perched on pattens: the hero is stooping low to salute the lips of the dwarfed lady. The picture is designed as a parody upon the lines:-- My friends all declare that my time is misspent, While in rural contentment I rove: I ask no more wealth than Dame Fortune has sent, And the sweet little girl that I love. The rose on her cheek's my delight: She's soft as the down--the down of the dove. No lily was ever so fair As the sweet little girl that I love.