"Far from the giddy town's tumultuous strife,
Their wishes yet have never learned to stray,
Content and happy in a single life,

They keep the noiseless tenor of their way.
"E'en now their books, from cobwebs to protect,
Inclosed by door of glass, in Doric style,
On polished pillars raised with bronzes decked,
Demand the passing tribute of a smile."

Another parody of this famous Elegy published about the same date, has a less pleasant subject the dangers and vices of the metropolis. It speaks of the activity of thieves.

"Oft to their subtlety the fob did yield,

Their cunning oft the pocket string hath broke,
How in dark alleys bludgeons did they wield!
How bowed the victim 'neath their sturdy stroke!

"Let not ambition mock their humble toil,
Their vulgar crimes and villainy obscure;
Nor rich rogues hear with a disdainful smile,
The low and petty knaveries of the poor.

"Beneath the gibbet's self perhaps is laid,

Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire,
Hands that the sword of Nero might have swayed,
And midst the carnage tuned the exulting lyre.

"Ambition to their eyes her ample page

Rich with such monstrous crimes did ne'er unroll,
Chill penury repressed their native rage,
And froze the bloody current of their soul.

"Full many a youth, fit for each horrid scene,
The dark and sooty flues of chimneys bear;
Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen,
And dies unhanged for want of proper care.'

Gay dedicated his first poem to Pope, then himself a young man, and this led to an intimacy between them. In 1712 he held the office of Secretary to Ann, Duchess of Monmouth; and in 1714 he accompanied the Earl

of Clarendon to Hanover. In this year he wrote a good travesty of Ambrose Philips' pastoral poetry, of which the following is a specimen

Lobbin Clout. As Blouzelinda, in a gamesome mood, Behind a hayrick loudly laughing stood,

I slily ran and snatched a hasty kiss;

She wiped her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripened hay.
Cuddy. As my Buxoma in a morning fair,
With gentle finger stroked her milky care,
I quaintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,
She frowned, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vow,
Her breath by far excelled the breathing cow.

Lobbin. Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear, Of Irish swains potato is the cheer,

Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind;

While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,

Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potato prize.

Cuddy. In good roast beef my landlord sticks his knife, And capon fat delights his dainty wife;

Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,

But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare;

While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be

Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

The following is not without point at the present day

TO A LADY ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA.
What ecstasies her bosom fire!

How her eyes languish with desire!
How blessed, how happy, should I be,
Were that fond glance bestowed on me!
New doubts and fears within me war,
What rival's here? A China jar!
China's the passion of her soul,
A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl,
Can kindle wishes in her breast,
Inflame with joy, or break her rest.

VOL. II.

Husbands more covetous than sage,
Condemn this China-buying rage,

They count that woman's prudence little,
Who sets her heart on things so brittle;
But are those wise men's inclinations
Fixed on more strong, more sure foundations?
If all that's frail we must despise,

No human view or scheme is wise.

Gay's humour is often injured by the introduction of low scenes, and disreputable accompaniments.

"The Dumps," a lament of a forlorn damsel, is much in the same style as the Pastorals. It finishes with these lines

66 Farewell ye woods, ye meads, ye streams that flow,
A sudden death shall rid me of my woe,

This penknife keen my windpipe shall divide,
What, shall I fall as squeaking pigs have died?
No-to some tree this carcase I'll suspend;
But worrying curs find such untimely end!
I'll speed me to the pond, where the high stool,
On the long plank hangs o'er the muddy pool,
That stool, the dread of every scolding queen:
Yet sure a lover should not die, so mean!
Thus placed aloft I'll rave and rail by fits,
Though all the parish say I've lost my wits;
And thence, if courage holds, myself I'll throw,
And quench my passion in the lake below."

He published in 1727 "The Beggar's Opera," the idea had been suggested by Swift. This is said to have given birth to the English Operathe Italian having been already introduced here. This opera, or musical play, brought out by Mr. Rich, was so renumerative that it was a common saying that it made "Rich gay, and Gay rich.

In "The Beggar's Opera " the humour turns

on Polly falling in love with a highwayman. Peachum gives an amusing account of the gang. Among them is Harry Paddington"a poor, petty-larceny rascal, without the least genius; that fellow, though he were to live these six months would never come to the gallows with any credit-and Tom Tipple, a guzzling, soaking sot, who is always too drunk to stand, or make others stand. A cart is absolutely necessary for him." Peachum, and his wife lament over their daughter Polly's choice of Captain Macheath. There numerous songs, such as that of Mrs. Peachum begining

are

"Our Polly is a sad slut! nor heeds what we have taught her, I wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter.'

Polly, contemplating the possibility of Macheath's being hanged exclaims

“Now, I'm a wretch indeed. Methinks, I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent down from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace. I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep! Jack Ketch himself hesitates to perform his duty, and would be glad to lose his fee by a reprieve. What then will become of Polly ?"

To Macheath

Were you sentenced to transportation, sure, my dear, you could not leave me behind you?

Mac. Is there any power, any force, that could tear thee from me. You might sooner tear a pension out of the hands of a courtier, a fee from a lawyer, a pretty woman from a looking-glass, or any woman from quadille."*

Gay may have taken his idea of writing fables from Dryden whose classical reading tempted him in two or three instances to indulge in such fancies. They were clever and in childhood appeared humorous to us, but we have long ceased to be amused by them, owing to their excessive improbability. Such ingenuity seems misplaced, we see more absurdity than talent in representing a sheep as talking to a wolf. To us fables now present, not what is strange and difficult of comprehension, but mentally fanciful folly. In some few instances in La Fontaine and Gay, the wisdom of the lessons atones for the strangeness of their garb, and the peculiarity of the dramatis personæ may tend to rivet them in our minds. There is something also fresh and pleasant in the scenes of country life which they bring before us. But the taste for such conceits is irrevocably gone, and every attempt to revive it, even when recommended by such ingenuity and talent as that of Owen Meredith, only tends to prove the fact more incontestably.

* A game at cards.