The crowd, in wonder and delight,

With clapping hands, applaud the sight.

With smiles, quoth Pug, "If pranks like these
The giant apes of reason please,

How would they wonder at our arts?
They must adore us for our parts.
High on the twig I've seen you cling,
Play, twist, and turn in airy ring:
How can those clumsy things like me
Fly with a bound from tree to tree?
But yet, by this applause, we find
These emulators of our kind
Discern our worth, our parts regard,
Who our mean mimics thus reward."

66

Brother," the grinning mate replies,
"In this I grant that man is wise:
While good example they pursue,
We must allow some praise is due;
But when they strain beyond their guide,
I laugh to scorn the mimic pride;
For how fantastic is the sight,

To meet men always bolt upright,
Because we sometimes walk on two!
I hate the imitating crew."1

(1) This is one of the most finished of Gay's productions if we consider the lively vein of satire so justly levelled at the ignorant and supercilious conceit of mankind, which, wishing to arrogate all excellency, even of physical power, to itself, strives after what may be termed, "brute accomplishments." The observation in the last line is a fac-simile of the indolent pride which characterises the observation of many, and might pass, word for word, for a prim speech of some fine lady, newly raised to a precarious dignity, looking down upon those whose society she has just quitted, but now considers as her inferiors; or for the pedantic arrogance of some inflated scholar, who boasts the knowledge of every language and science, but whom a blacksmith could surpass, in common sense.

AN Owl of grave deport and mien,
Who (like the Turk) was seldom seen,
Within a barn had chose his station,
As fit for prey and contemplation.
Upon a beam aloft he sits,

And nods, and seems to think, by fits.

(So have I seen a man of

news,

Post-boy or Gazette peruse,

Smoke, nod, and talk with voice profound,
And fix the fate of Europe round.)1

Sheaves piled on sheaves, hid all the floor:-
At dawn of morn to view his store

The hooting guest,

The Farmer came.
His self-importance, thus exprest:
"Reason in man is mere pretence:
How weak, how shallow, is his sense!
To treat with scorn the Bird of Night,
Declares his folly or his spite.
Then, too, how partial is his praise!
The lark's, the linnet's chirping lays,
To his ill-judging ears are fine,
And nightingales are all divine:
But the more knowing feather'd race
See wisdom stamp'd upon my face.
Whene'er to visit light I deign,

What flocks of fowl compose my train!
Like slaves, they crowd my flight behind,
And own me of superior kind."

The Farmer laugh'd, and thus replied:
"Thou dull important lump of pride!
Dar'st thou with that harsh grating tongue
Depreciate birds of warbling song?
Indulge thy spleen: know, men and fowl
Regard thee, as thou art, an Owl.
Besides, proud Blockhead! be not vain

Of what thou call'st thy slaves and train:

(1) Vide Wilkie's picture of the "Village Politicians." It requires small talent to acquire the fame of political sagacity, seeing that of politicians it may be spoken, as of Apollo's oracle,

"Quidquid dixit Apollo

Aut erit aut non."

Few follow Wisdom or her rules;

Fools in derision follow fools."1

(1) The criticisms of self-conceit, though worthless, form nevertheless a frequent source of gratification, to those who find in them a safety valve, for the wounded pride and sense of indignity which they entertain towards the world, for not appreciating, what they consider, excellent in themselves. Hence arise illtempered sallies at the misery of life, at the uncharitableness of mankind, whereas true worth is sure to make its way, even by the striking qualification of its humility; and the world, with all its faults, rarely blames unjustly, and would least of all censure the excellence which is too valuable to be disregarded. When, however, spleen and disappointment affect the judgment, we are apt to pride ourselves upon the possession of what should constitute our shame, and imagine that the notice of vulgar derision is the applause of the virtuous and great. I may add, that of all humbugs, your grave sententious humbug is the worst, who shakes his head at the wit he cannot comprehend, and who, like the owl, is dazzled by the sun of intellect around him. Besides, such are generally narrow-minded hypocrites, who will be guilty of a thousand meannesses,-if done in a quiet way; for verily, "Gravity," as Bolingbroke says, "is the essence of imposture."

A JUGGLER long through all the town
Had raised his fortune and renown;
You'd think (so far his art transcends)
The devil at his fingers' ends.

Vice heard his fame, she read his bill; Convinced of his inferior skill,

She sought his booth, and from the crowd Defied the man of art aloud.