I could not possibly be on shore anywhere thereabouts. Secondly, when I came to measure the mark with my own foot, I found my foot not so large by a great deal. Both these things filled my head with new imaginations, and gave me the vapors again to the highest degree; so that I shook with cold, like one in an ague, and I went home again, filled with the belief, that some man or men had been on shore there; or, in short, that the island was inhabited, and I might be surprised before I was aware; and what course to take for my security, I knew not. O what ridiculous resolutions men take, when possessed with fear! It deprives them of the use of those means which reason offers for their relief.

JOHN GAY, 1688-1732.

JOHN GAY, descended from a respectable family in Devonshire, was born in 1688, the year of the "Glorious Revolution." When young he was put apprentice to a silk-mercer in London; but having imbibed a taste for poetry and classical literature, his indentures were cheerfully cancelled by his master, and a poem, entitled "Rural Sports," which he soon published and dedicated to Pope, obtained the sincere and lasting friendship of that poet. By him Gay was introduced to that brilliant circle of wits, of which Pope was the centre, and of it he ever continued the favorite. In 1712 he was appointed secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth, which situation left him at full liberty to indulge his taste for elegant literature. Soon after, he published his “Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London," "a fine specimen," says Dr. Drake, "of that species of burlesque, in which elevated language is employed in the detail of trifling, mean, or ludicrous circumstances." He then entered the walks of dramatic literature, but without any success, until, in 1727, he published his "Beggar's Opera," designed to ridicule the Italian opera, and to satirize the court. He offered it to Rich, the manager of Drury-Lane Theatre, and such was its great popularity, that it was humorously remarked that this opera had made Gay rich, and Rich gay.

But the most finished productions of our poet, and those to which he will owe his reputation with posterity, are his "Fables," the finest in the language. They are written with great spirit and vivacity; the versification is generally smooth and flowing; the descriptions happy and appropriate, and the moral designed to be conveyed is, for the most part, impressive and instructive. Besides these, he was the author of the "Fan," a mythological fiction; of "Dione,' a pastoral drama; of "Achilles," an opera, and many songs and ballads. The publication of these various works placed him in easy circumstances, as to fortune; but no sooner was he released from pecuniary anxiety, than his health began to decline; and he was at length seized

with an inflammatory disease, which carried him off in three days, and he expired on the 4th of December, 1732, in the forty-fourth year of his age. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a handsome monument was erected to his memory, for which Pope wrote an inscription.

Few men were more beloved by those who intimately knew him, than Gay. His moral character was excellent, his temper peculiarly sweet and engaging, but he possessed a simplicity of manner and character which, though it endeared him to his friends, rendered him very unfit for the general business of life. The two first lines of the epitaph of Pope most truthfully characterize him:

Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit, a man; simplicity, a child.

THE BULL AND THE MASTIFF.

Seek you to train your favorite boy?
Each caution, every care employ;
And, ere you venture to confide,
Let his preceptor's heart be try'd:
Weigh well his manners, life, and scope;
On these depends thy future hope.
As on a time, in peaceful reign,
A Bull enjoy'd the flowery plain,
A Mastiff pass'd; inflam'd with ire,
His eyeballs shot indignant fire.

He foam'd, he rag'd with thirst of blood.
Spurning the ground, the monarch stood,
And roar'd aloud: "Suspend the fight;
In a whole skin go sleep to-night:
Or tell me, ere the battle rage,

What wrongs provoke thee to engage?
Is it ambition fires thy breast,

Or avarice, that ne'er can rest?
From these alone unjustly springs
The world-destroying wrath of kings."
The surly Mastiff thus returns:
"Within my bosom glory burns.
Like heroes of eternal name,
Whom poets sing, I fight for fame.
The butcher's spirit-stirring mind
To daily war my youth inclin'd;
He train'd me to heroic deed,
Taught me to conquer, or to bleed."

"Curs'd Dog," the Bull reply'd, "no more

I wonder at thy thirst of gore;

For thou (beneath a butcher train'd,

Whose hands with cruelty are stain'd,
His daily murders in thy view)

Must, like thy tutor, blood pursue.

Take, then, thy fate." With goring wound
At once he lifts him from the ground:

Aloft the sprawling hero flies,
Mangled he falls, he howls, and dies.

THE POET AND THE ROSE.

I hate the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame.

Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own.
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decry'd.
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister awkward creature;
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.
As in the cool of early day
A Poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odor bends;
A rose he pluck'd, he gaz'd, admir'd,
Thus singing, as the Muse inspir'd:
"Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;
How happy shall I prove,

Might I supply that envy'd place
With never-fading love!

There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,

Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die.

Know, hapless Flower! that thou shalt find

More fragrant Roses there;

I see thy withering head reclin'd

With envy and despair!

One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love."

"Spare your comparisons, reply'd
An angry Rose, who grew beside.
Of all mankind you should not flout us;
What can a Poet do without us?
In every love-song Roses bloom;
We lend you color and perfume:
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade?"

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.

Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.

'Tis thus in friendships; who depend On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare who, in a civil way, Comply'd with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain; Her care was never to offend; And every creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies.
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles, to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round;
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half-dead with fear, she gasping lay.
What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the Horse appear'd in view!
"Let me, says she, your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight:
To friendship every burden's light."

The Horse reply'd, "Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus:
Be comforted, relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately Bull implor'd;
And thus reply'd the mighty lord:
"Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.

To leave you thus might seem unkind;

But, see, the Goat is just behind."

The Goat remark'd, "her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye:

My back, says he, may do you harm;
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."
The sheep was feeble, and complain'd
"His sides a load of wool sustain'd;
Said, he was slow, confess'd his fears;
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares."
She now the trotting calf address'd,
To save from death a friend distress'd.
"Shall I, says he, of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler pass'd you by;
How strong are those! how weak am I!

Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.

Excuse me, then; you know my heart;
But dearest friends, alas! must part.
How shall we all lament! Adieu;
For see the hounds are just in view."

BARTON BOOTH, 1681-1733.

BARTON BOOTH, though known in his day chiefly as an actor, deserves a notice in this work for his very beautiful song, entitled,

SWEET ARE THE CHARMS OF HER I LOVE.

Sweet are the charms of her I love,

More fragrant than the damask rose,

Soft as the down of turtle-dove,

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains

To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains.

True as the needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the sun;
Constant as gliding waters roll,

Whose swelling tides obey the moon;
From every other charmer free,

My life and love shall follow thee.

The lamb the flowery thyme devours,
The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers

Of verdant spring, her note renews;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire.

Nature must change her beauteous face,
And vary as the seasons rise;
As winter to the spring gives place,

Summer th' approach of autumn flies:
No change on love the seasons bring,
Love only knows perpetual spring.
Devouring Time, with stealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow;
And marble towers, and gates of brass,
In his rude march he levels low:
But Time, destroying far and wide,
Love from the soul can ne'er divide.

Death only, with his cruel dart,

The gentle godhead can remove;
And drive him from the bleeding heart
To mingle with the bless'd above,