Pleased sempstresses the Lock's famed Rape unfold; And Squirts read Garth till apozems grow cold. Squirt is the name of an apothecary's boy in Garth's Dispensary; apozem is a decoction or infusion.

During the great frost in London in 1716 a fair was held on the river Thames :

O roving Muse! recall that wondrous year
When winter reigned in bleak Britannia's air;
When hoary Thames, with frosted osiers crowned,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound.
The waterman, forlorn, along the shore,
Pensive reclines upon his useless oar :
See harnessed steeds desert the stony town,
And wander roads unstable, not their own,
Wheels o'er the hardened waters smoothly glide,
And raze with whitened tracks the slippery tide;
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire ;
Booths sudden hide the Thames, long streets appear,
And numerous games proclaim the crowded fair.
So, when a general bids the martial train
Spread their encampment o'er the spacious plain,
Thick-rising tents a canvas city build,

And the loud dice resound through all the field.

Gay was always sighing for public employment, for which he was eminently unfit, and in 1714 he had a glimpse of fancied happiness. He wrote with joy to Pope: 'Since you went out of the town, my Lord Clarendon was appointed envoy-extraordinary to Hanover, in the room of Lord Paget; and by making use of those friends which I entirely owe to you, he has accepted me for his secretary.' Quitting his situation with the Duchess of Monmouth, he accompanied Lord Clarendon on his embassy, but seems to have held the new post only for about two months; in the same year Pope welcomed him to his native soil, and counselled him, now that the queen was dead, to write something on the king, or prince, or princess.' The anxious expectant of court favour complied with Pope's request, and wrote a poem entitled An Epistle to a Lady [probably Mrs Howard]: Occasioned by the Arrival of Her Royal Highness [the Princess of Wales, whom he had seen at Hanover]; and, as a consequence, the Princess and her husband went to see his play of The What d'ye Call It? Gay was stimulated to another dramatic attempt (1717), and produced Three Hours After Marriage, but some personal satire and indecent dialogue, together with the improbability of the plot, sealed its fate. It soon fell into disgrace; and its author, afraid that Pope and Arbuthnot would suffer from their connection with it, took all the blame on himself. Nevertheless the trio of friendly wits were attacked in two pamphlets, and Pope's quarrel with Cibber originated in this unlucky drama. Gay was silent and dejected for some time; but in 1720 he published his poems by subscription, and realised £1000. He also received a present of South Sea stock, and was supposed to be worth £20,000, all of which he lost by the collapse of that famous delusion. This

serious calamity almost overwhelmed a wit fond of finery and of luxurious living, but his friends were zealous, and he was prompted to further literary exertion. In 1724 he brought out another drama, The Captives, which was acted with moderate success; and in 1727 he wrote a volume of Fables, designed for the edification of the Duke of Cumberland (then a boy of six), who does not seem to have learnt mercy or humanity from them. The accession of the prince and princess to the throne seemed to augur well for Gay's fortunes; but he was only offered the situation of gentleman-usher to the little Princess Louisa, a child under three, and considering this an insult, he rejected it. In 1726 Swift had come to England, and lived two months with Pope at Twickenham. At this or some earlier date, the Dean had sug

(From a Sketch by Sir G. Kneller in the National Portrait Gallery.) gested to Gay the idea of a Newgate pastoral, in which the characters should be thieves and highwaymen ; and The Beggar's Opera was the result. The two friends were doubtful of the success of the piece, but it was received with unbounded applause. The songs and music aided greatly its popularity, and there was also the recommendation of political satire; for the quarrel between Peachum and Lockit was accepted as an allusion to a personal collision between Walpole and his colleague, Lord Townshend. The spirit and variety of the piece, in which song and sentiment are cheerfully intermixed with vice and roguery, still render the Beggar's Opera a favourite with the public; but as Gay succeeded in making highwaymen agreeable and even attractive, it can hardly be commended for its moral tendency-a matter of little account with

the epicurean playwright, who was, in Pope's words

Of manners gentle, of affections mild;

In wit a man, simplicity a child.

The opera had a run of sixty-two nights, became the rage of town and country, and had also the effect of giving rise to the English opera, a species of light comedy enlivened by songs and music, which for a time supplanted the Italian opera, with all its exotic and elaborate graces. By this successful opera Gay, as appears from the manager's account-book, cleared £693, 13s. 6d. besides what he derived from its publication. He tried a sequel to the Beggar's Opera, under the title of Polly; but as it was supposed to contain sarcasms on the court, the Lord Chamberlain prohibited its representation. The author had recourse to publication; and such was the zeal of his friends and the effect of party-spirit that Polly produced a profit of £1100 or £1200. Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, gave £100 as her subscription for a copy. Gay had now amassed £3000 by his writings, which he resolved to keep 'entire and sacred.' He was at the same time received into the house of his kind patrons the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, with whom he spent the remainder of his life. His only literary occupation was composing additional fables, and corresponding occasionally with Pope and Swift. A sudden attack of inflammatory fever carried him off in three days. Pope's letter to Swift announcing the event was endorsed: 'On my dear friend Mr Gay's death. Received, December 15th, but not read till the 20th, by an impulse foreboding some misfortune.' And nothing in Swift's life is more touching or honourable to his memory than those passages in his letters where the recollection of his friend melted his haughty stoicism. Gay was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a costly monument erected by the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry bears his own lines:

Life is a jest, and all things show it:

I thought so once, and now I know it.

The works of this genial son of the Muses, which have lost much of their popularity, show the licentiousness without the elegance of Prior. His Fables are still the best we possess; and if they have not the rich humour and archness of La Fontaine's, they are light and pleasing, and are always smooth in versification. The Hare with Many Friends is doubtless drawn from the fabulist's own experience. In the Court of Death he tries a higher flight, and marshals his 'diseases dire' with strong and gloomy power. His song of Black-eyed Susan and the 'ballad' beginning "Twas when the seas were roaring' are full of characteristic tenderness and lyrical melody. This ballad (in the then usual sense of the word) was said by Cowper to have been the joint production of Arbuthnot, Swift, and Gay, but the tradition is not supported by evidence.

The Country Ballad-singer. Sublimer strains, O rustic Muse! prepare; Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care; Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise, The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays; With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse, While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil; Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout, Clean damsels bound the gathered sheaves about; The lads with sharpened hook and sweating brow Cut down the labours of the winter plough.

...

When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied,
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside;
That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing,
Or with the rosined bow torment the string;
That Bowzybeus who, with finger's speed,
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed;
That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue,
Ballads, and roundelays, and catches sung:
They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright,
And in disport surround the drunken wight.

Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long?
The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous strong!
Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night,
But thou sat'st toping till the morning light.

No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song
But lads and lasses round about him throng.
Not ballad-singer placed above the crowd
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud;
Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear,
Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear.

Of Nature's laws his carols first begunWhy the grave owl can never face the sun. For owls, as swains observe, detest the light, And only sing and seek their prey by night. How turnips hide their swelling heads below, And how the closing coleworts upwards grow; How Will-a-Wisp misleads night-faring clowns O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs, Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail, And of the glowworm's light that gilds his tail. He sung where woodcocks in the summer feed, And in what climates they renew their breedSome think to northern coasts their flight they tend, Or to the moon in midnight hours ascendWhere swallows in the winter's season keep, And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep; How Nature does the puppy's eyelid close Till the bright sun has nine times set and rose (For huntsmen by their long experience find That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind). Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows, For still new fairs before his eyes arose. How pedlers' stalls with glittering toys are laid, The various fairings of the country maid. Long silken laces hang upon the twine, And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine; How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spies, And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told, Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. The lads and lasses trudge the street along, And all the fair is crowded in his song. The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells

His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells;
Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs,
And on the rope the venturous maiden swings;
Jack Pudding, in his parti-coloured jacket,
Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet.
Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats,
Of pockets picked in crowds, and various cheats.
(From The Shepherd's Week—Saturday; or, the Flights.)

On the Streets of London.

Through winter streets to steer your course aright,
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night;
How jostling crowds with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall, and when resign,
I sing; Thou, Trivia, Goddess, aid my song,
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stray
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way;
The silent court and opening square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.

To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays;
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground,
Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound;
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside.
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame,
From the great theme to build a glorious name;
To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown,
And bind my temples with a civic crown:
But more, my country's love demands the lays;
My country's be the profit, mine the praise!

When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice,
And Clean your shoes' resounds from every voice;
When late their miry sides stage-coaches shew,
And their stiff horses through the town move slow;
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies,
And damsels first renew their oyster-cries,
Then let the prudent walker shoes provide,
Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide ;

The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
And with the scalloped top his step be crowned:
Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet
Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet.
Should the big last extend the shoe too wide,
Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside;
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein,
Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain ;
And when too short the modish shoes are worn,
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.
Nor should it prove thy less important care
To choose a proper coat for winter wear.
Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold,
Thy silken drugget ill can fence the cold;
The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain,

And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain;
True Witney broadcloth, with its shag unshorn,
Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn:

Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear
Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear?
Within the Roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent,
Hands that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent.
Let the looped Bavaroy the fop embrace,
Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace.
That garment best the winter's rage defends
Whose shapeless form in ample plaits depends;

By various names in various counties known,
Yet held in all the true Surtout alone;

Be thine of Kersey firm, though small the cost,
Then brave unwet the rain, unchilled the frost.

If the strong cane support thy walking hand, Chairmen no longer shall the wall command; Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey, And rattling coaches stop to make thee way: This shall direct thy cautious tread aright, Though not one glaring lamp enliven night. Let beaux their canes, with amber tipt, produce; Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. In gilded chariots while they loll at ease, And lazily insure a life's disease; While softer chairs the tawdry load convey To Court, to White's, Assemblies, or the Play; Rosy-complexioned Health thy steps attends, And exercise thy lasting youth defends.

(From Trivia, Book i.)

D'Oily or Doyley, who gave name to a kind of woollen stuff 'at once cheap and genteel,' and to ornamental napkins, was a linendraper who had a shop in the Strand. White's was a chocolatehouse in St James's Street.

Song.

Virgins are like the fair flower in its lustre,
Which in the garden enamels the ground;
Near it the bees, in play, flutter and cluster,
And gaudy butterflies frolic around.

But when once plucked, 'tis no longer alluring,
To Covent Garden 'tis sent (as yet sweet),
There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring,
Rots, stinks, and dies, and is trod under feet.

(From The Beggar's Opera.)

There is a close parallel to this in the words of Effie Deans in the Heart of Mid-Lothian: 'I thought o' the bonny bit thorn that our father rooted out o' the yard last May, when it had a' the flush o' blossoms on it; and then it lay in the court till the beasts had trod them a' to pieces wi' their feet. I little thought when I was wae for the bit silly green bush and its flowers, that I was to gang the same gate mysell.'

The Court of Death.
Death, on a solemn night of state,
In all his pomp of terror sate:
The attendants of his gloomy reign,
Diseases dire, a ghastly train!

Crowd the vast court. With hollow tone,
A voice thus thundered from the throne:
'This night our minister we name;
Let every servant speak his claim;
Merit shall bear this ebon wand.'
All, at the word, stretched forth their hand.
Fever, with burning heat possessed,
Advanced, and for the wand addressed :
'I to the weekly bills appeal;

Let those express my fervent zeal ;
On every slight occasion near,
With violence I persevere.'

Next Gout appears with limping pace,
Pleads how he shifts from place to place;
From head to foot how swift he flies,
And every joint and sinew plies;
Still working when he seems supprest,
A most tenacious stubborn guest.
A haggard spectre from the crew
Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due :

"'Tis I who taint the sweetest joy,
And in the shape of Love destroy.
My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face,
Prove my pretension to the place.'

Stone urged his evergrowing force;
And, next, Consumption's meagre corse,
With feeble vo.ce that scarce was heard,
Broke with short coughs, his suit preferred:
'Let none object my lingering way;
I gain, like Fabius, by delay;
Fatigue and weaken every foe
By long attack, secure, though slow.'
Plague represents his rapid power,
Who thinned a nation in an hour.

All spoke their claim, and hoped the wand. Now expectation hushed the band, When thus the monarch from the throne: 'Merit was ever modest known. What! no physician speak his right? None here! but fees their toils requite. Let, then, Intemperance take the wand, Who fills with gold their zealous hand. You, Fever, Gout, and all the restWhom wary men as foes detestForego your claim. No more pretend; Intemperance is esteemed a friend; He shares their mirth, their social joys, And as a courted guest destroys. The charge on him must justly fall, Who finds employment for you all.'

(From The Fables.)

The Hare with 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 friendship; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who, in a civil way,
Complied 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-mouthed 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 ba k 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 appeared 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 replied: 'Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus ;
Pe comforted; relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear.'
She next the stately Bull implored,

And thus replied 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.
Love calls me hence; a favourite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the Goat is just behind.'

The Goat remarked 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 complained
His sides a load of wool sustained :
Said he was slow, confessed his fears,
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.

She now the trotting Calf addressed,
To save from death a friend distressed.
'Shall I,' says he, of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler passed 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!'
(From The Fables.

Song-Black-eyed Susan.

All in the downs the fleet was moored,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When Black-eyed Susan came aboard,

'Oh! where shall I my true love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, If my sweet William sails among the crew?'

William, who high upon the yard

Rocked with the billow to and fro,

Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands. And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breastIf chance his mate's shrill call he hearAnd drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.

'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,

My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

'Believe not what the landmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

'If to fair India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,

Thy skin is ivory so white.

Thus every beauteous object that I view

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

'Though battle call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.'

The boatswain gave the dreadful word;
The sails their swelling bosom spread ;
No longer must she stay aboard;

They kissed-she sighed―he hung his head.
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land,
'Adieu !' she cries, and waved her lily hand.

To Mr Pope, on his having finished his Transla-
tion of the Iliad: A Welcome from Greece.
Long hast thou, friend! been absent from my soil,
Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy;

I have been witness of thy six years toil,

Thy daily labours, and thy night's annoy,
Lost to thy native land, with great turmoil,

On the wide sea, oft threatening to destroy :
Methinks with thee I've trod Sigaan ground,
And heard the shores of Hellespont resound.
Did I not see thee when thou first sett'st sail
To seek adventures fair in Homer's land?
Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail,

And wish thy bark had never left the strand?
Ev'n in mid ocean often didst thou quail,

And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand,
Praying the Virgin dear, and saintly choir,
Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.
Cheer up, my friend! thy dangers now are o'er;
Methinks-nay, sure the rising coasts appear;
Hark! how the guns salute from either shore,
As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair:
Shouts answering shouts from Kent and Essex roar,
And bells break loud through every gust of air :
Bonfires do blaze, and bones and cleavers ring,
As at the coming of some mighty king.

Now pass we Gravesend with a friendly wind,
And Tilbury's white fort, and long Blackwall;
Greenwich, where dwells the friend of human kind,
More visited than or her park or hall,
Withers the good, and (with him ever join'd)

Facetious Disney, greet thee first of all:

I see his chimney smoke, and hear him say,
Duke! that's the room for Pope, and that for Gay.

Come in, my friends! here shall ye dine and lie,
And here shall breakfast, and here dine again;
And sup and breakfast on (if ye comply),

For I have still some dozens of champaign :
His voice still lessens as the ship sails by;

He waves his hand to bring us back in vain :
For now I see, I see proud London's spires;
Greenwich is lost, and Deptford dock retires.
Oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder quay!
The sky re-echoes with new shouts of joy;
By all this show, I ween, 'tis Lord Mayor's day;
I hear the voice of trumpet and hautboy.—
No, now I see them near.-Oh, these are they

Who come in crowds to welcome thee from Troy.
Hail to the bard, whom long as lost we mourn'd;
From siege, from battle, and from storm, return'd!

Of goodly dames, and courteous knights, I view
The silken petticoat, and broider'd vest;
Yea peers, and mighty dukes, with ribbands blue
(True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast).
Others I see, as noble, and more true,

By no court-badge distinguish'd from the rest :
First see I Methuen, of sincerest mind,
As Arthur grave, as soft as womankind.

What lady's that, to whom he gently bends?

Who knows not her? ah! those are Wortley's eyes: How art thou honour'd, number'd with her friends! For she distinguishes the good and wise.