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 mas ter, and a poem, entitled "Rural Sports," which he soon published and dedi cated 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 em ployed 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 DruryLane 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 me mory, 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 en deared 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 character ize him: "Of manners gentle, of affections mild; THE BULL AND THE MASTIFF. Seek you to train your favorite boy? A Mastiff pass'd; inflamed with ire, "Cursed Dog," the Bull replied, "no more I wonder at thy thirst of gore; For thou (beneath a butcher train'd, Whose hands with cruelty are stain'd, 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 HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. A Hare, who, in a civil way, As forth she went at early dawn, What transport in her bosom grew, The horse replied, "Poor honest Puss, She next the stately Bull implored; The Goat remark'd, "her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye: My back," says he, "may do you harm; For see the hounds are just in view." Gay wrote but little prose, except letters. He was too lazy to be a volu minous correspondent, but his style is easy, natural, and amusing. He had accompanied Pope to the seat of Lord Harcourt in Oxfordshire; and during his visit a violent thunder-storm occurred, the fatal effects of which upon two persons he gives in the following beautiful and affecting letter: THE VILLAGE LOVERS. Stanton Harcourt, Aug. 19, 1718. The only news that you can expect to have from me here is news from heaven, for I am quite out of the world; and there is scarce any thing can reach me except the voice of thunder, which undoubtedly you have heard too. We have read in old authors of high towers levelled by it to the ground, while the humbler valleys have escaped: the only thing that is proof against it is the laurel which, however, I take to be no great security to the brains of modern authors. But to let you see that the contrary to this often happens, I must acquaint you, that the highest and most extravagant heap of towers in the universe which is in this neighborhood, stands still undefaced, while a cock of barley in our next field has been consumed to ashes. Would to God that this heap of barley had been all that perished! for, unhappily, beneath this little shel ter sat two much more constant lovers than ever were found in romance under the shade of a beech-tree. John Hewet was a well-set man, of about five-and-twenty; Sarah Drew might be rather called comely than beautiful, and was about the same age. They had passed through the various labors of the year together, with the greatest satisfaction: if she milked, it was his morning and evening care to bring the cows to her hand; it was but last fair that he bought her a present of green silk for her straw hat; and the posie on her silver ring was of his choosing. Their love was the talk of the whole neighborhood. It was that very morning that he had obtained the consent of her parents; and it was but till the next week that they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps, in the intervals of their work, they were now talking of the wedding-clothes; and John was suiting several sorts of poppies and field-flowers to her complexion, to choose her a knot for the wedding-day. While they were thus busied, (it was on the last of July, between two and three in the afternoon,) the clouds grew black, and such a storm of thunder and lightning ensued, that all the laborers made the best of their way to what shelter the trees and hedges afforded. Sarah was frightened, and fell down in a swoon on a heap of barley. John, who never separated from her, sat down by her side, having raked together two or three heaps, the better to secure her from the storm. Immediately there was heard so loud a crack, as if heaven had split asunder: every one was now solicitous for the safety of his neighbor, and called to one another throughout the field: no answer being returned to those who called to our lovers, they stepped to the place where they lay; they perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then spied this faithful pair: John with one arm about Sarah's neck, and the other held over her, as to screen her from the lightning. They were struck dead, and stiffened in this tender posture. Sarah's left eyebrow was singed, and there appeared a black spot on her breast: her lover was all over black, but not the least signs of life were found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, they were conveyed to the town, and the next day were interred in Stanton Harcourt church-yard. My Lord Harcourt, at Mr. Pope's and my request, has caused a stone to be placed over them, upon condition that we furnished the epitaph, which is as fol lows: When eastern lovers feed the funeral fire, But my Lord is apprehensive the country people will not under- BARTON BOOTH. 1681-1733. BARTON BOOTH, though known in his day chiefly as an actor, deserves 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, Whose swelling tides obey the moon; From every other charmer free, My life and love shall follow thee. The lamb the flowery thyme devours, Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers Of verdant spring, her note renews; Nature must change her beauteous face, As winter to the spring gives place, Summer th' approach of autumn flies: Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; The gentle godhead can remove; |