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my own foot, when I came on shore from my boat: this cheered me up a little too, and I began to persuade myself it was all a delusion; that it was nothing else but my own foot; and why might not I come that way from the boat, as well as I was going that way to the boat? Again, I considered also, that I could by no means tell for certain where I had trod, and where I had not; and that if at last this was only the print of my own foot, I had played the part of those fools, who strive to make stories of spectres and apparitions, and then are themselves frighted at them more than anybody else.

Now I began to take courage, and to peep abroad again; for I had not stirred out of my castle for three days and nights, so that I began to starve for provision; for I had little or nothing within doors, but some barley-cakes and water. Then I knew that my goats wanted to be milked too, which usually was my evening diversion; and the poor creatures were in great pain and inconvenience for want of it; and indeed it almost spoiled some of them, and almost dried up their milk.

Heartening myself, therefore, with the belief, that this was nothing but the print of one of my own feet, (and so I might be truly said to start at my own shadow,) I began to go abroad again, and went to my country-house to milk my flock; but to see with what fear I went forward, how often I looked behind me, how I was ready, every now and then, to lay down my basket, and run for my life; it would have made any one have thought I was haunted with an evil conscience, or that I had been lately most terribly frighted; and so indeed I had.

However, as I went down thus two or three days, and having seen nothing, I began to be a little bolder, and to think there was really nothing in it but my own imagination. But I could not persuade myself fully of this, till I should go down to the shore again, and see this print of a foot, and measure it by my own, and see if there was any similitude or fitness, that I might be assured it was my own foot. But when I came to the place first, it appeared evidently to me, that when I laid up my boat, 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 inaginations, 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 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 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 character ize hin:

"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 tried:
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; inflamed with ire,
His eyeballs shot indignant fire.
He foam'd, he raged 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 inclined;
He train❜d me to heroic deed,
Taught me to conquer, or to bleed."

"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,
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 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,
Complied with every thing, 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 replied, "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 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.

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."

Gay wrote but little prose, except letters. He was too lazy to be a voluminous 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 shelter 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 morn ing 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 follows:

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