The ‘Fables’ are light and lively, and might safely be recommended to all who are fond of an easy quotation. To lay them down is never difficult, and if, after having done so, Swift’s ‘Confession of the Beasts’ is taken up, how vast the difference! There are, we know, those in whose nature there is too much of the milk of human kindness to enable them to enjoy Swift when he shows his teeth; but however this may be, we confess, if we are to read at all, we must prefer Swift’s ‘Beasts’ Confession’ to all the sixty-five fables of Gay put together. ‘The Swine with contrite heart allow’d His shape and beauty made him proud In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne’er his vice; In every turn of life content And meekly took what fortune sent. Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbour ne’er was found. His vigilance might some displease; ’Tis true he hated sloth like pease. ‘The Chaplain vows he cannot fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn. He passed his hours among his books, You find it in his meagre looks. He might if he were worldly wise Preferment get and spare his eyes; But owns he has a stubborn spirit That made him trust alone to merit; Would rise by merit to promotion. Alas! a mere chimeric notion.’ Gay was found pleasing by his friends, and had, we must believe, a kind heart. Swift, who was a nice observer in such matters, in his famous poem on his own death, assigns Gay a week in which to grieve: ‘Poor Pope would grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day; St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen and drop a tear; The rest will give a shrug and cry, “I’m sorry, but we all must die.”’ It is a matter of notoriety that Gay was very fat and fond of eating. He is, as we have already said, buried in Westminster Abbey, over against Chaucer. When all the rubbish is carted away from the Abbey to make room for the great men and women of the twentieth century, Gay will probably be accounted just good enough to remain where he is. He always was a lucky fellow, though he had not the grace to think so. ROGER NORTH’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.