bulist's reflections and the uncommon tameness of his
drama. It is hard to believe that this is indeed the Gay of _Polly_ and
_The Beggars' Opera_. True, the dialects of his Peachum and his Lockit
are in some sort one; his gentlemen of the road and his ladies of the
kennel rejoice in a common flippancy of expression; there is little to
choose between the speech of Polly and the speech of Lucy. But in
respect of the essentials of drama the dialogue of the _Beggars' Opera_
is on the whole sufficient. The personages are puppets; but they are
individual, and they are fairly consistent in their individuality. Miss
Lockit does not think and feel like Miss Diver; Macheath is
distinguishable from Peachum; none is exactly alive, but of stage life
ail have their share. The reverse of this is the case with the
personages of the _Fables_. They think the thoughts and speak the speech
of Mr. Gay. The elephant has the voice of the sparrow; the monkey is one
with the organ on which he sits; there is but a difference of name
between the eagle and the hog; the talk of Death has exactly the manner
and weight and cadence of the Woodman's; a change of label would enable
the lion to change places with the spaniel, would suffice to cage the
wolf as a bird and set free the parrot as a beast of prey. All are
equally pert, brisk, and dapper in expression; all are equally
sententious and smart in aim; all are absolutely identical in function
and effect. The whole gathering is stuffed with the same straw, prepared
with the same dressing, ticketed in the same handwriting, and painted
with the same colours. Any one who remembers the infinite variety of La
Fontaine will feel that Gay the fabulist is a writer whose work the world
has let die very willingly indeed.

The Moralist.

And Gay is not a whit less inefficient as a moralist. He is a kindly
soul, and in his easygoing way he has learnt something of the tricks of
the world and something of the hearts of men. He writes as an
unsuccessful courtier; and in that capacity he has remarks to offer which
are not always valueless, and in which there is sometimes a certain
shrewdness. But the unsuccessful courtier is on the whole a creature of
the past. Such interest as he has is rather historical than actual; and
neither in the nursery nor in the schoolroom is he likely to create any
excitement or be received with any enthusiasm. To the world he can only
recommend himself as one anx