der; if you had but seen when my lord and I fooled a little, the creature looked so ugly. Lady E. But I should not think my reputation safe; my Lord Foppington's a man that talks often of his amours, but seldom speaks of favours that are refused him. Lady B. Pshaw! will any thing a man says make a woman less agreeable? Will his talking spoil one's complexion, or put one's hair out of order?--and for reputation, look you, my dear, take it for a rule, that as amongst the lower rank of people, no woman wants beauty that has fortune; so among people of fortune, no woman wants virtue that has beauty; but an estate and beauty joined, are of an unlimited, nay a power pontifical, make one not only absolute, but infallible-a fine woman's never in the wrong, or if we were, 'tis not the strength of a poor creature's reason that can unfetter him-Oh how I love to hear a wretch curse himself for loving on, or now and then coming out with a Yet for the plague of human race Lady E. At this rate, I don't see you allow reputation to be at all essential to a fine woman. Lady B. Just as much as honour to a great man. Power is always above scandal. Don't you hear people say the king of France owes most of his conquests to breaking his word? and would not the confederates have a fine time on't, if they were only to go to war with reproaches. Indeed, my dear, that jewel reputation is a very fanciful business; one shall not see a homely creature in town, but wears it in her mouth as monstrously as the Indians do bobs at their lips, and it really becomes them just alike. Lady E. Have a care, my dear, of trusting too much to power alone: for nothing is more ridiculous than the fall of pride; and woman's pride at best may be suspected to be a more distrust than a real contempt of mankind: for when we have said all we can, a deserving husband is certainly our best happiness; and I don't question but my Lord Morelove's merit, in a little time, will make you think so too; for whatever airs you give yourself to the world, I'm sure your heart don't want good-nature. Lady B. You are mistaken, I am very ill-natured, though your good-humour won't let you see it. Lady E. Then give me a proof on't, let me see you refuse to go immediately and dine with me, after I have promised Sir Charles to bring you. Lady B. Because, to let you see I hate good-nature, I'll go without asking, that you may'nt have the malice to say I did you a favour. Lady E. Thou art a mad creature. [Exeunt arm in arm.] MRS. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE, a most extraordinary female dramatic writer of this period, was born in Ireland, in 1667. She was the daughter of a Lincolnshire gentleman by the name of Freeman, who had been a partisan of the Commonwealth, and had deemed it prudent, on the restoration of Charles the Second, to leave his native country. When twelve years of age, Susanna was, by the death of her mother, left an orphan; and the unkind treatment which she received from those who had the care of her, induced her to adopt the wild resolution of escaping from their control, and going to London. On her way thither, on foot, she is said to have met with one Anthony Hammond, with whom she went to Cambridge, and there, clad in boy's apparel, lived with him for some months, as his page. At the early age of sixteen she married a nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, whose death followed within twelve months. She next became the wife of an officer of the army, by the name of Carrol, who, in less than two years after their marriage, was killed in a duel. Driven by this last bereavement, and her destitute circumstances, to the necessity of providing for herself, she had recourse to the stage, and soon became an accomplished and popular actress. In 1700, she produced a tragedy, The Perjured Husband, which, being remarkably successful, induced her to abandon the stage, and devote herself almost exclusively to dramatic writing. Before this gifted lady had entirely left the stage, she married, in 1706, Joseph Centlivre, yeoman of the month to Queen Anne, with whom she lived happily until her death, which occurred on the first of December, 1723. 6 Of Mrs. Centlivre's dramas, nineteen in number, The Busy Body, The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret, and A Bold Stroke for a Wife, still keep possession of the stage, and are favorite acting plays. Her experience as an actress was of great service to her as a dramatic writer; and hence her plots and incidents are admirably arranged for stage effect, and her characters well discriminated. Sir Richard Steele, in one of the Tatlers, speaking of her 'Busy Body,' remarks that the plot and incidents of the play are laid with that subtlety and spirit, which is peculiar to female wit; and is seldom well performed by those of the other sex, in whom craft in love is an act of invention, and not, as with women, the effect of nature and instinct.' With all this writer's dramatic excellencies, it must not be concealed that her plays are deeply tinctured with the immoralities of the age. The following scene from the 'Busy Body' is one of the purest that we can select : • [Enter Sir Francis Gripe and Sir George Airy.] Sir F. Verily, Sir George, thou wilt repent throwing away thy money so, for I tell thee sincerely, Miranda, my charge, does not like young fellows; they are all vicious and seldom make good husbands: in sober sadness she can not abide 'em. Mir. [Peeping.] In sober sadness you are mistaken—What can this mean? Sir G. Lookye, Sir Francis, whether she can or can not abide young fellows is not the business: will you take the fifty guineas ? Sir F. In good truth I will not-for I knew thy father, he was a hearty wary man, and I cannot consent that his son should squander away what he saved to no purpose. Mir. [Peeping.] Now, in the name of wonder, what bargain can he be driving about me for fifty guineas? Sir G. Well, Sir Francis, since you are so conscientious for my father's sake, then permit me the favour gratis. Sir F. No, verily; if thou dost not buy thy experience thou wilt never be wise; therefore give me a hundred and try thy fortune. Sir G. The scruples arose, I find, from the scanty sum. guineas. [Takes the money out of a purse and chinks it.] Let me see a hundred Ha! they have a very pretty sound, and a very pleasing look. But then Miranda-but if she should be cruel Sir F. Ay, do consider on't. He, he, he! Sir G. No, I'll do 't. Come, to the point; here's the gold; sum up the conditions. [Sir Francis pulls out a paper.] Mir. [Peeping.] Ay, for heaven's sake do, for my expectation is on the rack. Sin F. Well, at your peril be it. Sir G. Ay, ay, go on. Sir F. Imprimis, you are to be admitted into my house in order to move your suit, to Miranda, for the space of ten minutes, without let or molestation, provided I remain in the same room. Sir G. But out of ear-shot. Sir F. Well, well; I don't desire to hear what you say; ha, ha, ha! in consideration I'm to have that purse and a hundred guineas. Sir G. Take it. [Gives him the purse.] And this agreement is to be performed to-day. Sir F. Ay, ay; the sooner the better. Poor fool! how Miranda and I shall laugh at him! [Aside.] Well, Sir George, ha, ha, ha! take the last sound of your guineas, ha, ha, ha ! [Chinks them. Exit.] Mir. [Peeping]. Sure he does not know I am Miranda. Sir G. A very extraordinary bargain I have made, truly; if she should be really in love with this old calf now- Psha! that's morally impossible- But then, what hopes have I to succeed? I never spoke to her Mir. [Peeping]. Say you so? then I am safe. Sir G. What though my tongue never spoke, my eyes said a thousand things, and my hopes flattered me her's answer'd 'em. If I'm lucky-if not it is but a hundred guineas thrown away. Mir. Upon what, Sir George? Sir G. Ha! my incognita-upon a woman, madam. [Mir. comes forward.] Mir. They are the worst things you can deal in, and damage the soonest; your very breath destroys 'em, and I fear you'll never see your return, Sir George, ha, ha! Sir G. Were they more brittle than china, and dropped to pieces with a touch, every atom as her I have ventur'd at, if she is but mistress of thy wit, balances ten times the sum. Pr'ythee, let me see thy face. Mir. By no means; that may spoil your opinion of my sense. Sir G. Rather confirm it, madam. Patch. So rob the lady of your gallantry, sir. Sir G. No, child, a dish of chocolate in the morning never spoils my dinner: the other lady I design for a set meal; so there's no danger— Mir. Matrimony! ha, ha, ha! what crimes have you committed against the god of love, that he should revenge 'em so severely, as to stamp husband on your forehead? Sir G. For my folly in having so often met you here without pursuing the laws of nature and exercising her command; but I resolve ere we part now to know who you are, where you live, what kind of flesh and blood your face is; therefore unmask, and don't put me to the trouble of doing it for you. Mir. My face is the same flesh and blood with my hand, Sir George; which if you will be so rude to provoke Sir G. You'll apply it to my cheek—the ladies' favours are always welcome, but I must have that cloud withdrawn. [Taking hold of her.] Remember you are in the Park, child; and what a terrible thing it would be to lose that pretty white hand! Mir. And how it will sound in a chocolate-house that Sir George Airy rudely pulled off a lady's mask, when he had given her his honour that he never would, directly or indirectly, endeavour to know her till she gave him leave? Sir G. But if that lady thinks fit to pursue and meet me at every turn, like some troubled spirit, shall I be blamed if I inquire into the reality? I would have nothing dissatisfied in a female shape. Mir. What shall I do? [Pauses.] Sir G. Ay, pr'ythee, consider, for thou shalt find me very much at thy service. Patch. Suppose, sir, the lady should be in love with you? Sir G. Oh! I'll return the obligation in a moment. Patch. And marry her? Sir G. Ha, ha, ha! that's not the way to love her, child. Mir. If he discovers me I shall die.-Which way shall I escape ?-let me see. Sir G. Well, madam [Pauses.] Mir. I have it. Sir George, 'tis fit you should allow something; if you'll excuse my face, and turn your back (if you look upon me I shall sink, even masked as 1 am), I will confess why I have engaged you so often, who I am, and where I live. Sir G. Well, to show you I am a man of honour, I accept the conditions: let me but once know those, and the face won't be long a secret to me. Patch. What mean you, madam? [Aside to Mir.] turn one's back upon a lady; but you comCome, madam, begin. Mir. First, then, it was my unhappy lot to see you at Paris, [draws back a little way, and speaks,] at a ball upon a birthday; your shape and air charmed my eyes, your wit and complaisance my soul, and from that fatal night I lov'd you. [Drawing back.] And when you left the place, grief seiz'd me so, [Exit, followed by Patch. Sir G. Excellent. I hope she's handsome. Well, now, madam, to the two other things, your name, and where you live. I am a gentleman, and this confession will not be lost upon me. Nay, pr'ythee, don't weep, but go on, for I find my heart melts in thy behalf. Speak quickly, or I shall turn about. Not yet. Poor lady! She expects I should comfort her, and to do her justice she has said enough to encourage me. [Turns about.] Ha! gone! the devil! jilted! Why, what a tale she has invented-of Paris, balls, and birth-days!-Egad, I'd give ten guineas to know who the gipsy is. A curse of my folly, I deserve to lose her. What woman can forgive a man that turns his back! The bold and resolute in love and war To conquer take the right and swiftest way: The boldest lover soonest gains the fair, As courage makes the rudest force obey: Take no denial, and the dames adore ye; Closely pursue them, and they fall before ye. [Exit.] WILLIAM LILLO will close our remarks on the dramatic writers of this period. His tragedies are all of the domestic kind, and founded on sorrows incident to real life in the lower and middling ranks of society. Born of poor parents, in 1693, he was brought up limited advantages of education, to the business of a jeweller; but being of a literary turn, he devoted his leisure hours to the composition of three dramas, George Barn with very well, Fatal Curiosity, and Arden of Feversham. A tragedy on the last of these subjects, it will be recollected, appeared about the time of Shakspeare. At that early period of the drama, the style of Lillo may be said to have been shadowed forth in the Yorkshire tragedy, and one or two other plays founded on domestic occurrences. These, however, were rude and irregular, and were driven off the stage by the romantic drama of Shakspeare and his followers. The death of this writer occurred in 1739. Lillo possessed a competent knowledge of dramatic art, and his style is generally smooth and easy. His 'George Barnwell' describes the career of a London apprentice hurried on to ruin and murder by an infamous woman, who at last delivers him up to justice and to an ignominious death. The characters are naturally delineated; and we have no doubt it was correctly said that 'George Barnwell' drew more tears than the rants of Alexander the Great. 'Fatal Curiosity' is a work of far higher order. Driven by destitution, an old man and his wife murder a rich stranger who takes shelter in their house, and they discover, but too late, that they have murdered their own son, who had just returned after a long absence. The harrowing details of this tragedy are powerfully depicted; and the agonies of old Wilmot, the father, constitute one of the most appalling incidents in the whole English drama. The execution of Lillo's plays is unequal, and some of his characters are dull and commonplace; but that he was a forcible painter of the dark shades of human life, will appear evident from the following scene in 'Fatal Curiosity.' Young Wilmot, unknown to his parents, enters their house, and delivers to them a casket, requesting to retire an hour for rest : [Agnes, his mother, alone, with the casket in her hands.] Agnes. Who should this stranger be? And then this casket- As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand. His confidence amazes me. Perhaps It is not what he says. I'm strongly tempted To open it and see. No; let it rest. Why should my curiosity excite me To search and pry into the affairs of others, Who have to employ my thoughts so many cares And sorrows of my own? With how much ease Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright 's the lustre, To keep out famine and preserve our lives |