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don't you think bulk (I know it's a good rhyme)-but don't you think bilk and fare too like a hackney coachman?

Lady F. I swear and vow I'm afraid so. And yet our John was a hackney coachman when my lord took him,

Brisk. Was he? I'm answered, if John was a hackney coachman. You may put that in the marginal notes; though to prevent criticism, only mark it with a small asterisk, and say, 'John was formerly a hackney coachman.'

Lady F. I will; you'd oblige me extremely to write notes to the whole poem. Brisk. With all my heart and soul, and proud of the vast honour, let me perish! Lord F. Hee, hee, hee! my dear, have you done? Won't you join with us? We were laughing at my Lady Whister and Mr. Sneer.

Lady F. Ay, my dear, were you? Oh! filthy Mr. Sneer; he's a nauseous figure, a most fulsamic fop. Foh! He spent two days together in going about Covent Garden to suit the lining of his coach with his complexion.

Lord F. O silly! Yet his aunt is as fond of him as if she had brought the ape into the world herself.

Brisk. Who? my Lady Toothless? O she's a mortifying spectacle; she's always chewing the cud like an old ewe.

Lord F. Foh!

Lady F. Then she's always ready to laugh when Sneer offers to speak; and sits in expectation of his no-jest, with her gums bare, and her mouth open.

Brisk. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad! Ha, ha, ha!

Cynthia. [Aside.] Well, I find there are no fools so inconsiderable in themselves but they can render other people contemptible by exposing their infirmities.

Lady F. Then that t'other great strapping lady; I can't hit of her name; the old fat fool that pants so exorbitantly.

Brisk. I know whom you mean. But, deuce take me, I can't hit of her name either. Paints d'ye say? Why, she lays it on with a trowel. Then she has a great beard that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she were plastered with lime and hair, let me perish!

Lady F. Oh! you made a song upon her, Mr. Brisk!

Brisk. Her, egad! so I did. My lord can sing it.

Cynthia. O good, my lord; let us hear it.

Brisk. 'Tis not a song neither. It's a sort of epigram, or rather an epigrammatic sonnet. I don't know what to call it, but it's satire. Sing it, my lord.

Lord F. [Sings.]

Ancient Phyllis has young graces;

'Tis a strange thing, but a true one;
Shall I tell you how?

She herself makes her own faces,

And each morning wears a new one

Where's the wonder now?

Brisk. Short, but there's salt in 't. My way of writing, egad!

Contemporary with Congreve were Vanburgh, Farquhar, Cibber, and Mrs. Centlivre in comedy, and Lillo in tragedy.

SIR JOHN VANBRUGH was descended from an ancient family in Cheshire, which came from France, though his name would seem to indicate a Dutch extraction. His birth occurred in 1666. His education can not be traced to any university, and in what manner it was conducted, is uncertain. His father, originally a sugar-baker, rose to eminence, and eventually became

comptroller of the treasury chamber. Vanbrugh himself united the apparently incompatible geniuses of comic writer and architect, in both of which he remarkably excelled. In the nineteenth year of his age he went to France, and remained in that country a number of years, but with what specific object is unknown. In 1697, he produced his first comedy, The Relapse, or Virtue in Danger; the success of which induced him to continue writing for the stage, which he did until he had produced, in rapid succession, The Provoked Wife, Esop, The False Friend, The Confederacy, and other plays to the number of eleven. The reputation which his dramas gave him was rewarded more liberally than was usual, even in that age. Besides holding the office of secretary to the commission for endowing Greenwich hospital, Lord Carlisle appointed him clarencieux king-at-arms, a heraldic office, which highly gratified Vanbrugh's vanity. In 1706, he was commissioned, by Queen Anne, to carry the habit and ensigns of the order of the garter to the Elector of Hanover; and in the same year he commenced his design for the great national structure at Blenheim. He built various other mansions, was knighted by George the First, and died of a quinsy, at his house in Whitehall, on the twenty-sixth of March, 1726. At the time of his death he was engaged in writing a comedy, The Provoked Husband, which Colley Cibber afterward successfully finished.

The architectural designs of Vanbrugh have been liberally praised by Sir Joshua Reynolds and other eminent artists, for their display of imagination, and their originality of invention. Though ridiculed by Swift, and other wits of the day, for heaviness and incongruity of design, still Castle Howard and Blenheim are noble structures, and do honor to the boldness of conception and picturesque taste of their architect.

As a dramatist, the first thing in Vanbrugh's plays that attracts our attention, is the liveliness and ease of his dialogue. Congreve had more wit, but less nature, and less genuine unaffected humor and gayety. Vanbrugh drew more from living originals, and depicted more accurately the manners of his times the coarse debauchery of the country knight, the gallantry of townwits and fortune-hunters, and the love of French intrigue and French manners in his female characters. Lord Foppington, in the 'Relapse,' is the original of most of those empty coxcombs that abound in modern comedy, intent only on dress and fashion.

The plays of Congreve and Vanbrugh gave new life to the English stage, and restored it to reputation, when it had, in reality, for some time, been sinking in public estimation. Though their portraitures were exaggerated and heightened for dramatic effect, yet, on the whole, they are faithful and characteristic likenesses. The picture, however, is far from being a pleasing one, for it is dashed with the most unblushing licentiousness. A tone of healthful vivacity, and the absence of all hypocrisy, form its most genial feature. How much more to the credit of these splendid dramatists would it have been, had they preserved their wit from that licentious obscenity in which they so freely indulged, and exerted it, as they so easily might have

done, to benefit their audiences instead of corrupting them. In the language of Lord Kames, 'if their comedies did not rack them with remorse in their last hours, they must have been lost to all sense of virtue.' It is said, indeed, that Vanbrugh lived to see his error, and in deep penitence to bewail it.

The following picture of the life of a woman of fashion, is from the 'Provoked Wife.' Sir John Brute, disguised in his lady's dress, joins in a drunken midnight frolic, and is taken by some Watchmen before a Justice of the Peace.

Justice. Pray, madam, what may be your ladyship's common method of life? if I may presume so far.

Sir John. Why, sir, that of a woman of quality.

Justice. Pray, how may you generally pass your time, madam? Your morning, for example.

Sir John. Sir, like a woman of quality. I wake about two o'clock in the afternoon-I stretch, and make a sign for my chocolate. When I have drank three cups, I slide down again upon my back, with my arms over my head, while my two maids put on my stockings. Then, hanging upon their shoulders, I'm trailed to my great chair, where I sit and yawn for my breakfast. If it don't come presently, I lie down upon my couch, to say my prayers, while my maid reads me the play-bills. Justice. Very well, madam. {

Sir John. When the tea is brought in, I drink twelve regular dishes, with eight slices of bread and butter; and half an hour after, I send to the cook to know if the dinner is almost ready.

Justice. So, madam.

Sir John. By that time my head is half dressed, I hear my husband swearing himself into a state of perdition that the meat's all cold upon the table; to amend which I come down in an hour more, and have it sent back to the kitchen, to be all dressed over again.

Justice. Poor man!

Sir John. When I have dined, and my idle servants are presumptuously set down at their ease to do so too, I call for my coach, to go to visit fifty dear friends, of whom I hope I never shall find one at home while I shall live.

Justice. So! there's the morning and afternoon pretty well disposed of. Pray, how, madam, do you pass your evenings?

Sir John. Like a woman of spirit, sir; a great spirit. Seven's the main! Oons, sir, I set you a hundred pounds. are married now-a-days to sit at home and mend napkins? head!

Give me a box and dice. Why, do you think women Oh, the Lord help your

Justice. Mercy on us, Mr. Constable! What will this age come to?

Const. What will it come to indeed, if such women as these are not set in the stocks?

FABLE.

A Band, a Bob-wig, and a Feather,

Attacked a lady's heart together.
The Band in a most learned plea,
Made up of deep philosophy,

Told her if she would please to wed
A reverend beard, and take, instead
Of vigorous youth,

Old solemn truth,

With books and morals, into bed,
How happy she would be!

The Bob he talked of management,
What wondrous blessings heaven sent
On care, and pains, and industry:
And truly he must be so free
To own he thought your airy beaux,
With powdered wig and dancing shoes,
Were good for nothing-mend his soul!
But prate, and talk, and play the fool.

He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth,
And that to be the dearest wife

Of one who laboured all his life

To make a mine of gold his own,

And not spend sixpence when he'd done,
Was heaven upon earth.

When these two blades had done, d'ye see,
The Feather (as it might be me)
Steps out, sir, from behind the screen
With such an air and such a mien-
Like you, old gentleman-in short,

He quickly spoiled the statesman's sport.
It proved such sunshine weather,

That you must know, at the first beck
The lady leaped about his neck,
And off they went together.

Farquhar, the next comic poet of this class to be noticed, was a better a tist, in stage effect and happy combinations of incident and character, than any other of the comic writers of this period. His uncontrollable vivacity and love of adventure still render his comedies attractive both on the stage and in the closet.

GEORGE FARQUHAR was the son of an Irish clergyman, and was born in Londonderry, in 1678. He received the rudiments of his education in his native town, and thence was sent by his father to Trinity College, Dublin, to finish his studies. In his youth, even as early as the tenth year of his age, Farquhar discovered a remarkable genius for poetry; and from one of his first productions in this way, we extract the following thoughtful

verses:

The pliant soul of erring youth

Is like soft wax, or moistened clay,
Apt to receive all heavenly truth,
Or yield to tyrant all the sway.
Shun evil in your early years,
And manhood may to virtue rise;
But he who in his youth, appears
A fool, in age will ne'er be wise.

At the university, which Farquhar entered in 1694, he is represented to have made, for some time, great proficiency in his studies; but his gay and volatile disposition could not long relish the gravity and retirement of a college life, and he, therefore, relinquished his studies, and obtained admission into the Dublin theatrical company. Possessing a good person, he resolved to follow the stage as a permanent profession; but happening, accidentally, to wound, very seriously, a brother actor in a fencing scene, he left the boards in the eighteenth year of his age, and repaired to London, where he soon after received, from Lord Orrery, that great patron of genius and learning, a lieutenant's commission in his own regiment, in Ireland. In circumstances now to follow the bent of his own inclinations, he turned his attention to dramatic writing. His first play, Love and a Bottle, was produced at Drury Lane, in 1698; and two years afterwards appeared, The Constant Couple. The success of these two comedies was such as to induce Farquhar to apply himself with great diligence to the stage; and in six successive years he wrote Sir Harry Wildair, The Inconstant, The Stage Coach, The Twin Rivals, The Recruiting Officer, and The Beaux' Stratagem, the last of which appeared in 1707.

Farquhar was early married to a lady, the ardor of whose attachment had induced her to deceive him by representing herself to be the heiress of a large fortune. She, however, proved an affectionate, devoted wife, and with gratitude shared in his triumphs, and in submission participated in his trials. Soon after he had completed his last comedy, he sunk a victim to ill health and over-exertion, not having yet attained the thirtieth year of his age. Just before his death, which occurred in April, 1707, he wrote the following letter of touching brevity to Wilks, the actor, who had long been, to him, a constant and devoted friend :

Dear Bob

I have not any thing to leave thee to perpetuate my memory but two helpless girls. Look upon them sometimes, and think of him that was to the last moment of his life, thine

GEORGE FARQUHAR.

One of these daughters afterwards married 'a low tradesman,' and the other became a servant, while their mother died in circumstances of the most abject poverty.

The 'Beaux' Stratagem' is Farquhar's best comedy. The plot is admirably managed, and the dialogues between Archer and Aimwell form a ludicrous, yet natural series of incidents. Boniface, the landlord, is still one of the best representatives of the English innkeeper, and there is genius, as well as truth, in the delineation. Scrub, the servant, is equally true and amusing; and the female characters, though as free spoken, if not as frail, as the fine-bred ladies of Congreve and Vanbrugh, are sufficiently discriminated. Sergeant Kite, in the Recruiting Officer,' is an original picture of low life and humor, rarely surpassed. Farquhar has not the keen wit of Congreve, or of many other of the best English dramatic writers; but his

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