characters are lively, and there is a quick succession of incidents, so amusing and so happily contrived to interest an audience, that the spectator is charmed with the variety and vivacity of the scene.

'Farquhar,' says Leigh Hunt, 'was a good-natured, reflecting man, of so high an order of what may be called the town class of genius, as to sympathize with mankind at large, upon the strength of what he saw of them in little, and to extract, from a quintessence of good sense, an inspiration just short of the romantic and imaginative; that is to say, he could turn what he had experienced in common life to the best account, but required, in all cases, the support of its ordinary associations, and could not project his spirit beyond them. He felt the little world too much, and the universal too little. He saw into all false pretensions, but not into all true ones; and if he had had a larger sphere of nature to fall back upon in his adversity, would probably not have died of it. The wings of his fancy were too common and grown in too artificial an air, to support him in the sudden gulfs and aching voids of that new region, and enable him to beat his way to their green islands. His genius was so entirely social, that notwithstanding what appeared to the contrary in his personal manners, and what he took for his own superiority to it, compelled him to assume, in his writings, all the airs of the most received ascendency; and when it had once warmed itself in this way, it would seem that it had attained the healthiness natural to its best conditions, and could have gone on forever, increasing, both in enjoy. ment and in power, had external circumstances been favorable. He was becoming gayer and gayer, when death, in the shape of a sore anxiety, called him as if from a pleasant party, and left the house ringing with his jest.'

The following scene is taken from the 'Beaux' Stratagem' :

Bon. This way, this way, sir.

[Boniface-Aimwell.]

Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose?

Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will Boniface; pretty well known upon this road, as the saying is.

Aim. Oh, Mr. Boniface, your servant.

Bon. Oh, sir, what will your honour please to drink, as the saying is?

Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much famed for ale; I think I'll taste that.

Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the best ale in Staffordshire: 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy, and will be just fourteen years old the fifth day of next March, old style.

Aim. You're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale.

Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my children: I'll show you such ale. Here, tapster, broach number 1706, as the saying is. Sir, you shall taste my anno domini. I have lived in Litchfield, man and boy, above eight-and-fifty years, and I believe have not consumed eight-and-fifty ounces of meat.

Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess by your bulk ?

Bon. Not in my life, sir; I have fed purely upon ale: I have ate my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon my ale.

[Enter Tapster with a Tankard.]

Now, sir, you shall see-your worship's health: [Drinks.]

Ha! delicious, deli

cious: fancy it Burgundy; only fancy it—and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart.

Aim. [Drinks.] 'Tis confounded strong.

Bon. Strong! it must be so, or how would we be strong that drink it?

Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord?

Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir; but it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is.

Aim. How came that to pass ?

Bon. I don't know how, sir; she would not let the ale take its natural course,

sir; she was for qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as the saying is; and an honest gentleman, that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bottles of usquebaugh—but the poor woman was never well after; but, however, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know.

Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her?

Bon. My Lady Bountiful said so. She, good lady, did what could be done: she cured her of three tympanies: but the fourth carried her off: but she's happy, and I'm contented, as the saying is.

Aim. Who's that Lady Bountiful you mentioned?

Bon. Odds, my life, sir, we'll drink her health. [Drinks.] My Lady Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand pounds a year; and I believe she lays out one half on 't in charitable uses for the good of her neighbours.

Aim.

Has the lady any children?

Bon. Yes, sir, she has a daughter by Sir Charles; the finest woman in all our country, and the greatest fortune. She has a son, too, by her first husband, 'Squire Sullen,' who married a fine lady from London t'other day; if you please, sir, we'll drink his health.

[Drinks.]

Bon. Why, sir, the man's well enough: says little, thinks less, and does nothing at all, faith; but he's a man of great estate, and values nobody.

Aim. A sportsman, I suppose?

Bon. Yes, he's a man of pleasure; he plays at whist, and smokes his pipe eightand-forty hours together sometimes.

Aim. A fine sportsman, truly !--and married you say?

Bon. Ay, and to a curious woman, sir. But he's my landlord, and so a man, you know, would not-Sir, my humble service. [Drinks.] Though I value not a farthing what he can do to me; I pay him his rent at quarter-day; I have a good running trade; I have but one daughter, and I can give her--but no matter for that. Aim. You're very happy Mr. Boniface; pray what other company have you in town?

Bon. A power of fine ladies; and then we have the French officers.

Aim. Oh, that's right; you have a good many of these gentlemen; pray, how do you like their company?

Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had as many more of 'em. They're full of money, and pay double for every thing they have. They know, sir, that we paid good round taxes for the making of 'em; and so they are willing to reimburse us a little; one of 'em lodges in my house. [Bell rings.] I beg your worship's pardon; I'll wait on you in half a minute.

COLLEY CIBBER, though less eminent than either of the great comic writers whom we have just considered, was still sufficiently distinguished to require

a passing notice. He was born in the city of London, on the sixth of November, 1671, and was the son of Caius Gabriel Cibber, a statuary from Holstein, who removed to England towards the close of the Commonwealth. His mother was of the ancient Colley family of Glaiston, in Rutland, and from her brother Cibber received his Christian name. In 1682, when he had just passed the tenth year of his age, he was sent to the free school of Grantham, in Lincolnshire, where he remained five years, and received the entire stock of learning that he possessed when he afterwards entered upon the business of the world. In 1687, he was taken from Grantham to be presented at the election of scholars into Winchester College, in virtue of his descent, on his mother's side, from William of Wyheman, its founder. As he did not, however, succeed in obtaining his election, he urged his father to send him at once to the university; but in the mean time the revolution of 1688 occurred, and this gave a new turn to Cibber's fortune. Instead of going to the university to qualify himself for the church, for which his father had designed him, he entered the army under the command of the Earl of Devonshire, in favor of the Prince of Orange, and served throughout the campaign.

At the close of the Revolution Cibber turned his attention to the stage, for which he had early conceived a strong inclination; but for a long time he toiled in that arduous profession without meeting with much encourageinent. At length he had the good fortune to be cast in the character of the chaplain, in Otway's 'Orphan,' and in that of Lord Touchwood, in Congreve's Double Dealer,' in both of which he succeeded to the admiration of the whole town. Congreve himself complimented him so far as to say that in the latter character, he had exceeded his expectations.

6

Having thus established his reputation as an actor, Cibber resolved to turn his attention to dramatic authorship, and soon after produced his first comedy, under the title of Love's Last Shift. In this play, which was first brought on the stage in January, 1695, he acted the part of Sir Novelty Fashion himself; and the character of the fop is so admirably executed as rarely to have been equalled in any other English drama. From this period he devoted himself constantly to dramatic writing for a number of years, and produced a series of plays of various degrees of excellence, until, in 1704, when he brought forth his master-piece, The Careless Husband. In 1717 he presented to the public his Nonjuror, which he dedicated to the king. With this compliment George the First was so highly gratified, that he sent Cibber a present of two hundred pounds; but the political principles which the play contained, though grateful to the king, were offensive to many of the author's personal friends. After the 'Nonjuror' had had its run, Cibber rarely appeared on the stage; and being made poet laureate, by George the Second, in 1730, with an annual income of two hundred pounds attached to the office, he passed the remainder of his life in comparative ease and quiet, until his death, which occurred in December, 1757.

Cibber was a lively, amusing writer, and besides his comedies has left us

An Apology for his Life; which is one of the most entertaining autobiog raphies in the language. When Pope, therefore, made him the hero of his 'Dunciad,' he suffered his judgment to be blinded by personal vindictiveness and prejudice. Cibber was vain, foolish, and sometimes ridiculous, but never a dunce. From his Careless Husband' we present the following scene:

LADY BETTY MODISH'S LODGINGS.

[Enter Lady Betty and Lady Easy, meeting.]

Lady B. Oh, my dear, I am overjoyed to see you! I am strangely happy to-day. I have just received my new scarf from London, and you are most critically come to give me your opinion of it.

Lady E. Oh your servant, Madam; I am a very indifferent judge, you know. What, is it with sleeves?

Lady B. Oh, 'tis impossible to tell you what it is-'Tis all extravagance both in mode and fancy, my dear. I believe there 's six thousand yards of edging in itThen such an enchanting slope from the elbow-something so new, so lively, so coquette and charming--but you shall see it, my dear

Lady E. Indeed I won't, my dear; I am resolved to mortify you for being so wrongfully fond of a trifle.

Lady B. Nay, now, my dear, you are ill-natured.

Lady E. Why, truly, I'm half angry to see a woman of your sense, so warmly concerned in the care of her outside; for when we have taken our best pains about it, 'tis the beauty of the mind alone that gives us lasting virtue.

Lady B. Oh, my dear! my dear! you have been a married woman to a fine purpose indeed, that know so little of the taste of mankind. Take my word, a new fashion upon a fine woman, is often a greater proof of her value than you are aware of.

Lady E. That I can't comprehend; for you see among the men, nothing's more ridiculous than a new fashion. Those of the first sense are always the last that come unto 'em.

Lady B. That is, because the only merit of a man is his sense; but, doubtless, the greatest value of a woman is her beauty; a homely woman at the head of a fashion, would not be allowed in it by the men, and, consequently, not followed by the women; so, that, to be successful in one's fancy, is an evident sign of one's being admired, and I always take admiration for the best proof of beauty, and beauty certainly is the source of power, as power, in all creatures, is the height of happiness. Lady E. At this rate you would rather be thought beautiful than good. Lady B. As I had rather command than obey the wisest woman can't make a man of sense of a fool, but the veriest fool of a beauty shall make an ass of a statesman; so that, in short, I can't see a woman of spirit has any business in this world but to dress-and make the men like her.

Lady E. Do you suppose this a principle the men of sense will admire you for? Lady B. I do suppose, that when I suffer any man to like my person, he shan't dare to find fault with my principle.

Lady E. But men of sense are not so easily humbled.

Lady B. comb.

The easiest of any; one has ten thousand times the trouble with a cox

Lady E. Nay, that may be; for I have seen you throw away more good-humour in hopes of tendresse from my Lord Foppington, who loves all women alike, than would have made my Lord Morelove perfectly happy, who loves only you.

Lady B. The men of sense, my dear, make the best fools in the world: their sincerity and good-breeding throw them so entirely into one's power, and give one such

an agreeable thirst of using them ill, to show that power-'tis impossible not to quench it.

Lady E. But, methinks, my Lord Morelove's manner to you might move any woman to a kinder sense of his merit.

Lady B. Aye, but would it not be hard, my dear, for a poor weak woman to have a man of his quality and reputation, in her power, and not to let the world see him there? Would any creature sit new dressed all day in her closet? Could you bear to have a sweet fancied suit, and never show it at the play, or the drawing-room? Lady E. But one would not ride in 't, methinks, or harass it out when there's no occasion. Lady B. Pooh! my Lord Morelove's a mere Indian damask, one can't wear him out; o' my conscience, I must give him to my woman at last; I begin to be known by him: had I not best leave him off, my dear? for, poor soul, I believe I have a little fretted him of late.

Lady E. Now 'tis to me amazing how a man of his spirit can bear to be used, for four or five years together-but nothing's a wonder in love; yet pray when you found you could not like him at first, why did you ever encourage him?

Lady B. Why, what would you have one do? for my part, I could no more choose a man by my eye, than a shoe; one must draw them on a little, to see if they are right to one's foot.

Lady E. But I'd no more fool on with a man I did not like, than I'd wear a shoe that pinched me.

Lady B. Aye, but then a poor wretch tells one, he'll widen 'em, or do any thing, and is so civil and silly, that one does not know how to turn such a trifle, as a pair of shoes, or a heart, upon a fellow's hands again.

Lady E. Well, I confess, you are very happily distinguished among most women of fortune, to have a man of my Lord Morelove's sense and quality, so long and honourably in love with you: for, now-a-days one hardly ever hears of such a thing as a man of quality in love with the woman he would marry. To be in love now, is only to have a design upon a woman, a modish way of declaring war against her virtue, which they generally attack first, by toasting up her vanity.

Lady B. Aye, but the world knows that is not the case between my lord and me. Lady E. Therefore, I think you happy.

Lady B. Now I don't see it; I'll swear I'm better pleased to know there are a great many foolish fellows of quality that take occasion to toast me frequently.

Lady E. I vow I should not thank any gentleman for toasting me; and I have often wondered how a woman of your spirit could bear a great many other freedoms I have seen some men take with you.

Lady B. As how, my dear? Come, pr'ythee, be free with me, for you must know, I love dearly to hear my faults-Who is 't you have observed to be too free with me.

Lady E. Why there's my Lord Foppington; could any woman but you bear to see him with a respectful fleer stare full in her face, draw up his breath, and cry— Gad you're handsome?

Lady B. My dear, fine fruit will have flies about it; but, poor things, they do it no harm for, if you observe, people are generally most apt to choose that the flies have been busy with, ha, ha, ha!

Lady B.

Lady B.

Thou art a strange giddy creature.

That may be from so much circulation of thoughts, my dear. Lady E. But my Lord Foppington's married, and one would not fool with him for his lady's sake; it may make her uneasy, and—

Lady B. Poor creature, her pride indeed makes her carry it off without taking any notice of it to me; though I know she hates me in her heart, and I can't endure malicious people, so I used to dine with her once a week, purely to give her disor