With books and morals, into bed, The Bob he talked of management, He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth, Of one who laboured all his life To make a mine of gold his own, And not spend sixpence when he'd done, When these two blades had done, d'ye see, He quickly spoiled the statesman's sport. That you must know, at the first beck Farquhar, the next comic poet of this class to be noticed, was a better artist, 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, 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 1 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 enjoyment 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. 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 Tapsler with a Tankard.] Now, sir, you shall see-your worship's health: [Drinks.] Ha delicious, delicious: 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 encouragement. 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. 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 |