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 I. and appointed comptroller of the royal works. He died, aged sixty, in 1726. At the time of his death, Vanbrugh was engaged on a comedy, the Provoked Husband, which Colley Cibber finished with equal talent. The architectural designs of Vanbrugh have been praised by Sir Joshua Reynolds 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, Castle Howard and Blenheim are noble structures, and do honour to the boldness of conception and picturesque taste of Vanbrugh.

As a dramatist, the first thing in his plays which strikes the reader is the lively ease of his dialogue. Congreve had more wit, but less nature, and less genuine unaffected humour and gaiety. Vanbrugh drew more from living originals, and depicted the manners of his times-the coarse debauchery of the country knight, the gallantry of town-wits 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 who abound in modern comedy, intent only on dress and fashion. When he loses his mistress, he consoles himself with this reflection: 'Now, for my part, I think the wisest thing a man can do with an aching heart is to put on a serene countenance; for a philosophical air is the most becoming thing in the world to the face of a person of quality. I will therefore bear my disgrace like a great man, and let the people see I am above an affront. [Aloud.] Dear Tom, since things are thus fallen out, prithee give me leave to wish thee joy. I do it de bon cœur-strike me dumb! You have married a woman beautiful in her person, charming in her airs, prudent in her conduct, constant in her inclinations, and of a nice morality-split my windpipe !'

The young lady thus eulogised, Miss Hoyden, is the lively, ignorant, romping country-girl to be met with in most of the comedies of this period. In the Provoked Wife, the coarse pot-house valour and absurdity of Sir John Brute (Garrick's famous part) is well contrasted with the fine-lady airs and affectation of his wife, transported from the country to the hot-bed delicacies of London fashion and extravagance. Such were the scenes that delighted our playgoing ancestors, and which may still please us, like old stiff family portraits in their grotesque habiliments, as pictures of a departed generation.

The

These portraits of Vanbrugh's were exaggerated and heightened for dramatic effect; yet, on the whole, they are characteristic likenesses. The picture is not altogether 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 features. licence of the times,' as Mr Leigh Hunt remarks, 'allowed Vanbrugh to be plain spoken to an extent which was perilous to his animal spirits ;' but, like Dryden, he repented of these indiscretions; and if he had lived, would have united his easy wit and nature to scenes inculcating sentiments of honour and virtue.

Picture of the Life of a Woman of Fashion.

SIR JOHN BRUTE, in the Provoked Wife, disguised in his lady's dress, joins in a drunken midnight frolic, and is taken by the Constable and 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 drunk three cups, I head, while my two maids put on my stockings. Then, slide down again upon my back, with my arms over my 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 playbills. 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.

hear my husband swearing himself into a state of Sir John. By that time my head is half dressed, I 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 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. Give me a box and dice. Seven's the main ! Oons, sir, are married now-a-days to sit at home and mend I set you a hundred pound! Why, do you think women napkins? Oh, the Lord help your head!

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

Constable. 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, 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!

GEORGE FARQUHAR.

GEORGE FARQUHAR (1678–1707) was a better artist, in stage effect and happy combinations of incident and adventure, than most of this race of comic writers. He had an uncontrollable vivacity and love of sport, which still render his comedies attractive both on the stage and in the closet. Farquhar was an Irishman, born in Londonderry, and, after some college irregularity, he took to the stage. Happening accidentally to wound a brother-actor in a fencing-scene, he left the boards at the age of eighteen, and procured a commission in the army from the Earl of Orrery. His first play, Love and a Bottle, came out at Drury Lane in 1698; the Constant Couple in 1700; the Inconstant in 1703; the Stage-coach in 1704; the Twin Rivals in 1705; the Recruiting Officer in 1706; and the Beaux Stratagem in 1707. Farquhar was early married to a lady who had deceived him by pretending to be possessed of a fortune, and he sunk a victim to ill health and over-exertion in his thirtieth year. A letter written shortly before his death to Wilks the actor, possesses a touching brevity of expression: 'Dear Bob, I have not anything to leave to 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, it appears, married a 'low tradesman,' and the other became a servant, while their mother died in circumstances of the utmost indigence.

The Beaux Stratagem is Farquhar's best comedy. The plot is admirably managed, and the disguises of Archer and Aimwell form a ludicrous, yet natural series of incidents. Boniface, the landlord, is still a favourite on the stage. 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 humour rarely surpassed. Farquhar has not the ripe wit of Congreve, or of our best comic writers. He was the Smollett, not the Fielding, of the stage.

'Farquhar,' says Leigh Hunt, 'was a goodnatured, sensitive, reflecting man, of so high an order of what may be called the town class of genius, as to sympathise 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 town ascendency; and when it had once warmed itself in this way, it would seem that it had attained the healthiness natural to its best condition, and could have gone on for ever, increasing both in enjoyment and in power, had external circumstances been favourable. He was becoming gayer and gayer, when death, in the shape of a sore anxiety, called him away as if from a pleasant party, and left the house ringing with his jest.'

Humorous Scene at an Inn.
BONIFACE-AIMWELL.

Boniface. This way, this way, sir.
Aimwell. 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 servant please to drink, as the saying is?

Aim. I have heard your town of Lichfield 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.

ale.

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

Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my children: I'll shew you such ale. Here, tapster, broach number 1706, as the saying is. Sir, you shall taste my anno domini. I have lived in Lichfield, 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, 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?

ale take its natural course, sir; she was for qualifying Bon. I don't know how, sir; she would not let the 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 after; but, however, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know.

never well

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 county, 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.]

Aim. What sort of a man is he?

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 eight-and-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 those 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 everything 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.

Drum beats the Grenadiers' March. Enter SERGEANT KITE, followed by Thomas Appletree, Costar PeARMAIN, and the MOB.

Kite. [Making a speech.] If any gentlemen, soldiers, or others, have a mind to serve his majesty, and pull down the French king; if any 'prentices have severe masters, any children have undutiful parents; if any servants have too little wages, or any husband a bad wife, let them repair to the noble Sergeant Kite, at the sign of the Raven, in this good town of Shrewsbury, and they shall receive present relief and entertainment. [Drum.] Gentlemen, I don't beat my drums here to ensnare or inveigle any man; for you must know, gentlemen, that I am a man of honour: besides I don't beat up for common soldiers; no, I list only grenadiers -grenadiers, gentlemen. Pray, gentlemen, observe this cap-this is the cap of honour-it dubs a man a gentleman in the drawing of a trigger; and he that has the good-fortune to be born six foot high, was born to be a great man. Sir, will you give me leave to try this cap upon your head?

Costar. Is there no harm in't? Won't the cap list

me?

Kite. No, no; no more than I can. Come, let me see how it becomes you.

Cost. Are you sure there is no conjuration in it ?—no gunpowder-plot upon me?

Kite. No, no, friend; don't fear, man.

Cost. My mind misgives me plaguily. Let me see it. [Going to put it on.] It smells woundily of sweat and brimstone. Smell, Tummas.

Thomas. Ay, wauns does it.

Cost. Pray, sergeant, what writing is this upon the face of it?

Kite. The crown, or the bed of honour.

Cost. Pray, now, what may be that same bed of honour?

Kite. Oh, a mighty large bed!-bigger by half than the great bed at Ware-ten thousand people may lie in it together, and never feel one another.

Cost. But do folk sleep sound in this same bed of honour?

Kite. Sound!-ay, so sound that they never wake.
Cost. Wauns! I wish that my wife lay there.
Kite. Say you so? then I find, brother-

Cost. Brother! hold there, friend; I am no kindred to you that I know of yet. Look ye, sergeant, no coaxing, no wheedling, d'ye see. If I have a mind to list, why, so; if not, why 'tis not so; therefore_take your cap and your brothership back again, for I am not disposed at this present writing. No coaxing, no brothering me, faith.

Kite. I coax! I wheedle! I'm above it, sir; I have served twenty campaigns; but, sir, you talk well, and I must own you are a man every inch of you; a pretty, young sprightly fellow! I love a fellow with a spirit; but I scorn to coax : 'tis base; though, I must say, that never in my life have I seen a man better built. How firm and strong he treads !-he steps like a castle !— but I scorn to wheedle any man! Come, honest lad! will you take share of a pot?

Cost. Nay, for that matter, I'll spend my penny with the best he that wears a head; that is, begging your pardon, sir, and in a fair way.

Kite. Give me your hand then; and now, gentlemen, I have no more to say but this-here's a purse of gold, and there is a tub of humming ale at my quarters; 'tis the king's money and the king's drink; he's a generous king, and loves his subjects. I hope, gentlemen, you won't refuse the king's health?

All Mob. No, no, no.

Both. No, no, no.

Kite. I wonder at that; I have two of them set in gold, and as like his majesty; God bless the mark !— see here, they are set in gold.

[Taking two broad pieces out of his pocket; presents one to each.

Tho. The wonderful works of nature! [Looking at it.] What's this written about? here's a posy, I believe. Ca-ro-lus! what's that, sergeant?

Kite. Oh, Carolus ! why, Carolus is Latin for King George; that's all.

Cost. 'Tis a fine thing to be a scollard. Sergeant, will you part with this? I'll buy it on you, if it come within the compass of a crown.

Kite. A crown! never talk of buying; 'tis the same thing among friends, you know. I'll present them to ye both you shall give me as good a thing. Put them up, and remember your old friend when I am over the hills and far away. [They sing, and put up the money.

Enter PLUME, the Recruiting Officer, singing.
Over the hills and over the main,
To Flanders, Portugal, or Spain;
The king commands, and we 'll obey,
Over the hills and far away.

Come on, my men of mirth, away with it; I'll make one among you. Who are these hearty lads?

Kite. Off with your hats; 'ounds! off with your hats; this is the captain; the captain.

Tho. We have seen captains afore now, mun. Cost. Ay, and lieutenant-captains too. 'Sflesh! I'll keep on my nab.

Tho. And I'se scarcely doff mine for any captain in England. My vether 's a freeholder.

Plume. Who are those jolly lads, sergeant?

Kite. A couple of honest brave fellows, that are willing to serve their king; I have entertained them just now as volunteers, under your honour's command.

Plume. And good entertainment they shall have : volunteers are the men I want; those are the men fit to make soldiers, captains, generals.

Cost. Wounds, Tummas, what's this! are you listed?
Tho. Flesh! not I: are you, Costar?
Cost. Wounds! not I.

Kite. What! not listed? ha, ha, ha! a very good jest, i' faith.

Cost. Come, Tummas, we'll go home.

Tho. Ay, ay, come.

Kite. Home! for shame, gentlemen; behave yourselves better before your captain. Dear Thomas! honest Costar!

Tho. No, no; we 'll be gone.

Kite. Nay, then, I command you to stay: I place you both sentinels in this place for two hours, to watch the motion of St Mary's clock you, and you the motion of St Chad's; and he that dares stir from his post till he be relieved, shall have my sword in his belly the

next minute.

Plume. What's the matter, sergeant? I'm afraid you are too rough with these gentlemen.

Kite. I'm too mild, sir; they disobey command, sir;

and one of them should be shot for an example to the other. They deny their being listed.

Tho. Nay, sergeant, we don't downright deny it neither; that we dare not do, for fear of being shot; but we humbly conceive, in a civil way, and begging your worship's pardon, that we may go home.

Plume. That's easily known. Have either of you received any of the king's money?

Cost. Not a brass farthing, sir.

Kite. They have each of them received one-andtwenty shillings, and 'tis now in their pockets.

Cost. Wounds! if I have a penny in my pocket but a bent sixpence, I'll be content to be listed and shot into the bargain.

Tho. And I look ye here, sir.

Cost. Nothing but the king's picture, that the sergeant gave me just now.

Kite. See there, a guinea; one-and-twenty shillings; t' other has the fellow on 't.

Plume. The case is plain, gentlemen: the goods are found upon you. Those pieces of gold are worth oneand-twenty shillings each.

Cost. So, it seems that Carolus is one-and-twenty shillings in Latin?

Tho. 'Tis the same thing in Greek, for we are listed. Cost. Flesh; but we an't, Tummas: I desire to be carried before the mayor, captain.

[Captain and Sergeant whisper the while. Plume. 'Twill never do, Kite; your tricks will ruin me at last. I won't lose the fellows though, if I can help it.-Well, gentlemen, there must be some trick in this; my sergeant offers to take his oath that you are fairly listed.

Tho. Why, captain, we know that you soldiers have more liberty of conscience than other folks; but for me or neighbour Costar here to take such an oath, 'twould be downright perjuration.

Plume. Look ye, rascal, you villain! if I find that you have imposed upon these two honest fellows, I'll trample you to death, you dog! Come, how was it? Your sergeant, as you worship, begging your

Tho. Nay, then, we'll speak. say, is a rogue; an't like your worship's pardon; and

Cost. Nay, Tummas, let me speak; you know I can read. And so, sir, he gave us those two pieces of money for pictures of the king, by way of a present.

Plume. How? by way of a present? the rascal! I'll teach him to abuse honest fellows like you. Scoundrel, rogue, villain ! [Beats off the Sergeant, and follows. Both. O brave noble captain! huzza! A brave captain, faith!

Cost. Now, Tummas, Carolus is Latin for a beating. This is the bravest captain I ever saw. Wounds! I've a month's mind to go with him.

Among the other successful writers for the stage may be instanced Colley Cibber (1671-1757), an actor and manager, whose comedy, the Careless Husband, is still deservedly a favourite. Cibber was a lively amusing writer, and his Apology for his Life is one of the most entertaining autobiographies in the language.-SIR RICHARD STEELE was also a dramatist, and obtained from George I. a patent, appointing him manager and governor