Farquhar's Difficulties.

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former should offend others, and that the latter might incommode myself; and my reason is so vigilant in restraining these two failings, that I am taken for an easy-natured man with my own sex, and an ill-natured clown by yours."

Farquhar was very fond of jesting about his own misfortunes, and perhaps the following from "Love in a Bottle," exhibits a scene in which he had been himself an actor in real life.

Widow Bullfinch. Mr. Lyric, what do you mean by all this? Here you have lodged two years in my house, promised me eighteen-pence a week for your lodging, and I have never received eighteen farthings, not the value of that, Mr. Lyric, (snaps her fingers.) You always put me off with telling me of your play, your play! Sir, you shall play no more with me: I'm in earnest.

Lyric. There's more trouble in a play than you imagine, Madam.

Bull. There's more trouble with a lodger than you think, Mr. Lyric.

Lyric First there's the decorum of time.

Bull. Which you never observe, for you keep the worst hours of any lodger in town.

Lyric. Then there's the exactness of characters.

Bull. And you have the most scandalous one I ever

heard.

Lyric. (aside) Was ever poor rogue so ridden. If ever the Muses had a horse, I am he. (Aloud) Faith! Madam, poor Pegasus is jaded.

Bull. Come, come, Sir; he shan't slip his neck out of collar for all that. Money I will have, and money I must have.

The above is taken from Farquhar's first play, and we generally find richer humour in the first attempts of genius than in their later and more elaborate productions. Widow Bullfinch says that "Champagne is a fine liquor. which all your beaux drink to make em' witty."

Mockmode. Witty! oh by the universe I must be witty! I'll drink nothing else. I never was witty in all my life.

I love jokes dearly. Here, Club, bring us a bottle of what d'ye call it the witty liquor.

Bull. But I thought that all you that were bred at the University would be wits naturally?

Mock. The quite contrary, Madam, there's no such thing there. We dare not have wit there for fear of being counted rakes. Your solid philosophy is all read there, which is clear another thing. But now I will be a wit, by the uniIs that the witty liquor? Come fill the glasses. Now that I have found my mistress, I must next find my wits.

verse.

Club. So you had need, master, for those that find a mistress are generally out of their wits. (Gives him a glass.) Mock. Come, fill for yourself. (They jingle and drink.) But where's the wit now, Club? Have you found it ? Club. Egad! master, I think 'tis a very good jest. Mock. What?

Club. What? why drinking-you'll find, master, that this same gentleman in the straw doublet, this same willi'-th'-wisp is a wit at the bottom. (Fills.) Here, here, master; how it puns and quibbles in the glass!

Mock. By the universe, now I have it!—the wit lies in the jingling. All wit consists most in jingling; hear how the glasses rhyme to one another.

Again:

Mock. Could I but dance well, push well,* play upon the flute, and swear the most modish oaths, I would set up for quality with e'er a young nobleman of 'em all. Pray what are the most fashionable oaths in town? Zoons, I take it, is a very becoming one.

Rigadoon. (a dancing-master.) Zoons is only used by the disbanded officers and bullies, but zauns is the beaux pronunciation.

Mock, Zauns!

Rig. Yes, Sir; we swear as we dance; smooth and with a cadence-Zauns! 'Tis harmonious, and pleases the ladies, because it is soft. Zauns, Madam, is the only compliment our great beaux pass on a lady.

Mock. But suppose a lady speaks to me; what must I

say ?

Rig. Nothing, Sir; you must take snuff grin, and make her a humble cringe-thus: (Bows foppishly and takes snuff; Mockmode imitates him awkwardly, and taking snuff, sneezes.) O Lord, Sir! you must never sneeze; 'tis as unbecoming after orangery as grace after meat.

* Fence.

Airs of Fashion.

Mock. I thought people took it to clear the brain.

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Rig. The beaux have no brains at all, Sir; their skull is a perfect snuff-box; and I heard a physician swear, who opened one of 'em, that the three divisions of his head were filled with orangery, bergamot, and plain Spanish.

Mock. Zauns! I must sneeze, (sneezes.) Bless me!

6

Rig. Oh, fy! Mr. Mockmode! what a rustical expression that is! Bless me!' You should upon all such occasions cry, Dem me! You would be as nauseous to the ladies as one of the old patriarchs, if yon used that obsolete expression.

Sir Harry Wildair gives a good sketch of a lady's waiting-woman of the time.

Colonel Standard. Here, here, Mrs. Parly; whither so fast ?

Parly. Oh Lord! my master! Sir, I was running to Mademoiselle Furbelow, the French milliner, for a new burgundy for my lady's head.

Col. S. No, child; you're employed about an old-fashioned garniture for your master's head, if I mistake not your errand.

Parly. Oh, Sir! there's the prettiest fashion lately come over! so airy, so French, and all that. The pinners are double ruffled with twelve plaits of a side, and open all from the face; the hair is frizzled all up round the head, and stands as stiff as a bodkin. Then the favourites hang loose on the temples, with a languishing lock in the middle. Then the caul is extremely wide, and over all is a coronet raised very high, and all the lappets behind.

This lady on being questioned, says that her wages are ten pounds a year, but she makes two hundred a year of her mistress's old clothes.

But Farquhar is best known as the author of the "Beaux Stratagem." Though not so full of humour, as "Love in a Bottle," it had more action and bolder sensational incidents. The play proved a great success, but one which will always have sad associations. It came too

VOL. I.

A A

late. Farquhar died in destitution, while the plaudits resounded in his ears.

The following are specimens from his last

(Aimwell (a gentleman of broken fortune looking for a rich wife) goes to church in the country to further his designs.)

Aimwell. The appearance of a stranger in a country church draws as many gazers as a blazing star; no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a train of whispers runs buzzing round the congregation in a moment: Who is he? Whence comes he? Do you know him? Then I, Sir, tips me the verger with half-a-crown; he pockets the simony, and inducts me into the best pew in the church; I pull out my snuff-box, turn myself round, bow to the bishop, or the dean, if he be the commanding officer, single out a beauty, rivet both my eyes to hers, set my nose a bleeding by the strength of imagination, and show the whole church my concern-by my endeavouring to hide it; after the sermon the whole town gives me to her for a lover, and by persuading the lady that I am a-dying for her, the tables are turned, and she in good earnest falls in love with me.

Archer. There's nothing in this, Tom, without a precedent; but instead of rivetting your eyes to a beauty, try to fix 'em upon a fortune; that's our business at present. Aim. Psha! no woman can be a beauty without a fortune. Let me alone, for I am a marksman.

Talking afterwards of Dorinda, whom he observes in church, he says,

Aimwell. Call me Oroondates, Cesario, Amadis, all that romance can in a lover paint, and then I'll answer :O, Archer! I read her thousands in her looks, she looked like Ceres in her harvest; corn, wine and oil, milk and honey, gardens, groves, and purling streams played in her plenteous face.

ΤΗ

CHAPTER XI.

Congreve-Lord Dorset.

HE birthplace of Congreve is uncertain, but he was born about 1671, and was educated in Kilkenny and Dublin. He is an instance of that union of Irish versatility with English reflection, which has produced the most celebrated wits. We also mark in him a considerable improvement in delicacy. "The Old Batchelor" was his first play, the success of which was so great that Lord Halifax made him one of the commissioners for licensing hackney-coaches; he afterwards gave him a place in the Pipe Office and Custom House.

Belmour begins very suitably by saying

"Come come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools; they have need of 'em. Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation; and let Father Time shake his glass."

Speaking of Belinda, he says

"In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers anybody else to rail at me."

Heartwell, an old bachelor, says