Mrs. C. So they are, child-shameful, shameful! But the world is so censorious, no character escapes. Well, now, who would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the ill-nature of people that they say her uncle stopt her last week, just as she was stepping into the York mail with her dancingmaster.

Maria. I'll answer for 't there are no grounds for that report.

Mrs. C. Ah, no foundation in the world, I dare swear; no more, probably, than for the story circulated last month of Mrs. Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino; though, to be sure, that matter was never rightly cleared up.

Joseph S. The license of invention some people take up is monstrous indeed. Maria. 'Tis so-but, in my opinion, those who report such things are equally culpable.

Mrs. C. To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as the tale-makers-'tis an old observation, and a very true one: but what's to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking? To-day Mrs. Clackitt assured me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. * * No, no! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as tale-makers.

Joseph S. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if every body had your forbearanee and goodnature!

Mrs. C. I confess, Mr. Surface, I can not bear to hear people attacked behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintances, I own I always love to think the best. By-the-by, I hope 'tis not true your brother is absolutely ruined?

Joseph S. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, ma'am.

Mrs. C. Ah! I heard so-but you must tell him to keep up his spirits; every body almost is in the same way-Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, and Mr. Nickitall up, I hear, within this week; so, if Charles is undone, he'll find half of his acquaintances ruined too; and that you know, is a consolation.

Joseph S. Doubtless, ma'am-a very great one.

[Enter Servant.]

Serv. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.

[Exit Servant.]

Lady S. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you; positively you shan't escape.

[Enter Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.]

Crab, Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour, I don't believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite? Egad! ma'am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet, too; isn't he, Lady Sneerwell?

Sir B. O fie, uncle!

Crab. Nay, egad, it's true; I back him at a rebus or a charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching fire? Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a fish, your second a great naval commander, and

Sir B. Uncle, now--prithee

Crab. I' faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at these things.

Lady S. I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish any thing.

Sir B. To say truth, ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to print; and as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular people, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies, which, when favoured with this lady's smiles, I mean to give the public.

Crab. 'Fore heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you! you will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa.

Sir B. Yes, madam, I think you will like them, when you shall see them on a beautiful quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text shall murmur through a meadow of margin. 'Fore gad, they will be the most elegant things of their kind!

Crab. But, ladies, that's true-have you heard the news?

Mrs. C. What, sir, do you mean the report of—

Crab. No, ma'am, that's not it-Miss Nicely is going to be married to her own footman.

Mrs. C. Impossible!

Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin.

Sir B. 'Tis very true, ma'am; every thing is fixed, and the wedding liveries bespoke.

Crab. Yes; and they do say there were very pressing reasons for it.

Lady S. Why, I have heard something of this before.

Mrs. C. It can't be; and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.

Sir B. O lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believed at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved that every body was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

Mrs. C. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the credit of a prudent lady of her stamp as a fever is generally to those of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny sickly reputation that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hundred prudes.

Sir B. True, madam, there are valetudinarians in reputation as well as constitution; who, being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and circumspection.

Mrs. C. Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know, Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious tales.

Crab. That they do, I'll be sworn, ma'am. O lud! Mr. Surface, pray is it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home?

Joseph S. Not that I know of, indeed, sir.

Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long time. You can scarcely remember him, I believe? Sad comfort whenever he returns, to hear how your brother has gone on.

Joseph S. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but I hope no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him. He may reform.

Sir B. To be sure he may; for my part I never believed him to be so utterly void of principle as people say; and though he has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews.

Crab. That's true, egad, nephew. If the old Jewry was a ward, I believe Charles would be an alderman: no man more popular there! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish tontine; and that, whenever he is sick, they have prayers for the recovery of his health in all the synagogues.

Sir B. Yet no man lives in greater splendour. They tell me, when he entertains his friends, he will sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own securities; have a score of tradesmen waiting in the antechamber, and an officer behind every guest's chair.

Joseph S. This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen; but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

Maria. Their malice is intolerable. Lady Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morning: I'm not very well. [Exit Maria.]

Mrs. C. O dear! she changes colour very much.

Lady S. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her: she may want your assistance.

1797 A.D.]

HANNAH COWLEY.-DAVID GARRICK.

471

Mrs. C. That I will, with all my soul, ma'am. Poor dear girl, who knows what her situation may be! [Exit Mrs. Candour.] Lady S. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.

Sir B. The young lady's penchant is obvious.

Crab. But, Benjamin, you must not give up the pursuit for that: follow her, and put her into good-humour. Repeat her some of your own verses. Come, I'll assist you.

Sir B. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you; but, depend on 't, your brother is utterly undone.

Crab. O lud, ay! undone as ever man was. Can't raise a guinea!
And every thing sold, I'm told, that was movable.

Sir B.

Crab. I have seen one that was at his house. Not a thing left but some empty bottles that were overlooked, and the family pictures, which I believe are framed in the wainscots.

Sir B. And I'm very sorry, also, to hear some bad stories against him.

Crab. Oh! he has done many mean things, that's certain.

Sir B. But, however, as he is your brother-
Crab. We'll tell you all another opportunity.

[Exit Crabtree and Sir Benjamin.]

Lady S. Ha ha! 'tis very hard for them to leave a subject they have not quite run down.

Joseph S. And I believe the abuse was no more acceptable to your ladyship than Maria.

Lady S. I doubt her affections are further engaged than we imagine. But the family are to be here this evening, so you may as well dine where you are, and we shall have an opportunity of observing farther; in the mean time, I'll go and plot mischief, and you shall study sentiment.

[Exeunt.]

The last comic writer of the present period whom we shall notice, is Mrs. HANNAH COWLEY, whose brilliant comedy The Belle's Stratagem, still holds possession of the stage. This lady was born at Tiverton, in Devonshire, in 1743, and died in the same place, in the sixty-seventh year of her age, 1809. Besides 'The Belle's Stratagem' Mrs. Cowley wrote The Runaway, More Ways than One, and some others of less note; but all, except the first-mentioned, are now forgotten.

We have still to notice the well-known species of sub-comedy entitled the Farce-a kind of entertainment more peculiarly English than comedy itself, and in which the literature of England is surprisingly rich. As inferior in dignity, we place it after comedy; but as some of its luminaries flourished early in this period, and by their productions exercised a considerable influence on the comedies which were afterwards written, it might have been placed first. Among the first who shone in this department of literature was David Garrick, so eminent as an actor in both tragedy and comedy.

GARRICK was a native of Lichfield, and was born on the twentieth of February, 1716. He was the pupil of Dr. Johnson, and in 1735, accompanied him to London that they might there seek their fortunes together.

He at once turned his attention to the stage, and his merits quickly raised him to the head of his profession. As the manager of one of the principal London theatres for a long course of years, he banished from the stage many plays that had an immoral tendency; and his personal character gave a dignity and respectability to the profession of an actor. As an anthor he was more lively and various than vigorous or profound. He wrote some epigrams, and even ventured an ode or two; he succeeded in the composition of some dramatic pieces, and in the adaptation of others to the stage. His principal plays are, The Lying Valet and Miss in her Teens, both of which are still favorites with the public. But unquestionably his chief strength lay in those powers as an actor by which he gave a popularity and importance to the drama that it had not possessed since its palmy days in the reigns of Elizabeth and James. Garrick died on the twentieth of January, 1779, and Sheridan honored his memory with a florid sentimental monody, in which he invoked the 'gentle muse,' to 'guard his laurelled shrine'―

And with soft sighs disperse the irreverent dust,
Which time may strew upon his sacred bust.

Fielding, Macklin, Townley, and Foote, are the remaining writers of this class that belong to the present period. Fielding's farces were numerous, but Tom Thumb is the only one that keeps possession of the stage. He threw off these light pieces to meet the demands of the town for amusement, and to satisfy his own clamorous necessities; and they generally indicated very hasty composition. Love-a-la-Mode, a humorous satire on the Scottish character, was produced by Charles Macklin, and was soon followed by his more sarcastic comedy The Man of the World, first performed in 1781. Macklin was an actor by profession, and so remarkable for his personation of Shylock, as to seem 'the very Jew that Shakspeare drew.' This character he performed successfully after he had passed the ninetieth year of his age. His death occurred on the eleventh of July, 1797, at the very unusual age of one hundred and seven years. The two dramas of Macklin are lively and entertaining, and are still popular on the stage.

The REV. MR. TOWNLEY, master of Merchant Tailors' School, was the author of High Life below Stairs, a happy burlesque on the extravagance and affectation of servants in aping the manners of their masters, and which had the effect, by a well-timed exposure, of correcting abuses in the domestic establishments of the opulent classes in England. From this unique farce we select the following scene:

[Enter Sir Harry's Servant.]

Sir H. Oh, ho! are you thereabouts, my lord duke! and-by. However, you'll never find me behind hand.

That may do very well by[Offers to kiss Kitty.]

Duke. Stand off: you are a commoner; nothing under nobility approaches Kitty.

یکا

Sir H. You are so devilish proud of your nobility. Now, I think we have more true nobility than you. Let me tell you, sir, a knight of the shire

Duke. A knight of the shire! Ha, ha, ha! a mighty honour, truly, to represent all the fools in the country.

Kit. O lud! this is charming to see two noblemen quarrel.

Sir H. Why, any fool may be born to a title, but only a wise man can make himself honourable.

Kit. Well said, Sir Harry, that is good morillity.

Duke. I hope you make some difference between hereditary honours and the huzzas of a mob.

Kit. Very smart, my lord; now, Sir Harry.

Sir H. If you make use of your hereditary honours to screen you from debtDuke. Zounds! sir, what do you mean by that?

Kit. Hold, hold! I shall have some fine old noble blood spilt here. Ha' done, Sir Harry.

Sir H. Not I; why, he is always valuing himself upon his upper house.

Duke. We have dignity.

Sir H. But what becomes of your dignity, if we refuse the supplies.
Kit. Peace, peace; here's Lady Bab.

Dear Lady Bab.

[Enter Lady Bab's Servant in a chair.]

[Slow.] [Quick.]

Lady Bab. Mrs. Kitty, your servant: I was afraid of taking cold, and so ordered the chair down stairs. Well, and how do you do? My lord duke, your servant, and Sir Harry too, yours.

Duke. Your ladyship's devoted.

Lady B. I'm afraid I have trespassed in point of time. [Looks on her watch.] But I got into my favorite author.

Duke. Yes, I found her ladyship at her studies this morning; some wicked poem.

Lady B. Oh, you wretch! I never read but one book.

Kit. What is your ladyship so fond of?

Lady B. Shikspur. Did you never read Shikspur ?

Kit. Shikspur! Shikspur! Who wrote it? No, I never read Shikspur.

Lady B. Then you have an immense pleasure to come.

Kit. Well, then, I'll read it over one afternoon or other. Here's Lady Charlotte.

Dear Lady Charlotte.

[Enter Lady Charlotte's Maid in a chair.]

Lady C. Oh! Mrs. Kitty, I thought I never should have reached your house. Such a fit of the cholic seized me. Oh! Lady Bab, how long has your ladyship been here? My chairmen were such drones. My lord duke! the pink of all goodbreeding.

Duke. Oh! ma'am.

Lady C. And Sir Harry! Your servant, Sir Harry.

[Bowing.] [Formally.]

Sir H. Madam, your servant: I am sorry to hear your ladyship has been ill. Lady C. You must give me leave to doubt the sincerity of that sorrow, sir. Remember the Park.

Sir H. The Park! I'll explain that affair, madam.

Lady C. I want none of your explanations.

Sir H. Dear Lady Charlotte!

[Scornfully.]

Lady C. No, sir; I have observed your coldness of late, and despise you. A trumpery baronet!

Sir H. I see how it is; nothing will satisfy you but nobility. That sly dog, the marquis