An Apology for his Life; which is one of the most entertaining autobiographies 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 E.

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

der; if you had but seen when my lord and I fooled a little, the creature looked so ugly.

Lady E. But I should not think my reputation safe; my Lord Foppington's a man that talks often of his amours, but seldom speaks of favours that are refused him.

Lady B. Pshaw! will any thing a man says make a woman less agreeable? Will his talking spoil one's complexion, or put one's hair out of order?-and for reputation, look you, my dear, take it for a rule, that as amongst the lower rank of people, no woman wants beauty that has fortune; so among people of fortune, no woman wants virtue that has beauty; but an estate and beauty joined, are of an unlimited, nay a power pontifical, make one not only absolute, but infallible-a fine woman's never in the wrong, or if we were, 'tis not the strength of a poor creature's reason that can unfetter him-Oh how I love to hear a wretch curse himself for loving on, or now and then coming out with a

Yet for the plague of human race
This devil has an angel's face.

Lady E. At this rate, I don't see you allow reputation to be at all essential to a fine woman.

Lady B. Just as much as honour to a great man. Power is always above scandal. Don't you hear people say the king of France owes most of his conquests to breaking his word? and would not the confederates have a fine time on't, if they were only to go to war with reproaches. Indeed, my dear, that jewel reputation is a very fanciful business; one shall not see a homely creature in town, but wears it in her mouth as monstrously as the Indians do bobs at their lips, and it really becomes them just alike.

Lady E. Have a care, my dear, of trusting too much to power alone: for nothing is more ridiculous than the fall of pride; and woman's pride at best may be suspected to be a more distrust than a real contempt of mankind: for when we have said all we can, a deserving husband is certainly our best happiness; and I don't question but my Lord Morelove's merit, in a little time, will make you think so too; for whatever airs you give yourself to the world, I'm sure your heart don't want good-nature.

Lady B. You are mistaken, I am very ill-natured, though your good-humour won't let you see it.

Lady E. Then give me a proof on't, let me see you refuse to go immediately and dine with me, after I have promised Sir Charles to bring you. Lady B. Pray don't ask me.

Lady B. Because, to let you see I hate good-nature, I'll go without asking, that you may'nt have the malice to say I did you a favour.

Lady E. Thou art a mad creature.

[Exeunt arm in arm.]

MRS. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE, a most extraordinary female dramatic writer of this period, was born in Ireland, in 1667. She was the daughter of a Lincolnshire gentleman by the name of Freeman, who had been a partisan of the Commonwealth, and had deemed it prudent, on the restoration of Charles the Second, to leave his native country. When twelve years of age, Susanna was, by the death of her mother, left an orphan; and the unkind treatment which she received from those who had the care of her, induced her to adopt the wild resolution of escaping from their control, and going to London. On her way thither, on foot, she is said to have met with one

Anthony Hammond, with whom she went to Cambridge, and there, clad in boy's apparel, lived with him for some months, as his page. At the early age of sixteen she married a nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, whose death followed within twelve months. She next became the wife of an officer of the army, by the name of Carrol, who, in less than two years after their marriage, was killed in a duel. Driven by this last bereavement, and her destitute circumstances, to the necessity of providing for herself, she had recourse to the stage, and soon became an accomplished and popular actress. In 1700, she produced a tragedy, The Perjured Husband, which, being remarkably successful, induced her to abandon the stage, and devote herself almost exclusively to dramatic writing. Before this gifted lady had entirely left the stage, she married, in 1706, Joseph Centlivre, yeoman of the month. to Queen Anne, with whom she lived happily until her death, which occurred on the first of December, 1723.

Of Mrs. Centlivre's dramas, nineteen in number, The Busy Body, The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret, and A Bold Stroke for a Wife, still keep possession of the stage, and are favorite acting plays. Her experience as an actress was of great service to her as a dramatic writer; and hence her plots and incidents are admirably arranged for stage effect, and her characters well discriminated. Sir Richard Steele, in one of the Tatlers, speaking of her 'Busy Body,' remarks that 'the plot and incidents of the play are laid with that subtlety and spirit, which is peculiar to female wit; and is seldom well performed by those of the other sex, in whom craft in love is an act of invention, and not, as with women, the effect of nature and instinct.' With all this writer's dramatic excellencies, it must not be concealed that her plays are deeply tinctured with the immoralities of the age. The following scene from the 'Busy Body' is one of the purest that we can select:

[Enter Sir Francis Gripe and Sir George Airy.]

Sir F. Verily, Sir George, thou wilt repent throwing away thy money so, for I tell thee sincerely, Miranda, my charge, does not like young fellows; they are all vicious and seldom make good husbands: in sober sadness she can not abide 'em. Mir. [Peeping.] In sober sadness you are mistaken-What can this mean? Sir G. Lookye, Sir Francis, whether she can or can not abide young fellows is not the business: will you take the fifty guineas?

Sir F. In good truth I will not-for I knew thy father, he was a hearty wary man, and I cannot consent that his son should squander away what he saved to no purpose.

Mir. [Peeping.] Now, in the name of wonder, what bargain can he be driving about me for fifty guineas?

Sir G. Well, Sir Francis, since you are so conscientious for my father's sake, then permit me the favour gratis.

Sir F. No, verily; if thou dost not buy thy experience thou wilt never be wise; therefore give me a hundred and try thy fortune.

Let me see a hundred
Ha! they have a very

Sir G. The scruples arose, I find, from the scanty sum. guineas. [Takes the money out of a purse and chinks it.] pretty sound, and a very pleasing look. But then Miranda-but if she should be cruel

Sir F. Ay, do consider on't. He, he, he!

Sir G. No, I'll do 't. Come, to the point; here's the gold; sum up the conditions. [Sir Francis pulls out a paper.] Mir. [Peeping.] Ay, for heaven's sake do, for my expectation is on the rack. Sir F. Well, at your peril be it.

Sir G. Ay, ay, go on.

Sir F. Imprimis, you are to be admitted into my house in order to move your suit, to Miranda, for the space of ten minutes, without let or molestation, provided I remain in the same room.

Sir G. But out of ear-shot.

Sir F. Well, well; I don't desire to hear what you say; ha, ha, ha! in consideration I'm to have that purse and a hundred guineas.

Sir G. Take it. [Gives him the purse.] And this agreement is to be performed to-day.

Sir F. Ay, ay; the sooner the better. Poor fool! how Miranda and I shall laugh at him! [Aside.] Well, Sir George, ha, ha, ha! take the last sound of your guineas, ha, ha, ha! [Chinks them. Exit.]

Mir. [Peeping]. Sure he does not know I am Miranda.

Sir G. A very extraordinary bargain I have made, truly; if she should be really in love with this old calf now- Psha! that's morally impossible- But then, what hopes have I to succeed? I never spoke to her

Mir. [Peeping]. Say you so? then I am safe.

Sir G. What though my tongue never spoke, my eyes said a thousand things, and my hopes flattered me her's answer'd 'em. If I'm lucky-if not it is but a hundred guineas thrown away. [Mir. comes forward.]

Mir. Upon what, Sir George?

Sir G. Ha! my incognita-upon a woman, madam.

Mir. They are the worst things you can deal in, and damage the soonest; your very breath destroys 'em, and I fear you'll never see your return, Sir George, ha, ha! Sir G. Were they more brittle than china, and dropped to pieces with a touch, every atom as her I have ventur'd at, if she is but mistress of thy wit, balances ten times the sum. Pr'ythee, let me see thy face.

Mir. By no means; that may spoil your opinion of my sense.

Sir G. Rather confirm it, madam.

Patch. So rob the lady of your gallantry, sir.

Sir G. No, child, a dish of chocolate in the morning never spoils my dinner: the other lady I design for a set meal; so there's no danger

Mir. Matrimony! ha, ha, ha! what crimes have you committed against the god of love, that he should revenge 'em so severely, as to stamp husband on your forehead?

Sir G. For my folly in having so often met you here without pursuing the laws of nature and exercising her command; but I resolve ere we part now to know who you are, where you live, what kind of flesh and blood your face is; therefore unmask, and don't put me to the trouble of doing it for you.

Mir. My face is the same flesh and blood with my hand, Sir George; which if you will be so rude to provoke

Sir G. You'll apply it to my cheek-the ladies' favours are always welcome, but I must have that cloud withdrawn. [Taking hold of her.] Remember you are in the Park, child; and what a terrible thing it would be to lose that pretty white hand!

Mir. And how it will sound in a chocolate-house that Sir George Airy rudely pulled off a lady's mask, when he had given her his honour that he never would, directly or indirectly, endeavour to know her till she gave him leave?

Sir G. But if that lady thinks fit to pursue and meet me at every turn, like some