Lou. I own it; and what must that heart not furnish settlement quite sufficient for the be, which love, honour, and beneficence, like heiress of sir Stephen Rusport. Mr. Belcour's, can make no impression on? Stock. I thank you: What happiness has this hour brought to pass! O'Fla. Why don't we all sit down to supper, then, and make a night on't? Miss R. But a good estate, in aid of a commission, may do something. Lady R. A good estate, truly! where should he get a good estate, pray? Stock. Why, suppose now a worthy old gentleman, on his death-bed, should have taEnter BELCOUR, introducing Miss RUSPORT.ken it in mind to leave him one Bel. Mr. Dudley, here is a fair refugee, Lady R. Hah! what's that you say? who properly comes under your protection; O'Fla. O ho! you begin to smell a plot, she is equipped for Scotland, but your good do you? fortune, which I have related to her, seems Stock. Suppose there should be a paper in inclined to save you both the journey-Nay, the world, that runs thus-"I do hereby give madam, never go back! you are amongst and bequeath all my estates, real and persofriends. nal, to Charles Dudley, son of my late daughter Louisa, etc. etc. etc." Charles. Charlotte! Miss R. The same; that fond, officious girl, that haunts you every where: that persecuting spirit Charles. Say rather, that protecting angel; such you have been to me. Miss R. O Charles, you have an honest, but proud heart. Charles. Nay, chide me not, dear Charlotte. Bel. Seal up her lips, then; she is an adorable girl; her arms are open to you; and love and happiness are ready to receive you. Charles. Thus, then, I claim my dear, my destined wife. [Embracing her. Enter LADY RUSPORT. O'Fla. There's a fine parcel of etc.'s for your ladyship. Lady R. Why, I am thunderstruck! by what contrivance, what villany, did you get possession of that paper? Stock. There was no villany, madam, in getting possession of it; the crime was in concealing it, none in bringing it to light. Lady R. Óh, that cursed lawyer, Varland! O'Fla. You may say that, 'faith; he is a cursed lawyer; and a cursed piece of work I had to get the paper from him; your ladyship now was to have paid him five thousand pounds for it: I forced him to give it me of his own accord, for nothing at all, at all. Lady R. Is it you that have done this? am foiled by your blundering contrivances, af Lady R. Hey day! mighty fine! wife, truly! mighty well! kissing, embracing- did ever any thing equal this? Why, you shameless I hussy!-But I won't condescend to waste a ter all? word upon you.-You, sir, you, Mr. Stock- O'Fla. Twas a blunder, 'faith, but as nawell; you fine, sanctified, fair-dealing man of tura! a one as if I had made it o'purpose. conscience; is this the principle you trade Charles. Come, let us not oppress the fallen; upon? is this your neighbourly system, to do right even now, and you shall have no keep a house of reception for runaway daugh- cause to complain. ters, and young beggarly fortune hunters? Lady R. Am I become an object of your O'Fla. Be advised now, and don't put your-pity, then? Insufferable! confusion light amongst self in such a passion; we were all very happy you! marry, and be wretched: let me never till you came. see you more. Lady R. Stand away, sir; bav'n't I a reason to be in a passion? O'Fla. Indeed, honey, and you have, if you knew all. Lady R. Come, madam, I have found out your haunts; dispose yourself to return home with me. Young man, let me never see you within my doors again: Mr. Stockwell, I shall report your behaviour, depend on it. Stock. Hold, madam, I cannot consent to lose miss Rusport's company this evening, and I am persuaded you won't insist upon it; 'tis [Exit. Miss R. She is outrageous; I suffer for her, and blush to see her thus exposed. Charles. Come, Charlotte, don't let this angry woman disturb our happiness: we will save her, in spite of herself; your father's me mory shall not be stained by the discredit of his second choice. Miss R. I trust implicitly to your discretion, and am in all things yours. Bel. Now, lovely, but obdurate, does not this example soften? Lou. What can you ask for more? Accept an unmotherly action to interrupt your daugh- my hand, accept my willing heart. ter's happiness in this manner, believe me it is. Bel. O, bliss unutterable! brother, father, Lady R. Her happiness truly! upon my friend, and you, the author of this general word! and I suppose it's an unmotherly ac-joy tion to interrupt her ruin; for what but ruin O'Fla. Blessing of St. Patrick upon us all! must it be to marry a beggar? I think my 'tis a night of wonderful and surprising ups sister had a proof of that, sir, when she made and downs: I wish we were all fairly set choice of you. [To Captain Dudley. down to supper, and there was an end on. Dud. Don't be too lavish of your spirits, Stock. Hold for a moment! I have yet one lady Rusport. word to interpose-Entitled by my friendship O'Fla. By my soul, you'll have occasion to a voice in your disposal, I have approved for a sip of the cordial elixir by-and-by. your match; there yet remains a father's consent to be obtained. Stock. It don't appear to me, madam, that Mr. Dudley can be called a beggar. Lady R. But it appears to me, Mr. Stock Bel. Have I a father? Stock. You have a father; did not I tell you well; I am apt to think a pair of colours can- I had a discovery to make?- Compose your self-you have a father, who observes, who Stock. Yes, Belcour, I have watched you knows, who loves you. with a patient, but inquiring eye, and I have Bel. Keep me no longer in suspense; my discovered through the veil of some irregularheart is softened for the affecting discovery, ities, a beart beaming with benevolence, and and nature fits me to receive his blessing. Stock. I am your father. Bel. My father!-Do I live? animated nature; fallible indeed, but not incorrigible; and your election of this excellent young lady makes me glory in acknowledging you to be my son. Bel. It is too much-my happiness over- Bel. I thank you, and in my turn, glory in powers me-to gain a friend, and find a fa- the father I have gained. Sensibly impressed ther, is too much: I blush to think how little with gratitude for such extraordinary dispenI deserve you. [They embrace. sations, I beseech you, amiable Louisa, for Dud. See, children, how many new rela- the time to come, whenever you perceive me tions spring from this night's unforeseen events, deviating into error or offence, bring only to to endear us to each other. my mind the providence of this night, and I O'Fla. O'my conscience, I think we shall will turn to reason and obey. be all related by-and-by. GEORGE FARQUHAR Was born al Londonderry, in 1678, where he received the rudiments of erudition and from whence, as soon as he was properly qualified, he was sent to Trinity College, Dublin, where he was entered as a sizer, July 17, 1694; but the modes of study in that place being calculated rather for making deep than polite scholars, and Mr. Farquhar being Intally averse to serious pursuits, he was reckoned by all his fellow-students one of the dullest young men in the university, and even as a companion he was thought extremely heavy and disagreeable., On quitting college, he engaged himself to Mr. Ashbury, the manager of the Dublin theatre, and was soon introduced on the stage, in the character of Othello, In this situation he continued no longer than part of one season, nor made any very considerable figure. For though his person was sufficiently in his favour, and he was possessed of the requisites of a strong retentive memory, a just manner of speaking, and an easy and elegant deportment, yet his natural diffidence and timidity, or what is usually termed the stage-terror, which he was never able to overcome, added to a thin insufficiency of voice, were strong bars in the way of his success, more especially in tragedy. However, notwithstanding these disadvantages, it is not improbable, as from his amiable private behaviour he was very much esteemed, and has never met with the least repulse from the audience in any of his performances, that he might have continued much longer on the stage, but for an accident which determined him to quit it on a sudden; for being to play the part of Guyomar, in Dryden's Indian Emperor, who kills Velasquez, one of the Spanish generals, Mr. Farquhar, by some mistake, took a real sword instead of ■ foil on the stage with him, and in the engagement wounded his brother-tragedian, who acted Velasquez, in so dangerens a manner, that, although it did not prove mortal, he was a long time before he recovered it; aud the consideration of the fatal consequences that might have insued, wrought so strongly on our author's humane disposition, that he took sp a resolution never to go on the stage again, or submit himself to the possibility of such another mistake. Notwithstandg the several disappointments and vexations which this gentleman met with durimg his short stay in this transitory werid, fonly thirty years) nothing seems to have been able to overcome the readiness of his genius, or the easy goodmature of his disposition; for he began and finished his well-known comedy of The Beaux Stratagem in about six weeks, during his last illness; notwithstanding he, for a great part of the time, was extremely sensible of the approaches of death, and even foretold what actually happened, viz. that he should die before the run of it was over. Nay, in so calm and manly a manner did he treat the expectation of that fatal event, as even to be able to exercise bis wonted pleasantry on the very subject. For while his play was in rehearsal, his friend Mr. Wilks, who frequently visited him during his illness, observing to him that Mrs. Oldfield thought he had dealt too freely with the character of Mrs. Sullen, in giving her to Archer, without such a proper divorce as might be a security for her honour,—“Oh," replied the author, with his accustomed vivacity, "I will, if she pleases, salve that immediately, by getting a real divorce, marrying her myself, and giving her my bond, that she shall be a real widow in less than a fortnight," But ing can give a more perfect idea of that disposition we have hinted at in him, than the very laconic but expressive billet which Mr. Wilks found, after his death, among his papers, directed to himself, and which, as a curiosity in is Lod, we cannot refrain from giving to our readers; it was as follows: "Dear Bob, I have not auy thing to leave bee to perpctuate my memory, but two helpless girls; look upon them sometimes, and think of him that was, to the at moment of life, thine George Farquhar." Of his character as a man, we have an account by himself in a piece, addressed to a lady, which he calls The Picture. It begins thus: "My outside is neither better nor worse than my Creator made it; and the piece being drawn by so great an artist, it were presumption to say there were many strokes I have a body qualified to answer all the ends of its creation, and that is sufficient. As to the mind, which in ment men wears as many changes as their body, so in me it is generally dressed like my person, in black. Melanevoir a da every day apparel; and it has hitherto found few holidays to make it change its clothes. In short, my Consul tag is very splenetic, and yet very amourous; both which I endeavour to hide, lest the former should utlend whers, and that the latter might incommode myself. And my reason; is so vigilant in restraining these two fangs, that I am taken for an easy-natured man with my own sex, and an illnatured clown by yours. I have very lille estate, but what lies under the circumference of my hat, and should I by mischance come to lose my head, I should not he worth a groat; but I ought to thank Providence that I can by three hours study live ane and twenty with satisfaction to myself, and contribute to the maintenance of more families than some who have thousands a year. I have somewhat in my outward behaviour, which gives strangers a worse opinion of me tan 1 deserve; but 1 am more than recompensed by the opinion of my acquaintance, which is as much above m desert. I have many acquaintance, very few intimates, but no friend, I mean in the old romantic way; I have no Tet weighty, but what I can bear in my own breast; nor any duels to fight, but what I may engage in without a se sad; nor en 1 love after the old romantic discipline. I would have my passion, if not led, yet at least waited am, by my reason: and the greatest proof of my affection that a lady must expect, is this: I would run any hazard to as both happy, bat would not for any transitory pleasure make either of us miserable. If ever, Madam, you come kow the life of this piece, as well as he that drew it, you will conclude that I need not subscribe the name to the As a writer, the opinions of critics have been various; the general character which has been given of his megars is, that the success of most of them far exceeded the author's expectations, that he was particularly happy in bake of his subjects, which he always took care to adorn with a great variety of characters and incidents, that eyle is pure and unaffected, his wit natural and flowing, and that his plots are generally well contrived. But then, on contrary, it has been objected, that he was too hasty in his productions, that his works are loose, though indeed not * grossly libertine as those of some other wits of his time; that his imagination, though lively, was capable of no ted compass, and his wit, though passable, not such as would gain ground on consideration. In a word, he seems - have been a man of a genius rather sprightly than great, rather flowing than solid; his characters are natural yet * overstroaply marked, nor peculiarly heightened; yet, as it is apparent he drew his observations from those he con versed with, and formed all his portraits from nature, it is more than probable, that if he had lived to have gained a more general knowledge of life, or if his circumstances had not been so straitened as to prevent his mingling with persons of rank, we might have seen his plays embellished with more finished characters, and adorned with a more polished dialogue. THE RECRUITING OFFICER, Com. by George Farquhar. Acted at Drury Lane 1705. This most entertaining and lively comedy, which is at this time, and probably will ever continue to be, one of the most standard and established amusements of the British stage, was written on the very spot where the author has fixed his scene of action, viz. at Shrewsbury, and at a time when he was himself a recruiting officer in that town, and, by all accounts of him, the very character he has drawn in that of Captain Plume His Justice Balance was designed, as he tells us himself, as a compliment to a very worthy gentleman in that neighbourhood (Mr. Berkely, then recorder of Shrewsbury). Worthy, was a Mr. Owen, of Russason, on the borders of Shropshire. Brazen is unknown. Melinda was a Miss Harnage, of Balsadine, near the Wrekin. Sylvia was the daughter of Mr. Berkely, above-mentioned. He has dedicated the play in a familiar and at the same time grateful manner, to all friends round the Wrekin. The story is of the author's invention; the characters are natural, the dialogue is easy, and the wit entirely spirited and genuine. In short, to say the least awe can in its praise, we can scarcely keep within the limits assigned us; and, were we to say the most, we could scarcely do justice to its merit. An anecdote, connected with this play, is related of Quin, which only shows that great, as well as humble aclors, will occasionally trip. Quin was performing the part of Balance with Mrs. Woffington, who was playing the part of his daughter," Quin, having, it is supposed, taken a little more wine than usual after dinner, addressed her thus: "Sylvia, how old were you when your mother was married?"-"What, Sir!" said the actress, tittering.—“Pshaw! " says he, "I mean, how old were you when your mother was born?”—“I regret, Sir, that I cannot answer you precisely on either of those questions; but I can tell you, if that be necessary, how old I was when my mother died!" Serg. K. 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, of honour? or any husband too much wife, let them repair to the noble sergeant Kite, at the sign of never wake. the Raven, in this good town of Shrewsbury, Serg: K. Sound! ay, so sound that they and they shall receive present relief and en- lay there. tertainment. Gentlemen, I don't beat my Serg. K. Say you so! then I find, brother— drums here to ensnare or inveigle any man; Cos. Brother! hold there, friend; I am no for you must know, gentlemen, that I am a kindred to you that I know of yet.-Lookye, man of honour: besides, I don't beat up for sergeant, no coaxing, no wheedling, d'ye see; common soldiers; no, I list only grenadiers; if I have a mind to list, why so; if not, why grenadiers, gentlemen.-Pray, gentlemen, ob- 'tis not so: therefore, take your cap and your serve this cap-this is the cap of honour; it brothership back again, for I am not dispodubs a man a gentleman in the drawing of a sed at this present writing.-No coaxing; no trigger; and he that has the good fortune to brothering me, faith! be born six feet high was born to be a great Serg. K. I coax! I wheedle! I'm above it, man.-Sir, will you give me leave to try this sir; I have serv'd twenty campaigns-But, sir, cap upon your head? [To Costar Pearmain. you talk well, and I must own that you are Cos. Is there no harm in't? won't the cap a man every inch of you; a pretty, young, list1) me? 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? Serg. K. No, no, no more than I can.Come, let me see how it becomes you. Cos. Are you sure there be no conjuration in it? no gunpowder-plot upon me? Serg. K. No, no, friend; don't fear, man. Cos. My mind misgives me plaguily.-Let me see it. [Going to put it on] It smells woundily of sweat and brimstone: smell, Tummas. Tho. Ay, wauns, does it. -1) Enlist. Cos. 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. Serg. K. Give me your hand then; and now, gentlemen, I have no more to say than roll. [Draws it out] Let me see-[Reads] this-here's a purse of gold, and there is a Imprimis, Mrs. Shely Snikereyes, she sells tub of humming ale at my quarters; 'tis the potatoes upon Ormond Key in Dublinking's money, and the king's drink: he's a Peggy Guzzle, the brandy woman at the generous king, and loves his subjects. I hope, Horse Guards at Whitehall-Dolly Waggentlemen, you won't refuse the king's health. gon, the carrier's daughter at Hull-MadaMob. No, no, no. moiselle Van Bottomflat, at the Buss-then Serg. K. Huzza, then! huzza, for the king Jenny Oakum, the ship-carpenter's widow and the honour of Shropshire. Mob. Huzza! Serg. K. Beat drum. at Portsmouth; but I don't reckon upou her, for she was married at the same time to two lieutenants of marines, and a man-of-war's [Exeunt shouting; Drum beating a Gre-boatswain. nadier's March. Capt. P. A full company-you have named five-Come, make them half a dozen. Kite, Enter CAPTAIN PLUME, in a Riding Habit. is the child a boy or a girl? Capt. P. By the grenadier's march, that should be my drum; and by that shout it should Serg. K. A chopping boy. Capt. P. Then set the mother down in your beat with success. Let me see-four o'clock. list, and the boy in mine; and now go com[Looks at his Watch] At ten yesterday fort the wench in the straw. morning I left London-pretty smart riding; but nothing to the fatigue of recruiting. Re-enter SERGEANT KITE. Serg. K. Welcome to Shrewsbury, noble captain! from the banks of the Danube to the Severn side, noble captain! you're welcome. Capt. P. A very elegant reception indeed, Mr. Kite I find you are fairly entered into your recruiting strain-Pray what success? Serg. K. I've been here a week, and I've recruited five. Capt. P. Five! Pray what are they? Serg. K. I have listed the strong man of Kent, the king of the gipsies, a Scotch pedler, a scoundrel attorney, and a Welch parson. Capt. P. An attorney! wert thou mad? list a lawyer! discharge him, discharge him this minute. Serg. K. Why, sir? Serg. K. I shall, sir. Capt. P. But hold, have you made any use of your German doctor's habit since you arriv'd? Serg. K. Yes, yes, sir, and my fame's all about the country for the most faithful fortune-teller that ever told a lie. I was obliged to let my landlord into the secret for the convenience of keeping it so; but he is an honest fellow, and will be faithful to any roguery that is trusted to him. This device, sir, will get you men, and me money, which I think is all we want at present.-But yonder comes your friend, Mr. Worthy. Has your honour any further commands? Capt. P. None at present. [Exit Sergeant Kite] 'Tis indeed the picture of Worthy, but the life's departed. Enter WORTHY. Capt. P. Because I will have nobody in my What, arms across, Worthy! methinks you company that can write: I say, this minute should hold them open when a friend's so discharge him. near. The man has got the vapours in his ears I believe. I must expel this melancholy spirit. Serg. K. And what shall I do with the parson. Capt. P. Can he write? Serg. K. Hum! he plays rarely upon the fiddle. Spleen, thou worst of fiends below, Fly, I conjure thee, by this magic blow. [Slaps Worthy on the Shoulder. Wor. Plume! my dear captain! return'd! stands the country affected? were the people safe and sound, I hope. Capt. P. Keep him by all means. But how pleas'd with the news of my coming to town? Capt. P. You see I have lost neither leg Serg. K. Sir, the mob are so pleased with nor arm; then, for my inside, 'tis neither of your honour, and the justices and better sort troubled with sympathies nor antipathies; and people are so delighted with me, that we I have an excellent stomach for roast beef. shall soon do your business. But, sir, you Wor. Thou art a happy fellow: once I have got a recruit here that you little think of. was so. Capt. P. Who? Serg. K. But your honour knows that I am married already. Capt. P. To how many? Serg. K. I can't tell readily-I have set Capt. P. What ails thee, man? no inundations nor earthquakes in Wales I hope! Has your father rose from the dead, and reassumed his estate? Wor. No. Capt. P. Then you are married, surely? Capt. P. Then you are mad, or turning methodist? Your Wor. Come, I must out with it. Capt. P. And pray what is all this for? Capt. P. Shake hands, brother. If thou go them down here upon the back of the muster- to that, behold me as obsequious, as thought ful, and as constant a coxcomb as your worship.| Wor. For whom? Wor. O ho! very well. I wish you joy, Mr. Kite. Capt. P. For a regiment-but for a woman! Serg. K. Your worship very well may; for 'Sdeath! I have been constant to fifteen at a I have got both a wife and child in half an time, but never melancholy for one. Pray hour. But as I was saying, you sent me to who is this wonderful Helen? comfort Mrs. Molly - my wife, I mean-But Wor. A Helen indeed! not to be won un-what do you think, sir? she was better comder ten years siege; as great a beauty, and forted before I came. as great a jilt. Capt. P. But who is she? do I know her? Capt. P. As how? Serg. K. Why, sir, a footman in livery had brought her ten guineas to buy her babywo-clothes. Capt. P. Who, in the name of wonder, could send them? Serg. K. Nay, sir, I must whisper that- Capt. P. Sylvia! generous creature! Capt. P. That's impossible. I know no man that will hold out a ten years siege. Wor. What think you of Melinda? Capt. P. Melinda! you must not think to surmount her pride by your humility. Would you bring her to better thoughts of you, she must be reduced to a meaner opinion of herself. Let me see, the very first thing that I Serg. K. Here are the guineas, sir. I took would do, should be to make love to her the gold as part of my wife's portion, Nay, chambermaid. Suppose we lampooned all the further, sir, she sent word the child should pretty women in town, and left her out; or, be taken all imaginable care of, and that she what if we made a ball, and forgot to invite intended to stand godmother. The same foother, with one or two of the ugliest. man, as I was coming to you with the news, Wor. These would be mortifications, I called after me, and told me that his lady must confess; but we live in such a precise would speak with me: I went; and upon beardull place, that we can have no balls, no ing that you were come to town she gave me lampoons, nohalf-a-guinea for the news, and ordered me Capt. P. What! no young ones? and so to tell you that justice Balance, her father, many recruiting officers in town! I thought who is just come out of the country, would 'twas a maxim among them to leave as many be glad to see you. recruits in the country as they carried out. Capt. P. There's a girl for you, Worthy. Wor. Nobody doubts your good will, no- Is there any thing of woman in this? No, ble captain! witness our friend Molly at the 'tis noble, generous, manly friendship. The Castle; there have been tears in town about common jealousy of her sex, which is nothing that business, captain. but their avarice of pleasure, she despises; Capt. P. I hope Sylvia has not heard of it. and can part with the lover, though she dies Wor. Oh, sir! have you thought of her? for the man. Come, Worthy, where's the I began to fancy you had forgot poor Sylvia. best wine? for there I'll quarter. Capt. P. Your affairs had quite put mine Wor. Horton has a fresh pipe of choice out of my head. 'Tis true, Sylvia and I had Barcelona, which I would not let him pierce once agreed, could we have adjusted prelimi- before, because I reserved it for your welnaries; but I am resolved never to bind my- come to town. self to a woman for my whole life, till I Capt. P. Let's away, then. Mr. Kite, go to know whether I shall like her company for the lady, with my humble service, and tell half an hour. If people would but try one her I shall only refresh a little and wait another before they engaged, it would prevent upon her. all these elopements, divorces, and the devil knows what. Wor. Nay, for that matter, the town did not stick to say that. Capt. P. I have country towns for that reason. If your town has a dishonourable thought of Sylvia it deserves to be burned to the ground. I love Sylvia, I admire her frank generous disposition; in short, were I once a general, I would marry her. Wor. Faith, you have reason; for were you but a corporal, she would marry you. But my Melinda coquets it with every fellow sees; I'll lay fifty pounds she makes love she to you. Capt. P. I'll lay you a hundred that I return it if she does. Re-enter SERGEANT KITE, Serg. K. You know, sir, that you sent me to comfort the good woman in the straw, Mrs. Molly; my wife, Mr. Worthy. Wor. Hold, Kite! have you seen the other recruiting captain? Serg. K. No, sir; I'd have you to know I don't keep such company. Capt. P. Another! who is be? Wor. My rival, in the first place, and the most unaccountable fellow: but I'll tell you more as we go. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-An Apartment. Enter MELINDA and SYLVIA, meeting. Mel. Welcome to town, cousin Sylvia. [They salute] I envied you your retreat in the country; for Shrewsbury, methinks, and all your heads of shires, are the most irregular places for living: here we have smoke, noise, scandal, affectation and pretension; in short, every thing to give the spleen, and nothing to divert it: then the air is intolerable. Syl. Oh, madam! I have heard the town commended for its air. Mel. But you don't consider, Sylvia, how long I have lived in't! for I can assure you, that to a lady the least nice in her constitu |