Sir J. But why do you suppose, sir, he will give up his interest?

Darn. I only judge from what your daughter tells me, sir.

Sir J. My daughter!
Darn. I appeal to her.

Char. And I appeal even to yourself, sirHas not the doctor, just now in the garden, spoke in favour of Mr. Darnley to you? Nay, pray, sir, be plain; because more depends on that than you can easily imagine or believe. Sir J. What senseless insinuation have you got into your head now?

Char. Be so kind, sir, first to answer me, that I may be better able to inform you.

Lady L. Mr. Darnley, shall we beg your leave; and you, Charlotte, take the least suspected way to send the doctor to me directly. Char. I have a thought will do it, madam. Sir J. Oh, Charlotte! Oh, Mr. Darnley! Darn. Have but resolution, sir, and fear nothing. [Exeunt Durnley and Charlotte.

Lady L. Now, sir, you are to consider what a desperate disease I have undertaken to cure: therefore, be sure keep close and still; and Sir J. Well, I own he has declined his in- when the proof is full, appear at your discretion. terest in favour of Mr. Darnley; but I must Sir J. Fear not; I will conform myselftell you, madam, he did it in so modest, so Yet, he not angry, my love, if, in a case like friendly, so good natured, so conscientious a this, I have also charity enough to hope you manner, that I now think myself more than may yet be deceived in what you charge him ever bound in honour to espouse him. with, till the evidence of my own senses sure me of the contrary.

Char. But now, sir, only for argument's sake, suppose I could prove that all this seeming virtue was artificial; that his regard for Mr. Darnley was neither founded upon modesty, friendship, good nature, nor conscience; or in short that he has, like a villain, bartered, bargained to give me to Mr. Darnley, for half the four thousand pounds you valued his consent at; I say, sir, suppose this could be proved, where would be his virtue then?

Sir. J. It is impious to suppose it. Char. Then, sir, from what principle must you suppose that I accuse him?

Sir J. From an obstinate prejudice to all that's good and virtuous.

Lady L. 'Tis just.

as

Sir J. Hark! I think I hear him coming.
Lady L. Now, my dear, remember your
promise to have patience.
Sir J. Rely upon't.

Lady L. To your post then.

[Sir John goes behind the screen.

Enter DOCTOR CANTWELL, with a book. Dr. C. Madam, your woman tells me, that, being here and alone, you desired to speak with me.

Lady L. I did, sir-but that we may he sure that we are alone, pray shut the outward door Char. That's too hard, sir. But the worst-another surprise might ruin us-is all safe? your opinion can provoke me to, is to marry Mr. Darnley, without either his consent or yours.

Sir J. What, do you brave me, madam? Char. No, sir; but I scorn a lie; and will so far vindicate my integrity, as to insist on your believing me; if not, as a child you abandon, I have a right to throw myself into other arms for protection.

Sir. J. I am confounded. These tears cannot be counterfeit; nor can this be true.

Lady L. Indeed, my dear, I fear it is. Give me leave to ask one question. In all our mutual course of happiness, have I ever yet deceived you with a falsehood?

Dr. C. I have taken care, madam.

Lady L. But I am afraid I interrupt your meditation.

Dr. C. No, madam, no; I was only looking over some pious exhortations here, for the use of a society of chosen brethren.

Lady L. Ah, doctor, what have you done to me? the trouble of my mind since our last unfortunate conference is not to be expressed. You indeed discovered to me what, perhaps, for my own peace, 'twere better I had never been acquainted with; but I had not sufficient time to lay my heart open to you.

Dr. C. Whither, madam, would you lead me? Sir J. Never. Lady L. I have been uneasy too, not knowLady L. Would you then believe me, ing how far you might mistake my behaviour should I accuse him even of crimes which on the last accident that happened, but I was virtue blushes but to mention? really so shocked, so terrified, I knew not Sir J. To what extravagance would you what I was doing: only, had I joined in your drive me! defence against the colonel, it would have been Lady L. I would before have undeceived evident that I was his enemy, and I have uses you, when his late artifice turned the honest for his friendship. Silence, therefore, was my duty of your son into his own reproach and own prudent part: and I knew your credit ruin; but, knowing then your temper was with sir John needed no support. inaccessible, I durst not offer it. Dr. C. Let me presume then to hope, that pose I should be able to let you see his vil- what I did, you judge was self-defence and lany, make him repeat his odious love to me pure necessity. in your own hearing, at once throw off mask, and show the barefaced traitor?

Sir J. Is it possible?

But sup

Lady L. But then, sir, I must prevail you to descend to the poor shifts we are duced to.

the

Lady L. And perhaps, after all, the accident was lucky; for sir John, in order to obviate any ill constructions that may be put upon it, on insists now that we should be more together, re-to let the world see his confidence in us both. This relieves us from restraint; and I now dare of tell you-but no-I won't

Sir J. All; to any thing, to ease me my doubts; make me but a witness of this

Dr. C. But why, madam ? let me beseech you—

Lady L. No-besides-what need you ask of all my follies, which is it tells you, that if you stay much longer, I shall not be tempted Dr. C. Ah! do not endeavour to decoy my to wrest you out of the hands of the law, and foolish heart, too apt to flatter itself. You can- punish you as you deserve? not sure think kindly of me! Dr. C. Well; but first let me ask you, sir, Lady L. Well, well, I would have you who is it you menace? consider your own imagine so. condition, and where you are?

Dr. C. Besides, may I not with reason suspect, that this apparent goodness is but arti- leave me. I forgive you but once more I tell fice; a shadow of compliance, meant only to you, seek some other place; out of my house. persuade me from your daughter. This instant be gone, and see my shameful face no more.

He dares not Dr. C. No, indeed, indeed. I had other act with such abandoned insolence. No, sir, motives, which you may hereafter be made possession still is yours. If he pretends a right, acquainted with, and will convince you- let him by open course of law maintain it. Lady L. Well, sir, now I'll give you reason to guess the reason why, at our last meeting, I pressed you so warmly to resign Charlotte.

Maw. Nor I neither; aren't you ashamed of Sir J. Your brother! I have been your friend, yourself? have you no commenseration 2) on indeed, to my shame; your dupe; but your your poor soul?-Ah! poor wicked sinner! I spell has lost its hold: no more canting; it pity you. will not serve your turn any longer. Lady L. Now, heaven be praised. Dr. C. It seems you wanted an excuse to part with me.

Sir J. Ungrateful wretch! but why do I reproach you! Had I not been the weakest of Maw. Ay, do despise me, I'm the prouder mankind, you never could have proved so great for it; I likes to be despised. a villain. Get out of my sight: leave my house: 1) God's life. s) Commiseration.

Enter CHARLotte.

Char. Oh dear papa, I shall faint away;

there's murder doing.

Sir J. Who! when! what is it?

Tip. Yes, sir, for a cheat and impostor.
Old Lady L. What does he say?
Sir J. Dear son, what is this?

Col. L. Only some action of the doctor's, Char. The doctor, sir, and Seyward, were sir, which I have affidavits in my hand here at high words just now in the garden; and, to prove, from more than one creditable witupon a sudden, there was a pistol fired be- ness; and I think it my duty to make the pubtween them. Óh! I'm afraid poor Seyward lic acquainted with: if he can acquit himself is killed. of them, so; if not, he must take the consequence. Dr. C. Well, but stay; let the accusations

Sir J. How? Char. Oh, there he comes himself; he'll tell against me be what they will, by virtue of this you more.

conveyance I am still master here; and if I am forced to leave the house myself, I will shut up the doors-nobody shall remain behind. Sir J. There! there! indeed, he stings me

Darn. Here, bring in this ruffian; this is to the heart! for that rash act, reproach and villany beyond example.

Sir J. What means this outrage?
Lady L. I tremble.

Sey. Don't be alarmed, madam-there is no mischief done: what was intended, the doctor here can best inform you.

Sir J. Mr. Darnley, I am ashamed to see you. Maw. So you ought: but this good man is ashamed of nothing.

endless shame will haunt me!

Char. No, sir!-be comforted.- Even there too his wicked hopes must leave him; for know, the fatal deed which you intended to sign is here, even yet unsealed and innocent! Sir J. What mean you?

Dr. C. Come, sir; lead me where you please.

Exit.

Col. L. Secure your prisoner.
Old Lady L. I don't know what to make

Char. I mean, sir, that this deed by accident falling into this gentleman's hands, his generous concern for our family discovered it to me; Dr. C. Alas! my enemies prevail. and that in concert we procured that other to Sey. In short, gentlemen, the affair is cir- be drawn exactly like it; which, in your imcumstantially this-The doctor called me out patience to execute, passed unsuspected for the into the pavilion in the garden; appeared in original. Their only difference is, that whergreat disorder; told me here was a sudden ever here you read the doctor's name, there storm raised, which he was not sufficiently you'll find my brother's. prepared to weather. He said, his dependance was upon me; and at all events, I must be ready to swear, when he called upon me, I had seen him pay sir John several large sums of money. He talked confusedly about giving of all this. value for an estate; but I boldly refused to Maw. They'll all go to the devil for what perjure myself; and told him, on the contrary, they are doing-Come away, my lady, and let I was satisfied he had fleeced sir John of seus see after the good dear doctor. Ay, do veral large sums, under pretence of charitable laugh, you'll go to the devil for all that.— uses, which he secretly converted to his own. Come, -This stung him, and he fastened at my throat. Then, indeed, all temper left me; and, disengaging myself from his hold, with a homeblow, I struck him down. At this, grown desperate, he ran with fury to some pistols that hung about the chimney: but in the instant he reached one, I seized upon his wrist; and as we grappled, the pistol, firing to the ceiling, alarmed the family.

my lady, you go first.

[Exeunt Mawworm and old Lady

Lambert.

Char. Now, Darnley, I hope I have made atonement for your jealousy.

Darn. You've banished it for ever! this was beyond yourself surprising.

Col. L. Sister—

Char. Come, no set speeches; if I deserve your thanks, return them in friendship to your

Old Lady L. This is a lie, young man; I first preserver. see the devil standing at your elbow.

Maw. So do I, with a great big pitchfork, pushing him on.

Dr. C. Well, what have you more against me? Darn. More, sir, I hope is needless--but if sir John is yet unsatisfied.

Sir J. Oh! I have seen too much.
Dr. C. I demand my liberty.
Sir J. Let him go.

Enter COLONEL LAMBERT and Attendants.
Col. L. Hold, sir! not so fast; you can't pass.
Dr. C. Who, sir, shall dare to stop me?
Col. L. Within there!

Col. L. The business of my life shall be to merit it.

Sey. And mine, to speak my sense of obligations.

Sir J. Oh, my child! for my deliverance 1 can only reward you here.-For you, my son, whose filial virtue I have injured, this honest deed shall in every article be ratified. And for the sake of that hypocritical villain, I declare, that from henceforward I renounce all pious folks; I will have an utter abhorrence for every thing that bears the appearance—

Char. Nay now, my dear sir, I must take the liberty to tell you, you go from one extreme to another.-What, because a worthless wretch has imposed upon you, under the fallacious show of austere grimace, will you needs have it every body is like him, confound the good with the bad, and conclude there are no truly religious in the world?-Leave, my dear sir, such rash consequences to fools and liber

tines.-Let us be careful to distinguish between character in life, greater or more valuable than virtue and the appearance of it. Guard if pos-that of the truly devout-nor any thing more sible against doing honour to hypocrisy-But, noble or more beautiful, than the fervor of a at the same time, let us allow there is no sincere piety.

[Exeunt.

SUSANNA CENTLIVRE.

This lady was daughter of one Mr. Freeman, of Holbeach, in Lincolnshire. It is not decided whether she was born in Ireland or England; but it must have been in the year 1680. Be it as it may, we find her left to the wide world, by the death of her parents, before she had completed her twelfth year. There is a romantic story told of her having been met on her journey to London on foot, whither she went to avoid the tyranny of her stepmother, by a young gentleman from the university of Cambridge, (the afterwards well-known Anthony Hammond), who was so extremely struck with her youth and heauty, and so affected with the distress which her circumstances naturally declared in her countenance, that he fell instantly in love with her; and, inquiring into the particulars of her story soon prevailed on her inexperienced innocence to seize on the protection he offered her, and go with him to Cambridge, where, equipping her in boy's clothes, he introduced her to his intimates at college as a relation, who was come down to sec the university, and pass some time with him there. If this story is true, it must have happened when she was extremeyoung; Whincop, as well as the other writers, acknowledging that she was married in her sixteenth year, to a nephew of Sir Stephen Fox. But that gentleman not living with her above a twelvemonth, her wit and beauty soun procured her a second husband, whose name was Carrol, and who was an officer in the army; but he having the misfortune to be killed in a duel, within about a year and a half after their marriage, she became a second time a widow. Sach an attachment she seems to have had to the theatre, that she even became herself a performer in 1706 and performing the part of Alexander the Great, in Lee's Rival Queens, at Windsor, where the court then was, she wounded the heart of one Mr. Joseph Centlivre, yeoman of the mouth to Her Majesty, who soon married her; and after passing several years happily together, she died at his house in Spring-Gardens, Charing Cross, on the first of December 1723. -That Mrs. Centlivre was perfectly acquainted with life, and closely read the minds and manners of mankind, no one, we think, can doubt who reads her comedies; but what appears to us the most extraordinary is, when we consider her history, the disadvantages she must have laboured under, by being so early left to bustle with the world, and that all the education she could have had, must have been owing to her own application and assiduity; when, we say, consider her as an absolutely self-cultivated genius, it is astonishing to find the traces of so much reading and learning as we meet with in many of her pieces; since, for the drawing of the various characters she has presented us with, she mast have perfectly well understood the French, Dutch, and Spanish languages, all the provincial dialects of her own, and somewhat even of the Latio, since all these she occasionally makes use of, and whenever she does so, it is constantly with the utmost propriety and the greatest accuracy.

we

A BOLD STROKE FOR A WIFE,

Wes produced at Lincoln's-inn Fields in the year 1718. Mrs. Centlivre was indebted to Mr. Mottley for two scenes of this comedy. Notwithstanding this piece has been accused by some for its numerous violations of all rule, nature, or probability, the business is so extremely active, in the course of the whole, that we are not stopped by ennui at any one scene of the play; but laughingly get on to the very end. It does not very materially tend to correct any parti cular vice; but seems to invite us for once to lay aside all our gravity, and open our hearts to playful gaiety and cheer falness.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—COLONEL FEIGNWELL and FREEMAN
are discovered over a Bottle.
Free. COME, colonel, his majesty's health.-
You are as melancholy as if you were in love!
I wish some of the beauties of Bath 1) han't
snapt your heart.

Col. F. Why, faith 2), Freeman, there is Something in't: I have seen a lady at Bath, who has kindled such a flame in me, that all the waters there can't quench.

Free. Is she not to be had, colonel? Col. F. That's a difficult question to answer; however, I resolve to try; perhaps you may 1) The seasons, in England, are generally managed by the be able to serve me; you merchants know great people, so as to produce their different pleasures: one another. The lady told me herself she for instance, London is overflowing in the Spring, till was under the charge of four persons.

the month of June; then all the families whirl off to Brighton, Weymouth, or other watering-places till the summer is passed. In autumn the gentlemen shoot away their time at their country-seats, while their ladies are employed yawning over the last novels, rusticating;

Free. Odso!) 'tis miss Ann Lovely.
Cot. F. The same-do you know her?
Free. Know her! ay-Faith, colonel, your

Winter comes to enliven them once more and then condition is more desperate than you imagine: the quiet good-natured people of Bath, are pestered why, she is the talk and pity of the whole with their routing and disturbance, tile the Spring

sends them off to London again. This, of course, means 2) In faith.

in War-time.

3) From God.

town and it is the opinion of the learned, nel: her father, my old master, was the most that she must die a maid. whimsical, out-of-the-way temper'd man, Col. F. Say you so? That's somewhat odd, ever heard of, as you will guess by his last in this charitable city. She's a woman, I hope? will and testament.-This was his ouly child: Free. For aught I know-but it had been and I have heard him wish her dead a thouas well for her, had nature made her any sand times. He died worth thirty thousand other part of the creation. The man who pounds, which he left to his daughter, prokeeps this house served her father; he is a vided she married with the consent of her very honest fellow, and may he of use to you: guardians; but that she might be sure never we'll send for him to take a glass with us: to do so, he left her in the care of four men, he'll give you her whole history, and 'tis as opposite to each other as the four elements: worth your hearing. each has his quarterly rule, and three months in the year she is obliged to be subject to Free. With your life: I have obligations each of their humours, and they are pretty enough upon him, to make him do any thing; different, I assure you. She is just come from I serve him with wine. [Rings. Bath. Col. F. Nay, I know him very well myself. I once used to frequent a club that was kept here.

Col. F. But may one trust him?

Enter DRAWer.

Draw. Gentlemen, d'ye call?
Free. Ay, send up your master.
Draw. Yes, sir.

Col. F. Do you know, any of this guardian's, Freeman?

Free. I know two of them very well.

Enter SACKBUT.

Col. F. Twas there I saw her. Sack. Ay, sir, the last quarter was her beau guardian's. She appears in all public places during his reign.

Col. F. She visited a lady who boarded in the same house with me: I liked her person, and found an opportunity to tell her so. She [Exit. replied, she had no objection to mine; but if lady's I could not reconcile contradictions I must not think of her, for that she was condemned to the caprice of four persons, who never yet agreed in any one thing, and she was obliged to please them all.

Free. Here comes one will give you an ac- Sack. 'Tis most true, sir: I'll give you a count of them all.-Mr. Sackbut, we sent for short description of the men, and leave you you to take a glass with us. Tis a maxim to judge of the poor lady's condition. Öne among the friends of the bottle, that as long is a kind of virtuoso, a silly half-witted fellow, as the master is in company, one may be sure but positive and surly, fond of every thing of good wine. antique and foreign, and wears his clothes Sack. Sir, you shall be sure to have as good of the fashion of the last century, dotes upon wine as you send in. - Colonel, your most travellers, and believes more of sir John Manhumble servant; you are welcome to town. deville') than he does of the Bible.

Col. F. I thank you, Mr. Sackbut. Sack. I am as glad to see you as I should a hundred tun of French claret, custom free. -My service to you, sir. [Drinks] You don't look so merry as you used to do; aren't you well, colonel?

Free. He has got a woman in his head, landlord: can you help him?

Sack. If 'tis in my power, I shan't scruple to serve my friend.

Col. F. That must be a rare odd fellow. Sack. Another is a change-broker: a fellow that will out-lie the devil for the advantage of stock, and cheat his father that got him in bargain: he is a great stickler for trade, and hates every man that wears a sword.

a

Free. He is a great admirer of the Dutch management, and swears they understand trade better than any nation under the sun.

Sack. The third is an old beau, that has Col. F. Tis one perquisite of your calling. May in his fancy and dress, but December in Sack. Ay, at t'other end of the town, where his face and his heels: he admires all new you officers use, women are good forcers of fashions, and those must be French; loves trade: a well-customed house, a handsome bar-operas, balls, masquerades, and is always the keeper, with clean obliging drawers, soon get most tawdry of the whole company on a the master an estate; but our citizens seldom birth-day 2).

do any thing but cheat within the walls.- Col. F. These are pretty opposite one to But as to the lady, colonel, point you at par- another, truly; and the fourth, what is he, ticulars? or have you a good Champaign landlord? stomach? Are you in full pay, or reduced,

colonel?

Col. F. Reduced, reduced, landlord!

Free. To the miserable condition of a lover! Sack. Pish! that's perferable to half-pay: a woman's resolution may break before the peace: push her home, colonel, there's no parlying with the fair sex.

Col. F. Were the lady her own mistress, I have some reasons to believe I should soon command in chief.

Free. You know miss Lovely, Mr. Sackbut? Saek. Know her! Ay, poor Nancy: I have carried her to school many a frosty morning. Alas! if she's the woman, I pity you, colo

Sack. A very rigid quaker, whose quarter began this day.-I saw miss Lovely go in, not above two hours ago.-Sir Philip set her 1) The Voiage and Travaille of Sir John Mandeville, knight, which treateth of the way to Hierusalem, and marvayles of Inde; and it is well known that this bold seeker, and fearless assertor, of incredible adventures, left England in 1522; visited Tartary about half a century after Marco Polo; religiously declined marrying the Soldan of Egypt's daughter, because he would not renounce Christianity, and, after wandering 54 years through the realms of Inde, and being long reputed dead, returned to publish his adventures, scrupu Jously qualifying his most astounding relations with some such words as these:-thei seyne, or men seyne. but I have not sene it.

2) The king's birth day, at which time all the great people pay their court.