  Vanbrugh—Colley Cibber—Farquhar. Vanbrugh—a man of Dutch extraction as his name suggests—was one of the few whom literature led, though indirectly, to fortune. He became first known as a playwriter, but also having studied architecture conceived the idea of combining his two arts by the construction of a grand theatre on the site of the present Haymarket Opera House. The enterprise was doomed to be one of the many failures from which that ill-starred spot has become remarkable, and Vanbrugh after vainly attempting to support his undertaking by the exertion of all his dramatic power, determined to quit literature altogether, and devoted himself to the more remunerative profession. In this he was successful—he built Blenheim, Castle Howard, and half-a-dozen of the stately halls of England. We may suppose that he acquired wealth, for he built several houses for himself, and in them seems to have exhibited his whimsical fancy. One which he built near There is a considerable amount of rough humour in Vanbrugh, and some indelicacy, more like that of Aristophanes than of English writers. We find one gentleman calling another "Old Satan," and fashionable ladies indulging freely in oaths. A nobleman tells a lady, before her husband, that he is desperately in love with her, "strike me speechless;" to which she replies by giving him a box on the ear, and her husband by drawing his sword. Everything bespeaks a low and primitive state of society; but we must also remember that while something strong was required, it was not then thought objectionable that the scenes of the drama should be very different from those of real life. The following are from the "Relapse," the first play that made Vanbrugh known, and which we might therefore expect to be one of his most humorous comedies. Here we have a good caricature of the fops of the day. In the first, Lord Foppington in his fashionable twang, gives us his views, and sketches his mode of life. Amanda. Well I must own I think books the best entertainment in the world. Lord F. I am so much of your ladyship's mind, madam, Amanda. Nay, I love a neat library too, but 'tis I think the inside of a book should recommend it most to us. Lord F. That, I must confess, I am not altogether so fond of. For to my mind the inside of a book is to entertain oneself with the forced product of another man's brain. Now, I think a man of quality and breeding may be much better diverted with the natural sprouts of his own. But to say the truth, madam, let a man love reading never so well, when once he comes to know this town, he finds so many better ways of passing away the four-and-twenty hours that 'twere ten thousand pities he should consume his time in that. For example, madam, my life, my life, madam, is a perpetual stream of pleasure that glides through such a variety of entertainments, I believe the wisest of our ancestors never had the least conception of any of 'em. I rise, madam, about ten o'clock. I don't rise sooner because it is the worst thing in the world for the complexion, not that I pretend to be a beau, but a man must endeavour to look wholesome, lest he make so nauseous a figure in the side box, the ladies should be compelled to turn their eyes upon the play. So at ten o'clock I say I rise. Now, if I find it a good day I resolve to take a turn in the park, and see the fine women; so huddle on my clothes and get dressed by one. If it be nasty weather I take a turn in the chocolate house, where as you walk, madam, you have the prettiest prospect in the world; you have looking glasses all round you. But I'm afraid I tire the company. Berinthia. Not at all; pray go on. Lord F. Why then, ladies, from thence I go to dinner at Lacket's, where you are so nicely and delicately served that, stab my vitals! they shall compose you a dish no bigger than a saucer, shall come to fifty shillings. Between eating my dinner (and washing my mouth, ladies) I spend my time till I go to the play, when till nine o'clock I entertain myself with looking upon the company; and usually dispose of one hour more in leading them out. So there's twelve of the four-and-twenty pretty well over. The other twelve, madam, are disposed of in two articles, in the first four I toast myself drunk, and t'other eight I sleep myself sober again. Thus, ladies, you see my life is an eternal round O of delight. Lord Foppington's interview with his Court artists is well described— Tom Fashion. There's that fop now, has not by nature wherewithal to move a cook-maid, and by that time these fellows have done with him, egad he shall melt down a countess! But now for my reception; I'll engage it shall be as cold a one as a courtier's to his friend, who comes to put him in mind of his promise. Lord F. (to his tailor.) Death and eternal tortures! Sir, I say the packet's too high by a foot. Tailor. My lord, if it had been an inch lower it would not have held your lordship's packet-handkerchief. Lord F. Rat my packet-handkerchief! have not I a page to carry it? You may make him a packet up to his chin a purpose for it; but I will not have mine come so near my face. Tailor. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lordship's fancy. Lord F. Look you, Sir, I shall never be reconciled to this nauseous packet, therefore pray get me another suit with all manner of expedition, for this is my eternal salvation. Mrs. Calico, are not you of my mind? Mrs. Cal. O, directly, my lord! It can never be too low. Lord F. You are positively in the right on't, for the packet becomes no part of the body but the knee. (Exit tailor.) Mrs. Cal. I hope your lordship is pleased with your steenkirk. Lord F. In love with it, stap my vitals! bring your bill, you shall be paid to-morrow. Mrs. C. I humbly thank your honour. (Exit.) Lord F. Hark thee, shoemaker! these shoes an't ugly but they don't fit me. Shoemaker. My lord, methinks they fit you very well. Lord F. They hurt me just below the instep. Shoe. (feeling his foot) My lord, they don't hurt you there. Lord F. I tell thee they pinch me execrably. Shoe. My lord, if they pinch you I'll be bound to be hanged, that's all. Lord F. Why wilt thou undertake to persuade me that I cannot feel? Shoe. Your lordship may please to feel what you think fit; but the shoe does not hurt you. I think I understand my trade. Lord F. Now by all that's great and powerful thou art an incomprehensible coxcomb! but thou makest good shoes and so I'll bear with thee. Tom Fashion personates his brother, Lord Foppington, and goes down to the country seat of Sir Tunbelly Clumpsey, in hope of marrying his rich daughter. The old Squire at first turns out to meet him with guns and pitchforks, but changes to the utmost servility on hearing that he is a lord. It is now Tom's object to have the marriage ceremony performed before he is discovered. Fashion. Your father, I suppose you know, has resolved to make me happy in being your husband, and I hope I may depend upon your consent to perform what he desires. Miss Hoyden. Sir, I never disobey my father in anything but eating of green gooseberries. Fash. So good a daughter must needs be an admirable wife; I am therefore impatient till you are mine, and hope you will so far consider the violence of my love as not to defer my happiness so long as your father designs it. Miss H. Pray, my lord, how long is that? Fash. Madam, a thousand years—a whole week. Miss H. A week! why I shall be an old woman by that time. Fash. And I an old man. Miss H. Why I thought it was to-morrow morning as soon as I was up, I am sure nurse told me so. Fash. And it shall be to-morrow morning still, if you'll consent. Miss H. If I'll consent! Why I thought I was to obey you as my husband. Fash. That's when we're married, till then I am to obey you. Miss H. Why then if we are to take it by turns it's the same thing. I'll obey you now, and when we are married you shall obey me. Fash. With all my heart; but I doubt we must get nurse on our side, or we shall hardly prevail with the chaplain. Miss H. O Lord, I can tell you a way how to persuade her to anything. Fash. How's that? Miss H. Why tell her she's a wholesome comely woman, and give her half-a-crown. Fash. Nay, if that will do, she shall have half a score of them. Miss H. O gemini! for half that she'd marry you herself. I'll run and call her. Fash. So matters go swimmingly. This is a rare girl i' faith. I shall have a fine time on't with her in London, I'm much mistaken if she don't prove a March hare all the year round. What a scampering chase will she on't, when she finds the whole kennel of beaux at her tail! hey to the park, and the play, and the church and the devil; she'll show them sport, I'll warrant 'em. But no matter, she brings me an estate that will afford me a separate maintenance. The following from "The Provoked Husband," gives a good specimen of social hypocrisy. Servant. Madam, here's my Lady Fanciful to wait upon your ladyship. Lady Brute. Shield me, kind heaven! what an inundation of impertinence is here coming upon us! At the end of this unwelcome visit, we have the following hit at the ceremonious politeness then fashionable. Lady B. What going already, madam. Lady Fan. I must beg you excuse me this once, for really I have eighteen visits to return this afternoon. So you see I am importuned by the women as well as by the men. Bel. (aside). And she's quits with 'em both. Lady F. Nay, you shan't go one step out of the room. Lady B. Indeed, I'll wait upon you down. Lady F. No sweet, Lady Brute, you know I swoon at ceremony. Lady B. Pray give me leave. Lady F. You know I wont. Lady B. Indeed I must. Lady F. Indeed you shan't. Lady B. Indeed I will. Lady F. Indeed you shan't. Lady B. Indeed I will. Lady F. Indeed you shan't, indeed, indeed, indeed you shan't. (Exit running.) The aversions and disputes of husbands and wives furnish the subject of some of his humour. Sir John Brute says:— "Sure if women had been ready created, the devil instead of being kicked down in hell had been married." Lady Brute. Are you afraid of being in love, Sir? Heartfree. I should if there were any danger of it. Lady B. Pray, why so? Heart. Because I always had an aversion to being used like a dog. Belinda. Why truly, men in love are seldom used much better. Lady B. But were you never in love, Sir? Heart. No, I thank heaven, madam. Bel. Pray, where got you your learning then? Heart. From other people's expense. Bel. That's being a spunger, Sir, which is scarce honest. If you'd buy some experience with your own money, as 'twould be fairlier got, so 'twould stick longer by you. Berinthia. Ah, Amanda, it's a delicious thing to be a young widow! Aman. You'll hardly make me think so. Ber. Phu! because you are in love with your husband; but that is not every woman's case. Aman. I hope 'twas yours at least. Ber. Mine, say ye? Now I have a great mind to tell you a lie, but I should do it so awkwardly you'd find me out. Aman. Then e'en speak the truth. Ber. Shall I? Then after all, I did love him, Amanda, as a man does penance. Aman. Why did you not refuse to marry him, then? Ber. Because my mother would have whipped me. Aman. How did you live together? Ber. Like man and wife—asunder. He loved the country, I the town. He hawks and hounds, I coaches and equipage. He eating and drinking, I carding and playing. He the sound of a horn, I the squeak of a fiddle. Whenever we met we gave one another the spleen. Aman. But tell me one thing truly and sincerely. Ber. What's that? Aman. Notwithstanding all these jars, did not his death at last extremely trouble you? Ber. O, yes. Not that my present pangs were so very In the "Journey to London," written at the end of Vanbrugh's life, and not finished, there is a very amusing account of the manner in which a country squire and family travelled up to London in the seventeenth century. James. They have added two cart-horses to the four old mares, because my lady will have it said she came to town in her coach-and-six; and ha! ha! heavy George, the ploughman, rides postilion! Uncle Richard. Very well; the journey begins as it should do—James! James. Sir! Uncle R. Dost know whether they bring all the children with them? James. Only Squire Humphry and Miss Betty, Sir; the other six are put to board at half-a-crown a week a head with Joan Growse, at Smoke-dunghill Farm. Uncle R. The Lord have mercy upon all good folks! What work will these people make! Dost know when they'll be here? James. John says, Sir, they'd have been here last night, but that the old wheezy-belly horse tired, and the two fore-wheels came crash down at once in Waggon-rut Lane. Sir, they were cruelly loaden, as I understand. My lady herself, he says, laid on four mail trunks, besides the great deal-box, which fat Tom sat upon behind. Uncle R. So. James. Then within the coach there was Sir Francis, my lady, the great fat lap-dog, Squire Humphry, Miss Betty, my lady's maid, Mrs. Handy, and Doll Tripe, the cook—but she puked with sitting backward, so they mounted her into the coach-box. Uncle R. Very well. James. Then, Sir, for fear of a famine before they should get to the baiting-place, there was such baskets of plum-cake, Dutch gingerbread, Cheshire cheese, Naples biscuits, maccaroons, neats' tongues, and cold boiled beef; and in case of sickness, such bottles of usquebaugh, black-cherry brandy, cinnamon water, sack, tent, and strong beer, as made the old coach crack again. Uncle R. Well said! James. And for defence of this good cheer, and my lady's Uncle R. Admirable! Vanbrugh's friend, Colley Cibber, was also of foreign origin. His father was a native of Holstein, and coming over to England before the Restoration, is known as having executed the two figures of lunatics, for the gates of Bethlehem Hospital. Colley commenced life as an actor and playwriter, and Vanbrugh was so pleased with his "Love's Last Shift, or the Fool of Fashion," that he wrote an improved version of it in "The Relapse." Thus Sir Novelty Fashion was developed into Lord Foppington, and Vanbrugh, who patronized Cibber, employed him to act the character. He was an exception to the rule that a good playwriter is not a good performer. In Cibber, we especially mark the Spanish element, which then tinged the drama, and although somewhat prosy and sententious, he is fertile and entertaining in his love intrigues. Of real humour, he seems to have no gift—some of his best attempts referring to such common failures as sometimes occur at hotels. We have in "She wou'd, and she wou'd not," Host. Did you call, gentlemen? Trapparti. Yes, and bawl too, Sir. Here the gentlemen are almost famished, and nobody comes near 'em. What have you in the house now that will be ready presently? Host. You may have what you please, Sir. Hypolita. Can you get us a partridge? Host. We have no partridges; but we'll get you what you please in a moment. We have a very good neck of mutton, Sir, if you please, it shall be clapt down in a moment. Hyp. Have you any pigeons or chickens? Host. Truly, Sir, we have no fowl in the house at present; if you please, you may have anything else in a moment. Hyp. Then, prithee, get us some young rabbits. Host. Upon my word, Sir, rabbits are so scarce, they are not to be had for money. Trap. Have you any fish? Host. Fish! Sir; I dressed yesterday the finest dish that ever came upon a table; I am sorry we have none, Sir; but, if you please, you may have anything else in a moment. Trap. Hast thou nothing but Anything else in the house? Host. Very good mutton, Sir. Hyp. Prithee, get us a breast, then. Host. Breast! Don't you love the neck, Sir? Hyp. Ha' ye nothing in the house but the neck? Host. Really, Sir, we don't use to be so unprovided, but at present we have nothing else left. Trap. Faith, Sir, I don't know but a Nothing else may be very good meat, when Anything else is not to be had. Sometimes there is a little smartness in the dialogue, and in the "Careless Husband," Lord Foppington uses such strange expletives as "Sun burn me," "Stop my breath," "Set my blood." But the greater part of any amusement that there is, depends, as in the Roman Comedy, upon the tricks of low-minded mercenary servants. Although neither of the two last-named writers was English by descent, they were both so by adoption, and the same may be said of the next author, Farquhar, who was born at "I have very little estate, but what is under the circumference of my hat, and should I by perchance come to lose my head, I should not be worth a groat." He thus sketches his mental peculiarities:— "As to my mind, which in most men wears as many changes as their body, so in me 'tis generally drest like my person, in black. Melancholy is its every-day apparel; and it has hitherto found few holidays to make it change its clothes. In short, my constitution is very splenetic and yet very amorous, both which I endeavour to hide lest the 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. 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 universe.... Is that the witty liquor? Come fill the glasses. Now that I have found my mistress, I must next find my wits. 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 will-i'-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, 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. Mock. I thought people took it to clear the brain. 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! 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 you 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 The following are specimens from his last play:— (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. |
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