Look upon them sometimes, and think of him that was to the last moment of his life thine-GEORGE FARQUHAR.' One of these daughters, it appears, married a low tradesman,' and the other became a servant, while their mother died in circumstances of the utmost indigence.

The 'Beaux' Stratagem' is Farquhar's best comedy. The plot is admirably managed, and the disguises of Archer and Aimwell form a ludicrous, yet natural series of incidents. Boniface, the landlord, is still one of our best representatives of the English innkeeper, and there is genius as well as truth in the delineation. Scrub, the servant, is equally true and amusing; and the female characters, though as free spoken, if not as frail as the fine-bred ladies of Congreve and Vanbrugh, are sufficiently discriminated. Sergeant Kite, in the Recruiting Officer,' is an original picture of low life and humour rarely surpassed. Farquhar has not the ripe wit of Congreve, or of our best comic writers. He was the Smollett, not the Fielding of the stage. His characters are lively; and there is a quick succession of incidents, so amusing and so happily contrived to interest the audience, that the spectator is charmed with the variety and vivacity of the scene.

'Farquhar,' says Leigh Hunt, was a good-natured, sensitive, reflecting man, of so high an order of what may be called the town class of genius, as to sympathise with mankind at large upon the strength of what he saw of them in little, and to extract from a quintessence of good sense an inspiration just short of the romantic and imaginative; that is to say, he could turn what he had experienced in common life to the best account, but required in all cases the support of its ordinary associations, and could not project his spirit beyond them. He felt the little world too much, and the universal too little. He saw into all false pretensions, but not into all true ones;

and if he had had a larger sphere of nature to fall back upon in his adversity, would probably not have died of it. The wings of his fancy were too common, and grown in too artificial an air, to support him in the sudden gulfs and aching voids of that new region, and enable him to beat his way to their green islands. His genius was so entirely social, that notwithstanding what appeared to the contrary in his personal manners, and what he took for his own superiority to it, compelled him to assume in his writings all the airs of the most received town ascendency; and when it had once warmed itself in this way, it would seem that it had attained the healthiness natural to its best condition, and could have gone on for ever, increasing both in enjoyment and in power, had external circumstances been favourable. He was becoming gayer and gayer, when death, in the shape of a sore anxiety, called him away as if from a pleasant party, and left the house ringing with his jest.'

[Humorous Scene at an Inn.]

BONIFACE. AIMWELL.

Bon. This way, this way, sir.

Aim. You're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale.

Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my children: I'll show you such ale. Here, tapster, broach number 1706, as the saying is. Sir, you shall taste my anno domini. I have lived in Litchfield, man and boy, above eight-and-fifty years, and I believe have not consumed eight-and-fifty ounces of meat. Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess by your bulk?

Bon. Not in my life, sir; I have fed purely upon ale: I have ate my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon my ale.

Enter Tapster with a Tankard.

Now, sir, you shall see- -Your worship's health: [Drinks]-Ha! delicious, delicious: fancy it Burgundy; only fancy it-and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart.

Aim. [Drinks] 'Tis confounded strong.

Bon. Strong! it must be so, or how would we be strong that drink it?

Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord?

Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir; but it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is. Aim. How came that to pass?

ale take its natural course, sir; she was for qualifying Bon. I don't know how, sir; she would not let the it every now and then with a dram, as the saying is;

and an honest gentleman, that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bottles of usquebaugh but the poor woman was never well after; but, however, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know.

Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her? Bon. My Lady Bountiful said so. She, good lady, did what could be done: she cured her of three tympanies: but the fourth carried her off: but she's happy, and I'm contented, as the saying is.

Aim. Who's that Lady Bountiful you mentioned? Bon. Odds my life, sir, we'll drink her health : [Drinks]-My Lady Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand pounds a-year; and I believe she lays out one-half on't in charitable uses for the good of her neighbours.

Aim. Has the lady any children?

Bon. Yes, sir, she has a daughter by Sir Charles ; the finest woman in all our county, and the greatest fortune. She has a son, too, by her first husband, 'Squire Sullen, who married a fine lady from London t'other day; if you please, sir, we'll drink his health [Drinks.]

Aim. What sort of a man is he?

Bon. Why, sir, the man's well enough: says little, thinks less, and does nothing at all, faith; but he's a man of great estate, and values nobody.

Aim. A sportsman, I suppose?

Bon. Yes, he's a man of pleasure; he plays at whist, and smokes his pipe eight-and-forty hours together sometimes.

Aim. A fine sportsman, truly!--and married, you

Bon. Ay; and to a curious woman, sir. But he's my landlord, and so a man, you know, would notSir, my humble service [Drinks.] Though I value not a farthing what he can do to me; I pay him his rent at quarter-day; I have a good running trade; have but one daughter, and I can give her-but no matter for that.

Aim. You're very happy, Mr Boniface: pray, what other company have you in town?

Bon. A power of fine ladies; and then we have the French officers.

Aim. Oh, that's right; you have a good many of those gentlemen; pray, how do you like their company?

Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had as many more of 'em. They're full of money, and pay double for everything they have. They know, sir, that we paid good round taxes for the making of 'em; and so they are willing to reimburse us a little; one of 'em lodges in my house [Bell rings.] I beg your worship's pardon; I'll wait on you in half a minute.

[From the Recruiting Officer.]

SCENE-The Market-Place.

Drum beats the Grenadier's March. Enter SERGEANT KITE, followed by THOMAS APPLETREE, COSTAR PEARMAIN, and the MOB.

Kite [Making a speech.] 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, or any husband a bad wife, let them repair to the noble Sergeant Kite, at the sign of the Raven, in this good town of Shrewsbury, and they shall receive present relief and entertainment. [Drum.] Gentlemen, I don't beat my drums here to ensnare or inveigle any man; for you must know, gentlemen, that I am a man of honour: besides, I don't beat up for common soldiers; no, I list only grenadiers-grenadiers, gentlemen. Pray, gentlemen, observe this cap-this is the cap of honourit dubs a man a gentleman in the drawing of a trigger; and he that has the good fortune to be born six foot high, was born to be a great man. Sir, will you give me leave to try this cap upon your head?

Cost. Is there no harm in't? Wont the cap list me?

Kite. No, no; no more than I can. Come, let me see how it becomes you.

Cost. Are you sure there is no conjuration in it?— no gunpowder plot upon me?

Kite. No, no, friend; don't fear, man.

Cost. 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.

Cost. Pray, sergeant, what writing is this upon the face of it?

Kite. The crown, or the bed of honour.

Cost. Pray now, what may be that same bed of honour?

Kite. Oh, a mighty large bed!-bigger by half than the great bed at Ware-ten thousand people may lie in it together, and never feel one another.

Cost. But do folk sleep sound in this same bed of honour?

Kite. Sound!-ay, so sound that they never wake.
Cost. Wauns! I wish that my wife lay there.
Kite. Say you so? then I find, brother

Cost. Brother! hold there, friend; I am no kindred to you that I know of yet. Look ye, sergeant, no coaxing, no wheedling, d'ye see. If I have a mind to list, why, so; if not, why, 'tis not so; therefore take your cap and your brothership back again, for I am not disposed at this present writing. No coaxing, no brothering me, faith.

Kite. I coax! I wheedle! I'm above it, sir; I have served twenty campaigns; but, sir, you talk well, and I must own you are a man every inch of you; a pretty, young, 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?

Cost. 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.

Kite. Give me your hand, then; and now, gentlemen, I have no more to say but this-here's a purse of gold, and there is a tub of humming ale at my quarters; 'tis the king's money and the king's drink; he's a generous king, and loves his subjects. I hope, gentlemen, you wont refuse the king's health? All Mob. No, no, no.

Kite. Huzza, then!-huzza for the king and the honour of Shropshire.

Kite. Hey, boys! thus we soldiers live! drink, sing, dance, play; we live, as one should say we live-'tis impossible to tell how we live we are all princes; why, why you are a king, you are an emperor, and I'm a prince; now, an't we?

Tho. No, sergeant; I'll be no emperor.
Kite. No!

Tho. I'll be a justice-of-peace.
Kite. A justice-of-peace, man!

Tho. Ay, wauns will I; for since this pressing act, they are greater than any emperor under the sun. Kite. Done; you are a justice-of-peace, and you are a king, and I'm a duke, and a rum duke; an't I? Cost. I'll be a queen.

Kite. A queen!

Cost. Ay, of England; that's greater than any king

of them all.

Kite. I wonder at that; I have two of them set in gold, and as like his majesty; God bless the mark! -see here, they are set in gold.

[Takes two broad pieces out of his pocket ; presents one to each.

Tho. The wonderful works of nature!

[Looking at it. What's this written about? here's a posy, I believe. Ca-ro-lus! what's that, sergeant !

Kite. Oh, Carolus? why, Carolus is Latin for King George; that's all.

Cost. 'Tis a fine thing to be a scollard. Sergeant, will you part with this? I'll buy it on you, if it come within the compass of a crown.

Kite. A crown! never talk of buying; 'tis the same thing among friends, you know. I'll present them to ye both you shall give me as good a thing. Put them up, and remember your old friend when I am over the hills and far away.

[They sing, and put up the money.

Enter PLUME, the Recruiting Officer, singing.
Over the hills and over the main,
To Flanders, Portugal, or Spain;
The king cominands, and we'll obey,
Over the hills and far away.

Come on, my men of mirth, away with it; I'll make one among you. Who are these hearty lads?

Kite. Off with your hats; 'ounds! off with your hats; this is the captain; the captain.

'Sflesh

Tho. We have seen captains afore now, mun.
Cost. Ay, and lieutenant-captains too.
I'll keep on my nab.

Tho. And I'se scarcely doff mine for any captain in England. My vether's a freeholder.

Plume. Who are those jolly lads, sergeant? Kite. A couple of honest brave fellows, that are willing to serve their king: I have entertained them just now as volunteers, under your honour's command. Plume. And good entertainment they shall have volunteers are the men I want; those are the men fit to make soldiers, captains, generals.

Cost. Wounds, Tummas, what's this! are you listed?
Tho. Flesh! not I: are you, Costar?
Cost. Wounds! not I.

Kite. What! not listed? ha, ha, ha! a very good jest, i'faith.

Cost. Come, Tummas, we'll go home.
Tho. Ay, ay, come.

Kite. Home! for shame, gentlemen; behave yourselves better before your captain. Dear Thomas! honest Costar!

Tho. No, no; we'll be gone.

Kite. Nay, then, I command you to stay: I place you both sentinels in this place for two hours, to watch the motion of St Mary's clock you, and you the motion of St Chad's; and he that dares stir from his post till he be relieved, shall have my sword in his belly the next minute.

Plume. What's the matter, sergeant? I'm afraid you are too rough with these gentlemen.

Kite. I'm too mild, sir; they disobey command, sir; and one of them should be shot for an example to the other. They deny their being listed.

Tho. Nay, sergeant, we don't downright deny it neither; that we dare not do, for fear of being shot; but we humbly conceive, in a civil way, and begging your worship's pardon, that we may go home.

Plume. That's easily known. Have either of you received any of the king's money?

Cost. Not a brass farthing, sir.

Kite. They have each of them received one and twenty shillings, and 'tis now in their pockets.

Cost. Wounds! if I have a penny in my pocket but a bent sixpence, I'll be content to be listed and shot into the bargain.

Tho. And I look ye here, sir.

Cost. Nothing but the king's picture, that the sergeant gave me just now.

Kite. See there, a guinea; one-and-twenty shillings; 'tother has the fellow on't.

Plume. The case is plain, gentlemen: the goods are found upon you. Those pieces of gold are worth oneand-twenty shillings each.

Cost. So, it seems that Carolus is one-and-twenty shillings in Latin?

Tho. Tis the same thing in Greek, for we are listed.

Cost. Flesh; but we an't, Tummas: I desire to be carried before the mayor, captain.

[Captain and Sergeant whisper the while. Plume. Twill never do, Kite; your tricks will ruin me at last. I wont lose the fellows though, if I can help it. Well, gentlemen, there must be some trick in this; my sergeant offers to take his oath that you are fairly listed.

Tho. Why, captain, we know that you soldiers have more liberty of conscience than other folks; but for me or neighbour Costar here to take such an oath, 'twould be downright perjuration.

Plume. Look ye, rascal, you villain! if I find that you have imposed upon these two honest fellows, I'll trample you to death, you dog! Come, how was it? Tho. Nay, then, we'll speak. Your sergeant, as you say, is a rogue; an't like your worship, begging your worship's pardon; and

Cost. Nay, Tummas, let me speak; you know I can read. And so, sir, he gave us those two pieces of money for pictures of the king, by way of a present.

Plume. How? by way of a present? the rascal! I'll teach him to abuse honest fellows like you. Scoundrel, rogue, villain ! [Beats off the Sergeant, and follows. Both. O brave noble captain! huzza! A brave captain, faith!

Cost. Now, Tummas, Carolus is Latin for a beating. This is the bravest captain I ever saw. Wounds! I've a month's mind to go with him.

Enter PLUME.

Plume. A dog, to abuse two such honest fellows as you. Look ye, gentlemen, I love a pretty fellow; I come among you as an officer to list soldiers, not as a kidnapper to steal slaves.

Cost. Mind that, Tummas.

Plume. I desire no man to go with me, but as I went myself. I went a volunteer, as you or you may do now; for a little time carried a musket, and now i command a company.

Tho. Mind that, Costar. A sweet gentleman. Plume. 'Tis true, gentlemen, I might take an advantage of you; the king's money was in your pockets -my sergeant was ready to take his oath you were listed; but I scorn to do a base thing; you are both of you at your liberty.

Cost. Thank you, noble captain. Icod, I can't find in my heart to leave him, he talks so finely.

Tho. Ay, Costar, would he always hold in this mind. Plume. Come, my lads, one thing more I'll tell you: you're both young tight fellows, and the army is the place to make you men for ever: every man has his lot, and you have yours. What think you of a purse of French gold out of a monsieur's pocket, after you have dashed out his brains with the butt end of your firelock, eh?

Cost. Wauns! I'll have it. Captain, give me a shilling; I'll follow you to the end of the world. Tho. Nay, dear Costar! do'na; be advised. Plume. Here, my hero; here are two guineas for thee, as earnest of what I'll do farther for thee. Tho. Do'na take it; do'na, dear Costar.

[Cries, and pulls back his arm. Cost. I wull, I wull. Waunds! my mind gives me that I shall be a captain myself: I take your money, sir, and now I am a gentleman.

Plume. Give me thy hand; and now you and I will travel the world o'er, and command it wherever we tread. Bring your friend with you, if you can.

Cost. Well, Tummas, must we part?

[Aside.

Tho. No, Costar; I cannot leave thee. Come, captain, I'll e'en go along with you too; and if you have two honester simpler lads in your company than we two have been, I'll say no more.

Plume. Here, my lad. [Gives him money.] Now, your name?

Tho. Tummas Appletree.

Plume. And yours?

Cost. Costar Pearmain.

Plume. Well said, Costar. Born where? Tho. Both in Herefordshire.

Courage, boys, it's one to ten
But we return all gentlemen;
While conquering colours we display,
Over the hills and far away.

Kite, take care of them.

Both. I.

scoundrels!

Kite. So you shall-in your guts. March, you [Beats them off. Among the other successful writers for the stage, may be instanced COLLEY CIBBER (1671-1757), an actor and manager, whose comedy, the Careless Husband, is still deservedly a favourite. Cibber was a lively amusing writer, and his Apology for his Life is one of the most entertaining autobiographies of the language. When Pope displaced Theobald, to install Cibber as hero of the Dunciad,' he suffered his judgment to be blinded by personal vindictiveness and prejudice. Colley Cibber was vain, foolish, and sometimes ridiculous, but never a dunce. SIR RICHARD STEELE was also a dramatic author, and obtained from George I. a patent, appointing him manager and governor of the royal company of comedians. Steele's play, the Conscious Lovers, combines moral instruction with amusement, but is rather insipid and languid both on and off the stage. The Distrest Mother, translated from Racine, was brought out by AMBROSE PHILIPS, the friend of Addison, and was highly successful. AARON HILL adapted the Zara of Voltaire to the English theatre, and wrote some original dramas, which entitled him, no less than his poems, to the niche he has obtained in Pope's 'Dunciad.' A more legitimate comic writer appeared in MRS SUSANNA CENTLIVRE (1667-1723), an Irish lady, whose life and writings were immoral, but who possessed considerable dramatic skill and talent. Her comedies, the Busy Body, The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret, and A Bold Stroke for a Wife, are still favourite acting plays. Her plots and incidents are admirably arranged for stage effect, and her characters well discriminated. Mrs Centlivre had been some time an actress, and her experience had been of service to her in writing for the stage.

never before entertained either in England or elsewhere. In France, it must be allowed, the celebrated Montaigne had published in the sixteenth century a series of essays, of which manners formed the chief topic. Still more recently, La Bruyere, another French author, had published his Charac ters, in which the artificial life of the court of Louis XIV. was sketched with minute fidelity, and the most ingenious sarcasm. But it was now for the first time that any writer ventured to undertake a work, in which he should meet the public several times each week with a brief paper, either discussing some feature of society, or relating some lively tale, allegory, or anecdote.

Lieutenant of that kingdom. Through the duke's influence, Steele was placed at the Charter-house school in London, where a warm and long-continued friendship between him and Addison took its rise. He thence removed, in 1692, to Merton college, Oxford; but after spending several years in desultory study, became so enamoured of the military profession, that, in spite of the dissuasion of his friends, and his failure to procure an appointment, he enlisted as a private soldier in the horse-guards. In this step, by which the succession to a relation's estate in Wexford was lost, he gave a striking manifestation of that recklessness which unfortunately distinguished him through life. In the army, his wit, vivacity, and good humour, speedily rendered him such a favourite, that the officers of his regiment, desirous to have him among themselves, procured for him the rank of an ensign. Thus situated, he plunged deeply into the fashionable follies and vices of the age, enlarging, however, by such conduct, that knowledge of life and character which proved so useful to him in the composition of his works. During this course of dissipation, being sometimes visited by qualms of conscience, he drew up, for the purpose of self-admonition, a small treatise entitled The Christian Hero, and afterwards published it as a still more powerful check upon his irregular passions. Yet it does not appear that even

the attention thus drawn to his conduct, and the ridicule excited by the contrast between his principles and practice, led to any perceptible improvement. In order to enliven his character, and so diminish the occasion of mirth to his comrades, he produced, in 1701, a comedy entitled The Funeral, or Grief à-la-mode, in which, with much humour, there is combined a moral tendency superior to that of most of the dramatic pieces of the time. Steele, though personally too much a rake, made it a principle to employ his literary talents only in the service of virtue. In 1703, he sent forth another successful comedy, called The Tender Husband, or The Accomplished Fools; and in the year following was represented his third, entitled The Lying Lover, the strain of which proved too serious for the public taste. The ill success which it experienced deterred him from again appearing as a dramatist till 1722, when his admirable comedy, The Conscious Lovers, was brought out with unbounded applause. The great, the appropriate praise of Steele,' says Dr Drake, 'is to have been the first who, after the licentious age of Charles II., endeavoured to introduce the Virtues on the stage. He clothed them with the brilliancy of genius; he placed them in situations the most interesting to the human heart; and he taught his audience not to laugh at, but to execrate vice, to despise the lewd fool and the witty rake, to applaud the efforts of the good, and to rejoice in the punishment of the wicked.**

After the failure of "The Lying Lover,' which, he says, was damned for its piety,' Steele conceived the idea of attacking the vices and foibles of the age through the medium of a lively periodical paper. Accordingly, on the 12th of April 1709, he commenced the publication of the Tatler, a small sheet designed to appear three times a week, to expose,' as the author stated, the false arts of life, to pull off the disguises of cunning, vanity, and affectation, and to recommend a general simplicity in our dress, our discourse, and our behaviour.' Steele, who had then reached his thirty-eighth year, was qualified for his task by a knowledge of the world, acquired in free converse with it, and by a large fund of natural humour; his sketches, anecdotes, and remarks, are accordingly very entertaining. To conciliate the ordinary readers of news, a part of each paper was devoted to public and political intelligence; and the price of each number was one penny. At first, the author endeavoured to conceal himself under the fictitious name of Isaac Bickerstaff, which he borrowed from a pamphlet by Swift; but his real name soon became known, and his friend Addison then began to assist him with a few papers upon more serious subjects than he himself was able or inclined to discuss, and also with various articles of a humorous character. When the work had extended to the 271st number, which was published on the 2d of January 1711, the editor was induced, by a consideration of the inconvenience of writing such a work without personal concealment, to give it up, and to commence a publication nearly similar in plan, and in which he might assume a new disguise. This was the more celebrated Spectator, of which the first number appeared on the 1st of March 1711. The 'Spectator' was published daily, and each number was invariably a complete essay, without any admixture of politics. Steele and Addison were conjunct in this work from its commencement, and they obtained considerable assistance from a few other writers, of whom the chief were Thomas Tickell, and a gentleman named Budgell. The greater part of the light and humorous sketches are

* Essays Illustrative of the Tatler, &c. i. 57.

by Steele; while Addison contributed most of the articles in which there is any grave reflection or elevated feeling. In the course of the work, several fictitious persons were introduced as friends of the supposed editor, partly for amusement, and partly for the purpose of quoting them on occasions where their opinions might be supposed appropriate. Thus, a country gentleman was described under the name of Sir Roger de Coverley, to whom reference was made when matters connected with rural affairs were in question. A Captain Sentry stood up for the army; Will Honeycomb gave law on all things concerning the gay world; and Sir Andrew Freeport represented the commercial interest. Of these characters, Sir Roger was by far the most happily delineated: it is understood that he was entirely a being of Addison's imagination; and certainly, in the whole round of English fiction, there is no character delineated with more masterly strokes of humour and tenderness. The Spectator,' which extended to six hundred and thirty-five numbers, or eight volumes, is not only much superior to the 'Tatler,' but stands at the head of all the works of the same kind that have since been produced; and, as a miscellany of polite literature, is not surpassed by any book whatever. All that regards the smaller morals and decencies of life, elegance or justness of taste, and the improvement of domestic society, is touched upon in this paper with the happiest combination of seriousness and ridicule: it is also entitled to the praise of having corrected the existing style of writing and speaking on common topics, which was much vitiated by slang phraseology and profane swearing. The Spectator' appeared every morning in the shape of a single leaf, and was received at the breakfast tables of most persons of taste then living in the metropolis, and had a large sale.

During the year 1713, while the publication of the Spectator' was temporarily suspended, Steele, with the same assistance, published the Guardian, which was also issued daily, and extended to a hundred and seventy-five numbers, or two volumes. It ranks in merit between the Spectator' and 'Tatler,' and is enriched by contributions of Pope, Berkeley, and Budgell. Addison's papers occur almost exclusively in the second volume, where they are more numerous than those of Steele himself. Of two hundred and seventy-one papers of which the "Tatler' is composed, Steele wrote one hundred and eightyeight, Addison forty-two, and both conjointly thirtysix. Of six hundred and thirty-five Spectators,' Addison wrote two hundred and seventy-four, and Steele two hundred and forty. And of one hundred and seventy-six Guardians,' Steele wrote eightytwo, and Addison fifty-three.

The beneficial influence of these publications on the morality, piety, manners, and intelligence of the British people, has been extensive and permanent. When the Tatler' first appeared, the ignorance and immorality of the great mass of society in England were gross and disgusting. By the generality of fashionable persons of both sexes, literary and scientific attainments were despised as pedantic and vulgar. That general knowledge which now circulates in common talk, was then rarely to be found. Men not professing learning were not ashamed of ignorance; and in the female world, any acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured.'* Politics formed almost the sole topic of conversation among the gentlemen, and scandal among the ladies; swearing and indecency were fashionable vices; gaming and drunkenness abounded; and the practice

Johnson's Life of Addison.