When a man follows the occupation of a woman, or a woman the employment of a man,
they are both unpleasing characters, if they are guided in their pursuits by choice.
But, if necessity has ruled their destinies, they are surely objects of compassion,
and mercy should be granted to their want of skill in their irregular
departments.

The female author of "The Busy Body," was driven to a poet's calling,
by the hardships of her fate.

Mrs. Centlivre's father, was the
possessor of a considerable estate at Holbeach, in Lincolnshire,² at the time of the restoration; but, as he was a zealous
dissenter, he was, of course, persecuted for the political opinions which adhered
to
this church: his estate was at length confiscated, and he, with his family, obliged
to seek refuge in Ireland.³

The authoress of this play was at twelve years of age an orphan:⁴ and at
fifteen, being persecuted on account of her poverty and her beauty, as much as her
father had been for his religious and republican principles, she pursued his example;
and, flying from her enemies, took shelter in England. England had not the virtue
to
protect her, either from want or from dishonour. A student of Cambridge⁵ met
her, a forlorn traveller, on her way to London; and this b 2[Page 4]young man, being of an engaging mind and person, prevailed on her
(destitute as she was) to accompany him to the university in man's attire, as his
companion and friend.

The haste, with which this intimacy was formed, was but the forerunner of as hasty
a
separation. She, however, remained long enough at the college to learn experience,
and to improve her taste for literature.⁶

The Biographers of Mrs. Centlivre
have not said where she met with her second lover; but it is certain she had the
prudence to make him her husband: She had the affliction, likewise, to be a widow,
before she was eighteen.

Her deceased husband was a gentleman, and the nephew of Sir Stephen Fox. Her next husband was also a
gentleman;—for she married, not long after her widowhood, a Mr. Carrol, who was
killed in a duel the year following;—and, once more, she became a
widow.⁷

It was now discreet to think on other support than such as had depended on the lives
of two young husbands, who, having offended their family by a contract of marriage,
the mere effect of love, had, on their demise, left their relict in the most indigent
circumstances. Mrs. Carrol became an
actress;—but, notwithstanding her youth, her wit, and her beauty, she was
unsuccessful in that profession.

To avoid the alternative, female profligacy, or domestic drudgery, she now
encountered the masculine enterprise of an author. She wrote eighteen plays, of [Page 5] which, three will preserve her memory:—these are, "The
Wonder," "Bold Stroke for a wife," and the present
comedy.⁸

In this period of her writing, (and, no doubt, its concomitant, fasting,)—the reader
will not be surprised that Mrs. Carrol should marry a third
time.—She now united herself to a man, whose very title promised her protection
from that ancient and modern visitation upon authors, denominated—hunger. Mr.
Centlivre was "yeoman to the mouth," or principal cook to queen Anne. Mrs. Centlivre's forecast in these her
last nuptials did her judgment more honour than her ambition. She died in
1723, of a disorder, neither so lingering, nor so
painful, as starving.⁹

This comedy of the "Busy Body," which has survived one hundred years,
was, by the actors, who performed in it, expected to die on the first night.¹⁰

The foresight of actors, in regard to the success of new dramas, has been long out
of
credit—unjustly so—for, although their predictions are not infallible,
actors are as frequently prophetic, upon the life and death of a play, as the
physician upon that of his patient.

The part of Marplot is the sole support of this comedy.¹¹ —A most powerful protector in all, that
original character can give. The busy curiosity, the officious good temper, and the
sheepish cowardice, of this mean atom of human nature, are so excellently delineated,
that he allures the attention and expectation of the auditors, and makes them bear
with pa-b 3[Page 6]tience, the dull, and common place dramatic persons which surround
him.

Authors of the past time, and those of the present, have had very different notions
of the ties which subsist between parents and children. It is shocking to see how
tyranny on one part, and deceit on the other, disgrace most of our old play
books.¹²
It is to be hoped, that these portraits of unnatural vice have been daubed with such
hideous colours, they have reclaimed all fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters; and
left to the writers of these days, to paint from nature—parental and filial
love.