floor. Who's there? Death and Fate are at the gate, and they will come in. Congreve's comic feast flares with lights, and round the table, emptying their flaming bowls of drink, and exchanging the wildest jests and ribaldry, sit men and women, waited on by rascally valets and attendants as dissolute as their mistresses-perhaps the very worst company in the world. There doesn't seem to be a pretence of morals. At the head of the table sits Mirabel or Belmour (dressed in the French fashion and waited on by English imitators of Scapin and Frontin). Their calling is to be irresistible, and to conquer everywhere. Like the heroes of the chivalry story, whose long-winded loves and combats they were sending out of fashion, they are always splendid and triumphant-overcome all dangers, vanquish all enemies, and win the beauty at the end. Fathers, husbands, usurers are the foes these champions contend with. They are merciless in old age, invariably, and an old man plays the part in the dramas which the wicked enchanter or the great blundering giant performs in the chivalry tales, who threatens and grumbles and resists—a huge stupid obstacle always overcome by the knight. It is an old man with a money-box: Sir Belmour his son or nephew spends his money and laughs at him. It is an old man with a young wife whom he locks up: Sir Mirabel robs him of his wife, trips up his gouty old heels and leaves the old hunks. The old fool, what business has he to hoard his money, or to lock up blushing eighteen? Money is for youth, love is for youth, away with the old people. When Millamant is sixty, having of course divorced the first Lady Millamant, and married his friend Doricourt's granddaughter out of the nursery-it will be his turn; and young Belmour will make a fool of him. All this pretty morality you have in the comedies of William Congreve, Esq. They are full of wit. Such manners as he observes, he observes with great humour; but ah! it's a weary feast, that banquet of wit where no love is. It palls very soon; sad indigestions follow it and lonely blank headaches in the morning. I can't pretend to quote scenes from the splendid Congreve's plays-which are undeniably bright, witty, and daring-any more than I could ask you to hear the dialogue of a witty bargeman and a * The scene of Valentine's pretended madness in "Love for Love" is a splendid specimen of Congreve's daring manner :-— 66 "Scandal. And have you given your master a hint of their plot upon him? Jeremy.-Yes, Sir; he says he'll favour it, and mistake her for Angelica. "Scandal.-It may make us sport. "Foresight.-Mercy on us! "Valentine.-Husht—interrupt me not—I'll whisper predictions to thee, and thou shalt prophesie ;-I am truth, and can teach thy tongue a new trick,—I have told thee what's passed-now I'll tell what's to come :-Dost thou know what will happen to-morrow? Answer me not-for I will tell thee. To-morrow knaves will thrive thro' craft, and fools thro' fortune; and honesty will go as it did, frostnipt in a summer suit. Ask me questions concerning to-morrow. "Scandal.-Ask him, Mr. Foresight. "Foresight.-Pray what will be done at Court? "Valentine.-Scandal will tell you ;-I am truth, I never come there. "Valentine.-Oh, prayers will be said in empty churches at the usual hours. "Valentine.-Poor creature! Is your wife of Covent-garden Parish? 66 “Valentine.—Alas, poor man! his eyes are sunk, and his hands shrivelled; his legs dwindled, and his back bow'd. Pray, pray for a metamorphosis-change thy shape, and shake off age; get thee Medea's kettle and be boiled anew; come forth with lab'ring callous hands, and chine of steel, and Atlas' shoulders. Let Taliacotius trim the calves of twenty chairmen, and make thee pedestals to stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the face. Ha, ha, ha! That a man should have a stomach to a wedding-supper, when the pidgeons ought rather to be laid to his feet! Ha, ha, ha! "Foresight. His frenzy is very high now, Mr. Scandal. "Foresight.-Very likely-truly; you understand these matters. Mr. Scandal, LANCASTER, MASS brilliant fishwoman exchanging compliments at Billingsgate; but some of his verses-they were amongst the most famous lyrics of the I shall be very glad to confer with you about these things he has uttered. His sayings are very mysterious and hieroglyphical. "Valentine.-Oh! why would Angelica be absent from my eyes so long? "Jeremy.-She's here, Sir. "Mrs. Foresight.-Now, Sister! "Mrs. Frail.-O Lord! what must I say? "Scandal.-Humour him, Madam, by all means. Oh "Valentine.-Where is she? Oh! I see her she comes, like Riches, Health, and Liberty at once, to a despairing, starving, and abandoned wretch. welcome, welcome! "Mrs. Frail.-How d'ye, Sir? Can I serve you? "Valentine.-Hark'ee-I have a secret to tell you. Endymion and the moon shall meet us on Mount Latmos, and we'll be married in the dead of night. But say not a word. Hymen shall put his torch into a dark lanthorn, that it may be secret; and Juno shall give her peacock poppy-water, that he may fold his ogling tail; and Argus's hundred eyes be shut-ha! Nobody shall know, but Jeremy. “Mrs. Frail.—No, no; we'll keep it secret ; it shall be done presently. "Valentine.-The sooner the better. Jeremy, come hither-closer-that none may overhear us. Jeremy, I can tell you news: Angelica is turned nun, and I am turning friar, and yet we'll marry one another in spite of the Pope. Get me a cowl and beads, that I may play my part; for she'll meet me two hours hence in black and white, and a long veil to cover the project, and we won't see one another's faces 'till we have done something to be ashamed of, and then we'll blush once for all. . . . "Enter TATTLE. "Tattle.-Do you know me, Valentine? "Valentine.-You !-who are you? No, I hope not. "Tattle.-I am Jack Tattle, your friend. "Valentine.-My friend! What to do? I am no married man, and thou canst not lye with my wife; I am very poor, and thou canst not borrow money of me. Then, what employment have I for a friend? "Tattle.-Hah! A good open speaker, and not to be trusted with a secret. "Angelica.-Do you know me, Valentine? "Valentine.-Oh, very well. 66 Angelica.-Who am I? "Valentine.-You're a woman, one to whom Heaven gave beauty when it grafted roses on a brier. You are the reflection of Heaven in a pond; and he that leaps at you is sunk. You are all white-a sheet of spotless paper-when you first are born; but you are to be scrawled and blotted by every goose's quill. I know you; for I loved a woman, and loved her so long that I found out a strange thing: I found out what a woman was good for. "Tattle.-Ay! pr'ythee, what's that? [Valentine time, and pronounced equal to Horace by his contemporaries-may give an idea of his power, of his grace, of his daring manner, his "Valentine.-Why, to keep a secret. "Tattle.-O Lord! "Valentine.—Oh, exceeding good to keep a secret; for, though she should tell, yet she is not to be believed. "Tattle.-Hah! Good again, faith. "Valentine.-I would have musick. CONGREVE: Love for Love. Sing me the song that I like."— There is a Mrs. Nickleby, of the year 1700, in Congreve's Comedy of “The Double Dealer," in whose character the author introduces some wonderful traits of roguish satire. She is practised on by the gallants of the play, and no more knows how to resist them than any of the ladies above quoted could resist Congreve. 66 Lady Plyant.-Oh! reflect upon the horror of your conduct! Offering to pervert me [the joke is that the gentleman is pressing the lady for her daughter's hand, not for her own]-"perverting me from the road of virtue, in which I have trod thus long, and never made one trip-not one faux pas. Oh, consider it: what would you have to answer for, if you should provoke me to frailty! Alas! humanity is feeble, heaven knows! Very feeble, and unable to support itself. Mellefont.-Where am I? Is it day? and am I awake? Madam“Lady Plyant.—O Lord, ask me the question! I'll swear I'll deny it—therefore don't ask me; nay, you shan't ask me, I swear I'll deny it. O Gemini, you have brought all the blood into my face; I warrant I am as red as a turkey-cock. O fie, cousin Mellefont ! 66 66 Mellefont.—Nay, Madam, hear me; I mean ‘Lady Plyant.—Hear you? No, no; I'll deny you first, and hear you afterwards. For one does not know how one's mind may change upon hearinghearing is one of the senses, and all the senses are fallible. I won't trust my honour, I assure you; my honour is infallible and uncomatable. "Mellefont.-For heaven's sake, Madam "Lady Plyant.-Oh, name it no more. Bless me, how can you talk of heaven, and have so much wickedness in your heart? May be, you don't think it a sin. They say some of you gentlemen don't think it a sin; but still, my honour, if it were no sin But, then, to marry my daughter for the convenience of frequent opportunities--I'll never consent to that: as sure as can be, I'll break the match. Mellefont.-Death and amazement! Madam, upon my knees "Lady Plyant.—Nay, nay, rise up! come, you shall see my good-nature. I know love is powerful, and nobody can help his passion. 'Tis not your fault; nor I swear, it is not mine. How can I help it, if I have charms? And how can you help it, if you are made a captive? I swear it is pity it should be a fault; but, my honour. Well, but your honour, too-but the sin! Well, but the necessity. O Lord, here's somebody coming. I dare not stay. Well, you must consider of magnificence in compliment, and his polished sarcasm. He writes as if he was so accustomed to conquer, that he has a poor opinion of his victims. Nothing's new except their faces, says he: "every woman is the same." He says this in his first comedy, which he wrote languidly * in illness, when he was an "excellent young man." Richelieu at eighty could have hardly said a more excellent thing. When he advances to make one of his conquests, it is with a splendid gallantry, in full uniform and with the fiddles playing, like Grammont's French dandies attacking the breach of Lerida. "Cease, cease to ask her name," he writes of a young lady at the Wells at Tunbridge, whom he salutes with a magnificent compliment "Cease, cease to ask her name, The crowned Muse's noblest theme, Shall only sounded be. But if you long to know, Then look round yonder dazzling row: Who most does like an angel show, You may be sure 'tis she." Here are lines about another beauty, who perhaps was not so well pleased at the poet's manner of celebrating her "When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, your crime; and strive as much as can be against it-strive, be sure; but don't be melancholick-don't despair; but never think that I'll grant you anything. O Lord, no; but be sure you lay aside all thoughts of the marriage, for though I know you don't love Cynthia, only as a blind to your passion for me--yet it will make me jealous. O Lord, what did I say? Jealous! No, no, I can't be jealous ; for I must not love you. Therefore, don't hope; but don't despair neither. Oh, they're coming; I must fly."-The Double Dealer: Act 2, sc. v. page 156. ་ * “There seems to be a strange affectation in authors of appearing to have done everything by chance. The Old Bachelor' was written for amusement in the languor of convalescence. Yet it is apparently composed with great elaborateness of dialogue and incessant ambition of wit."-JOHNSON: Lives of the Poets. |