the libertine hero carries off the beauty in the play, and the dotard is laughed to scorn for having the young wife: in the ballad, when the poet bid his mistress to gather roses while she may, and warns her that old Time is still a-flying: in the ballet, when honest Corydon courts Phillis under the treillage of the pasteboard cottage, and leers at her over the head of grandpapa in red stockings, who is opportunely asleep; and when seduced by the invitations of the rosy youth she comes forward to the footlights, and they perform on each other's tiptoes that pas which you all know and which is only interrupted by old grandpapa awaking from his doze at the pasteboard chalet (whither he returns to take another nap in case the young people get an encore): when Harlequin, splendid in youth, strength and agility, arrayed in gold and a thousand colours, springs over the heads of countless perils,, leaps down the throat of bewildered giants, and, dauntless and splendid, dances danger down: when Mr. Punch, that godless old rebel, breaks every law and laughs at it with odious triumph, outwits his lawyer, bullies the beadle, knocks his wife about the head, and hangs the hangman, don't you see in the comedy, in the song, in the dance, in the ragged little Punch's puppet-show, the Pagan protest? Doesn't it seem as if Life puts in its plea and sings its comment? Look how the lovers walk and hold each other's hands and whisper! Sings the chorus "There is nothing like love, there is nothing like youth, there is nothing like beauty of your spring time, Look! how old age tries to meddle with merry sport! Beat him with his own crutch, the wrinkled old dotard! There is nothing like youth, there is nothing like beauty, The English Humourists. 5 there is nothing like strength. Strength and valour win beauty and youth. Be brave and conquer. Be young and happy. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy! Would you know the Segreto per esser felice? Here it is, in a smiling mistress and a cup of Falernian." As the boy tosses the cup and sings his song. Hark! what is that chaunt coming nearer and nearer? What is that dirge which will disturb us? The lights of the festival burn dim the cheeks turn pale the voice quavers and the cup drops on the 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 huge stupid obstacle always overcome by the knight. It is an old man with a money-box: Sir Belmour his a 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 hunx· 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 grand| daughter 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, *The scene of Valentine's pretended madness in "Love for Love," is a splendid specimen of Congreve's daring manner: 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. interrupt me not Foresight.- Mercy on us! Valentine. Husht 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 witty, and daring, any more than I could ask you to hear the dialogue of a witty bargeman and a brilliant 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. Pray what will be done at Court? come there. Foresight. In the city? - I am truth, I never Valentine.-Oh, prayers will be said in empty churches at the usual hours. Yet you will see such zealous faces behind counters, as if religion were to be sold in every shop. Oh, things will go methodically in the city, the clocks will strike twelve at noon, and the horn'd herd buz in the Exchange at two. Husbands and wives will drive distinct trades, and care and pleasure separately occupy the family. Coffeehouses will be full of smoke and stratagem. And the cropt prentice that sweeps his master's shop in the morning, may, ten to one, dirty his sheets before night. But there are two things, that you will see very strange; which are, wanton wives with their legs at liberty, and tame cuckolds with chains about their necks. But hold, I must examine you before I go further; you look suspiciously. Are you a husband? Foresight. garden Parish? I am married. Poor creature! Is your wife of Covent Foresight. No; St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. 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 the 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 the 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 fish-woman exchanging compliments at Billingsgate; - they were amongst the most but some of his verses, the pidgeons ought rather to be laid to his feet! ha, ha, ha! Foresight. His frenzy is very high now, Mr. Scan dal. Scandal. - I believe it is a spring-tide. Foresight. Very likely truly; you understand these matters. Mr. Scandal, 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? She's here, Sir. Mrs. Foresight. - Now, Sister! O Lord! what must I say? Scandal. Humour him, Madam, by all means. Valentine. Where is she? Oh! I see her; she comes, like Riches, Health, and Liberty at once, to a despairing, starving, and abandoned wretch. Oh 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 as 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. done presently. -- No, no; we'll keep it secret; it shall be 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 |