CHAPTER XI.
Congreve—Lord Dorset.
The birthplace of Congreve is uncertain, but he was born about 1671, and was educated in Kilkenny and Dublin. He is an instance of that union of Irish versatility with English reflection, which has produced the most celebrated wits. We also mark in him a considerable improvement in delicacy. "The Old Batchelor" was his first play, the success of which was so great that Lord Halifax made him one of the commissioners for licensing hackney-coaches; he afterwards gave him a place in the Pipe Office and Custom House.
Belmour begins very suitably by saying—
"Come come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools; they have need of 'em. Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation; and let Father Time shake his glass."
Speaking of Belinda, he says—
"In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers anybody else to rail at me."
Heartwell, an old bachelor, says—
"Women's asses bear great burdens; are forced to undergo dressing, dancing, singing, sighing, whining, rhyming, flattery, lying, grinning, cringing, and the drudgery of loving to boot.... Every man plays the fool once in his life, but to marry is to play the fool all one's life long."
In Belinda we have a specimen of one of the fast young ladies of the period, who certainly seems to have used strong language. She cries,
Oh, that most inhuman, barbarous, hackney-coach! I am jolted to a jelly, am I not horridly touz'd?
She chides Belmour,
Prithee hold thy tongue! Lord! he has so pestered me with flowers and stuff, I think I shan't endure the sight of a fire for a twelvemonth.
Belmour. Yet all can't melt that cruel frozen heart.
Bel. O, gad! I hate your hideous fancy—you said that once before—if you must talk impertinently, for Heaven's sake let it be with variety; don't come always like the devil wrapped in flames. I'll not hear a sentence more that begins with, "I burn," or an "I beseech you, Madam."
At last she exclaims,
"O! my conscience! I could find in my heart to marry thee, purely to be rid of thee."
There is frequently a conflict of wit. Sharper tells Sir Joseph Willot that he lost many pounds, when he was defending him in a scuffle the night before. He hopes he will repay him.
Money is but dirt, Sir Joseph; mere dirt, Sir Joseph.
Sir Joseph. But I profess 'tis a dirt I have washed my hands of at present.
Lord Froth in "The Double Dealer" says,
There is nothing more unbecoming in a man of gravity than to laugh, to be pleased with what pleases the crowd. When I laugh, I always laugh alone.
Brisk. I suppose that's because you laugh at your own jests.
Sir Paul Plyant in great wroth expresses himself as follows:
The subjects of Congreve's Comedies would often be thought objectionable at the present day. The humour is not in the plot, but in the general dialogue. In "Love for Love," Ben Legend, a sailor, speaking of lawyers, says—
Lawyer, I believe there's many a cranny and leak unstopt in your conscience. If so be that one had a pump to your bosom, I believe we should discern a foul hold. They say a witch will sail in a sieve, but I believe the devil would not venture aboard your conscience.
The last play he wrote, which failed, was deficient in wit, but had plenty of inebriety in it. After singing a drinking song, Sir Wilful says in "The Way of the World."
The sun's a good pimple, an honest soaker, he has a cellar at your Antipodes. If I travel, Aunt, I touch at your Antipodes—your Antipodes are a good rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows. If I had a bumper I'd stand on my head, and drink a health to them.
Scandal. Yes, mine (pictures) are not in black and white, and yet there are some set out in their true colours, both men and women. I can show you pride, folly, affectation, wantonness, inconstancy, covetousness, dissimulation, malice and ignorance all in one piece. Then I can show your lying, foppery, vanity, cowardice, bragging, incontinence, and ugliness in another piece, and yet one of them is a celebrated beauty, and t'other a professed beau. I have paintings, too, some pleasant enough.
Mrs. Frail. Come, let's hear 'em.
Scan. Why, I have a beau in a bagnio cupping for a complexion, and sweating for a shape.
Mrs. F. So——
Scan. Then I have a lady burning brandy in a cellar with a hackney coachman.
Mrs. F. Oh! well, but that story is not true.
Scan. I have some hieroglyphics, too; I have a lawyer with a hundred hands, two heads, and but one face; a divine with two faces and one head; and I have a soldier with his brains in his belly, and his heart where his head should be.
It has been said that Congreve retired on the appearance of Mrs. Centlivre, but so high was the opinion entertained of his genius that he was buried in Westminster Abbey, and his pall was supported by noblemen. Pope was one of his greatest admirers, and dedicated his translation of Homer to him.
Dryden writes on Congreve.
"In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise,
He moved the mind, but had not power to raise,
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please,
Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorned their age,
One for the study, t'other for the stage,
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One matched in judgment, both over-matched in wit."
Macaulay says "the wit of Congreve far outshines that of every comic writer, except Sheridan, who has arisen within the last two centuries."
Lord Dorset of whom we have above spoken deserves some passing notice. He was high in the favour of Charles II., James, and William; and was one of the most accomplished of the courtiers of that day, who, notwithwstanding their dissipation, were more or less scholars, and wrote poetry. What was better, he was a munificent supporter of real literary genius, and patronized Dryden, and to judge by their commendations was not neglectful of Congreve and Pope.
Most of his poems are in the pastoral strain, but do not show any great talent. Two or three of them have some humour—
"Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes
United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high, but quickly dies,
Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight;
"Love is a calmer, gentler joy,
Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace;
Her cupid is a blackguard boy
That runs his link right in your face."
Lord Dorset was at the battle of Opdam when the Dutch Admiral's fleet was destroyed in 1665. The night before the engagement he wrote the well known epistle
"To all you ladies now on land,
We men at sea indite,
And first would have you understand
How hard it is to write;
The Muses now and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.
With a fa la la la la.
"For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain,
Yet if rough Neptune raise the wind,
To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea.
With a fa, la, &c.
"Should foggy Opdam chance to throw
Our sad and dismal story,
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree;
For what resistance can they find
From men who've left their hearts behind?
With a fa, la, &c.
"In justice you cannot refuse
To think of our distress,
When we for hope of honour lose
Our certain happiness;
All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.
With a fa, la, &c.
"And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,
In hopes this declaration moves,
Some pity from your tears;
Let's hear of no inconstancy,
We have too much of that at sea.
With a fa la la la la."
We can easily understand how the above lines were suggested, for in those times the same officers served both in army and navy, and many of the young sparks taken from the gaieties of London had not yet acquired their sea legs. Wycherley is said to have been present at some of the engagements with the Dutch.