Henry Esmond; The English Humourists; The Four Georges Part 66

_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 peac.o.c.k poppy-water, that he may fold his ogling tail; and Argus's hundred eyes be shut-ha! n.o.body 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.

_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._-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. Sing me the song that I like.-CONGREVE, _Love for Love_.

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.

_Lady Plyant._-Oh, reflect upon the honour 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-c.o.c.k; O fie, cousin Mellefont!

_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 hearing-hearing is one of the senses, and all the senses are fallible. I won't trust my honour, I a.s.sure 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 n.o.body can help his pa.s.sion.

'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 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 all thoughts aside of the marriage, for though I know you don't love Cynthia, only as a blind for your pa.s.sion to me; yet it will make me jealous. O Lord, what did I say? Jealous! No, I can't be jealous; for I must not love you; therefore don't hope; but don't despair neither. They're coming; I _must_ fly.-_The Double Dealer_, act II, scene v, page 156.

70 "There seems to be a strange affectation in authors of appearing to have done everything by chance. _The Old Bachelor_ was written for amus.e.m.e.nt 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_.

71 "Among those by whom it ('Will's') was frequented, Southerne and Congreve were princ.i.p.ally distinguished by Dryden's friends.h.i.+p....

But Congreve seems to have gained yet farther than Southerne upon Dryden's friends.h.i.+p. He was introduced to him by his first play, the celebrated _Old Bachelor_ being put into the poet's hands to be revised. Dryden, after making a few alterations to fit it for the stage, returned it to the author with the high and just commendation, that it was the best first play he had ever seen."-SCOTT'S _Dryden_, vol. i, p. 370.

72 It was in Surrey Street, Strand (where he afterwards died), that Voltaire visited him, in the decline of his life.

The anecdote in the text, relating to his saying that he wished "to be visited on no other footing than as a gentleman who led a life of plainness and simplicity", is common to all writers on the subject of Congreve, and appears in the English version of Voltaire's _Letters concerning the English Nation_, published in London, 1733, as also in Goldsmith's _Memoir of Voltaire_. But it is worthy of remark, that it does not appear in the text of the same Letters in the edition of Voltaire's _uvres Completes_ in the _Pantheon Litteraire_, Vol. v. of his works. (Paris, 1837.)

"Celui de tous les Anglais qui a porte le plus loin la gloire du theatre comique est feu M. Congreve. Il n'a fait que peu de pieces, mais toutes sont excellentes dans leur genre.... Vous y voyez partout le langage des honnetes gens avec des actions de fripon; ce qui prouve qu'il connaissait bien son monde, et qu'il vivait dans ce qu'on appelle la bonne compagnie."-VOLTAIRE, _Lettres sur les Anglais_, Let. 19.

73 On the death of Queen Mary, he published a Pastoral-"The Mourning Muse of Alexis." Alexis and Menalcas sing alternately in the orthodox way. The Queen is called PASTORA.

"I mourn PASTORA dead, let Albion mourn, And sable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn,"

says Alexis. Among other phenomena, we learn that-

With their sharp nails themselves the Satyrs wound, And tug their s.h.a.ggy beards, and bite with grief the ground,-

(a degree of sensibility not always found in the Satyrs of that period.... It continues-)

Lord of these woods and wide extended plains, Stretch'd on the ground and close to earth his face, Scalding with tears the already faded gra.s.s.

To dust must all that Heavenly beauty come?

And must Pastora moulder in the tomb?

Ah Death! more fierce and unrelenting far, Than wildest wolves and savage tigers are; With lambs and sheep their hunger is appeased, But ravenous Death the shepherdess has seized.

This statement that a wolf eats but a sheep, whilst Death eats a shepherdess; that figure of the "Great Shepherd", lying speechless on his stomach, in a state of despair which neither winds nor floods nor air can exhibit, are to be remembered in poetry surely, and this style was admired in its time by the admirers of the great Congreve!

In the "Tears of Amaryllis for Amyntas" (the young Lord Blandford, the great Duke of Marlborough's only son), Amaryllis represents Sarah d.u.c.h.ess!

The tigers and wolves, nature and motion, rivers and echoes, come into work here again. At the sight of her grief-

Tigers and wolves their wonted rage forgo, And dumb distress and new compa.s.sion show, Nature herself attentive silence kept, _And motion seemed suspended while she wept_!

And Pope dedicated the _Iliad_ to the author of these lines-and Dryden wrote to him in his great hand:

Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought, But Genius must be born and never can be taught.