"Levi, thou art a load: I'll lay thee down And show rebellion bare, without a gown; Poor slaves in metre, dull and addle-pated Who rhime below e'en David's psalms translated."

Doeg is another enemy:—

"'Twere pity treason at his door to lay Who makes heaven's gate a lock to its own key. Let him rail on, let his invective muse Have four and twenty letters to abuse, Which, if he jumbles to one line of sense Indict him of a capital offence."

This satire led to some replies, which Dryden crushed in his "Mac Flecnoe," a poem named after an Irish priest—an inferior poet—who, but for this notice, would never have been known to posterity. Shadwell was the man really aimed at; Mac Flecnoe exclaims:—

"Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he Who stands confirmed in full stupidity, The rest to some faint meaning make pretence But Shadwell never deviates into sense."[58]

After much in the same strain, he finishes with:—

"Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen iambics, but mild anagram. Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in acrostic land, There thou mayest wings display and altars raise, And torture one poor world ten thousand ways."

Dryden calls this kind of satire Varronian, as he weaves a sort of imaginary story into which he introduces the object of his attack. He was under the impression that this was the first piece of ridicule written in heroics, and his claim seemed correct as far as England was concerned, but Boileau and Tassoni had preceded him. Willmot says, "Dryden is wanting in the graceful humour of Tassoni, and exquisite power of Boileau. His wit has more weight than edge—it beat in armour, but could not cut gause." The greater part of Dryden's satire could not cut anything, nor be distinguished from elaborate vituperation. He wrote an essay on Satire, in which he shows a much better knowledge of history than of humour. His best passages are in the "Spanish Friars," but they are weak and mainly directed against the profligacy of the Church. The servant says of the friar, "There's a huge, fat religious gentleman coming up, Sir. He says he's but a friar, but he's big enough to be a Pope; his gills are as rosy as a turkey-cock's; his great belly walks in state before him like an harbinger, and his gouty legs come limping after it. Never was such a ton of devotion seen."

Samuel Butler affords one of the many examples of highly gifted literary men who have died in great poverty. His works, recommended by Lord Dorset, were read largely, and even by the King himself; but there was then no great demand for books, and authors had to look to patrons, and eat the uncertain bread of dependence. We may suppose, however, that he was an improvident man, for during his life he held several offices, and was at one time steward of Ludlow Castle.

Butler possessed a real gift of humour, and an astonishing fertility of invention. To us there seems to be still too much indelicacy in his writings, though less than heretofore, and there is a considerable amount of bear-fighting, both in the literal and metaphorical sense. This rough and cruel pastime was very common in that day. We read of bear-baiting at Kenilworth to amuse Queen Elizabeth, and Alleyn, the munificent founder of Dulwich College, was not only a dramatic author and manager, but "Master of the bears and dogs," which seems to have been a post of honour. To the present day, a ring for such sports is to be seen outside the principal gate of Battle Abbey.

We have already observed that the drama of Spain became the model for that of modern Europe, and we are not therefore surprised to find that the main design in Sir Hudibras is to produce an English Don Quixote. All the accessories of the work point to this imitation; there is a long account of his arms, his Squire, and horse. But beyond this, he aimed at several well-known rogues of his day, especially those pretending to necromancy and prophetic powers, who seem to have been numerous.[59] This gave the poem an interest at that day which it cannot have now, and it was increased by the amusing hits he makes at the Puritans, who had lately convulsed the State, and whom he had been able to gauge when he was employed by Sir Samuel Luke.[60] The lines are well known in which he speaks of the time:—

"When pulpit, drum, ecclesiastic, Was beat with fist, instead of a stick;"

and the general outcry against dignitaries is thus represented:—

"The oyster women locked their fish up And trudged away to cry 'No Bishop'; Botchers left old clothes in the lurch, And fell to turn and patch the church; Some cry'd the Covenant, instead Of pudding, pies, and gingerbread!"

Sir Hudibras is a Presbyterian "true blue."

"Such as do build their faith upon The holy test of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery: And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks.

"Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage. Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge; Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose."

Sir Hudibras was learned in controversy:—

"For he a rope of sand could twist As tough as learned Sorbonist And weave fine cobwebs fit for skull That's empty when the moon is full, Such as take lodgings in a head That's to be let unfurnished."

He had been at the siege of "Bullen," by Henry VIII., and his breeches were lined

"With many a piece Of ammunition, bread and cheese, And fat black puddings, proper food For warriors that delight in blood. For as he said he always chose To carry victual in his hose, That often tempted rats and mice The ammunition to surprise."

Hudibras speaking of men fighting with an unworthy enemy, says:—

"So th' Emperor Caligula That triumphed o'er the British sea, Took crabs and oysters prisoners, And lobsters 'stead of cuirassiers; Engaged his legions in fierce bustles With periwinkles, prawns, and mussels, And led his troops with furious gallops To charge whole regiments of scallops; Not like their ancient way of war, To wait on his triumphal car; But, when he went to dine or sup, More bravely ate his captives up."

Butler begins one canto with

"Ah me! what perils do environ The man that meddles with cold iron."

His political views are seen in the following:

"For as a fly that goes to bed Rests with its tail above its head, So in this mongrel state of ours The rabble are the supreme powers. That horsed us on their backs to show us A jadish trick at last, and throw us."

Several minor poems have been attributed to Butler, but most of them have been considered spurious. Some, however, are admitted—one of which is a humorous skit against the Royal Society, who were supposed at that day to be too minutely subtle. It is called "An Elephant in the Moon." "Some learned astronomers think they have made a great discovery, but it is really owing to a mouse and some gnats having got into their telescope."

The light, short metre in which Butler composed his comic narrative was well suited to the subject, and corresponded to the "swift iambics" of Archilochus. Dryden says that double rhymes are necessary companions of burlesque writing. Addison, however, is of opinion that Hudibras "would have made a much more agreeable figure in heroics," to which Cowden Clarke replies, "Why, bless his head! the whole and sole intention of the poem is mock heroic, and the structure of the verse is burlesque," and he also tells us that Butler's rhymes constitute one feature of his wit. Certainly he had some strange terminations to his lines. Hudibras speaking of hanging Sidrophel and Whackum says:—

"I'll make them serve for perpendiclars As true as e'er were used by bricklayers."

One of the bear-baiting mob annoys Rapho's steed, who

"Began to kick, and fling, and wince, As if he'd been beside his sense, Striving to disengage from thistle That gall'd him sorely under his tail."

Again we have:—

"An ancient castle that commands Th' adjacent parts, in all the fabric You shall not see one stone, nor a brick."

The astrologers made an instrument to examine the moon to

"Tell what her diameter per inch is; And prove that she's not made of green cheese."

By the interchange which often takes place between the poetical and ludicrous, this roughness of versification, then allowable, appears now so childish, that Lamb and Cowden Clark mistook it for humour. But we might extract from the writers of that day many ridiculous rhymes, evidently intended to be serious.

The humour of Butler was in his time more popular than the sentiment of Milton, but he obtained no commensurate remuneration. Wycherley kindly endeavoured to interest Buckingham on his behalf, and had almost succeeded, when two handsome women passed by, and the Duke left him in pursuit of them. John Wesley's father has written Butler's epitaph in imperishable sarcasm:—

"See him when starved to death and turned to dust, Presented with a monumental bust; The poet's fate is here in emblem shown, He asked for bread, and he received—a stone."



CHAPTER VIII.

Comic Drama of the Restoration—Etherege—Wycherley.

The example set by Beaumont and Fletcher seems to have been much followed by their immediate successors. Decker wrote conjointly with Webster and Middleton, and it is sometimes difficult to distinguish his work. His power of invective was well known; and in his humour there is such straining after strong words and effective phrases, as to seem quite unnatural. His "Gull's Hornbook" is written against coxcombs, and he says their "vinegar railings shall not quench his Alpine resolutions."

Etherege and Wycherley ushered in the comic drama of the Restoration. They were both courtiers, and the successful writers of this period took their tone from that of "the quality."

George, (afterwards Sir George) Etherege was born in 1636. He was known as "Gentle George" or "Easy Etherege," and it is said that he was himself a fop, and painted the character of Dorimant in Sir Fopling Flutter from himself. In his principal plays there is very little humour, though he gives some amusing sketches of the affectations of the metropolis.

Mistress Loveit. You are grown an early riser, I hear.

Belinda. Do you not wonder, my dear, what made me abroad so soon?

Lov. You do not use to do so.

Bel. The country gentlewomen I told you of (Lord! they have the oddest diversions) would never let me rest till I promised to go with them to the markets this morning, to eat fruit and buy nosegays.

Lov. Are they so fond of a filthy nosegay?

Bel. They complain of the stinks of the town, and are never well but when they have their noses in one.

Lov. There are essences and sweet waters.

Bel. O, they cry out upon perfumes they are unwholesome, one of 'em was falling into a fit with the smell of these Narolii.

Lov. Methinks, in complaisance, you should have had a nosegay too.

Bel. Do you think, my dear, I could be so loathsome to trick myself up with carnations and stock-gilly flowers? I begged their pardon, and told them I never wore anything but Orange-flowers and Tuberose. That which made me willing to go was a strange desire I had to eat some fresh nectarines.

Wycherley was the son of a Shropshire gentleman who being a Royalist, and not willing to trust him to the Puritans, sent him to be educated in France. He became a Roman Catholic, but afterwards recanted.

Wycherley was remarkable for his beauty, and stalwart proportions, he was called "manly" or "brawny" Wycherley; and the notorious Duchess of Cleveland was so captivated by his appearance, that she made his acquaintance when passing in her carriage by jocosely calling out at him some abusive epithets. Afterwards, we are told that she often visited Wycherley at the Temple, disguised as a country girl in a straw hat, with pattens on her feet, and a basket on her arm. Later, he had the misfortune to make the acquaintance of the Countess of Drogheda on the Pantiles at Tunbridge Wells, and by secretly marrying her incurred the King's displeasure. He was finally reduced to great distress, but James II., recognising his talent, gave him a pension, and saved him from destitution in his old age.

Wycherley wrote his first play in 1667. In comparing him with Shakespeare we find the same difference as existed between the old and new comedy in Greece. Political characters have disappeared together with hostility and combats on the stage, while amorous intrigue is largely developed. There is at the same time considerable sprightliness in the dialogue, and the tricks, deceptions and misadventures of lovers fill the pages with much that is ingenious and amusing. In the "Gentleman Dancing Master," a young spark pretends to a rich father that he is only visiting his daughter to teach her to dance. A rival lover—a Frenchified puppy—is made unconsciously to co-operate in his own discomfiture, while the duped father jokes with the supposed "dancing master," and asks him whether he is not engaged to one of his rich pupils, laughing heartily at the picture he draws to himself of her father's indignation. Again, in "A Country Wife," a jealous husband obliges his spouse to write a disdainful letter to a gallant, but the lady slyly substitutes one of quite a different character, which the husband duly and pompously delivers to him. The humour of Wycherley is almost entirely of this kind. Here are no verbal quips, no sallies of professed fools, no stupidities of country boobies. These have passed away from good comedy. Speaking of the change, he says that formerly they were contented to make serving-men fools on the stage, "but now you shall scarcely see a fool on the stage who is not a knight." The fact was that a higher kind of humour was required, and accordingly we now, for the first time, hear of "wits"—men of good birth and position, who prided themselves on their talent. They were generally remarkable for their manners and address, and affected a superiority in acuteness, but not always in humour. Wycherley speaks of wits not exactly in the sense of humorists, but rather as coxcombs, endued with a certain cunning: "Your court wit is a fashionable, insinuating, flattering, cringing, grimacing fellow, and has wit enough to solicit a suit of love; and if he fail he has malice enough to ruin the woman with a dull lampoon; but he rails still at the man that is absent, for all wits rail; and his wit properly lies in combing perukes, matching ribbons, and being severe, as they call it, upon other peoples' clothes."

Lydia. Now, what is your coffee wit?

Dapperwit. He is a lying, censorious, gossiping, quibbling wretch, and sets people together by the ears over that sober drink—coffee; he is a wit as he is a commentator upon the Gazette; and he rails at the pirates of Algiers, the Grand Signior of Constantinople, and the Christian Grand Signior.

Lydia. What kind of wit is your pollwit?

Dap. He is a fidgetting, busy, dogmatical, hot-headed fop, that speaks always in sentences and proverbs, and he rails perpetually against the present Government. His wit lies in projects and monopolies, and penning speeches for Parliament men—

He goes on to speak of the scribble wit, and judge wit or critic, but in general wits were regarded as rakes and not long afterwards we find it debated whether a woman can be witty and virtuous.

Wycherley did not aim much at facetiousness, nor introduce many humorous episodes, but passages incidentally occur which show he had considerable talent in that direction. The first from "Love in a Wood," is an ironical conflict between one Gripe, a rich but parsimous Alderman, and a Mrs. Joyner, a sly, designing old woman.

Gripe. I am full of your praise, and it will run over.

Joyner. Nay, sweet Sir, you are——

Gripe. Nay, sweet Mrs. Joyner, you are——

Joy. Nay, good your worship, you are——

(Stops her mouth with his handkerchief)

Gripe. I say you are——

Joy. I must not be rude with your worship.

Gripe. You are a nursing mother to the saints; through you they gather together, through you they fructify and increase, and through you the child cries out of the hand-basket.

Joy. Through you virgins are married, or provided for as well; through you the reprobate's wife is made a saint; and through you the widow is not disconsolate, nor misses her husband.

Gripe. Through you——

Joy. Indeed you will put me to the blush.

Gripe. Blushes are badges of imperfection—Saints have no shame. You are the flower of matrons, Mrs. Joyner.

Joy. You are the pink of courteous Aldermen.

Gripe. You are the muffler of secrecy.

Joy. You are the head-band of Justice.

Gripe. Thank you, sweet Mrs. Joyner; do you think so indeed? You are—you are the bonfire of devotion.

Joy. You are the bellows of zeal.

Gripe. You are the cupboard of charity.

Joy. You are the fob of liberality.

Gripe. You are the rivet of sanctified love or wedlock.

Joy. You are the pick-lock and dark-lantern of policy; and in a word a conventicle of virtues.

Gripe. Your servant, your servant, sweet Mrs. Joyner! You have stopped my mouth.

Joy. Your servant, your servant, sweet Alderman! I have nothing to say.

Indelicacy in words has by this time become very much reduced, although here and there we find some cant expressions of the day which shock our sensibilities. Much refinement in this respect could not be expected at a period where a young lady of fortune could be represented as calling her maid, and afterwards herself, a "damned jade," and a lady from the country as saying she had not yet had "her bellyful of sights" in London.

"The Plain Dealer" is a naval captain in the time of the Dutch war. Olivia says,

"If he be returned, then shall I be pestered again with his boisterous sea-love; have my alcove smell like a cabin, my chamber perfumed with his tarpaulin Brandenburgh, and hear volleys of brandy-sighs, enough to make a fog in one's room. Foh! I hate a lover that smells like Thames Street."

The Plain Dealer, i.e., the sea-captain Manly, meets with a lawyer, and they converse in this way,

Manly. Here's a lawyer I know threatening us with another greeting.

Lawyer. Sir! Sir! your very servant; I was afraid you had forgotten me.

Man. I was not afraid you had forgotten me.

Law. No, Sir; we lawyers have pretty good memories.

Man. You ought to have by your wits.

Law. O, you are a merry gentleman, Sir; I remember you were merry when I was last in your company.

Man. I was never merry in your company, Mr. Lawyer, sure.

Law. Why I am sure you joked upon me, and shammed me all night long.

Man. Shammed! prithee what barbarous law-term is that?

Law. Shamming! why, don't you know that? 'tis all our way of wit, Sir.

Man. I am glad I don't know it, then. Shamming! what does he mean by it, Freeman?

Free. Shamming is telling an insipid dull lie with a dull face, which the sly wag, the author, only laughs at himself; and making himself believe 'tis a good jest, puts the sham only upon himself.

Manly meets an Alderman.

Man. Here's a city-rogue will stick as hard upon us as if I owed him money.

Ald. Captain, noble Sir, I am yours heartily, d'ye see; why should you avoid your old friends?

Man. And why should you follow me? I owe you nothing.

Ald. Out of my hearty respects to you; for there is not a man in England——

Man. Thou wouldst save from hanging at the expense of a shilling only.

Ald. Nay, nay, but Captain, you are like enough to tell me——

Man. Truth, which you wont care to hear; therefore you had better go talk with somebody else.

Ald. No, I know nobody can inform me better of some young wit or spendthrift, who has a good dipped seat and estate in Middlesex, Hertfordshire, Essex, or Kent; any of these would serve my turn; now if you know of such an one, and would but help——

Man. You to finish his ruin.

Ald. I' faith you should have a snip——

Man. Of your nose, you thirty in the hundred rascal; would you make me your squire-setter?

(Takes him by the nose.)

Two lovers, Lord Plausible and Novel, have the following dialogue about their chances of success with a certain lady who is wooed by both.

Novel. Prithee, prithee, be not impertinent, my lord; some of you lords are such conceited, well assured impertinent rogues.

Plausible. And you noble wits are so full of shamming and drollery, one knows not where to have you seriously.

Nov. Prithee, my lord, be not an ass. Dost thou think to get her from me? I have had such encouragements—

Plau. I have not been thought unworthy of 'em.

Nov. What? not like mine! Come to an eclaircissement, as I said.

Plau. Why, seriously then; she told me Viscountess sounded prettily.

Nov. And me, that Novel was a name she would sooner change hers for, than any title in England.

Plau. She has commended the softness and respectfulness of my behaviour.

Nov. She has praised the briskness of my raillery in all things, man.

Plau. The sleepiness of my eyes she liked.

Nov. Sleepiness! dulness, dulness. But the fierceness of mine she adored.

Plau. The brightness of my hair she liked.

Nov. Brightness! no the greasiness, I warrant! But the blackness and lustre of mine she admires.

Plau. The gentleness of my smile.

Nov. The subtilty of my leer.

Plau. The clearness of my complexion.

Nov. The redness of my lips.

Plau. The whiteness of my teeth.

Nov. My jaunty way of picking them.

Plau. The sweetness of my breath.

Nov. Ha! ha! nay there she abused you, 'tis plain; for you know what Manly said: the sweetness of your pulvillio she might mean; but for your breath! ha! ha! ha! Your breath is such, man, that nothing but tobacco can perfume; and your complexion nothing could mend but the small-pox.



CHAPTER IX.

Tom Brown—His Prose Works—Poetry—Sir Richard Blackmore—D'Urfey—Female Humorists—Carey.

Whether it was owing to the commotions of the Civil War in which "fears and jealousies had soured the people's blood, and politics and polemics had almost driven mirth and good humour out of the nation," or whether it was from a dearth of eminent talent, humour seems to have made little progress under the Restoration. The gaiety of the Merry Monarch and his companions had nothing intellectual in it, and although "Tom" Brown[61] tells us that "it was during the reign of Charles II. that learning in general flourished, and the Muses, like other ladies, met with the civilest sort of entertainment," his own works show that the best wits of the day could not soar much above the attempts of Sedley and Rochester. Had Brown not acquired in his day the character of a humorist, we should think that he equally well deserved that of a man of learning, for whereas he shows an acquaintance with the classics and modern languages, his writings, which are of considerable length, contain little Attic salt. He was born in 1663, the son of a substantial Shropshire farmer, and was sent to Christ Church, Oxford, where he became as remarkable for his quickness and proficiency, as for the irregularity of his conduct. On one occasion, owing to his having been guilty of some objectionable frolic, he was about to be expelled, when, upon his writing a penitential letter, the Dean, who seems to have known his talent, promised to forgive him on his translating extempore the epigram of Martial.

"Non amo te, Zabidi, nec possum dicere quare; Hoc tantum possum dicere non amo te."

The young delinquent replied in words now better known than the original,

"I do not love you, Dr. Fell, But why I cannot tell, But this I know full well, I do not love you, Dr. Fell."

At this period he occasionally indulged in such silly effusions as the "Adverbial Declaration," which he first wrote in Latin, on "Mother Warner's bellows at Oxford."

Brown was finally obliged to leave the University, and went up to London to seek his fortune. The unpromising and reckless spirit in which he set out, is probably reflected in one of his pieces entitled "A Dialogue between two Oxford scholars."

A. Well, I see thou art resolved to leave us. I will not say, "Go, and be hanged," but go and turn country parson.

B. That's almost as bad, as the world goes now. But thanks to my stars, I know a better trick than that.

A. It may be thou art fallen out with mankind, and intendest to turn quack; or as they call it in the country, doctor.

B. No such matter; the French can kill men fast enough, and for women thou knowest my kindness.

A. But some of them have lived too long; and there are others so miserable, that even compassion will incline thee to help them out of the world. I can assure thee 'tis a profitable calling; for whether thou dost kill or cure, thy fees will be put in thy hand.

B. Yes, when they are found. But, prithee, speak no more of it, for I am resolved against it.

A. What, then, art thou resolv'd for the law? Methinks thou should'st have too much University learning and wit for that profession—

B. And too much honesty. But I'll spare thee the pains of guessing, and tell thee in short what my condition is, and what I design. My portion is all spent—save fifty pounds; and with that I am resolved for London or some other wealthy place, where conventicles abound: and as a man of tender conscience and infinitely dissatisfied with several things in the Church of England, I will endeavour by some means or other to force myself into an acquaintance with some of their leading men, and more especially with some of the most zealous and wonderful women among them; and this point once gained, I doubt not, but before my stock is half spent, I shall receive a call to be pastor or holder-forth in some congregation or other—why dost smile?

A. At my friend's design. And I cannot but admire how it came into thy head. Thy ability to manage such a design I know very well; but how thou wilt dispense with the knavery of it, I am yet to learn.

B. That's a small matter. As the world goes one must practise a little knavery, or resolve to leave the world. Dost thou know that religious cheats are licensed by a law? and shall I live and die without taking advantage of it? Believe me, friend, Nature has fitted me pretty well to be one of these godly mountebanks, and a little art, together with a few months' conversation with that sort of people will supply all natural defects. Cannot I put on, when I please, a grave and serious countenance, and with head depending on one shoulder a little more than on the other, sigh for the iniquities of the time and corruptions of the Church? Cannot I wipe mine eyes with the fair pocket-cloth, as if I wept for all your abominations? Cannot I grieve in spirit as if ready to burst with grief and compassion. And cannot I likewise, when time serves, and company is disposed to be kindly affected with it, smile and fleer as takingly? And what hurt is there in this? Sure I may use my own face as I please.

We need scarcely say that Brown failed in his shrewd scheming; and he was soon fain to take the humble position of a schoolmaster at Kingston upon Thames, for which his acquirements qualified him. But his literary ambition would not allow him to remain long at this drudgery, and we soon find him wandering up again to town, where he was again unfortunate. At this time, men of letters expected little from the sale of books; but often obtained patrons who conferred valuable appointments upon them. Brown's temper and position rendered him ineligible for this sort of promotion. Not being a gentleman by birth, he had no good introductions, nor would he have been very acceptable in the houses of the great. His coarseness in writing—excessive even in that day—was probably reflected in his manners and language, and he had so little prudence that he ridiculed not only the clergy, but was always ready to lose a friend rather than a joke. Mere literary talent will not procure success in society.

Brown wrote a variety of essays, generally rather admonitory than humorous. His "Pocket-book of Common Places" resembles a collection of Proverbs or good sayings. It commences,

"To see the number of churches and conventicles open every Sunday, a stranger would fancy London all religion. But to see the number of taverns, ale-houses, &c., he would imagine Bacchus was the only God that is worshipped there. If no trades were permitted but those which were useful and necessary, Lombard Street, Cheapside, and the Exchange might go a-begging. For more are fed by our vanities and vices than by our virtues, and the necessities of Nature."

But his favourite and characteristic mode of writing was under the form of letters. We have "Letters Serious and Comical," "Diverting Letters to Gentlemen." One letter is to four ladies with whom the author was in love at the same time.

He probably took his idea of "Letters from the Dead to the Living," from Lucian. He never spares Dissenters, and comically makes a Quaker relate his warm reception in the lower world:—

"A parcel of black spiritual Janissaries saluted me as intimately as if I had been resident in these parts during the term of an apprenticeship; at last, up comes a swinging, lusty, overgrown, austere devil, armed with an ugly weapon like a country dung-fork, looking as sharp about the eyes as a Wood Street officer, and seemed to deport himself after such a manner that discovered he had ascendancy over the rest of the immortal negroes, and as I imagined, so 'twas quickly evident; for as soon as he espied me leering between the diminutive slabbering-bib and the extensive rims of my coney-wood umbrella, he chucks me under the chin with his ugly toad-coloured paw, that stunk as bad of brimstone as a card-match new-lighted, saying, 'How now, Honest Jones, I am glad to see thee on this side the river Styx, prithee, hold up thy head, and don't be ashamed, thou art not the first Quaker by many thousands that has sworn allegiance to my government; besides, thou hast been one of my best benefactors on earth, and now thou shalt see, like a grateful devil, I'll reward thee accordingly.' 'I thank your excellence kindly,' said I, 'pray, what is it your infernal protectorship will be pleased to confer upon me?' To which his mighty ugliness replied, 'Friend Naylor, I know thou hast been very industrious to make many people fools in the upper world, which has highly conduced to my interest.' Then turning to a pigmy aerial, who attended his commands as a running footman, 'Haste, Numps,' says he, 'and fetch me the painted coat,' which was no sooner brought, but by Lucifer's command I was shoved into it, neck and shoulders, by half a dozen swarthy valets de chambre, and in a minute's time found myself tricked up in a rainbow-coloured coat, like a merry-Andrew. 'Now, friend,' says the ill-favoured prince of all the hell-born scoundrels, 'for the many fools you have made above, I now ordain you mine below;' so all the reward truly of my great services was to be made Lucifer's jester, or fool in ordinary to the devil; a pretty post, thought I, for a man of my principles, that from a Quaker in the outer world I should be metamorphosed into a jack-adam in the lower one."

The occupation of people in the Nether world is described after Rabelais, thus:—"Cardinal Mazarin keeps a nine-holes; Mary of Medicis foots stockings; and Katharine of Sweden cries 'Two bunches a penny card-matches—two bunches a penny!' Henry the Fourth of France carries a raree-show, and Mahomet sells mussels. Seneca keeps a fencing-school, and Julius Caesar a two-penny ordinary."

At the present day it is rather amusing to read, "A Comical View of London and Westminster"—a weekly prophecy intended to ridicule the increasing use of barometers and other scientific instruments for predicting changes of weather.

"Wednesday October 16th. Cloudy, foggy weather at Garraway's and Jonathan's, and at most coffee-houses at about twelve. Crowds of people gather at the Exchange by one; disperse by three. Afternoon, noisy and bloody at her Majesty's bear-garden at Hockly-in-the-Hole. Night—sober with broken chaplains and others that have neither credit nor money. This week's transactions censured by the virtuosos at Child's from morning till night.

"Thursday 17th. Coffee and water-gruel to be had at the Rainbow and Nando's at four. Hot furmity at Bride-bridge at seven. Justice to be had at Doctor's Commons, when people can get it. A lecture at Pinner's hall at ten. Excellent pease-pottage and tripe in Baldwin's Gardens at twelve. A constable and two watchmen killed, or near being so in Westminster; whether by a lord or lord's footman, planets don't determine.

"Friday. Damsels whipped for their good nature at Bridewell about ten. Several people put in fear of their lives by their god-fathers at the Old Bailey at eleven. Great destruction of Herrings at one. Much swearing at three among the horse-coursers at Smithfield; if the oaths were registered as well as the horses, good Lord, what a volume 'twould make! Several tails turned up at St. Paul's School, Merchant Taylors, &c. for their repetitioning. Night very drunk, as the two former.

"Saturday 19th. Twenty butchers' wives in Leadenhall and Newgate markets overtaken with sherry and sugar by eight in the morning. Shop-keepers walk out at nine to count the trees in Moorfields, and avoid duns. People's houses cleansed in the afternoon, but their consciences we don't know when. Evening pretty sober.

"Sunday. Beggars take up their posts in Lincoln's Inn Fields and other places by seven, that they may be able to praise God in capon and March beer at night. Great jingling of bells all over the city from eight to nine. Parish clerks liquor their throats plentifully at eight, and chaunt out Hopkins most melodiously about ten. Sextons, men of great authority most part of the day, whip dogs out of the church for being obstreperous. Great thumping and dusting of the cushion at Salter's Hall about eleven; one would almost think the man was in earnest he lays so furiously about him. A most refreshing smell of garlic in Spittlefield's and Soho at twelve. Country fellows staring at the two wooden men at St. Dunstan's from one to two, to see how notably they strike the quarters. The great point of Predestination settled in Russell-court about three; and the people go home as wise as they came. Afternoon sleepy in most churches. Store of handkerchiefs stolen at St. Paul's. Night, not so sober as might be wished...."

The following are some of the best specimens of Brown's poems—squibs on the fashions and occurrences of the day—

"The emblem of the nation, so grave and precise, On the emblem of wisdom has laid an excise; Pray tell me, grave sparks, and your answer don't smother, Why one representative taxes another? The Commons on salt a new impost have laid To tax wisdom too, they most humbly are pray'd; For tell me ye patrons of woollen and crape, Why the type should be fined and the substance escape?"

A song in ridicule of a famous musician, who was caught serenading his mistress with his bass-viol on a very frosty night:—

Look down, fair garreteer bestow One glance upon your swain, Who stands below in frost and snow. And shaking sings in pain.

Thaw with your eyes the frozen street, Or cool my hot desire, I burn within, altho' my feet Are numbed for want of fire. Chorus.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, Come, come, come, come, My dearest be not coy, For if you are (zit, zan, zounds) I Must without your favour die.

The sentiment in the following is easily appreciated, but is there not also some slight essence of humour?

ON FLOWERS IN A LADY'S BOSOM.

Behold the promised land, where pleasures flow! See how the milk-white hills do gently rise, And beat the silken skies! Behold the valley spread with flowers below! The happy flowers, how they allure my sense! The fairer soil gives them the nobler hue Her breath perfumes them too: Rooted i' th' heart they seem to spring from thence, Tell, tell me why, thou fruitful virgin breast, Why should so good a soil lie unpossest?

Brown's humour partook of the coarseness of most of the writers of his times, and scandalized the more religious and decent muse of Sir Richard Blackmore, who endeavoured to correct this general failing in his "Satire upon Wit." This called forth many sarcastic replies, and critiques on Blackmore's works; such as Brown's "Epigram occasioned by the news that Sir R——d B——e's paraphrase upon Job was in the Press—"

"When Job contending with the devil I saw It did my wonder, not my pity draw; For I concluded that without some trick, A saint at any time could match old Nick. Next came a fiercer fiend upon his back, I mean his spouse, stunning him with her clack, But still I could not pity him, as knowing A crab tree cudgel soon would send her going. But when the quack engaged with Job I spy'd, The Lord have mercy on poor Job I cry'd. What spouse and Satan did attempt in vain The quack will compass with his murdering pen, And on a dunghill leave poor Job again, With impious doggrel he'll pollute his theme, And make the saint against his will blaspheme."

Upon the knighting of Sir R——d B——e.

"Be not puffed up with knighthood, friend of mine, A merry prince once knighted a Sir-loin, And if to make comparisons were safe An ox deserves it better then a calf. Thy pride and state I value not a rush Thou that art now Knight Phyz, wast once King Ush."

Blackmore, who was successively physician to William III. and Queen Anne, had been once a schoolmaster.

Tom Brown died at the early age of forty. His life was full of misfortunes, but we can scarcely say that he was unhappy, for nothing could conquer his buoyant spirit. At one time he was actually in prison, for what was deemed a libellous attack, but we are told that he obtained his "enlargement" from it, upon his writing the following Pindaric Petition to the Lords in Council.

"Should you order Tho' Brown To be whipped thro' the town For scurvy lampoon, Grave Southern and Crown Their pens wou'd lay down; Even D'Urfey himself, and such merry fellows That put their whole trust in tunes and trangdillioes May hang up their harps and themselves on the willows; For if poets are punished for libelling trash John Dryden, tho' sixty, may yet fear the lash. No pension, no praise, Much birch without bays, These are not right ways Our fancy to raise, To the writing of plays And prologues so witty That jirk at the city, And now and then hit Some spark in the pit, So hard and so pat Till he hides with his hat His monstrous cravat. The pulpit alone Can never preach down The fops of the town Then pardon Tho' Brown And let him write on; But if you had rather convert the poor sinner His foul writing mouth may be stopped with a dinner. Give him clothes to his back, some meat and some drink Then clap him close prisoner without pen and ink And your petitioner shall neither pray, write, or think."

Unfortunately his pecuniary difficulties were not removed, but accompanied him through life. What a strange mixture of gaiety, learning and destitution is brought before us, when on a clamorons dun vowing she would not leave him until she had her money, he exclaimed in an extempore version of two lines of Martial—

"Sextus, thou nothing ow'st, nothing I say! He something owes, that something has to pay."

In an imitation of another epigram of Martial he gives an account of the unpromising position of his affairs:—

"Without formal petition Thus stands my condition, I am closely blocked up in a garret, Where I scribble and smoke, And sadly invoke The powerful assistance of claret. Four children and a wife 'Tis hard on my life, Besides myself and a Muse To be all clothed and fed, Now the times are so dead, By my scribbling of doggrel and news; And what I shall do, I'm a wretch if I know So hard is the fate of a poet, I must either turn rogue, Or what's as bad—pedagogue, And so drudge like a thing that has no wit."

How much are we indebted to the pecuniary embarrassments of poets for the interest we take in them. Who could read sentiment written by a man faring sumptuously every day? Towards the end of his life, Brown became acquainted with Lord Dorset, and we read of his once dining with that nobleman and finding a note for fifty pounds under his plate. Tom Brown seems to have regarded with great contempt his contemporary Tom D'Urfey—best known as a composer of sonnets—words and music. He addresses to him "upon his incomparable ballads, called by him Pindaric Odes," the following acrimonious lines—

"Thou cur, half French half English breed, Thou mongrel of Parnassus, To think tall lines, run up to seed, Should ever tamely pass us.

"Thou write Pindaricks and be damned Write epigrams for cutlers, None with thy lyricks can be shammed But chambermaids and butlers.

"In t'other world expect dry blows; No tears can wash thy stains out, Horace will pluck thee by the nose And Pindar beat thy brains out."

Such unworthy attacks are not unfrequently made by ill-natured literary men. Brown was no doubt jealous of his rival, but Addison's generous heart formed a very different estimate of D'Urfey's talent. He says that after having "made the world merry he hopes they will make him easy" in his pecuniary affairs, for that although "Tom" had written more Odes than Horace, and four times as many Comedies as Terence, he was reduced to great difficulties by a set of men who had furnished him with the accommodations of life, and would not, as we say, "be paid with a song." "As my friend," he continues, "after the manner of all the old lyrics, accompanies his works with his own voice, he has been the delight of the most polite companies and conversations from the beginning of King Charles II.'s reign to our present times. Many an honest gentleman has got a reputation in his country by pretending to have been in company with Tom D'Urfey." "I myself remember King Charles II. leaning on Tom D'Urfey's shoulder more than once, and humming over a song with him. It is certain that monarch was not a little supported by 'Joy to great Caesar,' which gave the Whigs such a blow as they were not able to recover that whole reign. My friend afterwards attacked Popery with the same success—he has made use of Italian tunes and Sonatas for promoting the Protestant interest, and turned a considerable part of the Pope's music against himself."

Little need be added to this eloquent commendation, except that it was written to obtain patronage for a benefit in behalf of an aged poet and friend. D'Urfey wrote through the reigns of Charles II., James II., William and Anne, into that of George I. His plays, which were thought attractive at the time, contained much that was gross, and were deficient in humour and power. Thus, they were soon forgotten, and neither he nor his rival Brown were able to reach a point, which would give them a permanent position in literature.

The following description would have led us to expect something better of him, at least in farcical talent[62]—

"Mr. D'Urfey generally writes state-plays, and is wonderfully useful to the world in such representations. This method is the same that was used by the old Athenians, to laugh out of countenance or promote opinions among the people. My friend has therefore against this play is acted for his own benefit, made two dances which may be also of an universal benefit. In the first he has represented absolute power in the person of a tall man with a hat and feathers, who gives his first minister who stands just before him a huge kick; the minister gives the kick to the next before; and so to the end of the stage. In this moral and practical jest you are made to understand that there is in an absolute government no gratification, but giving the kick you receive from one above you to one below you. This is performed to a grave and melancholy air; but on a sudden the tune moves quicker, and the whole company fall into a circle and take hands; and then, at a certain sharp note, they move round and kick as kick can. This latter performance he makes to be the representation of a free state; where, if you all mind your steps, you may go round and round very jollily, with a motion pleasant to yourselves and them you dance with: nay, if you put yourselves out, at the worst you only kick and are kicked by friends and equals."

But D'Urfey's short songs and poems were his most successful productions—sometimes he breathed martial strains in honour of Marlborough's victories, sometimes formed adulatory addresses to members of the Royal Family. His "Pills to purge Melancholy," at times approached humour. The following is taken from the "Banquet of the Gods," and refers to Hermes visiting the Infernal regions—

"Fierce Cerberus, who the gate did keep, First with a sop he lays asleep, Then forward goes to th' room of State, Where on a lofty throne of jet, The grizly King of Terrors sate, Discoursing with his Proserpine On things infernally divine. To him the winged Ambassador His message tells, then adds to her How much her mother Ceres mourns In Sicily, till she returns; That now she hoped (the long half-year Being ended) she would see her there, And that instead of shrieks and howls, The harmony of par-boiled souls, She'd now divert with tunes more gay, And go with her to see a play."

D'Urfey often introduces fresh and pleasing glimpses of country life. He is more happy in this direction than in his humour, which generally drifted away into maudlin and indelicate love-making between pseudo-Roman Corydons and Phyllises. The following effusion is very characteristic of the times,—

"One April morn, when from the sea Phoebus was just appearing! Damon and Celia young and gay, Long settled Love indearing; Met in a grove to vent their spleen, On parents unrelenting; He bred of Tory race had been, She of the tribe Dissenting.

"Celia, whose eyes outshone the God, Newly the hills adorning, Told him mamma wou'd be stark mad, She missing prayers that morning; Damon, his arm around her waist, Swore tho' nought should 'em sunder, Shou'd my rough dad know how I'm blest, T'would make him roar like thunder.

"Great ones whom proud ambition blinds, By faction still support it, Or where vile money taints the mind, They for convenience court it; But mighty Love, that scorns to show, Party should raise his glory; Swears he'll exalt a vassal true, Let it be Whig or Tory."

The following is a song from "The Country Miss and her Furbelow."

"Celladon, when spring came on, Woo'd Sylvia in a grove, Both gay and young, and still he sung The sweet Delights of Love. Wedded joys in girls and boys, And pretty chat of this and that, The honey kiss, and charming bliss That crowns the marriage bed; He snatched her hand, she blushed and fanned And seemed as if afraid, 'Forbear!' she crys, 'youre fawning lyes, I've vowed to die a maid.'

"Celladon at that began To talk of apes in hell, And what was worse, the odious curse Of growing old and stale. Loss of bloom, when wrinkles come, And offers kind when none will mind, The rosie joy, and sparkling eye Grown faded and decayed, At which, when known, she changed her tone, And to the shepherd said, 'Dear swain, give o'er, I'll think once more, Before I'll die a maid.'"

D'Urfey was a disciple of the "gentle art." Addison says "I must not omit that my friend angles for a trout, the best of any man in England. Mayflies come in late this season, or I myself should have had one of his hooking." We can thus understand his enthusiastic commendation of fishing—

"Of all the world's enjoyments, That ever valu'd were, There's none of our employments, With fishing can compare; Some preach, some write, Some swear, some fight, All golden lucre courting, But fishing still bears off the bell For profit or for sporting.

"Chorus.—Then who a jolly fisherman, a fisherman will be? His throat must wet, Just like his net, To keep out cold at sea.

"The country squire loves running A pack of well-mouthed hounds, Another fancies gunning For wild ducks in his grounds; This hunts, that fowls, This hawks, Dick bowls, No greater pleasure wishing, But Tom that tells what sport excels, Gives all the praise to fishing. Then who, &c.

"A good Westphalia gammon Is counted dainty fare; But what is't to a salmon Just taken from the Ware; Wheat-ears and quailes, Cocks, snipes and rayles, Are prized while season's lasting, But all must stoop to crawfish soup, Or I've no skill in casting. Then who, &c.

"And tho' some envious wranglers, To jeer us will make bold, And laugh at patient anglers, Who stand so long i' th' cold; They wait on Miss, We wait on this, And think it easie labour; And if you know, fish profits too, Consult our Holland neighbour. Then who, &c."

D'Urfey was a favourite with Queen Anne, and many of his poems were written at Knole, Penshurst, and other seats of the nobility.

Up to the time we have now reached, we have not had the opportunity of enrolling the name of a lady among our humorists. Although in society so many of the fair sparkle and overflow with quick and graceful raillery, we find that when they come to impress their thoughts upon paper they are invariably sentimental. Authors are often a contrast to their writings, but no doubt the female mind is generally of a poetical complexion. Thus, in the early part of the last century we meet with only three lady humorists, Mrs. Manley, mostly noted for her scandalous stories: Mrs. Behn, whose humour was crude, chiefly that of rough harlequinade and gross immorality, and Mrs. Centlivre. Early opportunities of study were afforded to the last in a remarkable way. When flying from the anger of her stepmother, she met Anthony Hammond, then at Cambridge, and went to live with him at the University, disguised in boy's clothes. Remarkable for her beauty, she married, when only fifteen, a nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, and upon his death at sixteen, a Captain Carrol, who was killed in a duel. It was then partly owing to pecuniary embarrassments that she went on the stage and wrote plays—the first of her dramas appearing in her twentieth year. So great was the prejudice then against lady writers, that at her publisher's suggestion her first production was anonymous. But those, who began by deriding her pretensions, ended by acknowledging her merit; she became a great favourite and constant writer for the stage, and an intimate friend of Farquhar and Steele. There is an absence of indelicacy in her plays, but not a little farcical humour, especially in the character of "Marplot" in "The Busybody," and of rich "Mrs. Dowdy" with her vulgarity and admirers in "The Platonic Lady." She often adopts the tone of the day in ridiculing learned ladies. In one place she speaks as if even at that time the founding of a college for ladies was in contemplation—

Lady Reveller. Why in such haste, Cousin Valeria?

Valeria. Oh! dear Cousin, don't stop me; I shall lose the finest insect for dissection, a huge flesh fly, which Mr. Lovely sent me just now, and opening the box to try the experiment, away it flew.

Lady. I am glad the poor fly escaped; will you never be weary of these whimsies?

Val. Whimsies! Natural Philosophy a whimsy! Oh! the unlearned world!

Lady. Ridiculous learning!

Mrs. Alpiew. Ridiculous indeed for women. Philosophy suits our sex as jack-boots would do.

Val. Custom would bring them as much in fashion as furbelows, and practice would make us as valiant as e'er a hero of them all; the resolution is in the mind. Nothing can enslave that.

Lady. My stars! This girl will be mad—that's certain.

Val. Mad! So Nero banished philosophers from Rome, and the first discoverer of the Antipodes was condemned for a heretic.

Lady. In my conscience, Alpiew, this pretty creature's spoiled. Well, cousin, might I advise you should bestow your fortune in founding a college for the study of philosophy, where none but women should be admitted; and to immortalize your name, they should be called Valerians;—ha! ha! ha!

Val. What you make a jest of, I'd execute, were fortune in my power.

Her notices of married life are interesting, as she had great experience, having taken for her third husband Mr. Centlivre, cook to Queen Anne. In "The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret," we have the following dialogue upon this important subject:

Col. Britton. 'Egad, I think I must e'en marry, and sacrifice my body for the good of my soul; wilt thou recommend me to a wife, then—one that is willing to exchange her moydores for English Liberty—ha friend?

Fred. She must be very handsome, I suppose?

Col. The handsomer the better, but be sure she has a nose.

Fred. Ay! ay! and some gold.

Col. Oh, very much gold. I shall never be able to swallow the matrimonial pill, if it be not well gilded.

Fred. Puh, beauty will make it slide down nimbly.

Col. At first, perhaps it may, but the second or third dose will choke me. I confess, Frederick, women are the prettiest playthings in nature; but gold, substantial gold gives 'em the air, the mien, the shape, the grace and beauty of a goddess.

Fred. And has not gold the same divinity in their eyes, Colonel?

Col. Too often—money is the very god of marriage, the poets dress him in a saffron robe by which they figure out the golden Deity, and his lighted torch blazons those mighty charms, which encourage us to list under his banner.

In "The Artifice" we have a matrimonial contention:

Lucy. If you two are one flesh, how come you to have different minds, pray, Sir?

Watchit. Because the mind has nothing to do with the flesh.

Mrs. W. That's your mistake, Sir; the body is governed by the mind. So much philosophy I know.

Wat. Yes, yes; I believe you understand natural philosophy very well, wife; I doubt not the flesh has got the better of the spirit in you. Look ye, madam! every man's wife is his vineyard; you are mine, therefore I wall you in. Ods budikins, ne'er a coxcomb in the kingdom shall plant as much as a primrose in my ground.

Mrs. W. I am sure your management will produce nothing but thorns.

Wat. Nay, every wife is a thorn in her husband's side. Your whole sex is a kind of sweet-briar, and he who meddles with it is sure to prick his fingers.

Lucy. That is when you handle us too roughly.

Mrs. W. You are a kind of rue: neither good for smell nor taste.

Wat. But very wholesome, wife.

Mrs. W. Ay, so they say of all bitters, yet I would not be obliged to feed on gentian and wormwood.

Some subjects are peculiarly suitable for light female humour. In "The Beau's Duel, or a Soldier for the Ladies," we have the following soliloquy by Sir William Mode, a fop, as he stands in his night-gown looking into his glass:

This rising early is the most confounded thing on earth, nothing so destructive to the complexion. Blister me, how I shall look in the side box to-night, wretchedly upon my soul. [looking in the glass all the while.] Yet it adds something of a languishing air, not altogether unbecoming, and by candle light may do mischief; but I must stay at home to recover some colour, and that may be as well laid on too; so 'tis resolved I will go. Oh 'tis unspeakable pleasure to be in the side box, or bow'd to from the stage, and be distinguished by the beaux of quality, to have a lord fly into one's arms, and kiss one as amorously as a mistress. Then tell me aloud, that he dined with his Grace and that he and the ladies were so fond of me, they talked of nothing else. Then says I, "My lord, his Grace does me too much honour." Then, my lord, "This play 'tis not worth seeing; we havn't been seen at t'other house to-night; and the ladies will be disappointed not to receive a bow from Sir William." "He, he, he," says I, "my lord, I wait upon your lordship." "Then," says my lord, "lead the way Sir William." "O, pray my lord, I beg your lordship's pardon." "Nay, Sir William." "Pray my lord," (Enter La Riviere, Sir W's valet). "Pray Sir William." "Pray my lord."

(As he says this several times La Riviere enters behind him, but as he designs to pass by him, is still prevented by his turning from one side to t'other, as he acts himself for the lord.)

La Riv. Hey! What the devil is he conjuring and talking with invisible lords? He's in his airs, some pleasing imagination hurries him out of his senses. But I must to my cue. Hem! hem! Sir, dere be one two gentlemen below come to wait upon you dis morning, sal I show dem up?

Sir. W. No, my lord, by no means, I know better things—

La Riv. What then am I a lord? Egad I never knew my quality before. (Aside.)

Sir W. Pshaw! this blockhead has rous'd me from the prettiest entertainment in the world (Aside). Well, what would you, Sir?

La Riv. I voo'd tell you, Sir, dere be one two gentlemen wait upon you.

Sir W. And let 'em wait till I have done. I had a thousand fine things to say on that occasion, but this rude fellow has frightened 'em all out of my head. (Aside.) Well, since my better diversion is over, show 'em up.

In "The Wonder" we have an amusing scene between Lissardo, servant to Felix, and Flora, maid to Violante. The former had been very sweet upon the latter—telling her that his "chaps watered for a kiss," and that "he would revenge himself on her lips;" but a change comes over him on his being presented by Violante with a ring to be worn for his master's sake.

Lissardo. I shall, Madam, (puts on the ring.) Methinks a diamond ring is a vast addition to the little finger of a gentleman. (Admiring his hand.)

Flora. That ring must be mine. Well, Lissardo, what haste you make to pay off arrears now? Look how the fellow stands!

Liss. Egad! methinks I have a very pretty hand—and very white—and the shape! Faith! I never minded it so much before! In my opinion it is a very fine shaped hand, and becomes a diamond ring as well as the first grandee's in Portugal.

Flo. The man's transported! Is this your love? This your impatience?

Liss. (Takes snuff.) Now in my mind, I take snuff with a very jaunty air. Well, I am persuaded I want nothing but a coach and a title to make me a very fine gentleman.

(Struts about.)

Flo. Sweet Mr. Lissardo, (curtseying,) if I may presume to speak to you, without affronting your little finger—

Liss. Do so, Madam, I ask your pardon. Is it to me or to the ring you direct your discourse, Madam?

Flo. Madam! Good lack! how much a diamond ring improves one!

Liss. Why, tho' I say it, I can carry myself as well as anybody. But what wert thou going to say, child?

Flo. Why, I was going to say, that I fancy you had best let me keep that ring; it will be a very pretty wedding-ring.

Liss. Would it not? Humph! Ah! But—but—but—I believe I shan't marry yet a while.

Flo. You shan't, you say; very well! I suppose you design that ring for Inis?

Liss. No, no, I never bribe an old acquaintance. Perhaps I might let it sparkle in the eyes of a stranger a little, till we come to a right understanding. But then, like all other mortal things, it would return from whence it came.

Flo. Insolent! Is that your manner of dealing?

Liss. With all but thee—kiss me, you little rogue, you.

(Hugging her.)

Flo. Little rogue! Prithee, fellow, don't be so familiar, (pushing him away,) if I mayn't keep your ring, I can keep my kisses.

Liss. You can, you say! Spoke with the air of a chambermaid.

Flo. Reply'd with the spirit of a serving-man.

D'Urfey is said to have been the first, and Carey the last of those who at this period united the professions of musician, dramatist and song writer. The latter was the natural son of the Marquis of Halifax, who presented the crown to William III. He wrote the popular song "Sally in our Alley," and ridiculed Ambrose Philips in a poem called "Namby Pamby." Overcome either by embarrassed circumstances, or the envy of rivals, he died by his own hand in 1743. He has much that is clever mingled with extravagant fancies. Most of his songs are amorous, though never indelicate. Some are for drinking bouts.

"Come all ye jolly Bucchanals That love to tope good wine, Let's offer up a hogshead Unto our master's shrine, Come, let us drink and never shrink, For I'll tell you the reason why, It's a great sin to leave a house till we've drunk the cellar dry. In times of old I was a fool, I drank the water clear, But Bacchus took me from that rule, He thought 'twas too severe; He filled a bumper to the brim And bade me take a sup, But had it been a gallon pot, By Jove I'd tossed it up. And ever since that happy time, Good wine has been my cheer, Now nothing puts me in a swoon But water or small beer. Then let us tope about, my lads, And never flinch nor fly, But fill our skins brimfull of wine, And drain the bottles dry."

Many of his plays were burlesque operas, introducing songs. In one of them the "Dragon of Wantley," we have—

"Zeno, Plato, Aristotle, All were lovers of the bottle; Poets, Painters, and Musicians, Churchmen, Lawyers, and Physicians; All admire a pretty lass, All require a cheerful glass, Every pleasure has its season, Love and drinking are no treason."

He was fond of jocose love-ditties, such as:

"Pigs shall not be So fond as we; We will out-coo the turtle-dove, Fondly toying, Still enjoying, Sporting sparrows we'll outlove."

Among his successful farces is the well-known Chrononhotonthologos written to ridicule some bombastic tragedies of the day. Chrononhotonthologos is king of Queerummania, Bombardinian is his general, while his courtiers are Aldiborontiphoscophornio and Rigdum Funnidos. The following gives a good specimen of his ballad style.

"O! London is a dainty place, A great and gallant city, For all the streets are paved with gold, And all the folks are witty.

"And there's your lords and ladies fine, That ride in coach-and-six, Who nothing drink but claret wine, And talk of politicks.

"And there's your beauxs with powdered clothes, Bedaubed from head to shin; Their pocket-holes adorned with gold, But not one sous within."



CHAPTER X.

Vanbrugh—Colley Cibber—Farquhar.

Vanbrugh—a man of Dutch extraction as his name suggests—was one of the few whom literature led, though indirectly, to fortune. He became first known as a playwriter, but also having studied architecture conceived the idea of combining his two arts by the construction of a grand theatre on the site of the present Haymarket Opera House. The enterprise was doomed to be one of the many failures from which that ill-starred spot has become remarkable, and Vanbrugh after vainly attempting to support his undertaking by the exertion of all his dramatic power, determined to quit literature altogether, and devoted himself to the more remunerative profession. In this he was successful—he built Blenheim, Castle Howard, and half-a-dozen of the stately halls of England. We may suppose that he acquired wealth, for he built several houses for himself, and in them seems to have exhibited his whimsical fancy. One which he built near Whitehall was called by Swift "a thing like a goose pie," and he called that which he built for himself, near Greenwich, "the mince pie."

There is a considerable amount of rough humour in Vanbrugh, and some indelicacy, more like that of Aristophanes than of English writers. We find one gentleman calling another "Old Satan," and fashionable ladies indulging freely in oaths. A nobleman tells a lady, before her husband, that he is desperately in love with her, "strike me speechless;" to which she replies by giving him a box on the ear, and her husband by drawing his sword. Everything bespeaks a low and primitive state of society; but we must also remember that while something strong was required, it was not then thought objectionable that the scenes of the drama should be very different from those of real life.

The following are from the "Relapse," the first play that made Vanbrugh known, and which we might therefore expect to be one of his most humorous comedies. Here we have a good caricature of the fops of the day. In the first, Lord Foppington in his fashionable twang, gives us his views, and sketches his mode of life.

Amanda. Well I must own I think books the best entertainment in the world.

Lord F. I am so much of your ladyship's mind, madam, that I have a private gallery where I walk sometimes, which is furnished with nothing but books and looking glasses. Madam, I have gilded 'em so prettily, before G—, it is the most entertaining thing in the world to walk and look upon 'em.

Amanda. Nay, I love a neat library too, but 'tis I think the inside of a book should recommend it most to us.

Lord F. That, I must confess, I am not altogether so fond of. For to my mind the inside of a book is to entertain oneself with the forced product of another man's brain. Now, I think a man of quality and breeding may be much better diverted with the natural sprouts of his own. But to say the truth, madam, let a man love reading never so well, when once he comes to know this town, he finds so many better ways of passing away the four-and-twenty hours that 'twere ten thousand pities he should consume his time in that. For example, madam, my life, my life, madam, is a perpetual stream of pleasure that glides through such a variety of entertainments, I believe the wisest of our ancestors never had the least conception of any of 'em. I rise, madam, about ten o'clock. I don't rise sooner because it is the worst thing in the world for the complexion, not that I pretend to be a beau, but a man must endeavour to look wholesome, lest he make so nauseous a figure in the side box, the ladies should be compelled to turn their eyes upon the play. So at ten o'clock I say I rise. Now, if I find it a good day I resolve to take a turn in the park, and see the fine women; so huddle on my clothes and get dressed by one. If it be nasty weather I take a turn in the chocolate house, where as you walk, madam, you have the prettiest prospect in the world; you have looking glasses all round you. But I'm afraid I tire the company.

Berinthia. Not at all; pray go on.

Lord F. Why then, ladies, from thence I go to dinner at Lacket's, where you are so nicely and delicately served that, stab my vitals! they shall compose you a dish no bigger than a saucer, shall come to fifty shillings. Between eating my dinner (and washing my mouth, ladies) I spend my time till I go to the play, when till nine o'clock I entertain myself with looking upon the company; and usually dispose of one hour more in leading them out. So there's twelve of the four-and-twenty pretty well over. The other twelve, madam, are disposed of in two articles, in the first four I toast myself drunk, and t'other eight I sleep myself sober again. Thus, ladies, you see my life is an eternal round O of delight.

Lord Foppington's interview with his Court artists is well described—

Tom Fashion. There's that fop now, has not by nature wherewithal to move a cook-maid, and by that time these fellows have done with him, egad he shall melt down a countess! But now for my reception; I'll engage it shall be as cold a one as a courtier's to his friend, who comes to put him in mind of his promise.

Lord F. (to his tailor.) Death and eternal tortures! Sir, I say the packet's too high by a foot.

Tailor. My lord, if it had been an inch lower it would not have held your lordship's packet-handkerchief.

Lord F. Rat my packet-handkerchief! have not I a page to carry it? You may make him a packet up to his chin a purpose for it; but I will not have mine come so near my face.

Tailor. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lordship's fancy.

Lord F. Look you, Sir, I shall never be reconciled to this nauseous packet, therefore pray get me another suit with all manner of expedition, for this is my eternal salvation. Mrs. Calico, are not you of my mind?

Mrs. Cal. O, directly, my lord! It can never be too low.

Lord F. You are positively in the right on't, for the packet becomes no part of the body but the knee.

(Exit tailor.)

Mrs. Cal. I hope your lordship is pleased with your steenkirk.

Lord F. In love with it, stap my vitals! bring your bill, you shall be paid to-morrow.

Mrs. C. I humbly thank your honour. (Exit.)

Lord F. Hark thee, shoemaker! these shoes an't ugly but they don't fit me.

Shoemaker. My lord, methinks they fit you very well.

Lord F. They hurt me just below the instep.

Shoe. (feeling his foot) My lord, they don't hurt you there.

Lord F. I tell thee they pinch me execrably.

Shoe. My lord, if they pinch you I'll be bound to be hanged, that's all.

Lord F. Why wilt thou undertake to persuade me that I cannot feel?

Shoe. Your lordship may please to feel what you think fit; but the shoe does not hurt you. I think I understand my trade.

Lord F. Now by all that's great and powerful thou art an incomprehensible coxcomb! but thou makest good shoes and so I'll bear with thee.

Tom Fashion personates his brother, Lord Foppington, and goes down to the country seat of Sir Tunbelly Clumpsey, in hope of marrying his rich daughter. The old Squire at first turns out to meet him with guns and pitchforks, but changes to the utmost servility on hearing that he is a lord. It is now Tom's object to have the marriage ceremony performed before he is discovered.

Fashion. Your father, I suppose you know, has resolved to make me happy in being your husband, and I hope I may depend upon your consent to perform what he desires.

Miss Hoyden. Sir, I never disobey my father in anything but eating of green gooseberries.

Fash. So good a daughter must needs be an admirable wife; I am therefore impatient till you are mine, and hope you will so far consider the violence of my love as not to defer my happiness so long as your father designs it.

Miss H. Pray, my lord, how long is that?

Fash. Madam, a thousand years—a whole week.

Miss H. A week! why I shall be an old woman by that time.

Fash. And I an old man.

Miss H. Why I thought it was to-morrow morning as soon as I was up, I am sure nurse told me so.

Fash. And it shall be to-morrow morning still, if you'll consent.

Miss H. If I'll consent! Why I thought I was to obey you as my husband.

Fash. That's when we're married, till then I am to obey you.

Miss H. Why then if we are to take it by turns it's the same thing. I'll obey you now, and when we are married you shall obey me.

Fash. With all my heart; but I doubt we must get nurse on our side, or we shall hardly prevail with the chaplain.

Miss H. O Lord, I can tell you a way how to persuade her to anything.

Fash. How's that?

Miss H. Why tell her she's a wholesome comely woman, and give her half-a-crown.

Fash. Nay, if that will do, she shall have half a score of them.

Miss H. O gemini! for half that she'd marry you herself. I'll run and call her.

Fash. So matters go swimmingly. This is a rare girl i' faith. I shall have a fine time on't with her in London, I'm much mistaken if she don't prove a March hare all the year round. What a scampering chase will she on't, when she finds the whole kennel of beaux at her tail! hey to the park, and the play, and the church and the devil; she'll show them sport, I'll warrant 'em. But no matter, she brings me an estate that will afford me a separate maintenance.

The following from "The Provoked Husband," gives a good specimen of social hypocrisy.

Servant. Madam, here's my Lady Fanciful to wait upon your ladyship.

Lady Brute. Shield me, kind heaven! what an inundation of impertinence is here coming upon us!

At the end of this unwelcome visit, we have the following hit at the ceremonious politeness then fashionable.

Lady B. What going already, madam.

Lady Fan. I must beg you excuse me this once, for really I have eighteen visits to return this afternoon. So you see I am importuned by the women as well as by the men.

Bel. (aside). And she's quits with 'em both.

Lady F. Nay, you shan't go one step out of the room.

Lady B. Indeed, I'll wait upon you down.

Lady F. No sweet, Lady Brute, you know I swoon at ceremony.

Lady B. Pray give me leave.

Lady F. You know I wont.

Lady B. Indeed I must.

Lady F. Indeed you shan't.

Lady B. Indeed I will.

Lady F. Indeed you shan't.

Lady B. Indeed I will.

Lady F. Indeed you shan't, indeed, indeed, indeed you shan't. (Exit running.)

The aversions and disputes of husbands and wives furnish the subject of some of his humour. Sir John Brute says:—

"Sure if women had been ready created, the devil instead of being kicked down in hell had been married."

Lady Brute. Are you afraid of being in love, Sir?

Heartfree. I should if there were any danger of it.

Lady B. Pray, why so?

Heart. Because I always had an aversion to being used like a dog.

Belinda. Why truly, men in love are seldom used much better.

Lady B. But were you never in love, Sir?

Heart. No, I thank heaven, madam.

Bel. Pray, where got you your learning then?

Heart. From other people's expense.

Bel. That's being a spunger, Sir, which is scarce honest. If you'd buy some experience with your own money, as 'twould be fairlier got, so 'twould stick longer by you.

* * * * *

Berinthia. Ah, Amanda, it's a delicious thing to be a young widow!

Aman. You'll hardly make me think so.

Ber. Phu! because you are in love with your husband; but that is not every woman's case.

Aman. I hope 'twas yours at least.

Ber. Mine, say ye? Now I have a great mind to tell you a lie, but I should do it so awkwardly you'd find me out.

Aman. Then e'en speak the truth.

Ber. Shall I? Then after all, I did love him, Amanda, as a man does penance.

Aman. Why did you not refuse to marry him, then?

Ber. Because my mother would have whipped me.

Aman. How did you live together?

Ber. Like man and wife—asunder. He loved the country, I the town. He hawks and hounds, I coaches and equipage. He eating and drinking, I carding and playing. He the sound of a horn, I the squeak of a fiddle. Whenever we met we gave one another the spleen.

Aman. But tell me one thing truly and sincerely.

Ber. What's that?

Aman. Notwithstanding all these jars, did not his death at last extremely trouble you?

Ber. O, yes. Not that my present pangs were so very violent, but the after pangs were intolerable. I was forced to wear a beastly widow's band a twelvemonth for 't.

In the "Journey to London," written at the end of Vanbrugh's life, and not finished, there is a very amusing account of the manner in which a country squire and family travelled up to London in the seventeenth century.

James. They have added two cart-horses to the four old mares, because my lady will have it said she came to town in her coach-and-six; and ha! ha! heavy George, the ploughman, rides postilion!

Uncle Richard. Very well; the journey begins as it should do—James!

James. Sir!

Uncle R. Dost know whether they bring all the children with them?

James. Only Squire Humphry and Miss Betty, Sir; the other six are put to board at half-a-crown a week a head with Joan Growse, at Smoke-dunghill Farm.

Uncle R. The Lord have mercy upon all good folks! What work will these people make! Dost know when they'll be here?

James. John says, Sir, they'd have been here last night, but that the old wheezy-belly horse tired, and the two fore-wheels came crash down at once in Waggon-rut Lane. Sir, they were cruelly loaden, as I understand. My lady herself, he says, laid on four mail trunks, besides the great deal-box, which fat Tom sat upon behind.

Uncle R. So.

James. Then within the coach there was Sir Francis, my lady, the great fat lap-dog, Squire Humphry, Miss Betty, my lady's maid, Mrs. Handy, and Doll Tripe, the cook—but she puked with sitting backward, so they mounted her into the coach-box.

Uncle R. Very well.

James. Then, Sir, for fear of a famine before they should get to the baiting-place, there was such baskets of plum-cake, Dutch gingerbread, Cheshire cheese, Naples biscuits, maccaroons, neats' tongues, and cold boiled beef; and in case of sickness, such bottles of usquebaugh, black-cherry brandy, cinnamon water, sack, tent, and strong beer, as made the old coach crack again.

Uncle R. Well said!

James. And for defence of this good cheer, and my lady's little pearl necklace, there was the family basket-hilt sword, the great Turkish cimiter, the old blunder-buss, a good bag of bullets, and a great horn of gunpowder.

Uncle R. Admirable!

Vanbrugh's friend, Colley Cibber, was also of foreign origin. His father was a native of Holstein, and coming over to England before the Restoration, is known as having executed the two figures of lunatics, for the gates of Bethlehem Hospital. Colley commenced life as an actor and playwriter, and Vanbrugh was so pleased with his "Love's Last Shift, or the Fool of Fashion," that he wrote an improved version of it in "The Relapse." Thus Sir Novelty Fashion was developed into Lord Foppington, and Vanbrugh, who patronized Cibber, employed him to act the character. He was an exception to the rule that a good playwriter is not a good performer. In Cibber, we especially mark the Spanish element, which then tinged the drama, and although somewhat prosy and sententious, he is fertile and entertaining in his love intrigues. Of real humour, he seems to have no gift—some of his best attempts referring to such common failures as sometimes occur at hotels. We have in "She wou'd, and she wou'd not,"

Host. Did you call, gentlemen?

Trapparti. Yes, and bawl too, Sir. Here the gentlemen are almost famished, and nobody comes near 'em. What have you in the house now that will be ready presently?

Host. You may have what you please, Sir.

Hypolita. Can you get us a partridge?

Host. We have no partridges; but we'll get you what you please in a moment. We have a very good neck of mutton, Sir, if you please, it shall be clapt down in a moment.

Hyp. Have you any pigeons or chickens?

Host. Truly, Sir, we have no fowl in the house at present; if you please, you may have anything else in a moment.

Hyp. Then, prithee, get us some young rabbits.

Host. Upon my word, Sir, rabbits are so scarce, they are not to be had for money.

Trap. Have you any fish?

Host. Fish! Sir; I dressed yesterday the finest dish that ever came upon a table; I am sorry we have none, Sir; but, if you please, you may have anything else in a moment.

Trap. Hast thou nothing but Anything else in the house?

Host. Very good mutton, Sir.

Hyp. Prithee, get us a breast, then.

Host. Breast! Don't you love the neck, Sir?

Hyp. Ha' ye nothing in the house but the neck?

Host. Really, Sir, we don't use to be so unprovided, but at present we have nothing else left.

Trap. Faith, Sir, I don't know but a Nothing else may be very good meat, when Anything else is not to be had.

Sometimes there is a little smartness in the dialogue, and in the "Careless Husband," Lord Foppington uses such strange expletives as "Sun burn me," "Stop my breath," "Set my blood." But the greater part of any amusement that there is, depends, as in the Roman Comedy, upon the tricks of low-minded mercenary servants.

Although neither of the two last-named writers was English by descent, they were both so by adoption, and the same may be said of the next author, Farquhar, who was born at Londonderry in 1678, but whose Irish characters want the charm of the pure national comicality. He was the son of a clergyman who sent him to the University, but his taste being averse to the prescribed course of study, he left it, and became an actor. Want of voice soon excluded him from the stage, and he entered the army—a profession which we might conclude, from the experiences of Wycherley and Vanbrugh, was somewhat favourable for the cultivation of dramatic talent. The constant companionship of men of wild and fanciful dispositions, the leisure for observing their talents and peculiarities, and the perpetual demand for the exercise of light repartee, would all tend to furnish effective materials for the stage. Farquhar soon married, and his poverty, with an increasing family, led to his producing a play nearly every year from 1703 to 1707. Finally he sold out, and was in deep distress. Speaking of his condition with his accustomed gaiety, he says:—

"I have very little estate, but what is under the circumference of my hat, and should I by perchance come to lose my head, I should not be worth a groat."

He thus sketches his mental peculiarities:—

"As to my mind, which in most men wears as many changes as their body, so in me 'tis generally drest like my person, in black. Melancholy is its every-day apparel; and it has hitherto found few holidays to make it change its clothes. In short, my constitution is very splenetic and yet very amorous, both which I endeavour to hide lest the former should offend others, and that the latter might incommode myself; and my reason is so vigilant in restraining these two failings, that I am taken for an easy-natured man with my own sex, and an ill-natured clown by yours."

Farquhar was very fond of jesting about his own misfortunes, and perhaps the following from "Love in a Bottle," exhibits a scene in which he had been himself an actor in real life.

Widow Bullfinch. Mr. Lyric, what do you mean by all this? Here you have lodged two years in my house, promised me eighteen-pence a week for your lodging, and I have never received eighteen farthings, not the value of that, Mr. Lyric, (snaps her fingers.) You always put me off with telling me of your play, your play! Sir, you shall play no more with me: I'm in earnest.

Lyric. There's more trouble in a play than you imagine, Madam.

Bull. There's more trouble with a lodger than you think, Mr. Lyric.

Lyric. First there's the decorum of time.

Bull. Which you never observe, for you keep the worst hours of any lodger in town.

Lyric. Then there's the exactness of characters.

Bull. And you have the most scandalous one I ever heard....

Lyric. (Aside) Was ever poor rogue so ridden. If ever the Muses had a horse, I am he. (Aloud) Faith! Madam, poor Pegasus is jaded.

Bull. Come, come, Sir; he shan't slip his neck out of collar for all that. Money I will have, and money I must have.

The above is taken from Farquhar's first play, and we generally find richer humour in the first attempts of genius than in their later and more elaborate productions. Widow Bullfinch says that "Champagne is a fine liquor, which all your beaux drink to make em' witty."

Mockmode. Witty! oh by the universe I must be witty! I'll drink nothing else. I never was witty in all my life. I love jokes dearly. Here, Club, bring us a bottle of what d'ye call it—the witty liquor.

Bull. But I thought that all you that were bred at the University would be wits naturally?

Mock. The quite contrary, Madam, there's no such thing there. We dare not have wit there for fear of being counted rakes. Your solid philosophy is all read there, which is clear another thing. But now I will be a wit, by the universe.... Is that the witty liquor? Come fill the glasses. Now that I have found my mistress, I must next find my wits.

Club. So you had need, master, for those that find a mistress are generally out of their wits. (Gives him a glass.)

Mock. Come, fill for yourself. (They jingle and drink.) But where's the wit now, Club? Have you found it?

Club. Egad! master, I think 'tis a very good jest.

Mock. What?

Club. What? why drinking—you'll find, master, that this same gentleman in the straw doublet, this same will-i'-th'-wisp is a wit at the bottom. (Fills.) Here, here, master; how it puns and quibbles in the glass!

Mock. By the universe, now I have it!—the wit lies in the jingling. All wit consists most in jingling; hear how the glasses rhyme to one another.

Again:—

Mock. Could I but dance well, push well,[63] play upon the flute, and swear the most modish oaths, I would set up for quality with e'er a young nobleman of 'em all. Pray what are the most fashionable oaths in town? Zoons, I take it, is a very becoming one.

Rigadoon. (a dancing-master.) Zoons is only used by the disbanded officers and bullies, but zauns is the beaux pronunciation.

Mock. Zauns!

Rig. Yes, Sir; we swear as we dance; smooth and with a cadence—Zauns! 'Tis harmonious, and pleases the ladies, because it is soft. Zauns, Madam, is the only compliment our great beaux pass on a lady.

Mock. But suppose a lady speaks to me; what must I say?

Rig. Nothing, Sir; you must take snuff grin, and make her a humble cringe—thus: (Bows foppishly and takes snuff; Mockmode imitates him awkwardly, and taking snuff, sneezes.) O Lord, Sir! you must never sneeze; 'tis as unbecoming after orangery as grace after meat.

Mock. I thought people took it to clear the brain.

Rig. The beaux have no brains at all, Sir; their skull is a perfect snuff-box; and I heard a physician swear, who opened one of 'em, that the three divisions of his head were filled with orangery, bergamot, and plain Spanish.

Mock. Zauns! I must sneeze, (sneezes.) Bless me!

Rig. Oh, fy! Mr. Mockmode! what a rustical expression that is! 'Bless me!' You should upon all such occasions cry, Dem me! You would be as nauseous to the ladies as one of the old patriarchs, if you used that obsolete expression.

Sir Harry Wildair gives a good sketch of a lady's waiting-woman of the time.

Colonel Standard. Here, here, Mrs. Parly; whither so fast?

Parly. Oh Lord! my master! Sir, I was running to Mademoiselle Furbelow, the French milliner, for a new burgundy for my lady's head.

Col. S. No, child; you're employed about an old-fashioned garniture for your master's head, if I mistake not your errand.

Parly. Oh, Sir! there's the prettiest fashion lately come over! so airy, so French, and all that. The pinners are double ruffled with twelve plaits of a side, and open all from the face; the hair is frizzled all up round the head, and stands as stiff as a bodkin. Then the favourites hang loose on the temples, with a languishing lock in the middle. Then the caul is extremely wide, and over all is a coronet raised very high, and all the lappets behind.

This lady on being questioned, says that her wages are ten pounds a year, but she makes two hundred a year of her mistress's old clothes.

But Farquhar is best known as the author of the "Beaux Stratagem." Though not so full of humour, as "Love in a Bottle," it had more action and bolder sensational incidents. The play proved a great success, but one which will always have sad associations. It came too late. Farquhar died in destitution, while the plaudits resounded in his ears.

The following are specimens from his last play:—

(Aimwell (a gentleman of broken fortune looking for a rich wife) goes to church in the country to further his designs.)

Aimwell. The appearance of a stranger in a country church draws as many gazers as a blazing star; no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a train of whispers runs buzzing round the congregation in a moment: Who is he? Whence comes he? Do you know him? Then I, Sir, tips me the verger with half-a-crown; he pockets the simony, and inducts me into the best pew in the church; I pull out my snuff-box, turn myself round, bow to the bishop, or the dean, if he be the commanding officer, single out a beauty, rivet both my eyes to hers, set my nose a bleeding by the strength of imagination, and show the whole church my concern—by my endeavouring to hide it; after the sermon the whole town gives me to her for a lover, and by persuading the lady that I am a-dying for her, the tables are turned, and she in good earnest falls in love with me.

Archer. There's nothing in this, Tom, without a precedent; but instead of rivetting your eyes to a beauty, try to fix 'em upon a fortune; that's our business at present.

Aim. Psha! no woman can be a beauty without a fortune. Let me alone, for I am a marksman.

Talking afterwards of Dorinda, whom he observes in church, he says,

Aimwell. Call me Oroondates, Cesario, Amadis, all that romance can in a lover paint, and then I'll answer:—O, Archer! I read her thousands in her looks, she looked like Ceres in her harvest; corn, wine and oil, milk and honey, gardens, groves, and purling streams played in her plenteous face.



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.