Essay on Comedy, Comic Spirit | Page 9

the stale one, that so the world goes; and it concludes with the
jaded discovery of a document at a convenient season for the descent of
the curtain. A plot was an afterthought with Congreve. By the help of a
wooden villain (Maskwell) marked Gallows to the flattest eye, he gets a
sort of plot in The Double Dealer. {6} His Way of the World might be
called The Conquest of a Town Coquette, and Millamant is a perfect
portrait of a coquette, both in her resistance to Mirabel and the manner
of her surrender, and also in her tongue. The wit here is not so salient as
in certain passages of Love for Love, where Valentine feigns madness
or retorts on his father, or Mrs. Frail rejoices in the harmlessness of
wounds to a woman's virtue, if she 'keeps them from air.' In The Way
of the World, it appears less prepared in the smartness, and is more
diffused in the more characteristic style of the speakers. Here, however,
as elsewhere, his famous wit is like a bully-fencer, not ashamed to lay
traps for its exhibition, transparently petulant for the train between
certain ordinary words and the powder-magazine of the improprieties to
be fired. Contrast the wit of Congreve with Moliere's. That of the first
is a Toledo blade, sharp, and wonderfully supple for steel; cast for
duelling, restless in the scabbard, being so pretty when out of it. To
shine, it must have an adversary. Moliere's wit is like a running brook,
with innumerable fresh lights on it at every turn of the wood through
which its business is to find a way. It does not run in search of
obstructions, to be noisy over them; but when dead leaves and viler

substances are heaped along the course, its natural song is heightened.
Without effort, and with no dazzling flashes of achievement, it is full of
healing, the wit of good breeding, the wit of wisdom.
'Genuine humour and true wit,' says Landor, {7} 'require a sound and
capacious mind, which is always a grave one. Rabelais and La Fontaine
are recorded by their countrymen to have been reveurs. Few men have
been graver than Pascal. Few men have been wittier.'
To apply the citation of so great a brain as Pascal's to our countryman
would be unfair. Congreve had a certain soundness of mind; of capacity,
in the sense intended by Landor, he had little. Judging him by his wit,
he performed some happy thrusts, and taking it for genuine, it is a
surface wit, neither rising from a depth nor flowing from a spring.
'On voit qu'il se travaille e dire de bons mots.'
He drives the poor hack word, 'fool,' as cruelly to the market for wit as
any of his competitors. Here is an example, that has been held up for
eulogy:
WITWOUD: He has brought me a letter from the fool my brother, etc.
etc.
MIRABEL: A fool, and your brother, Witwoud?
WITWOUD: Ay, ay, my half-brother. My half-brother he is; no nearer,
upon my honour.
MIRABEL: Then 'tis possible he may be but half a fool.
By evident preparation. This is a sort of wit one remembers to have
heard at school, of a brilliant outsider; perhaps to have been guilty of
oneself, a trifle later. It was, no doubt, a blaze of intellectual fireworks
to the bumpkin squire, who came to London to go to the theatre and
learn manners.
Where Congreve excels all his English rivals is in his literary force, and
a succinctness of style peculiar to him. He had correct judgement, a
correct ear, readiness of illustration within a narrow range, in snapshots
of the obvious at the obvious, and copious language. He hits the mean
of a fine style and a natural in dialogue. He is at once precise and
voluble. If you have ever thought upon style you will acknowledge it to
be a signal accomplishment. In this he is a classic, and is worthy of
treading a measure with Moliere. The Way of the World may be read
out currently at a first glance, so sure are the accents of the emphatic
meaning to strike the eye, perforce of the crispness and cunning polish

of the sentences. You have not to look over them before you confide
yourself to him; he will carry you safe. Sheridan imitated, but was far
from surpassing him. The flow of boudoir Billingsgate in Lady
Wishfort is unmatched for the vigour and pointedness of the tongue. It
spins along with a final ring, like the voice of Nature in a fury, and is,
indeed, racy eloquence of the elevated fishwife.
Millamant is an admirable, almost a lovable heroine. It is a piece of
genius in a writer to make a woman's manner