Obrazy na stronie
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In some conditions may be brought to approve;
Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide,
When flattering opportunity enticed,

And desperation drove, have been committed

By those who once would start to hear them named.
Agnes. And add to these detested suicide,
Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid.

0. Wil. The inhospitable murder of our guest?
How couldst thou form a thought so very tempting,
So advantageous, so secure, and easy;
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror?

Agnes. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature,
To take another's life than end our own.

O. Wil. It is no matter, whether this or that
Be, in itself, the less or greater crime :
Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others,
We act from inclination, not by rule,

Or none could act amiss. And that all err,
None but the conscious hypocrite denies.
Oh, what is man, his excellence and strength,
When in an hour of trial and desertion,

Reason, his noblest power, may be suborned
To plead the cause of vile assassination !

O. Wil. No.

'Tis a dreadful office, and I'll spare

Thy trembling hands the guilt. Steal to the door,
And bring me word if he be still asleep. [Exit Agnes.
Or I'm deceived, or he pronounced himself
The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch!
Thy thoughts are perishing; thy youthful joys,
Touched by the icy hand of grisly death,

Are withering in their bloom. But though extinguished,
He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter
Pangs of disappointment. Then I was wrong
In counting him a wretch: to die well pleased
Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch is to survive the loss
Of every joy, and even hope itself,
As I have done. Why do I mourn him then?
For, by the anguish of my tortured soul,
He's to be envied, if compared with me.

WILLIAM CONGREVE.

The comedies of CONGREVE abound more than

Agnes. You're too severe : reason may justly plead any others, perhaps, in the English language, in

For her own preservation.

O. Wil. Rest contented:

Whate'er resistance I may seem to make,
I am betrayed within: my will's seduced,
And my whole soul infected. The desire
Of life returns, and brings with it a train
Of appetites, that rage to be supplied.
Whoever stands to parley with temptation
Does it to be o'ercome.

Agnes. Then nought remains
But the swift execution of a deed

That is not to be thought on or delayed.

We must despatch him sleeping: should he wake, "Twere madness to attempt it.

O. Wil. True, his strength,

Single, is more, much more than ours united;

So may his life, perhaps, as far exceed

Ours in duration, should he 'scape this snare. Generous, unhappy man! Oh, what could move the To put thy life and fortune in the hands

Of wretches mad with anguish !

Agnes. By what means?

By stabbing, suffocation, or by strangling,
Shall we effect his death?

O. Wil. Why, what a fiend!

How cruel, how remorseless, how impatient,

Have pride and poverty made thee !

Agnes. Barbarous man!

Whose wasteful riots ruined our estate,

And drove our son, ere the first down had spread
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,
Earnest entreaties, agonies, and tears,
To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish
In some remote inhospitable land.
The loveliest youth in person and in mind
That ever crowned a groaning mother's pains!
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then?
Thou cruel husband! thou unnatural father!
Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man!
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son ;
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me.
O. Wil. Dry thy tears:

I ought not to reproach thee. I confess

That thou hast suffered much so have we both.
But chide no more: I'm wrought up to thy purpose.
The poor ill-fated unsuspecting victim,
Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch,
From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash
And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear ;
And thus, unthinking, furnished us with arms
Against himself. What shall I use?

Agnes. The sash.

If you make use of that, I can assist.

witty dialogue and lively incident, but their licentiousness has banished them from the stage. The life of this eminent dramatic writer was a happy and prosperous_one. He was born at Bardsey, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and baptised February 10, 1669-70. He was of a good family, and his father held a military employment in Ireland, where the poet was educated-first at Kilkenny School, and then at Trinity College, Dublin. He studied law in the Middle Temple, but began early to write for the stage. His Old Bachelor was produced in January 1692-3, and acted with great applause. Lord Halifax conferred appointments on him in the customs and other departments of public service, worth £600 per annum. Other plays soon appeared: the Double Dealer in 1694; Love for Love in 1695; the Mourning Bride, a tragedy, in 1697; and the Way of the World in 1700. In 1710 he published a collection of miscellaneous poems, of which one little piece, Doris, is worthy of his fame; and his goodfortune still following him, he obtained, on the accession of George I. the office of secretary for the island of Jamaica, which raised his emoluments to about £1200 per annum. Basking in the sunshine of opulence and courtly society, Congreve wished to forget that he was an author; and when Voltaire waited upon him, he said he would rather be considered a gentleman than a poet. 'If you had been merely a gentleman,' said the witty Frenchman, 'I should not have come to visit you.' A complaint in the eyes, which terminated in total blindness, afflicted Congreve in his latter days: he died at his house in London on the 19th of January 1729-30. Dryden complimented Congreve as one whom every muse and grace adorned; and Pope dedicated to him his translation of the Iliad. What higher literary honours could have been paid a poet whose laurels were all gained, or at least planted, by the age of thirty? One incident in the history of Congreve is too remarkable to be omitted. He contracted a close intimacy with the Duchess of Marlborough (daughter of the great duke), sat at her table daily, and assisted in her household management. On his death, he left the bulk of his fortune, amounting to about £10,000, to this eccentric lady. The duchess spent seven of the ten thousand pounds in the purchase of a diamond necklace. 'How much

And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.
Leon. Let us return; the horror of this place
And silence will increase your melancholy.

Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that.
No, I will on; shew me Anselmo's tomb,
Lead me o'er bones and skulls and mouldering earth
Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them;
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride
Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought
Exerts my spirits, and my present fears
Are lost in dread of greater ill.

stream of wit and liveliness, and quick interchange
In Congreve's comedies there is a constant
of dialogue and incident. He was a master of
dramatic rules and art.
forcibly the taste or inclination of the present day
Nothing shews more
for the poetry of nature and passion, instead of the
conventional world of our ancestors in the drama,
than the neglect into which the works of Congreve
have fallen, even as literary productions.

better would it have been to have given it to Mrs Bracegirdle,' said Young the poet and clergyman. Mrs Bracegirdle was an actress with whom Congreve had been very intimate for many years. The duchess honoured the poet's remains with a splendid funeral. The corpse lay in state under the ancient roof of the Jerusalem chamber, and was interred in Westminster Abbey. The pall was borne by the Duke of Bridgewater, Lord Cobham, the Earl of Wilmington, who had been Speaker, and was afterwards first Lord of the Treasury, and other men of high consideration. The Duchess of Marlborough, if report is to be believed, further manifested her regard for the deceased poet in a manner that spoke more for her devotedness than her taste. It is said that she had a statue of him in ivory, which moved by clock-work, and was placed daily at her table; that she had a wax-doll made in imitation of him, and that the feet of this doll were regularly blistered and anointed by the doctors, as poor Congreve's feet had been when he suffered from the gout. This idol of fashion and literature has been removed by the just award of posterity from the high place he once occupied. His plays are generally without poetry or imagination, and his comic genius is inextricably associated with sensu- Gay Young Men upon Town.—From the Old Bachelor? ality and profaneness. We admire his brilliant dialogue and repartee, and his exuberance of dramatic incident and character; but the total absence of the higher virtues which ennoble lifethe beauty and gracefulness of female virtue, the feelings of generosity, truth, honour, affection, modesty, and tenderness-leaves his pages barren and unproductive of any permanent interest or popularity. His glittering artificial life possesses but few charms to the lovers of nature or of poetry, and is not recommended by any moral purpose or sentiment. The Mourning Bride, Congreve's only tragedy, possesses higher merit than most of the serious plays of that day. It has the stiffness of the French school, with no small affectation of fine writing, without passion, yet it possesses poetical scenes and language. The opening lines have often been quoted:

Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read that things inanimate have moved,
And, as with living souls, have been informed
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.

Dr Johnson considered the following extract as forming the most poetical paragraph in the whole range of the drama-finer than any one in Shakspeare !

Description of a Cathedral.

ALMERIA-LEONORA.

Almeria. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed. Leonora. It bore the accent of a human voice. Alm. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. We'll listen.

Leon. Hark!

Alm. No; all is hushed and still as death. 'Tis
dreadful!

How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs

BELMOUR-VAinlove.

Belmour. Vainlove, and abroad so early! Goodmorrow. I thought a contemplative lover could no more have parted with his bed in a morning, than he could have slept in it.

Vainlove. Belmour, good-morrow. Why, truth on 't is, these early sallies are not usual to me; but business, as you see, sir-[Shewing letters]-and business must be followed, or be lost.

pursued or lost. Business is the rub of life, perverts our
Bel. Business! And so must time, my friend, be close
aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and short of
the intended mark

Vain. Pleasure, I guess you mean.
Bel. Ay, what else has meaning?
Vain. Oh, the wise will tell you-

Bel. More than they believe or understand.

Vain. How; how, Ned? a wise man says more than he understands?

Bel. Ay, ay, wisdom is nothing but a pretending to know and believe more than we really do. You read of but one wise man, and all that he knew was--that he knew nothing. Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools; they have need of them. Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation; and let father Time shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel till they have worked themselves six foot deep into a grave. Business is not my element; I roll in a higher orb, and dwell

Vain. In castles i' th' air of thy own building-that's thy element, Ned.

A Swaggering Bully and Boaster.-From the same.
SIR JOSEPH Wittol-Sharper-CAPTAIN BLuff.
Sir Joseph. Oh, here he comes. Ay, my Hector of
Troy; welcome, my bully, my back; egad, my heart
has gone pit-a-pat for thee.

Bluff. How now, my young knight? Not for fear, I hope? He that knows me must be a stranger to fear. Sir Jos. Nay, egad, I hate fear ever since I had like to have died of fright. But

Bluff. But! Look you here, boy; here's your antidote; here's your Jesuit's Powder for a shaking fit. But who hast thou got with ye; is he of mettle?

[Laying his hand on his sword.

Sir Jos. Ay, bully, a smart fellow; and will fight like a cock.

Bluff. Say you so? Then I'll honour him. But has he been abroad? for every cock will fight upon his own dunghill.

Sir Jos. I don't know; but I'll present you. Bluff. I'll recommend myself. Sir, I honour you; I understand you love fighting. I reverence a man that loves fighting. Sir, I kiss your hilts.

Sharper. Sir, your servant, but you are misinformed; for unless it be to serve my particular friend, as Sir Joseph here, my country, or my religion, or in some very justifiable cause, I am not for it.

Bluff. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I find you are not of my palate; you can't relish a dish of fighting without some sauce. Now, I think fighting for fighting's sake is sufficient cause. Fighting to me is religion and the laws!

Sir Jos. Ah, well said, my hero! Was not that great, sir? By the Lord Harry, he says true; fighting is meat, drink, and clothes to him. But, Back, this gentleman is one of the best friends I have in the world, and saved my life last night. You know I told you.

Bluff. Ay, then I honour him again. Sir, may I crave your name?

Sharper. Ay, sir, my name's Sharper.

Sir Jos. Pray, Mr Sharper, embrace my Back; very well. By the Lord Harry, Mr Sharper, he is as brave a fellow as Cannibal; are you not, Bully-Back?

Sharper. Hannibal, I believe you mean, Sir Joseph ? Bluff. Undoubtedly he did, sir. Faith, Hannibal was a very pretty fellow; but, Sir Joseph, comparisons are odious. Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those days, it must be granted. But alas, sir, were he alive now, he would be nothing, nothing in the earth. Sharper. How, sir? I make a doubt if there be at this day a greater general breathing.

Bluff. Oh, excuse me, sir; have you served abroad, sir? Sharper. Not I, really, sir.

Bluff. Oh, I thought so. Why, then, you can know nothing, sir. I am afraid you scarce know the history of the late war in Flanders with all its particulars.

Sharper. Not I, sir; no more than public papers or Gazettes tell us.

Bluff. Gazette! Why, there again now. Why, sir, there are not three words of truth, the year round, put into the Gazette. I'll tell you a strange thing now as to that. You must know, sir, I was resident in Flanders the last campaign, had a small post there; but no matter for that. Perhaps, sir, there was scarce anything of moment done but a humble servant of yours that shall be nameless was an eye-witness of. I won't say had the greatest share in 't-though I might say that too, since I name nobody, you know. Well, Mr Sharper, would you think it? In all this time, as I hope for a truncheon, that rascally Gazette-writer never so much as once mentioned me. Not once, by the wars! Took no more notice than as if Noll Bluff had not been in the land of the living.

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Sharper. Impudent rogue.

[Aside.

Sir Jos. Ay, this modesty of yours. Egad, if he would put in for 't, he might be made general himself yet.

Bluff. Oh, fie no, Sir Joseph; you know I hate this. Sir Jos. Let me but tell Mr Sharper a little, how you ate fire once out of the mouth of a cannon; egad, he did; those impenetrable whiskers of his have confronted flames.

Bluff. Death! What do you mean, Sir Joseph? Sir Jos. Look you now, I tell you he is so modest, he'll own nothing.

Bluff. Pish; you have put me out; I have forgot what I was about. Pray, hold your tongue, and give me leave[Angrily.

Sir Jos. I am dumb.

Bluff. This sword I think I was telling you of, Mr Sharper. This sword I'll maintain to be the best divine, anatomist, lawyer, or casuist in Europe; it shall decide a controversy, or split a cause.

Sir Jos. Nay, now, I must speak; it will split a hair; by the Lord Harry, I have seen it!

Bluff. Zounds! sir, it is a lie; you have not seen it, nor sha'nt see it: sir, I say you can't see. What d'ye say to that, now?

Sir Jos. I am blind.

Bluff. Death! had any other man interrupted me. Sir Jos. Good Mr Sharper, speak to him; I dare not look that way.

Sharper. Captain, Sir Joseph's penitent.

Bluff. Oh, I am calm, sir; calm as a discharged culverin. But 'twas indiscreet, when you know what will provoke me. Nay, come, Sir Joseph; you know my heat's soon over.

Sir Jos. Well, I am a fool sometimes, but I'm sorry. Bluff. Enough.

Sir Jos. Come, we'll go take a glass to drown animosities.

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Lady F. Oh! infinitely better; I am extremely beholden to you for the hint. Stay; we'll read over those half-a-score lines again. [Pulls out a paper.] Let me see here; you know what goes before-the comparison you know. [Reads]

For as the sun shines every day,
So of our coachman I may say.

Brisk. I am afraid that simile won't do in wet weather, because you say the sun shines every day. Lady F. No; for the sun it won't, but it will do for the coachman; for you know there's most occasion for a coach in wet weather.

Brisk. Right, right; that saves all.

Lady F. Then I don't say the sun shines all the day, but that he peeps now and then; yet he does shine all the day, too, you know, though we don't see him.

Brisk. Right; but the vulgar will never comprehend

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him.

Brisk. Was he? I'm answered, if Jehu was a hackney coachman. You may put that in the marginal notes though, to prevent criticism; only mark it with a small asterisk, and say, 'Jehu was formerly a hackney coachman.'

Lady F. I will; you'd oblige me extremely to write notes to the whole poem.

Brisk. With all my heart and soul, and proud of the vast honour, let me perish!

Lord Froth. Hee, hee, hee! my dear, have you done? Won't you join with us? We were laughing at my Lady

Whister and Mr Sneer.

Lady F. Ay, my dear, were you? Oh! filthy Mr Sneer; he's a nauseous figure, a most fulsamic fop. Foh! He spent two days together in going about Covent Garden to suit the lining of his coach with his complexion.

Lord F. O silly! Yet his aunt is as fond of him as if she had brought the ape into the world herself.

Brisk. Who? my Lady Toothless? Oh, she's a mortifying spectacle; she's always chewing the cud like an old ewe.

Lord F. Foh!

Lady F. Then she's always ready to laugh when Sneer offers to speak; and sits in expectation of his no-jest, with her gums bare, and her mouth open.

Brisk. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad! Ha, ha, ha! Cynthia. [Aside.] Well, I find there are no fools so inconsiderable in themselves, but they can render other people contemptible by exposing their infirmities.

I

Lady F. Then that t'other great strapping lady; can't hit of her name; the old fat fool that paints so exorbitantly.

Brisk. I know whom you mean. But, deuce take me, I can't hit of her name either. Paints, d'ye say? Why, she lays it on with a trowel. Then she has a great beard that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she were plastered with lime and hair, let me perish!

Lady F. Oh! you made a song upon her, Mr Brisk. Brisk. Heh? egad, so I did. My lord can sing it. Cynthia. O good, my lord; let us hear it.

Brisk. 'Tis not a song neither. It's a sort of epigram, or rather an epigrammatic sonnet. I don't know what to call it, but it's satire. Sing it, my lord.

Lord F. [Sings]

Ancient Phyllis has young graces; 'Tis a strange thing, but a true one; Shall I tell you how?

She herself makes her own faces,

And each morning wears a new one ; Where's the wonder now?

Sir Sampson. My son, Ben! Bless thee, my dear boy; body o' me, thou art heartily welcome. Ben. Thank you, father; and I'm glad to see you. Sir S. Odsbud, and I'm glad to see thee. Kiss me, boy; kiss me again and again, dear Ben. [Kisses him. Ben. So, so; enough, father. Mess, I'd rather kiss these gentlewomen.

Sir S. And so thou shalt. Mrs Angelica, my son Ben. Mistress, I'm not for dropping anchor here; about ship Ben. Forsooth, if you please. [Salutes her.] Nay, i' faith. [Kisses Frail.] Nay, and you too, my little [Kisses Miss.]

cock-boat-so.

Tattle. Sir, you are welcome ashore.
Ben. Thank you, thank you, friend.

Sir S. Thou hast been many a weary league, Ben, since I saw thee.

Ben. Ay, ay, been! been far enough, an that be all. Well, father, and how do you all at home? How

does brother Dick and brother Val?

Sir S. Dick! body o' me, Dick has been dead these two years; I writ you word when you were at Leghorn. Ben. Mess, that's true: marry, I had forgot. Dick's dead, as you say. Well, and how? I have a many questions to ask you. Well, you be not married again, father, be you?

Sir S. No, I intend you shall marry, Ben; I would not marry for thy sake.

Ben. Nay, what does that signify?-an you marry again, why, then, I'll go to sea again; so there's one for t' other, an that be all. Pray, don't let me be your hinderance; e'en marry a God's name, an the wind sit that way. As for my part, mayhap I have no mind to marry.

Mrs Frail. That would be a pity; such a handsome young gentleman.

be for joking, I'll joke with you, for I love my jest, an Ben. Handsome! hee, hee, hee; nay, forsooth, an you the ship were sinking, as we say at sea.

But I'll tell

you why I don't much stand towards matrimony. I land: I could never abide to be port-bound, as we call love to roam about from port to port, and from land to it. Now, a man that is married has, as it were, d' ye see, his feet in the bilboes, and mayhap mayn't get them out again when he would.

Sir S. Ben's a wag.

another man than a galley-slave is like one of us free Ben. A man that is married, d' ye see, is no more like sailors. He is chained to an oar all his life; and mayhap forced to tug a leaky vessel into the bargain. Sir S. A very wag! Ben's a very wag! only a little rough; he wants a little polishing.

Mrs F. Not at all; I like his humour mightily; it's plain and honest; I should like such a humour in a husband extremely.

Ben. Say'n you so, forsooth? Marry, and I should like such a handsome gentlewoman hugely. How say you, mistress! would you like going to sea? Mess, you're a tight vessel, and well rigged. But I'll tell you one thing, an you come to sea in a high wind, lady, you mayn't carry so much sail o' your head. Top and topgallant, by the mess.

Mrs F. No? why so?

Brisk. Short, but there's salt in't. My way of overset, and then you'll carry your keels above water; Ben. Why, an you do, you may run the risk to be writing, egad!

From Love for Love.

hee, hee, hee.

Angelica. I swear Mr Benjamin is the veriest wag in nature-an absolute sea-wit.

Sir S. Nay, Ben has parts; but, as I told you before,

ANGELICA SIR SAMPSON LEGEND-TATTLE-MRS FRAIL-MISS they want a little polishing. You must not take any

PRUE-BEN LEGEND and SERVANT.*

Ben. Where's father?

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thing ill, madam.

Ben. No; I hope the gentlewoman is not angry; I mean all in good part; for if I give a jest, I take a jest ; and so, forsooth, you may be as free with me.

Ang. I thank you, sir; I am not at all offended. But methinks, Sir Sampson, you should leave him alone with his mistress. Mr Tattle, we must not hinder lovers.

Tattle. Well, Miss, I have your promise.

[Aside to Miss. Sir S. Body o' me, madam, you say true. Look you, Ben, this is your mistress. Come, Miss, you must not be shame-faced; we'll leave you together.

Miss Prue. I can't abide to be left alone; may not my cousin stay with me?

Sir S. No, no; come, let us away.

Ben. Look you, father; mayhap the young woman mayn't take a liking to me.

Sir S. I warrant thee, boy; come, come, we'll be gone; I'll venture that.

BEN and MISS PRUE.

Ben. Come, mistress, will you please to sit down? for an you stand astern a that'n, we shall never grapple together. Come, I'll haul a chair; there, an you please to sit, I'll sit beside you.

Miss Prue. You need not sit so near one; if you have anything to say, I can hear you farther off; I an't deaf. Ben. Why, that's true as you say, nor I an't dumb; I can be heard as far as another. I'll heave off to please you. [Sits further off] An we were a league asunder, I'd undertake to hold discourse with you, an 'twere not a main high wind indeed, and full in my teeth. Look you, forsooth, I am as it were bound for the land of matrimony; 'tis a voyage, d' ye see, that was none of my seeking; I was commanded by father; and if you like of it, mayhap I may steer into your harbour. How say you, mistress? The short of the thing is, that if you like me, and I like you, we may chance to swing in a hammock together. Miss P. I don't know what to say to you, nor I don't care to speak with you at all.

Ben. No? I'm sorry for that. But pray, why are

you so scornful?

Miss P. As long as one must not speak one's mind, one had better not speak at all, I think; and truly I

won't tell a lie for the matter.

Ben. Nay, you say true in that; it's but a folly to lie; for to speak one thing, and to think just the contrary way, is, as it were, to look one way and to row another. Now, for my part, d'ye see, I'm for carrying things above-board; I'm not for keeping anything under hatches; so that if you ben't as willing as I, say so a God's name; there's no harm done. Mayhap you may be shame-faced; some maidens, thof they love a man well enough, yet they don't care to tell'n so to's face. If that's the case, why, silence gives consent.

Miss P. But I'm sure it is not so, for I'll speak sooner than you should believe that; and I'll speak truth, though one should always tell a lie to a man; and I don't care, let my father do what he will. I'm too big to be whipt; so I'll tell you plainly, I don't like you, nor love you at all, nor never will, that's So there's your answer for you, and don't trouble me no more, you ugly thing.

more.

that was here just now? Will he thrash my jacket? Let 'n, let 'n, let 'n-but an he comes near me, mayhap I may give him a salt-eel for's supper, for all that. What does father mean, to leave me alone, as soon as I come home, with such a dirty dowdy? Sea-calf! I an't calf enough to lick your chalked face, you cheesecurd you. Marry thee! oons, I'll marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon selling contrary winds and wrecked vessels.

From the sparkling, highly wrought love-scenes of Congreve it would be perilous to quote. 'I have read two or three of Congreve's plays over before speaking of him,' said Mr Thackeray, in one of his admirable lectures; and my feelings were rather like those which I daresay most of us here have had at Pompeii, looking at Sallust's house and the relics of an orgy-a dried wine-jar or two, a charred supper-table, the breast of a dancinggirl pressed against the ashes, the laughing skull of a jester, a perfect stillness round about, as the cicerone twangs his moral, and the blue sky shines calmly over the ruin. The Congreve muse is dead, and her song choked in Time's ashes. We gaze at the skeleton, and wonder at the life which once revelled in its mad veins. We take the skull up, and muse over the frolic and daring, the wit, scorn, passion, hope, desire, with which that empty bowl once fermented. We think of the bright eyes that shone in those vacant sockets, the glances that allured, the tears that melted; of and of lips whispering love and cheeks dimpling with smiles that once covered yon ghastly framework. They used to call those teeth pearls once. See! there's the cup she drank from, the gold chain she wore on her neck, the vase which held the rouge for her cheeks, her looking-glass, and the harp she used to dance to. Instead of a feast few bones!"* we find a grave-stone, and in place of a mistress a

SIR JOHN VANBRUGH.

SIR JOHN VANBRUGH united what Leigh Hunt calls the 'apparently incompatible geniuses' of comic writer and architect. His Blenheim and Castle Howard have outlived the Provoked Wife or the Relapse; yet the latter were highly popular once; and even Pope, though he admits his want of grace, says that he never wanted wit. Vanbrugh was the son of a successful sugar-baker, who rose to be an esquire, and comptroller of the Treasury Chamber, besides marrying the daughter of Sir Dudley Carlton. It is doubtful whether the dramBen. Look you, young woman, you may learn to atist was born in the French Bastile, or the parish give good words, however. I spoke you fair, d' ye see, of St Stephen's, Walbrook. The time of his birth and civil As for your love or your liking, I don't was about the year 1666, when Louis XIV. declared value it of a rope's end; and mayhap I like you as war against England. It is certain he was in little as you do me. What I said was in obedience France at the age of nineteen, and remained there to father: I fear a whipping no more than you do. some years. In 1695, he was appointed secreBut I tell you one thing, if you should give such lan-tary to the commission for endowing Greenwich guage at sea, you'd have a cat-o'-nine-tails laid across your shoulders. Flesh! who are you? You heard t'other handsome young woman speak civilly to me of her own accord. Whatever you think of yourself, I don't think you are any more to compare to her than a can of small-beer to a bowl of punch.

Miss P. Well, and there's a handsome gentleman, and a fine gentleman, and a sweet gentleman, that was here, that loves me, and I love him; and if he sees you speak to me any more, he'll thrash your jacket for you, he will; you great sea-calf.

Ben. What do you mean that fair-weather spark

Hospital; and two years afterwards appeared his play of the Relapse and the Provoked Wife;

sop, the False Friend, the Confederacy, and other dramatic pieces followed. Vanbrugh was now highly popular. He made his design of Castle Howard in 1702, and Lord Carlisle appointed him Clarencieux king-at-arms, a heraldic office which gratified Vanbrugh's vanity. In 1706, he was commissioned by Queen Anne to carry the

English Humorists.

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