nearer and nearer? What is that dirge which _will_ disturb us? The lights
of the festival burn dim--the cheeks turn pale--the voice quavers--and the
cup drops on the floor. Who's there? Death and Fate are at the gate, and
they _will_ come in.

Congreve's comic feast flares with lights, and round the table, emptying
their flaming bowls of drink, and exchanging the wildest jests and
ribaldry, sit men and women, waited on by rascally valets and attendants
as dissolute as their mistresses--perhaps the very worst company in the
world. There doesn't seem to be a pretence of morals. At the head of the
table sits Mirabel or Belmour (dressed in the French fashion and waited on
by English imitators of Scapin and Frontin). Their calling is to be
irresistible, and to conquer everywhere. Like the heroes of the chivalry
story, whose long-winded loves and combats they were sending out of
fashion, they are always splendid and triumphant--overcome all dangers,
vanquish all enemies, and win the beauty at the end. Fathers, husbands,
usurers are the foes these champions contend with. They are merciless in
old age, invariably, and an old man plays the part in the dramas, which
the wicked enchanter or the great blundering giant performs in the
chivalry tales, who threatens and grumbles and resists--a huge stupid
obstacle always overcome by the knight. It is an old man with a money-box:
Sir Belmour his son or nephew spends his money and laughs at him. It is an
old man with a young wife whom he locks up: Sir Mirabel robs him of his
wife, trips up his gouty old heels and leaves the old hunx--the old fool,
what business has he to hoard his money, or to lock up blushing eighteen?
Money is for youth, love is for youth; away with the old people. When
Millamant is sixty, having of course divorced the first Lady Millamant,
and married his friend Doricourt's granddaughter out of the nursery--it
will be his turn; and young Belmour will make a fool of him. All this
pretty morality you have in the comedies of William Congreve, Esq. They
are full of wit. Such manners as he observes, he observes with great
humour; but ah! it's a weary feast that banquet of wit where no love is.
It palls very soon; sad indigestions follow it and lonely blank headaches
in the morning.

I can't pretend to quote scenes from the splendid Congreve's
plays(69)--which are undeniably bright, witty, and daring--any more than I
could ask you to hear the dialogue of a witty bargeman