When and where was he born?--The Middle Temple.--Congreve finds his
Vocation.--Verses to Queen Mary.--The Tennis-court
Theatre.--Congreve abandons the Drama.--Jeremy Collier.--The
Immorality of the Stage.--Very improper Things.--Congreve's
Writings.--Jeremy's 'Short Views.'--Rival Theatres.--Dryden's
Funeral.--A Tub-Preacher.--Horoscopic Predictions.--Dryden's
Solicitude for his Son.--Congreve's Ambition.--Anecdote of
Voltaire and Congreve.--The Profession of Mæcenas.--Congreve's
Private Life.--'Malbrook's' Daughter.--Congreve's Death and
Burial.
When 'Queen Sarah' of Marlborough read the silly epitaph which
Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, had written and had engraved on the
monument she set up to Congreve, she said, with one of the true Blenheim
sneers, 'I know not what _happiness_ she might have in his company, but
I am sure it was no _honour_,' alluding to her daughter's eulogistic
phrases.
Queen Sarah was right, as she often was when condemnation was called
for: and however amusing a companion the dramatist may have been, he was
not a man to respect, for he had not only the common vices of his age,
but added to them a foppish vanity, toadyism, and fine gentlemanism (to
coin a most necessary word), which we scarcely expect to meet with in a
man who sets up for a satirist.
It is the fate of greatness to have falsehoods told of it, and of
nothing in connection with it more so than of its origin. If the
converse be true, Congreve ought to have been a great man, for the place
and time of his birth are both subjects of dispute. Oh! happy Gifford!
or happy Croker! why did you not--perhaps you did--go to work to set the
world right on this matter--you, to whom a date discovered is the
highest palm (no pun intended, I assure you) of glory, and who would
rather Shakespere had never written 'Hamlet,' or Homer the 'Iliad,' than
that some miserable little forgotten scrap which decided a year or a
place should have been consigned to flames before it fell into your
hands? Why did you not bring the thunder of your abuse and the
pop-gunnery of your satire to bear upon the question, 'How, when, and
where was William Congreve born?'
It was Lady Morgan, I think, who first 'saw the light' (that is, if she
was born in the day-time) in the Irish Channel. If it had been only some
one more celebrated, we should have had by this time a series of
philosophical, geographical, and ethnological pamphlets to prove that
she was English or Irish, according to the fancies or prejudices of the
writers. It was certainly a very Irish thing to do, which is one
argument for the Milesians, and again it was done in the Irish Channel,
which is another and a stronger one; and altogether we are not inclined
to go into forty-five pages of recondite facts and fine-drawn arguments,
mingled with the most vehement abuse of anybody who ever before wrote on
the subject, to prove that this country had the honour of producing her
ladyship--the Wild Irish Girl. We freely give her up to the sister
island. But not so William Congreve, though we are equally indifferent
to the honour in his case.
The one party, then, assert that he was born in this country, the other
that he breathed his first air in the Emerald Isle. Whichever be the
true state of the case, we, as Englishmen, prefer to agree in the
commonly received opinion that he came into this wicked world at the
village of Bardsea, or Bardsey, not far from Leeds in the county of
York. Let the Bardseyans immediately erect a statue to his honour, if
they have been remiss enough to neglect him heretofore.
But our difficulties are not ended, for there is a similar doubt about
the year of his birth. His earliest biographer assures us he was born in
1672, and others that he was baptized three years before, in 1669. Such
a proceeding might well be taken as a proof of his Hibernian extraction,
and accordingly we find Malone supporting the earlier date, producing,
of course, a certificate of baptism to support himself; and as we have
a very great respect for his authority, we beg also to support Mr.
Malone.
This being settled, we have to examine who were his parents: and this is
satisfactorily answered by his earliest biographer, who informs us that
he was of a very ancient family, being 'the only surviving son of
William Congreve, Esq. (who was second son to Richard Congreve, Esq., of
Congreve and Stretton in that county),' to wit, Yorkshire. Congreve
_père_ held a military command, which took him to Ireland soon after the
dramatist's birth, and thus young William had the incomparable advantage
of being educated at Kilkenny, and afterwards at Trinity, Dublin, the
'silent sister,' as it is commonly called at our universities.
At the age of nineteen, this youth sought the classic shades of the
Middle Temple, of which he was entered a student, but by the honourable
society of which he was never called to the bar; but whether this was
from a disinclination to study 'Coke upon Lyttleton,' or from an
incapacity to digest the requisite number of dinners, the devouring of
which qualify a young gentleman to address an enlightened British jury,
we have no authority for deciding. He was certainly not the first, nor
the last, young Templar who has quitted special pleading on a crusade to
the heights of Parnassus, and he began early to try the nib of his pen
and the colour of his ink in a novel. Eheu! how many a novel has issued
from the dull, dirty chambers of that same Temple! The waters of the
Thames just there seem to have been augmented by a mingled flow of
sewage and Helicon, though the former is undoubtedly in the greater
proportion. This novel, called 'Incognita; or, Love and Duty
Reconciled,' seems to have been--for I confess that I have not read more
than a chapter of it, and hope I never may be forced to do so--great
rubbish, with good store of villains and ruffians, love-sick maidens who
tune their lutes--always conveniently at hand--and love-sick gallants
who run their foes through the body with the greatest imaginable ease.
It was, in fact, such a novel as James might have written, had he lived
a century and a half ago. It brought its author but little fame, and
accordingly he turned his attention to another branch of literature, and
in 1693 produced 'The Old Bachelor,' a play of which Dryden, his friend,
had so high an opinion that he called it the 'best first-play he had
ever read.' However, before being put on the stage it was submitted to
Dryden, and by him and others prepared for representation, so that it
was well fathered. It was successful enough, and Congreve thus found his
vocation. In his dedication--a regular piece of flummery of those days,
for which authors were often well paid, either in cash or interest--he
acknowledges a debt of gratitude to Lord Halifax, who appears to have
taken the young man by the hand.
The young Templar could do nothing better now than write another play.
Play-making was as fashionable an amusement in those days of Old Drury,
the only patented theatre then, as novel-writing is in 1860; and when
the young ensign, Vanbrugh, could write comedies and take the direction
of a theatre, it was no derogation to the dignity of the Staffordshire
squire's grandson to do as much. Accordingly, in the following year he
brought out a better comedy, 'The Double Dealer,' with a prologue which
was spoken by the famous Anne Bracegirdle. She must have been eighty
years old when Horace Walpole wrote of her to that other Horace--Mann:
'Tell Mr. Chute that his friend Bracegirdle breakfasted with me this
morning. As she went out and wanted her clogs, she turned to me and
said: "I remember at the playhouse they used to call, Mrs. Oldfield's
chair! Mrs. Barry's clogs! and Mrs. Bracegirdle's pattens!"' These three
ladies were all buried in Westminster Abbey, and, except Mrs. Cibber,
the most beautiful and most sinful of them all--though they were none of
them spotless--are the only actresses whose ashes and memories are
hallowed by the place, for we can scarcely say that they do _it_ much
honour.
The success of 'The Double Dealer,' was at first moderate, although that
highly respectable woman, Queen Mary, honoured it with her august
presence, which forthwith called up verses of the old adulatory style,
though with less point and neatness than those addressed to the Virgin
Queen:
'Wit is again the care of majesty,'
said the poet, and
'Thus flourished wit in our forefathers' age,
And thus the Roman and Athenian stage.
Whose wit is best, we'll not presume to tell,
But this we know, our audience will excell;
For never was in Rome, nor Athens seen
So fair a circle, and so bright a queen.'
But this was not enough, for when Her Majesty departed for another realm
in the same year, Congreve put her into a highly eulogistic pastoral,
under the name of Pastora, and made some compliments on her, which were
considered the finest strokes of poetry and flattery combined, that an
age of addresses and eulogies could produce.
'As lofty pines o'ertop the lowly steed,
So did her graceful height all nymphs exceed,
To which excelling height she bore a mind
Humble as osiers, bending to the wind.
* * * * *
I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn,
And sable clouds her chalkie cliffs adorn.'
This play was dedicated to Lord Halifax, of whom we have spoken, and who
continued to be Congreve's patron.
The fame of the young man was now made; but in the following year it was
destined to shine out more brilliantly still. Old Betterton--one of the
best Hamlets that ever trod the stage, and of whom Booth declared that
when he was playing the Ghost to his Hamlet, his look of surprise and
horror was so natural, that Booth could not for some minutes recover
himself--was now a veteran in his sixtieth year. For forty years he had
walked the boards, and made a fortune for the patentees of Drury. It was
very shabby of them, therefore, to give some of his best parts to
younger actors. Betterton was disgusted, and determined to set up for
himself, to which end he managed to procure another patent, turned the
Queen's Court in Portugal Row, Lincoln's Inn, into a theatre, and opened
it on the 30th of April, 1695. The building had been before used as a
theatre in the days of the Merry Monarch, and Tom Killegrew had acted
here some twenty years before; but it had again become a 'tennis-quatre
of the lesser sort,' says Cibber, and the new theatre was not very
grand in fabric. But Betterton drew to it all the best actors and
actresses of his former company; and Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Bracegirdle
remained true to the old man. Congreve, to his honour, espoused the same
cause, and the theatre opened with his play of 'Love for Love,' which
was more successful than either of the former. The veteran himself spoke
the prologue, and fair Bracegirdle the epilogue, in which the poet thus
alluded to their change of stage:
'And thus our audience, which did once resort
To shining theatres to see our sport,
Now find us tost into a tennis-court.
Thus from the past, we hope for future grace:
I beg it----
And some here know I have a _begging face_.'
The king himself completed the success of the opening by attending it,
and the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields might have ruined the older
house, if it had not been for the rapidity with which Vanbrugh and
Cibber, who wrote for Old Drury, managed to concoct their pieces; while
Congreve was a slower, though perhaps better, writer. 'Love for Love'
was hereafter a favourite of Betterton's, and when in 1709, a year
before his death, the company gave the old man--then in ill health, poor
circumstances, and bad spirits--a benefit, he chose this play, and
himself, though more than seventy, acted the part of Valentine,
supported by Mrs. Bracegirdle as Angelina, and Mrs. Barry as Frail.
The young dramatist with all his success, was not satisfied with his
fame, and resolved to show the world that he had as much poetry as wit
in him. This he failed to do; and, like better writers, injured his own
fame, by not being contented with what he had. Congreve--the wit, the
dandy, the man about town--took it into his head to write a tragedy. In
1697 'The Mourning Bride' was acted at the Tennis Court Theatre. The
author was wise enough to return to his former muse, and some time after
produced his best piece, so some think, 'The Way of the World,' which
was also performed by Betterton's company; but, alas! for
overwriting--that cacoëthes of imprudent men--it was almost hissed off
the stage. Whether this was owing to a weariness of Congreve's style,
or whether at the time of its first appearance Collier's attacks, of
which anon, had already disgusted the public with the obscenity and
immorality of this writer, I do not know: but, whatever the cause, the
consequence was that Mr. William Congreve, in a fit of pique, made up
his mind never to write another piece for the stage--a wise resolution,
perhaps--and to turn fine gentleman instead. With the exception of
composing a masque called the 'Judgment of Paris,' and an opera
'Gemele,' which was never performed, he kept this resolution very
honestly; and so Mr. William Congreve's career as a playwright ends at
the early age of thirty.
But though he abandoned the drama, he was not allowed to retire in
peace. There was a certain worthy, but peppery little man, who, though a
Jacobite and a clergyman, was stanch and true, and as superior in
character--even, indeed, in vigour of writing--to Congreve, as Somers
was to every man of his age. This very Jeremy Collier, to whom we owe it
that there is any English drama fit to be acted before our sisters and
wives in the present day. Jeremy, the peppery, purged the stage in a
succession of Jeremiads.
Born in 1650, educated at Cambridge as a poor scholar, ordained at the
age of twenty-six, presented three years later with the living of
Ampton, near Bury St. Edmunds, Jeremy had two qualities to recommend him
to Englishmen--respectability and pluck. In an age when the clergy were
as bad as the blackest sheep in their flocks, Jeremy was distinguished
by purity of life; in an age when the only safety lay in adopting the
principles of the Vicar of Bray, Jeremy was a Nonjuror, and of this
nothing could cure him. The Revolution of 1688 was scarcely effected,
when the fiery little partizan published a pamphlet, which was rewarded
by a residence of some months in Newgate, _not_ in capacity of chaplain.
But he was scarcely let out, when again went his furious pen, and for
four years he continued to assail the new government, till his hands
were shackled and his mouth closed in the prison of 'The Gate-house.'
Now, see the character of the man. He was liberated upon giving bail,
but had no sooner reflected on this liberation than he came to the
conclusion that it was wrong, by offering security, to recognize the
authority of magistrates appointed by a usurper, as he held William to
be, and voluntarily surrendered himself to his judges. Of course he was
again committed, but this time to the King's Bench, and would doubtless
in a few years have made the tour of the London prisons, if his enemies
had not been tired of trying him. Once more at liberty, he passed the
next three years in retirement.
After 1693, Jeremy Collier's name was not brought before the public till
1696, when he publicly absolved Sir John Friend and Sir William Perkins,
at their execution, for being concerned in a plot to assassinate King
William. His 'Essays on Moral Subjects' were published in 1697; 2nd
vol., 1705; 3rd vol., 1709. But the only way to put out a firebrand like
this is to let it alone, and Jeremy, being, no longer persecuted, began,
at last, to think the game was grown stupid, and gave it up. He was a
well-meaning man, however, and as long as he had the luxury of a
grievance, would injure no one.
He found one now in the immorality of his age, and if he had left
politics to themselves from the first, he might have done much more good
than he did. Against the vices of a court and courtly circles it was
useless to start a crusade single-handed; but his quaint clever pen
might yet dress out a powerful Jeremiad against those who encouraged the
licentiousness of the people. Jeremy was no Puritan, for he was a
Nonjuror and a Jacobite, and we may, therefore, believe that the cause
was a good one, when we find him adopting precisely the same line as the
Puritans had done before him. In 1698 he published, to the disgust of
all Drury and Lincoln's Inn, his 'Short View of the Immorality and
Profaneness of the English Stage, together with the Sense of Antiquity
upon this Argument.'
While the King of Naples is supplying his ancient Venuses with gowns,
and putting his Mars and Hercules into pantaloons, there are--such are
the varieties of opinion--respectable men in this country who call Paul
de Kock the greatest moral writer of his age, and who would yet like to
see 'The Relapse,' 'Love for Love,' and the choice specimens of
Wycherley, Farquhar, and even of Beaumont and Fletcher, acted at the
Princess's and the Haymarket in the year of grace 1860. I am not writing
'A Short View' of this or any other moral subject; but this I must
say--the effect of a sight or sound on a human being's silly little
passions must of necessity be relative. Staid people read 'Don Juan,'
Lewis's 'Monk,' the plays of Congreve, and any or all of the
publications of Holywell Street, without more than disgust at their
obscenity and admiration for their beauties. But could we be pardoned
for putting these works into the hands of 'sweet seventeen,' or making
Christmas presents of them to our boys? Ignorance of evil is, to a
certain extent, virtue: let boys be boys in purity of mind as long as
they can: let the unrefined 'great unwashed' be treated also much in the
same way as young people. I maintain that to a coarse mind all improper
ideas, however beautifully clothed, suggest only sensual thoughts--nay,
the very modesty of the garments makes them the more insidious--the more
dangerous. I would rather give my boy Jonson, Massinger, or Beaumont and
Fletcher, whose very improper things 'are called by their proper names,'
than let him dive in the prurient innuendo of these later writers.
But there is no need to argue the question--the public has decided it
long since, and, except in indelicate ballets, and occasional rather
_French_ passages in farce, our modern stage is free from immorality.
Even in Garrick's days, when men were not much more refined than in
those of Queen Anne, it was found impossible to put the old drama on the
stage without considerable weeding. Indeed I doubt if even the liberal
upholder of Paul de Kock would call Congreve a moral writer; but I
confess I am not a competent judge, for _risum teneatis_, my critics, I
have not read his works since I was a boy, and what is more, I have no
intention of reading them. I well remember getting into my hands a large
thick volume, adorned with miserable woodcuts, and bearing on its back
the title 'Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar.' I devoured it
at first with the same avidity with which one might welcome a
bottle-imp, who at the hour of one's dulness turned up out of the carpet
and offered you delights new and old for nothing but a tether on your
soul: and with a like horror, boy though I was, I recoiled from it when
any better moment came. It seemed to me, when I read this book, as if
life were too rotten for any belief, a nest of sharpers, adulterers,
cut-throats, and prostitutes. There was none--as far as I remember--of
that amiable weakness, of that better sentiment, which in Ben Jonson or
Massinger reconcile us to human nature. If truth be a test of genius, it
must be a proof of true poetry, that man is not made uglier than he is.
Nay, his very ugliness loses its intensity and palls upon our diseased
tastes, for want of some goodness, some purity and honesty to relieve
it. I will not say that there is none of this in Congreve. I only know,
that my recollection of his plays is like that of a vile nightmare,
which I would not for anything have return to me. I have read, since,
books as bad, perhaps worse in some respects, but I have found the
redemption here and there. I would no more place Shandy in any boy's
hands than Congreve and Farquhar; and yet I can read Tristram again and
again with delight; for amid all that is bad there stand out Trim and
Toby, pure specimens of the best side of human nature, coming home to us
and telling us that the world is not all bad. There may be such touches
in 'Love for Love,' or 'The Way of the World'--I know not and care not.
To my remembrance Congreve is but a horrible nightmare, and may the
fates forbid I should be forced to go through his plays again.
Perhaps, then, Jeremy was not far wrong, when he attacked these
specimens of the drama with an unrelenting Nemesis; but he was before
his age. It was less the obvious coarseness of these productions with
which he found fault than their demoralizing tendency in a direction
which we should now, perhaps, consider innocuous. Certainly the Jeremiad
overdid it, and like a swift, but not straight bowler at cricket, he
sent balls which no wicket-keeper could stop, and which, therefore, were
harmless to the batter. He did not want boldness. He attacked Dryden,
now close upon his grave: Congreve, a young man; Vanbrugh, Cibber,
Farquhar, and the rest, all alive, all in the zenith of their fame, and
all as popular as writers could be. It was as much as if a man should
stand up to-day and denounce Dickens and Thackeray, with the exception
that well-meaning people went along with Jeremy, whereas very few would
do more than smile at the zeal of any one who tilted against our modern
pets. Jeremy, no doubt, was bold, but he wanted tact, and so gave his
enemy occasion to blaspheme. He made out cases where there were none,
and let alone what we moderns should denounce. So Congreve took up the
cudgels against him with much wit and much coarseness, and the two
fought out the battle in many a pamphlet and many a letter. But Jeremy
was not to be beaten. His 'Short View' was followed by 'A Defence of the
Short View,' a 'Second Defence of the Short View,' 'A Farther Short
View,' and, in short, a number of 'Short Views,' which had been better
merged into one 'Long Sight.' Jeremy grew coarse and bitter; Congreve
coarser and bitterer; and the whole controversy made a pretty chapter
for the 'Quarrels of Authors.' But the Jeremiad triumphed in the long
run, because, if its method was bad, its cause was good, and a
succeeding generation voted Congreve immoral. Enough of Jeremy. We owe
him a tribute for his pluck, and though no one reads him in the present
day, we may be thankful to him for having led the way to a better state
of things.[15]
Congreve defended himself in eight letters addressed to Mr. Moyle, and
we can only say of them, that, if anything, they are yet coarser than
the plays he would excuse.
The works of the young Templar, and his connection with Betterton,
introduced him to all the writers and wits of his day. He and Vanbrugh,
though rivals, were fellow-workers, and our glorious Haymarket Theatre,
which has gone on at times when Drury and Covent Garden have been in
despair, owes its origin to their confederacy. But Vanbrugh's theatre
was on the site of the present Opera House, and _the_ Haymarket was set
up as a rival concern. Vanbrugh's was built in 1705, and met the usual
fate of theatres, being burnt down some eighty-four years after. It is
curious enough that this house, destined for the 'legitimate
drama'--often a very illegitimate performance--was opened by an opera
set to _Italian_ music, so that 'Her Majesty's' has not much departed
from the original cast of the place.
Perhaps Congreve's best friend was Dryden. This man's life and death are
pretty well known, and even his funeral has been described time and
again. But Corinna--as she was styled--gave of the latter an account
which has been called romantic, and much discredited. There is a deal of
characteristic humour in her story of the funeral, and as it has long
been lost sight of, it may not be unpalatable here: Dryden died on
May-day, 1701, and Lord Halifax[16] undertook to give his body a
_private_ funeral in Westminster Abbey.
'On the Saturday following,' writes Corinna, 'the Company came. The
Corps was put into a Velvet Hearse, and eighteen Mourning Coaches filled
with Company attending. When, just before they began to move, Lord
Jeffreys, with some of his rakish Companions, coming by, in Wine, ask'd
whose Funeral? And being told; "What!" cries he, "shall Dryden, the
greatest Honour and Ornament of the Nation, be buried after this private
Manner? No, Gentlemen! let all that lov'd Mr. Dryden, and honour his
Memory, alight, and join with me in gaining my Lady's Consent, to let me
have the Honour of his Interment, which shall be after another manner
than this, and I will bestow £1000 on a Monument in the Abbey for him."
The Gentlemen in the Coaches, not knowing of the Bishop of Rochester's
Favour, nor of Lord Halifax's generous Design (these two noble Spirits
having, out of Respect to the Family, enjoin'd Lady Elsabeth and her Son
to keep their Favour concealed to the World, and let it pass for her own
Expense), readily came out of the Coaches, and attended Lord Jeffreys up
to the Lady's Bedside, who was then sick. He repeated the purport of
what he had before said, but she absolutely refusing, he fell on his
knees, vowing never to rise till his request was granted. The rest of
the Company, by his Desire, kneeled also; she being naturally of a
timorous Disposition, and then under a sudden surprise, fainted away. As
soon as she recover'd her Speech, she cry'd, "No, no!" "Enough
gentlemen," reply'd he (rising briskly), "My Lady is very good, she
says, Go, go!" She repeated her former Words with all her Strength, but
alas in vain! her feeble voice was lost in their Acclamations of Joy!
and Lord Jeffreys order'd the Hearseman to carry the Corps to Russell's,
an undertaker in Cheapside, and leave it there, till he sent orders for
the Embalment, which, he added, should be after the Royal Manner. His
Directions were obey'd, the Company dispersed, and Lady Elsabeth and Mr.
Charles remained Inconsolable. Next Morning Mr. Charles waited on Lord
Halifax, &c., to excuse his Mother and self, by relating the real Truth.
But neither his Lordship nor the Bishop would admit of any Plea;
especially the latter, who had the Abbey lighted, the ground open'd, the
Choir attending, an Anthem ready set, and himself waiting for some
Hours, without any Corps to bury. Russell, after three days' Expectance
of Orders for Embalment, without receiving any, waits on Lord Jeffreys,
who, pretending Ignorance of the Matter, turn'd it off with an
ill-natured Jest, saying, "Those who observed the orders of a drunken
Frolick, deserved no better; that he remembered nothing at all of it,
and he might do what he pleased with the Corps." On this Mr. Russell
waits on Lady Elsabeth and Mr. Dryden; but alas, it was not in their
power to answer. The season was very hot, the Deceas'd had liv'd high
and fast; and being corpulent, and abounding with gross Humours, grew
very offensive. The Undertaker, in short, threaten'd to bring home the
Corps, and set it before the Door. It cannot be easily imagin'd what
grief, shame, and confusion seized this unhappy Family. They begged a
Day's Respite, which was granted. Mr. Charles wrote a very handsome
Letter to Lord Jeffreys, who returned it with this cool Answer, "He knew
nothing of the Matter, and would be troubled no more about it." He then
addressed the Lord Halifax and Bishop of Rochester, who were both too
justly tho' unhappily incensed, to do anything in it. In this extream
Distress, Dr. Garth, a man who entirely lov'd Mr. Dryden, and was withal
a Man of Generosity and great Humanity, sends for the Corps to the
College of Physicians in Warwick Lane, and proposed a Funeral by
Subscription, to which himself set a most noble example. Mr. Wycherley,
and several others, among whom must not be forgotten Henry Cromwell,
Esq., Captain Gibbons, and Mr. Christopher Metcalfe, Mr. Dryden's
Apothecary and intimate Friend (since a Collegiate Physician), who with
many others contributed most largely to the Subscription; and at last a
Day, about three weeks after his Decease, was appointed for the
Interment at the Abbey. Dr. Garth pronounced a fine Latin Oration over
the Corps at the College; but the Audience being numerous, and the Room
large, it was requisite the Orator should be elevated, that he might be
heard. But as it unluckily happen'd there was nothing at hand but an old
Beer-Barrel, which the Doctor with much good-nature mounted; and in the
midst of his Oration, beating Time to the Accent with his Foot, the Head
broke in, and his Feet sunk to the Bottom, which occasioned the
malicious Report of his Enemies, "That he was turned a Tub-Preacher."
However, he finished the Oration with a superior grace and genius, to
the loud Acclamations of Mirth, which inspir'd the mix'd or rather
Mob-Auditors. The Procession began to move, a numerous Train of Coaches
attended the Hearse: But, good God! in what Disorder can only be
express'd by a Sixpenny Pamphlet, soon after published, entitled
"Dryden's Funeral." At last the Corps arrived at the Abbey, which was
all unlighted. No Organ played, no Anthem sung; only two of the Singing
boys preceded the Corps, who sung an Ode of Horace, with each a small
candle in their Hand. The Butchers and other Mob broke in like a Deluge,
so that only about eight or ten Gentlemen could gain Admission, and
those forced to cut the Way with their drawn Swords. The Coffin in this
Disorder was let down into Chaucer's Grave, with as much confusion, and
as little Ceremony, as was possible; every one glad to save themselves
from the Gentlemen's Swords, or the Clubs of the Mob. When the Funeral
was over, Mr. Charles sent a Challenge to Lord Jeffreys, who refusing to
answer it, he sent several others, and went often himself, but could
neither get a Letter deliver'd, nor Admittance to speak to him, that he
resolved, since his Lordship refused to answer him like a Gentleman, he
would watch an Opportunity to meet him, and fight off hand, tho' with
all the Rules of Honour; which his Lordship hearing, left the Town, and
Mr. Charles could never have the satisfaction to meet him, tho' he
sought it till his death with the utmost Application.'
Dryden was, perhaps, the last man of learning that believed in
astrology; though an eminent English author, now living, and celebrated
for the variety of his acquirements, has been known to procure the
casting of horoscopes, and to consult a noted 'astrologer,' who gives
opinions for a small sum. The coincidences of prophecy are not more
remarkable than those of star-telling; and Dryden and the author I have
referred to were probably both captivated into belief by some fatuitous
realization of their horoscopic predictions. Nor can we altogether blame
their credulity, when we see biology, table-turning, rapping, and all
the family of imposture, taken up seriously in our own time.
On the birth of his son Charles, Dryden immediately cast his horoscope.
The following account of Dryden's paternal solicitude for his son, and
its result, may be taken as embellished, if not apocryphal. Evil hour,
indeed--Jupiter, Venus, and the Sun were all 'under the earth;' Mars and
Saturn were in square: eight, or a multiple of it, would be fatal to the
child--the square foretold it. In his eighth, his twenty-fourth, or his
thirty-second year, he was certain to die, though he might possibly
linger on to the age of thirty-four. The stars did all they could to
keep up their reputation. When the boy was eight years old he nearly
lost his life by being buried under a heap of stones out of an old wall,
knocked down by a stag and hounds in a hunt. But the stars were not to
be beaten, and though the child recovered, went in for the game a second
time in his twenty-third year, when he fell, in a fit of giddiness, from
a tower, and, to use Lady Elsabeth's words, was 'mash'd to a mummy.'
Still the battle was not over, and the mummy returned in due course to
its human form, though considerably disfigured. Mars and Saturn were
naturally disgusted at his recovery, and resolved to finish the
disobedient youth. As we have seen, he in vain sought his fate at the
hand of Jeffreys; but we must conclude that the offended constellations
took Neptune in partnership, for in due course the youth met with a
watery grave.
After abandoning the drama, Congreve appears to have come out in the
light of an independent gentleman. He was already sufficiently
introduced into literary society; Pope, Steele, Swift, and Addison were
not only his friends but his admirers, and we can well believe that
their admiration was considerable, when we find the one dedicating his
'Miscellany,' the other his translation of the 'Iliad,' to a man who was
qualified neither by rank nor fortune to play Mæcenas.
At what time he was admitted to the Kit-kat I am not in a position to
state, but it must have been after 1715, and by that time he was a
middle-aged man, his fame was long since achieved; and whatever might be
thought of his works and his controversy with Collier, he was recognised
as one of the literary stars at a period when the great courted the
clever, and wit was a passport to any society. Congreve had plenty of
that, and probably at the Kit-kat was the life of the party when
Vanbrugh was away or Addison in a graver mood. Untroubled by conscience,
he could launch out on any subject whatever; and his early life, spent
in that species of so-called gaiety which was then the routine of every
young man of the world, gave him ample experience to draw upon. But
Congreve's ambition was greater than his talents. No man so little knew
his real value, or so grossly asserted one which he had not. Gay,
handsome, and in good circumstances, he aspired to be, not Congreve the
poet, not Congreve the wit, not Congreve the man of mind, but simply
Congreve the fine gentleman. Such humility would be charming if it were
not absurd. It is a vice of scribes to seek a character for which they
have little claim. Moore loved to be thought a diner-out rather than a
poet; even Byron affected the fast man when he might have been content
with the name of 'genius;' but Congreve went farther, and was ashamed of
being poet, dramatist, genius, or what you will. An anecdote of him,
told by Voltaire, who may have been an 'awfu' liar,' but had no
temptation to invent in such a case as this, is so consistent with what
we gather of the man's character, that one cannot but think it is true.
The philosopher of Ferney was anxious to see and converse with a
brother dramatist of such celebrity as the author of 'The Way of the
World.' He expected to find a man of a keen satirical mind, who would
join him in a laugh against humanity. He visited Congreve, and naturally
began to talk of his works. The fine gentleman spoke of them as trifles
utterly beneath his notice, and told him, with an affectation which
perhaps was sincere, that he wished to be visited as a gentleman, not as
an author. One can imagine the disgust of his brother dramatist.
Voltaire replied, that had Mr. Congreve been nothing more than a
gentleman, he should not have taken the trouble to call on him, and
therewith retired with an expression of merited contempt.
It is only in the present day that authorship is looked upon as a
profession, though it has long been one. It is amusing to listen to the
sneers of men who never wrote a book, or who, having written, have
gained thereby some more valuable advantage than the publisher's cheque.
The men who talk with horror of writing for money, are glad enough if
their works introduce them to the notice of the influential, and aid
them in procuring a place. In the same way, Congreve was not at all
ashamed of fulsome dedications, which brought him the favour of the
great. Yet we may ask, if, the labourer being worthy of his hire, and
the labour of the brain being the highest, finest, and most exhausting
that can be, the man who straight-forwardly and without affectation
takes guineas from his publisher, is not honester than he who counts
upon an indirect reward for his toil? Fortunately, the question is
almost settled by the example of the first writers of the present day;
but there are still people who think that one should sit down to a
year's--ay, ten years'--hard mental work, and expect no return but fame.
Whether such objectors have always private means to return to, or
whether they have never known what it is to write a book, we do not care
to examine, but they are to be found in large numbers among the
educated; and indeed, to this present day, it is held by some among the
upper classes to be utterly derogatory to write for money.
Whether this was the feeling in Congreve's day or not is not now the
question. Those were glorious days for an author, who did not mind
playing the sycophant a little. Instead of having to trudge from door to
door in Paternoster Row, humbly requesting an interview, which is not
always granted--instead of sending that heavy parcel of MS., which costs
you a fortune for postage, to publisher after publisher, till it is so
often 'returned with thanks' that you hate the very sight of it, the
young author of those days had a much easier and more comfortable part
to play. An introduction to an influential man in town, who again would
introduce you to a patron, was all that was necessary. The profession of
Mæcenas was then as recognized and established as that of doctor or
lawyer. A man of money could always buy brains; and most noblemen
considered an author to be as necessary a part of his establishment as
the footmen who ushered them into my lord's presence. A fulsome
dedication in the largest type was all that he asked: and if a writer
were sufficiently profuse in his adulation, he might dine at Mæcenas's
table, drink his sack and canary without stint, and apply to him for
cash whenever he found his pockets empty. Nor was this all: if a writer
were sufficiently successful in his works to reflect honour on his
patron, he was eagerly courted by others of the noble profession. He was
offered, if not hard cash, as good an equivalent, in the shape of a
comfortable government sinecure; and if this was not to be had, he was
sometimes even lodged and boarded by his obliged dedicatee. In this way
he was introduced into the highest society; and if he had wit enough to
support the character, he soon found himself _facile princeps_ in a
circle of the highest nobility in the land. Thus it is that in the clubs
of the day we find title and wealth mingling with wit and genius; and
the writer who had begun life by a cringing dedication, was now rewarded
by the devotion and assiduity of the men he had once flattered. When
Steele, Swift, Addison, Pope, and Congreve were the kings of their sets,
it was time for authors to look and talk big. Eheu! those happy days are
gone!
Our dramatist, therefore, soon discovered that a good play was the key
to a good place, and the Whigs took care that he should have it. Oddly
enough, when the Tories came in they did not turn him out. Perhaps they
wanted to gain him over to themselves; perhaps, like the Vicar of Bray,
he did not mind turning his coat once or twice in a life-time. However
this may be, he managed to keep his appointment without offending his
own party; and when the latter returned to power, he even induced them
to give him a comfortable little sinecure, which went by the name of
Secretary to the Island of Jamaica, and raised the income from his
appointments to £1200 a year.
From this period he was little before the public. He could afford now to
indulge his natural indolence and selfishness. His private life was
perhaps not worse than that of the majority of his contemporaries. He
had his intrigues, his mistresses, the same love of wine, and the same
addiction to gluttony. He had the reputation of a wit, and with wits he
passed his time, sufficiently easy in his circumstances to feel no
damping to his spirits in the cares of this life. The Island of Jamaica
probably gave him no further trouble than that of signing a few papers
from time to time, and giving a receipt for his salary. His life,
therefore, presents no very remarkable feature, and he is henceforth
known more on account of his friends than for aught he may himself have
done. The best of these friends was Walter Moyle, the scholar, who
translated parts of Lucian and Xenophon, and was pretty well known as a
classic. He was a Cornish man of independent means, and it was to him
that Congreve addressed the letters in which he attempted to defend
himself from the attacks of Collier.
It was not to be expected that a wit and a poet should go through life
without a platonic, and accordingly we find our man not only attached,
but devoted to a lady of great distinction. This was no other than
Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, the daughter of 'Malbrook' himself,
and of the famous 'Queen Sarah.' Henrietta was the eldest daughter, and
there was no son to inherit the prowess of Churchill and the parsimony
of his wife. The nation--to which, by the way, the Marlboroughs were
never grateful--would not allow the title of their pet warrior to become
extinct, and a special Act of Parliament gave to the eldest daughter the
honours of the duchy.[17] The two Duchesses of Marlborough hated each
other cordially. Sarah's temper was probably the main cause of their
bickering; but there is never a feud between parent and child in which
both are not more or less blameable.
The Duchess Henrietta conceived a violent fancy for the wit and poet,
and whatever her husband, Lord Godolphin, may have thought of it, the
connection ripened into a most intimate friendship, so much so that
Congreve made the duchess not only his executrix, but the sole residuary
legatee of all his property.[18] His will gives us some insight into the
toadying character of the man. Only four near relations are mentioned as
legatees, and only £540 is divided among them; whereas, after leaving
£200 to Mrs. Bracegirdle, the actress; £100, 'and all my apparel and
linnen of all sorts' to a Mrs. Rooke, he divides the rest between his
friends of the nobility, Lords Cobham and Shannon, the Duchess of
Newcastle, Lady Mary Godolphin, Colonel Churchill (who receives 'twenty
pounds, together with my gold-headed cane'), and, lastly, 'to the poor
of the parish,' the magnificent sum of _ten pounds_. 'Blessed are those
who give to the rich;' these words must surely have expressed the
sentiment of the worldly Congreve.
However, Congreve got something in return from the Duchess Henrietta,
which he might not have received from 'the poor of the parish,' to wit,
a monument, and an inscription on it written by her own hand. I have
already said what 'Queen Sarah' thought of the latter, and, for the
rest, those who care to read the nonsense on the walls of Westminster
Abbey can decide for themselves as to the honour the poet received from
his titled friend.
The latter days of William Congreve were passed in wit and gout: the
wine, which warmed the one, probably brought on the latter. After a
course of ass's milk, which does not seem to have done him much good,
the ex-dramatist retired to Bath, a very fashionable place for departing
life in, under easy and elegant circumstances. But he not only drank of
the springs beloved of King Bladud, of apocryphal memory, but even went
so far as to imbibe the snail-water, which was then the last species of
quack cure in vogue. This, probably, despatched him. But it is only just
to that disagreeable little reptile that infests our gardens, and whose
slime was supposed to possess peculiarly strengthening properties, to
state that his death was materially hastened by being overturned when
driving in his chariot. He was close upon sixty, had long been blind
from cataracts in his eyes, and as he was no longer either useful or
ornamental to the world in general, he could perhaps be spared. He died
soon after this accident in January, 1729. He had the sense to die at a
time when Westminster Abbey, being regarded as a mausoleum, was open to
receive the corpse of any one who had a little distinguished himself,
and even of some who had no distinction whatever. He was buried there
with great pomp, and his dear duchess set up his monument. So much for
his body. What became of the soul of a dissolute, vain, witty, and
unprincipled man, is no concern of ours. _Requiescat in pace_, if there
is any peace for those who are buried in Westminster Abbey.