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 a 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.