look abroad with their own eyes, fewer still have the habit of thinking for themselves.  Life, we know too well, is not a Comedy, but something strangely mixed; nor is Comedy a vile mask.  The corrupted importation from France was noxious; a noble entertainment spoilt to suit the wretched taste of a villanous age; and the later imitations of it, partly drained of its poison and made decorous, became tiresome, notwithstanding their fun, in the perpetual recurring of the same situations, owing to the absence of original study and vigour of conception.  Scene v.  Act 2 of the Misanthrope, owing, no doubt, to the fact of our not producing matter for original study, is repeated in succession by Wycherley, Congreve, and Sheridan, and as it is at second hand, we have it done cynically—­or such is the tone; in the manner of ‘below stairs.’  Comedy thus treated may be accepted as a version of the ordinary worldly understanding of our social life; at least, in accord with the current dicta concerning it.  The epigrams can be made; but it is uninstructive, rather tending to do disservice.  Comedy justly treated, as you find it in Moliere, whom we so clownishly mishandled, the Comedy of Moliere throws no infamous reflection upon life.  It is deeply conceived, in the first place, and therefore it cannot be impure.  Meditate on that statement.  Never did man wield so shrieking a scourge upon vice, but his consummate self-mastery is not shaken while administering it.  Tartuffe and Harpagon, in fact, are made each to whip himself and his class, the false pietists, and the insanely covetous.  Moliere has only set them in motion.  He strips Folly to the skin, displays the imposture of the creature, and is content to offer her better clothing, with the lesson Chrysale reads to Philaminte and Belise.  He conceives purely, and he writes purely, in the simplest language, the simplest of French verse.  The source of his wit is clear reason:  it is a fountain of that soil; and it springs to vindicate reason, common-sense, rightness and justice; for no vain purpose ever.  The wit is of such pervading spirit that it inspires a pun with meaning and interest. {5} His moral does not hang like a tail, or preach from one character incessantly cocking an eye at the audience, as in recent realistic French Plays:  but is in the heart of his work, throbbing with every pulsation of an organic structure.  If Life is likened to the comedy of Moliere, there is no scandal in the comparison.

Congreve’s Way of the World is an exception to our other comedies, his own among them, by virtue of the remarkable brilliancy of the writing, and the figure of Millamant.  The comedy has no idea in it, beyond 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