Wycherley was remarkable for his beauty, and stalwart proportions, he was called “manly” or “brawny” Wycherley; and the notorious Duchess of Cleveland was so captivated by his appearance, that she made his acquaintance when passing in her carriage by jocosely calling out at him some abusive epithets.  Afterwards, we are told that she often visited Wycherley at the Temple, disguised as a country girl in a straw hat, with pattens on her feet, and a basket on her arm.  Later, he had the misfortune to make the acquaintance of the Countess of Drogheda on the Pantiles at Tunbridge Wells, and by secretly marrying her incurred the King’s displeasure.  He was finally reduced to great distress, but James II., recognising his talent, gave him a pension, and saved him from destitution in his old age.

Wycherley wrote his first play in 1667.  In comparing him with Shakespeare we find the same difference as existed between the old and new comedy in Greece.  Political characters have disappeared together with hostility and combats on the stage, while amorous intrigue is largely developed.  There is at the same time considerable sprightliness in the dialogue, and the tricks, deceptions and misadventures of lovers fill the pages with much that is ingenious and amusing.  In the “Gentleman Dancing Master,” a young spark pretends to a rich father that he is only visiting his daughter to teach her to dance.  A rival lover—­a Frenchified puppy—­is made unconsciously to co-operate in his own discomfiture, while the duped father jokes with the supposed “dancing master,” and asks him whether he is not engaged to one of his rich pupils, laughing heartily at the picture he draws to himself of her father’s indignation.  Again, in “A Country Wife,” a jealous husband obliges his spouse to write a disdainful letter to a gallant, but the lady slyly substitutes one of quite a different character, which the husband duly and pompously delivers to him.  The humour of Wycherley is almost entirely of this kind.  Here are no verbal quips, no sallies of professed fools, no stupidities of country boobies.  These have passed away from good comedy.  Speaking of the change, he says that formerly they were contented to make serving-men fools on the stage, “but now you shall scarcely see a fool on the stage who is not a knight.”  The fact was that a higher kind of humour was required, and accordingly we now, for the first time, hear of “wits”—­men of good birth and position, who prided themselves on their talent.  They were generally remarkable for their manners and address, and affected a superiority in acuteness, but not always in humour.  Wycherley speaks of wits not exactly in the sense of humorists, but rather as coxcombs, endued with a certain cunning:  “Your court wit is a fashionable, insinuating, flattering, cringing, grimacing fellow, and has wit enough to solicit a suit of love; and if he fail he has malice enough to ruin the woman with a dull lampoon; but he rails still at the man that is absent, for all wits rail; and his wit properly lies in combing perukes, matching ribbons, and being severe, as they call it, upon other peoples’ clothes.”