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 e 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.

Where Congreve excels all his English rivals is in his literary force, and a succinctness of style peculiar to him.  He had correct judgement, a correct ear, readiness of illustration within a narrow range, in snapshots of the obvious at the obvious, and copious language.  He hits the mean of a fine style and a natural in dialogue.  He is at once precise and voluble.  If you have ever thought upon style you will acknowledge it to be a signal accomplishment.  In this he is a classic, and is worthy of treading a measure with Moliere.  The Way of the World may be read out currently at a first glance, so sure are the accents of the emphatic meaning to strike the eye, perforce of the crispness and cunning polish of the sentences.  You have not to look over them before you confide yourself to him; he will carry you safe.  Sheridan imitated, but was far from surpassing him.  The flow of boudoir Billingsgate in Lady Wishfort is unmatched for the vigour and pointedness of the tongue.  It spins along with a final ring, like the voice of Nature in a fury, and is, indeed, racy eloquence of the elevated fishwife.