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Carvel, too, had walked in Gray's Inn Gardens and met adventure at Fox Hall, and seen the great Marlborough himself. He had a fondness for Mr. Congreve's Comedies, many of which he had seen acted; and was partial to Mr. Gay's Trivia, which brought him many a recollection. He would also listen to Pope. But of the more modern poetry I think Mr. Gray's Elegy pleased him best.
Congreve's offences against decorum, though highly culpable, were not so gross as those of Wycherley; nor did Congreve, like Wycherley, exhibit to the world the deplorable spectacle of a licentious dotage. Congreve died in the enjoyment of high consideration; Wycherley forgotten or despised.
Excepting Congreve's Way of the World, which failed on the stage, there was nothing to keep our comedy alive on its merits; neither, with all its realism, true portraiture, nor much quotable fun, nor idea; neither salt nor soul.
Though there are tolerably fixed standards of right and wrong, and even of generosity and meanness, it may be said that the beauty, or grandeur, of a life is more or less a matter of taste; and Mr. Congreve's notions of literary excellence are so different from mine that, it may be, we should diverge as widely in our judgment of moral beauty or ugliness.
"Where Congreve excels all his English rivals is in his literary force, and a succinctness of style peculiar to him... 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 he is worthy of treading a measure with Molière." Congreve's best comedies are Love for Love and The Way of the World.
For what is Ben the pleasant sailor which Bannister gave us but a piece of a satire a creation of Congreve's fancy a dreamy combination of all the accidents of a sailor's character his contempt of money his credulity to women with that necessary estrangement from home which it is just within the verge of credibility to suppose might produce such an hallucination as is here described.
Congreve's, that my husband was so fond of that he was always singing it: Love's but a frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition join'd. Love without interest makes but an unsavoury dish, in my opinion." "And pray how long hath this been your opinion?" said Amelia, smiling. "Ever since I was born," answered Mrs. Ellison; "at least, ever since I can remember."
Celimene is undisputed mistress of the same attribute in the Misanthrope; wiser as a woman than Alceste as man. In Congreve's Way of the World, Millamant overshadows Mirabel, the sprightliest male figure of English comedy. But those two ravishing women, so copious and so choice of speech, who fence with men and pass their guard, are heartless!
Congreve's recent article gives expression to the displeasure which I have excited among the members of the Comtian body. Mr.
He sighed, and declaimed a line of Congreve's: "'Woman is a fair image in a pool; who leaps at it is sunk." The landlord came to bid him in to supper. He excused himself. Sent his lordship word that he was over-tired, and went off to bed. They met at breakfast, at an early hour upon the morrow, Mistress Winthrop cool and distant; his lordship grumpy and mute; Mr.
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