The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland/Volume 4/William Congreve
William Congreve, Eſq;
This gentleman was deſcended from the ancient houſe of Congreve in Staffordſhire, but authors differ as to the place of his birth; ſome contend that he was born in Ireland,[1] others that he drew his firſt breath at the village of Bardſa, near Leeds in Yorkſhire, which was the eſtate of a near relation of his by his mother’s ſide. Mr. Jacob, in his preface to the Lives of the Poets, has informed us, that he had the advice and aſſiſtance of Mr. Congreve in that work, who communicated to him many particulars of the lives of cotemporary writers, as well as of himſelf, and as Mr. Congreve can hardly be thought ignorant of the place of his own birch, and Mr. Jacob has aſſerted it to be in England, no room is left to doubt of it. The learned antiquary of Ireland, Sir James Ware, has reckoned our author amongſt his own country worthies, from the relation of Southern; but Mr. Congreve's own account, if Jacob may be relied on, is more than equal to that of Southern, who poſſibly might be miſtaken.
About the year 1671, or 1672, our author was born, and his father carried him, when a child, into Ireland, where he then had a command in the army, but afterwards was entruſted with the management of a conſiderable eſtate, belonging to the noble family of Burlington, which fixed his reſidence there.[2] Mr. Congreve received the firſt tincture of letters in the great ſchool of Kilkenny, and, according to common report, gave early proofs of a poetical genius; his firſt attempt in poetry was a copy of verſes on the death of his maſter’s Magpye.
He went from the ſchool of Kilkenny to the univerſity of Dublin, where under the direction of Dr. George Aſh, he acquired a general knowledge of the claſſics. His father, who was deſirous that his ſtudies ſhould be directed to a profitable employment, ſent him over to England a little after the revolution, and placed him as a ſtudent in the Middle-Temple. But the ſevere ſtudy of the Law was ſo ill adapted to the ſprightly genius of Congreve, that he never attempted to reconcile himſelf to a way of life, for which he had the greateſt averſion. But however he diſappointed his friends with reſpect to the proficiency they expected him to make in the Law; yet it is certain he was not negligent in thoſe ſtudies to which his genius led him.
Mr. Congreve’s firſt performance, written when but a youth of ſeventeen, was a Novel, dedicated to Mrs. Katherine Leveſon, which gave proof, not only of a great vivacity of wit, but alſo a fluency of ſtile, and a ſolid judgment. He was conſcious that young men in their early productions generally aimed at a florid ſtile, and enthuſiaſtic deſcriptions, without any regard to the plot, fable, or ſubſerviency of the parts; for this reaſon he formed a new model, and gave an example how works of that kind ſhould be written. He purſued a regular plan, obſerved a general moral, and carried on a connexion, as well as diſtinction, between his characters.
This performance is entitled Incognita, or Love and Duty Reconciled; it has been aſſerted that this is a real hiſtory, and though the ſcene is laid in Italy, the adventures happened in England; it is not our buſineſs to enter into the ſecret hiſtory of this entertaining piece, or to attempt giving the reader a key to what the writer took ſo much pains to conceal. It appears from this piece, that Mr. Congreve aimed at perfection from the very beginning, and his deſign in writing this novel, was to ſhew, how novels ought to be written. Let us hear what he ſays himſelf, and from thence we ſhall entertain a higher opinion of his abilities, than could poſſibly be raiſed by the warmeſt commendations. After very judiciouſly obſerving, that there is the ſame relation between romances and novels as between tragedy and comedy, he proceeds thus: ‘Since all traditions muſt indiſputably give glace to the drama, and ſince there is no poſſibility of giving that life to the writing, or repetition of a ſtory, which it has in the action; I reſolved in another beauty to imitate dramatic writing, namely, in the deſign, contexture, and reſult in the plot. I have not obſerved it before in a novel. Some I have ſeen begin with an unexpected accident, which has been the only ſurprizing part of the ſtory, cauſe enough to make the ſequel look flat, tedious, and inſipid; for ’tis but reaſonable the reader ſhould expect, if not to riſe, at leaſt, to keep upon a level in the entertainment, for ſo he may be kept on, in hopes, that ſome time, or other, it may mend; but the other is ſuch a baulk to a man, ’tis carrying him up ſtairs to ſhew him the dining room, and afterwards force him to make a meal in the kitchen. This I have not only endeavoured to avoid, but alſo have uſed a method for the contrary purpoſe. The deſign of this novel is obvious, after the firſt meeting of Aurelian and Hippolito, with Incognita, and Leonora; the difficulty is in bringing it to paſs, maugre all apparent obſtacles within the compaſs of two days. How many probable caſualties intervene, in oppoſition to the main deſign, viz. of marrying two couple ſo oddly engaged in an intricate amour, I leave the reader at his leiſure to conſider; as alſo whether every obſtacle does not, in the progreſs of the ſtory, act as ſubſervient to that purpoſe, which at firſt it ſeems to oppoſe. In a comedy this would be called the unity of action, here it may pretend to no more than an unity of contrivance. The ſcene is continued in Florence from the commencement of the amour, and the time from firſt to laſt, is but three days.’
Soon after Mr. Congreve’s return to England, he amuſed himſelf, during a ſlow recovery from a fit of ſickneſs, with writing a comedy. Captain Southern, in conjunction with Mr. Dryden, and Arthur Manwayring, eſq; reviſed this performance, which was the Old Batchelor; of which Mr. Dryden ſaid, he never ſaw ſuch a firſt play in his life, adding, that the author not being acquainted with the ſtage, or the town, it would be pity to have it miſcarry for want of a little aſſiſtance. Mr. Thomas Davenant, who had then the direction of the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, had ſo high a ſenſe of the merit of the piece, and was ſo charmed with the author’s converſation, that he granted him the freedom of the houſe before his play came on, which, according to the maxims of theatrical government, was not only an unuſual, but an unprecedented favour. In 1693 the Old Batchelor was actcd before a numerous, and polite audience. The play was received with ſuch general applauſe, that Mr. Congreve was then conſidered as a prop to the declining ſtage, and a riſing genius in dramatic poetry. It was this play, and the ſingular ſucceſs which attended it upon the ſtage, that introduced our author to the acquaintance of the earl of Hallifax, who was then the profeſſed patron of men of wit; and who, being deſirous to raiſe a man of ſo promiſing a genius, above the neceſſity of too haſty productions, made him one of the commiſſioners for licenſing Hackney coaches. The earl beſtowed upon him ſoon after a place in the Pipe-Office, and gave him likewiſe a poſt in the Cuſtom-Houſe, to the value of 600 l. per annum.
In the following year Mr. Congreve brought upon the ſtage the Double Dealer, which met not with ſo good a reception as the former.
Mr. Congreve has informed us in the dedication of this play, to Charles Montague, eſq; that he was very aſſiduous to learn from the critics what objections could be found to it; but, ſays he, ‘I have heard nothing to provoke an anſwer. That which looks moſt like an objection, does not relate in particular to this play, but to all; or moſt that ever have been written, and that is ſoliloquy; therefore I will anſwer it, not only for my own ſake, but to ſave others the trouble to whom it may be hereafter objected. I grant, that for a man to talk to himſelf, appears abſurd, and unnatural, and indeed it is ſo in moſt caſes, but the circumſtances which may attend the occaſion, makes great alteration. It often happens to a man to have deſigns, which require him to himſelf, and in their nature cannot admit of a confident. Such for certain is all villainy, and other leſs miſchievous intentions may be very improper to be communicated to a ſecond perſon. In ſuch a cafe, therefore the audience muſt obſerve, whether the perſon upon the ſtage takes any notice of them at all, or no: for if he ſuppoſes any one to be by,[3] when he talks to himſelf, it is monſtrous and ridiculous to the laſt degree; nay not only in this caſe, but in any part of a play, if there is expreſſed any knowledge of an audience it is inſufferable. But otherwiſe, when a man in a ſoliloquy reaſons with himſelf, and pro’s and con’s, and weighs all his deſigns, we ought not to imagine that this man either talks to us, or to himſelf; he is only thinking, and thinking ſuch matter, as it were inexcuſable folly in him to ſpeak. But, becauſe we are concealed ſpectators of the plot in agitation, and the poet finds it neceſſary to let us know the whole myſtery of his contrivance, he is willing to inform us of this perſon’s thoughts, and to that end is forced to make uſe of the expedient of ſpeech, no other, or better way being yet invented for the communication of thought.’
Towards the cloſe of the ſame year Queen Mary died. Upon that occaſion Mr. Congreve produced an elegiac Paſtoral, a compoſition which the admirers of this poet have extolled in the moſt laviſh terms of admiration, but which ſeems not to merit the incenſe it obtained.
When Mr. Betterton opened the new houſe at Lincoln’s-Inn, Congreve took part with him, and gave him his celebrated comedy of Love for Love, then introduced upon the ſtage, with the moſt extraordinary ſucceſs. This comedy, with ſome more of our author’s, was ſmartly criticiſed by the ingenious Mr. Collier, as containing leſſons of immorality, and a repreſentation of looſe characters, which can never, in his opinion, appear on a ſtage without corrupting the audience.
Meſſrs. Congreve, Dennis, and Dryden, engaged in a vigorous defence of the Engliſh ſtage, and endeavoured to ſhew the neceſſity of ſuch characters being introduced in order to be expoſed, and laughed at. To all their defences Mr. Collier replied, and managed the point with ſo much learning, wit, and keenneſs, that in the opinion of many, he had the better of his antagoniſts, eſpecially Mr. Congreve, whoſe comedies it muſt be owned, though they are admirably written, and the characters ſtrongly marked, are ſo looſe, that they have given great offence: and ſurely we pay too dear for pleaſure, when we have it at the expence of morality.
The ſame year he diſtinguiſhed himſelf in another kind of poetry, viz. an irregular Ode on the taking Namure, which the critics have allowed to contain fine ſentiments, gracefully expreſſed. His reputation as a comic poet being ſufficiently eſtabliſhed, he was deſirous of extending his fame, by producing a tragedy. It has been alledged, that ſome, who were jealous of his growing reputation, put him upon this taſk, in order, as they imagined, to diminiſh it, for he ſeemed to be of too gay and lively a diſpoſition for tragedy, and in all likelihood would miſcarry in the attempt. However,
In 1697, after the expectation of the town had been much raiſed, the Mourning Bride appeared on the New Theatre in Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields: few plays ever excited ſo great an ardour of expectation as this, and very few ever ſucceeded to ſuch an extravagant degree. There is ſomething new in the management of the plot; after moving the paſſions of the audience to the greateſt commiſeration, he brings off his principal characters, puniſhes the guilty, and makes the play conclude happily.
The controverſy we have juſt now mentioned, was thought to have occaſioned a diſlike in Mr. Congreve towards the ſtage; yet he afterwards produced another comedy called The Way of the World, which was ſo juſt a picture of the world, that, as an author prettily ſays,
The world could not bear it.
The reception this play met with, compleated our author’s diſguſt to the theatre; upon which Mr. Dennis, who was a warm friend to Congreve, made this fine obſervation, ‘that Mr. Congreve quitted the ſtage early, and that comedy left it with him.’
It is ſaid that when Congreve found his play met with but indifferent ſucceſs, he came in a paſſion on the ſtage, and deſired the audience to ſave themſelves the trouble of ſhewing their diſlike; for he never intended to write again for the Theatre, nor ſubmit his works to the cenſure of impotent critics. In this particular he kept his word with them, and as if he had foreſeen the fate of his play, he took an ample revenge, in his Epilogue, of the race of Little Snarlers, who excited by envy, and ſupported by falſe ideas of their own importance, dared to conſtitute themſelves judges of wit, without any juſt pretenſions to it. This play has long ago triumphed over its enemies, and is now in great eſteem amongſt the beſt judges of Theatrical Entertainments.
Though Mr. Congreve quitted the ſtage, yet did not he give up the cauſe of poetry; for on the death of the marquis of Blandford, the only ſon of the duke of Marlborough, which happened in 1705, we find him compoſing a paſtoral to ſoften the grief of that illuſtrious family, which he addreſſed to the lord treaſurer Godolphin.
About the ſame time, the extraordinary ſucceſs of the duke of Marlborough’s arms, furniſhed him with materials for an Ode to Queen Anne. In another Pindaric Ode he celebrates the lord Godolphin; taking occaſion from that nobleman’s delight in horſe-racing to imitate the Greek Poet in his favourite manner of writing, by an elegant digreſſion; to which he added a criticiſm oh that ſpecies of poetry.
As in the early part of his life, Mr. Congreve had received favours from people of a leſs exalted ſtation, ſo of theſe he was highly ſenſible, and never let ſlip any opportunity of ſhewing his gratitude. He wrote an Epilogue to his old friend Southern’s Tragedy of Oroonoko; and Mr. Dryden has acknowledged his aſſiſtance in the tranſlation of Virgil: He contributed by his Verſion of the eleventh Satire of Juvenal, to the tranſlation of that poet, publiſhed alſo by Mr. Dryden, to whom Mr. Congreve wrote a copy of Verſes on his Tranſlation of Perſius. He wrote likewiſe a Prologue for a Play of Mr. Charles Dryden’s, full of kindneſs for that young gentleman, and of reſpect for his father.
But the nobleſt teſtimony he gave of his filial regard to the memory of his poetical father, Mr. John Dryden, was the Panegyric he wrote upon his works, contained in the dedication of Dryden’s plays to the duke of Newcaſtle.
Mr. Congreve tranſlated the third Book of Ovid’s Art of Love; ſome favourite paſſages from the Iliad, and writ ſome Epigrams, in all which he was not unſucceſsful, though at the ſame time he has been exceeded by his cotemporaries in the ſame attempts.
The author of the elegant Letters, not long ago publiſhed under the name of Fitz Oſborne, has taken ſome pains to ſet before his readers the verſion of thoſe parts of Homer, tranſlated by our author, and the ſame paſſages by Pope and Tickell, in which compariſon the palm is very deſervedly yielded to Pope.
Our author wrote a Satire called Doris, celebrated by Sir Richard Steele, who was a warm friend to Mr. Congreve. He alſo wrote the Judgment of Paris, a Maſque; and the Opera of Semele; of theſe, the former was acted with great applauſe, and the latter is finely ſet to muſic by Mr. Eccles. The laſt of his Poetical Works, is his Art of Pleaſing, addreſſed to Sir Richard Temple, the late viſcount Cobham. He has written many Proſe Epiſtles, diſperſed in the works of other writers, and his Eſſay on Humour in Comedy, publiſhed in a Collection of Dennis’s Letters, is an entertaining, and correct piece of criticiſm: All his other Letters are written with a great deal of wit and ſpirit, a fine flow of language; and are ſo happily intermixt with a lively and inoffenſive raillery, that it is impoſſible not to be pleaſed with them at the firſt reading: we may be ſatisfied from the peruſal of them, that his converſation muſt have been very engaging, and therefore we need not wonder that he was careſſed by the greateſt men of his time, or that they courted his friendship by every act of kindneſs in their power.
It is ſaid of Mr. Congreve, that he was a particular favourite with the ladies, ſome of whom were of the firſt diſtinction. He indulged none of thoſe reveries, and affected abſences ſo peculiar to men of wit: He was ſprightly as well as elegant in his manner, and ſo much the favourite of Henrietta ducheſs of Marlborough, that even after his death, ſhe cauſed an image of him to be every day placed at her toilet-table, to which ſhe would talk as to the living Mr. Congreve, with all the freedom of the moſt polite and unreſerved converſation. Mrs. Bracegirdle likewiſe had the higheſt veneration for our author, and joined with her Grace in a boundleſs profuſion of ſorrow upon his death. Some think, he had made a better figure in his Laſt Will, had he remembered his friendſhip he profeſſed for Mrs. Bracegirdle, whoſe admirable performance added ſpirit to his dramatic pieces; but he forgot her, and gratified his vanity by chuſing to make a rich ducheſs his ſole legatee, and executrix.
Mr. Congreve was the ſon of fortune, as well as of the muſes. He was early preferred to an affluent ſituation, and no change of miniſtry ever affected him, nor was he ever removed from any poſt he enjoyed, except to a better.
His place in the cuſtom-houſe, and his office of ſecretary in Jamaica, are ſaid to have brought him in upwards of 1200 l. a year; and he was ſo far an œconomift, as to raiſe from thence a competent eſtate. No man of his learning ever paſs’d thro’ life with more eaſe, or leſs envy; and as in the dawn of his reputation he was very dear to the greateſt wits of his time, ſo during his whole life he preſerved the utmoſt reſpect of, and received continual marks of eſteem from, men of genius and letters, without ever being involved in any of their quarrels, or drawing upon himſelf the leaſt mark of diſtaſte, or, even diſſatisfaction. The greateſt part of the laſt twenty years of his life were ſpent in eaſe and retirement, and he gave himſelf no trouble about reputation. When the celebrated Voltaire was in England, he waited upon Congreve, and paſs’d ſome compliments upon him, as to the reputation and merit of his works; Congreve thanked him, but at the ſame time told that ingenious foreigner, he did not chuſe to be conſidered as an author, but only as a private gentleman, and in that light expected to be viſited. Voltaire anſwered, ‘That if he had never been any thing but a private gentleman, in all probability, he had never been troubled with that viſit.’
Mr. Voltaire upon this occaſion obſerves, that he was not a little diſguſted with ſo unſeaſonable a piece of vanity:——This was indeed the higheſt inſtance of it, that perhaps can be produced. A man who owed to his wit and writings the reputation, as well as the fortune, he acquired, pretending to divert himſelf of human nature to ſuch a degree, as to have no conſciouſneſs of his own merit, was the moſt abſurd piece of vanity that ever entered into the heart of man; and of all vanity, that is the greateſt which maſks itſelf under the appearance of the oppoſite quality.
Towards the cloſe of his life, he was much troubled with the gout; and for this reaſon, in the ſummer of the year 1728, he made a tour to Bath, for the benefit of the waters, where he had the misfortune to be overturned in his chariot, from which time he complained of a pain in his ſide, which was ſuppoſed to ariſe from ſome inward bruiſe. Upon his return to London, he perceived his health gradually decline, which he bore with fortitude and reſignation.
On January the 19th, 1728–9, he yielded his laſt breath, about five o’clock in the morning, at his houſe in Surrey-ſtreet in the Strand, in the fifty-ſeventh year of his age. On the ſunday following, January 26, his corpſe lay in ſtate in the Jeruſalem-Chamber, from whence the ſame evening, between the hours of nine and ten, it was carried with great decency and ſolemnity to Henry the VIIth’s Chapel; and after the funeral ſervice was performed, it was interred in the Abbey. The pall was ſupported by the duke of Bridgewater, earl of Godolphin, lord Cobham, lord Wilmington, the honourable George Berkley, Eſq; and Brigadier-general Churchill; and colonel Congreve followed his corpſe as chief mourner; ſome time after, a neat and elegant monument was erected to his memory, by Henrietta ducheſs of Marlborough.
Mr. Congreve’s reputation is ſo extenſive, and his works ſo generally read, that any ſpecimen of his poetry may be deemed ſuperfluous. But finding an epiſtle of our author’s in the Biographia Brittannica, not inſerted in his works, it may not be improper to give it a place here. It is addreſſed to the lord viſcount Cobham, and the ingenious authors inform us, that they copied it from a MS. very correct.
As in this poem there is a viſible alluſion to the meaſures, which the writer thought were too complaiſant to the French, it is evident it muſt have been penned but a very ſmall time before his death.
Of improving the preſent time.
Sincereſt critic of my proſe, or rhyme.
Tell how thy pleaſing Stowe employs thy time.
Say, Cobham, what amuſes thy retreat?
Or ſtratagems of war, or ſchemes of ſtate?
Doſt thou recall to mind, with joy or grief,
Great Marlbro’s actions? that immortal chief,
Whoſe higheſt trophy, rais’d in each campaign,
More than ſuffic’d to ſignalize a reign.
Does thy remembrance riſing, warm thy heart
With glory paſt, where thou thyſelf had’ſt part;
Or do’ſt thou grieve indignant, now to ſee
The fruitleſs end of all thy victory?
To ſee th’ audacious foe, ſo late ſubdu’d,
Diſpute thoſe terms for which ſo long they ſu’d,
As if Britannia now were ſunk ſo low,
To beg that peace ſhe wanted to beſtow.
Be far, that guilt! be never known that ſhame!
That England ſhould retract her rightful claim!
Or ceaſing to be dreaded and ador’d,
Stain with her pen the luſtre of her ſword.
Or doſt thou give the winds, a-far to blow,
Each vexing thought, and heart-devouring woe,
And fix thy mind alone on rural ſcenes,
To turn the levell’d lawns to liquid plains;
To raiſe the creeping rills from humble beds,
And force the latent ſprings to lift their heads;
On watry columns capitals to rear,
That mix their flowing curls with upper air?
Or doſt thou, weary grown, late works neglect,
No temples, ſtatues, obeliſks erect;
But catch the morning breeze from fragrant meads.
Or ſhun the noon-tide ray in wholeſome ſhades;
Or lowly walk along the mazy wood,
To meditate on all that’s wiſe and good:
For nature, bountiful, in thee has join’d,
A perſon pleaſing, with a worthy mind,
Not giv’n the form alone, but means and art,
To draw the eye, or to allure the heart.
Poor were the praiſe, in fortune to excel,
Yet want the way to uſe that fortune well.
While thus adorn’d, while thus with virtue crown’d,
At home in peace; abroad, in arms renown’d;
Graceful in form, and winning in addreſs,
While well you think, what aptly you expreſs;
With health, with honour, with a fair eſtate,
A table free, and elegantly neat.
What can be added more to mortal bliſs?
What can he want that ſtands poſſeſt of this?
What can the fondeſt wiſhing mother more,
Of heav’n attentive, for her ſon implore?
And yet, a happineſs remains unknown,
Or to philoſophy reveal’d alone;
A precept which, unpractis’, renders vain
Thy flowing hopes, and pleaſure turns to pain.
Shou’d hope and fear thy heart alternate tear,
Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care,
Whatever paſſions may thy mind infeſt,
(Where is that mind which paſſions ne’er moleſt?)
Amidſt the pangs of ſuch inteſtine ſtrife,
Still think the preſent day the laſt of life;
Defer not ’till to-morrow to be wiſe,
To-morrow’s fun to thee may never riſe;
Or ſhou’d to-morrow chance to chear thy ſight,
With her enliv’ning, and unlook’d-for light.
How grateful will appear her dawning rays!
Its favours unexpected doubly pleaſe.
Who thus can think, and who ſuch thoughts purſues,
Content may keep his life, or calmly loſe.
All proofs of this, thou may’ſt thyſelf receive,
When leiſure from affairs will give thee leave.
Come, ſee thy friend retir’d, without regret,
Forgetting care, or ſtriving to forget,
In eaſy contemplation, ſoothing time
With morals much, and now and then with rhyme;
Not ſo robuſt in body as in mind,
And always undejected, tho’ declin’d;
Not wond’ring at the world’s new wicked ways,
Compar’d with thoſe of our fore-father’s days;
For virtue now is neither more or leſs,
And vice is only vary’d in the dreſs:
Believe it, men have ever been the ſame,
And Ovid’s Golden Age is but a dream.
We ſhall conclude the life of this eminent wit, with the teſtimony of Mr. Pope in his favour, from the cloſe of his poſtſcript to the tranſlation of Homer: It is in every reſpect ſo honourable, that it would be injurious to Mr. Congreve to omit it.——His words are——‘Inſtead of endeavouring to raiſe a vain monument to myſelf, let me leave behind me a memorial of my friendſhip with one of the moſt valuable men, as well as the fineſt writers of my age and country. One who has tried, and knows by his own experience, how hard an undertaking it is to do juſtice to Homer, and one who I’m ſure ſincerely rejoices with me at the period of my labours. To him therefore, having brought this long work to a concluſion, I deſire to dedicate it, and have the honour and ſatisfaction of placing together in this manner, the names of Mr. Congreve and of
