e greatest triumphs of
diction or observation: he is free to choose. It may be granted that to
one unfamiliar with the English of two centuries since the grossness of
Congreve's language may seem excessive--like splashes of colour occurring
too frequently in the arrangement of a wall. But that is merely a result
of novelty: given time and habit, a more artistic perspective will be
achieved.

The second question is more complex. Since Jeremy Collier let off his
_Short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage_,
there has never lacked a critic to chastise or to deplore--the more
effective and irritating course--not simply the coarseness but, the
immorality of our old comedies, their attitude towards and their peculiar
interests in life. Without affirming that we are now come to the Golden
Age of criticism, one may rejoice that modern methods have taught quite
humble critics to discriminate between issues, and to deal with such a
matter as this with some mental detachment. The great primal fallacy
comes from a habit of expecting everything in everything. Just as in a
picture it is not enough for some people that it is well drawn and well
painted, but they demand an interesting story, a fine sentiment, a great
thought: so since our national glory is understood to be the happy home,
the happy home must be triumphant everywhere, even in satiric comedy. The
best expression of this fallacy is in Thackeray. Concluding a most
eloquent, and a somewhat patronising examination of Congreve, 'Ah!' he
exclaims, 'it's a weary feast, that banquet of wit where no love is.' The
answer is plain: comedy of manners is comedy of manners, and satire is
satire; introduce 'love'--an appeal, one supposes, to sympathy with
strictly legitimate and common affection and a glorification of the happy
home--and the rules of your art compel you to satirise affection and to
make the happy home ridiculous: a truly deplorable work, which the
incriminated dramatists were discreet enough for the most part to avoid.
The remark brings us to the first of the half-truths, which cause the
complexity of the subject. The dramatists whose withers the
well-intentioned and disastrous Collier wrung seem to have thought their
best answer was to pose as people with a mission--certainly Congreve so
posed--to reform the world with an exhibition of its follies. An amusing
answer, no doubt, of which the absurdity is obvious! It does, however,
cont