generous admiration for the talents of others. He declared that he had never read such a first play, and lent his services to bring it into a form fit for representation. Nothing was wanted to the success of the piece. It was so cast as to bring into play all the comic talent, and to exhibit on the boards in one view all the beauty, which Drury Lane Theatre, then the only theatre in London, could assemble. The result was a complete triumph; and the author was gratified with rewards more substantial than the applauses of the pit. Montagu, then a lord of the treasury, immediately gave him a place, and, in a short time, added the reversion of another place of much {390}greater value, which, however, did not become vacant till many years had elapsed. In 1694, Congreve brought out the Double Dealer, a comedy in which all the powers which had produced the Old Bachelor showed themselves, matured by time and improved by exercise. But the audience was shocked by the characters of Maskwell and Lady Touchwood. And, indeed, there is something strangely revolting in the way in which a group that seems to belong to the house of Laius or of Pelops is introduced into the midst of the Brisks, Froths, Carlesses, and Plyants. The play was unfavourably received. Yet, if the praise of distinguished men could compensate an author for the disapprobation of the multitude, Congreve had no reason to repine. Dryden, in one of the most ingenious, magnificent, and pathetic pieces that he ever wrote, extolled the author of the Double Dealer in terms which now appear extravagantly hyperbolical. Till Congreve came forth,--so ran this exquisite flattery,--the superiority of the poets who preceded the civil wars was acknowledged. “Theirs was the giant race before the flood.” Since the return of the Royal house, much art and ability had been exerted, but the old masters had been still unrivalled. “Our builders were with want of genius curst, The second temple was not like the first.” At length a writer had arisen who, just emerging from boyhood, had surpassed the authors of the Knight of the Burning Pestle and of the Silent Woman, and who had only one rival left to contend with. “Heaven that but once was prodigal before, To Shakspeare gave as much, she could not give him more.” {391}Some lines near the end of the poem are singularly grave and touching, and sank deep into the heart of Congreve. “Already am I worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage; But you, whom every muse and grace adorn Whom I foresee to better fortune bom, Be kind to my remains; and, oh, defend Against your judgment your departed friend. Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, But guard those laurels which descend to you.”