Called

THE DOUBLE DEALER.

This admirable Epistle is addressed to Congreve, whose rising genius had early attracted our author's attention and patronage. When Congreve was about to bring out "The Old Bachelor," the manuscript was put by Southerne into Dryden's hands, who declared, that he had never seen such a first play, and bestowed considerable pains in adapting it to the stage. It was received with the most unbounded approbation. "The Double Dealer" was acted in November 1693, but without that universal applause which attended "The Old Bachelor." The plot was perhaps too serious, and the villainy of Maskwell too black and hateful for comedy. It was the opinion too of Dryden, that the fashionable world felt the satire too keenly. The play, however, cannot be said to have failed; for it rose by degrees against opposition. The epistle is one of the most elegant and apparently heart-felt effusions of friendship, that our language boasts; and the progress of literature from the Restoration, is described as Dryden alone could describe it. A critic of that day, whose candour seems to have been on a level with his taste, has ventured to insinuate, that huffing Dryden, as he prophanely calls our poet, had purposely deluded Congreve into presumption, by his praise, in order that he might lead him to make shipwreck of his popularity. But such malevolent constructions have been always put upon the conduct of men of genius, by the mean jealousy of the vulgar.

EPISTLE THE TWELFTH.

Well, then, the promised hour is come at last, The present age of wit obscures the past: Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ, Conquering with force of arms, and dint of wit: Theirs was the giant race, before the flood; And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood. Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured, With rules of husbandry the rankness cured; Tamed us to manners when the stage was rude, And boisterous English wit with art endued. Our age was cultivated thus at length; But what we gained in skill we lost in strength. Our builders were with want of genius curst; The second temple was not like the first; Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length, Our beauties equal, but excel our strength. Firm Doric pillars found your solid base; } The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space: } Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. } In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise; He moved the mind, but had not power to raise: Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please; Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease. In differing talents both adorned their age; One for the study, t'other for the stage. But both to Congreve justly shall submit, One matched in judgment, both o'ermatched in wit. In him all beauties of this age we see, } Etherege his courtship, Southerne's purity, } The satire, wit, and strength, of manly Wycherly. } All this in blooming youth you have atchieved; Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved. So much the sweetness of your manners move, We cannot envy you, because we love. Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw A beardless consul made against the law, And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome, Though he with Hannibal was overcome. Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's fame, And scholar to the youth he taught became. O that your brows my laurel had sustained! Well had I been deposed, if you had reigned: The father had descended for the son; For only you are lineal to the throne. Thus, when the state one Edward did depose, A greater Edward in his room arose: But now not I, but poetry, is cursed; For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. But let them not mistake my patron's part, Nor call his charity their own desert. Yet this I prophecy,--Thou shalt be seen, (Though with some short parenthesis between,) High on the throne of wit, and, seated there, Not mine,--that's little,--but thy laurel wear. Thy first attempt an early promise made; That early promise this has more than paid. So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, That your least praise is to be regular. Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought, But genius must be born, and never can be taught. This is your portion, this your native store; } Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, } To Shakespeare gave as much,--she could not give him more. } Maintain your post; that's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage; Unprofitably kept at heaven's expence, I live a rent-charge on his providence: But you, whom every muse and grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and O defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express; You merit more, nor could my love do less.