At what time he was admitted to the Kit-kat I am not in a position to state, but it must have been after 1715, and by that time he was a middle-aged man, his fame was long since achieved; and whatever might be thought of his works and his controversy with Collier, he was recognised as one of the literary stars at a period when the great courted the clever, and wit was a passport to any society.  Congreve had plenty of that, and probably at the Kit-kat was the life of the party when Vanbrugh was away or Addison in a graver mood.  Untroubled by conscience, he could launch out on any subject whatever; and his early life, spent in that species of so-called gaiety which was then the routine of every young man of the world, gave him ample experience to draw upon.  But Congreve’s ambition was greater than his talents.  No man so little knew his real value, or so grossly asserted one which he had not.  Gay, handsome, and in good circumstances, he aspired to be, not Congreve the poet, not Congreve the wit, not Congreve the man of mind, but simply Congreve the fine gentleman.  Such humility would be charming if it were not absurd.  It is a vice of scribes to seek a character for which they have little claim.  Moore loved to be thought a diner-out rather than a poet; even Byron affected the fast man when he might have been content with the name of ‘genius;’ but Congreve went farther, and was ashamed of being poet, dramatist, genius, or what you will.  An anecdote of him, told by Voltaire, who may have been an ‘awfu’ liar,’ but had no temptation to invent in such a case as this, is so consistent with what we gather of the man’s character, that one cannot but think it is true.

The philosopher of Ferney was anxious to see and converse with a brother dramatist of such celebrity as the author of ’The Way of the World.’  He expected to find a man of a keen satirical mind, who would join him in a laugh against humanity.  He visited Congreve, and naturally began to talk of his works.  The fine gentleman spoke of them as trifles utterly beneath his notice, and told him, with an affectation which perhaps was sincere, that he wished to be visited as a gentleman, not as an author.  One can imagine the disgust of his brother dramatist.  Voltaire replied, that had Mr. Congreve been nothing more than a gentleman, he should not have taken the trouble to call on him, and therewith retired with an expression of merited contempt.

It is only in the present day that authorship is looked upon as a profession, though it has long been one.  It is amusing to listen to the sneers of men who never wrote a book, or who, having written, have gained thereby some more valuable advantage than the publisher’s cheque.  The men who talk with horror of writing for money, are glad enough if their works introduce them to the notice of the influential, and aid them in procuring a place.  In the same way, Congreve was not at all ashamed of fulsome dedications, which brought him the favour of the great.  Yet we may