/em> and the failure of The Way of the World. For all that may be said of the indifference of the true artist to the verdict of the many-headed beast--and Congreve's contempt was as fine as any--it is not amusing when your play or your book falls flat, and Congreve must have known that he might write another, and possibly a better, Way of the World, but no more Love for Loves. Not to anticipate a later division of the subject, it may be said here that a man of thirty, of a fine intellect and a fine taste, of a languid habit withal, and with an invalided constitution, while he might repeat the triumphs of diction and intellect of The Way of the World, was most unlikely to return to the broader humours and the more popular gaiety of the other play. Congreve, like Rochester before him, despised the judgment of the town in these matters, but by the town he would have to be judged.
He was a witty, handsome man of the world, of imperturbable temper and infinite tact, who c