CHAPTER X.
_A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this
history but to divert the reader._
Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy we shall leave Mr Joseph
and Mr Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the
stage, who in the midst of a grave action entertain you with some
excellent piece of satire or humour called a dance. Which piece, indeed,
is therefore danced, and not spoke, as it is delivered to the audience
by persons whose thinking faculty is by most people held to lie in their
heels; and to whom, as well as heroes, who think with their hands,
Nature hath only given heads for the sake of conformity, and as they are
of use in dancing, to hang their hats on.
The poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus, "As I was saying" (for
they had been at this discourse all the time of the engagement
above-stairs), "the reason you have no good new plays is evident; it is
from your discouragement of authors. Gentlemen will not write, sir, they
will not write, without the expectation of fame or profit, or perhaps
both. Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; but
like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil.
The muses, like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town,
like a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is always best
pleased with a rattle. A farce-writer hath indeed some chance for
success: but they have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I believe
one reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. If a man
writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a
sentiment utterance."--"Not so fast," says the player: "the modern
actors are as good at least as their authors, nay, they come nearer
their illustrious predecessors; and I expect a Booth on the stage again,
sooner than a Shakespear or an Otway; and indeed I may turn your
observation against you, and with truth say, that the reason no authors
are encouraged is because we have no good new plays."--"I have not
affirmed the contrary," said the poet; "but I am surprized you grow so
warm; you cannot imagine yourself interested in this dispute; I hope you
have a better opinion of my taste than to apprehend I squinted at
yourself. No, sir, if we had six such actors as you, we should soon
rival the Bettertons and Sandfords of former times; for, without a
compliment to you, I think it impossible for any one to have excelled
you in most of your parts. Nay, it is solemn truth, and I have heard
many, and all great judges, express as much; and, you will pardon me if
I tell you, I think every time I have seen you lately you have
constantly acquired some new excellence, like a snowball. You have
deceived me in my estimation of perfection, and have outdone what I
thought inimitable."--"You are as little interested," answered the
player, "in what I have said of other poets; for d--n me if there are
not many strokes, ay, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which at least
equal Shakespear. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of
expression in it, which I will own many of our gentlemen did not do
adequate justice to. To confess the truth, they are bad enough, and I
pity an author who is present at the murder of his works."--"Nay, it is
but seldom that it can happen," returned the poet; "the works of most
modern authors, like dead-born children, cannot be murdered. It is such
wretched half-begotten, half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, grovelling
stuff, that I almost pity the actor who is obliged to get it by heart,
which must be almost as difficult to remember as words in a language you
don't understand."--"I am sure," said the player, "if the sentences have
little meaning when they are writ, when they are spoken they have less.
I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and much less adapts
his action to his character. I have seen a tender lover in an attitude
of fighting with his mistress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with
his sword in his hand. I don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me
if in my heart I am not inclined to the poet's side."--"It is rather
generous in you than just," said the poet; "and, though I hate to speak
ill of any person's production--nay, I never do it, nor will--but yet,