The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and his Friend, Mr. Abraham Abrams/Book III, Chapter X

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,

to do justice to the actors, what could Booth or Betterton have made of

such horrible stuff as Fenton's Mariamne, Frowd's Philotas, or Mallet's

Eurydice; or those low, dirty, last-dying-speeches, which a fellow in

the city of Wapping, your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, called

tragedies?"--"Very well," says the player; "and pray what do you think

of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy young

Cibber, that ill-looked dog Macklin, or that saucy slut Mrs Clive? What

work would they make with your Shakespears, Otways, and Lees? How would

those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues?--

   "'--No more; for I disdain

   All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise

   Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls

   Our kinder fates have steer'd another way.

   Free as the forest birds we'll pair together,

   Without rememb'ring who our fathers were:

   Fly to the arbors, grots, and flow'ry meads;

   There in soft murmurs interchange our souls;

   Together drink the crystal of the stream,

   Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields,

   And, when the golden evening calls us home,

   Wing to our downy nests, and sleep till morn.'

"Or how would this disdain of Otway--

   "'Who'd be that foolish sordid thing call'd man?'"

"Hold! hold! hold!" said the poet: "Do repeat that tender speech in the

third act of my play which you made such a figure in."--"I would

willingly," said the player, "but I have forgot it."--"Ay, you was not

quite perfect in it when you played it," cries the poet, "or you would

have had such an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause I

was extremely concerned for your losing."--"Sure," says the player, "if

I remember, that was hissed more than any passage in the whole

play."--"Ay, your speaking it was hissed," said the poet.--"My speaking

it!" said the player.--"I mean your not speaking it," said the poet.

"You was out, and then they hissed."--"They hissed, and then I was out,

if I remember," answered the player; "and I must say this for myself,

that the whole audience allowed I did your part justice; so don't lay

the damnation of your play to my account."--"I don't know what you mean

by damnation," replied the poet.--"Why, you know it was acted but one

night," cried the player.--"No," said the poet, "you and the whole town

were enemies; the pit were all my enemies, fellows that would cut my

throat, if the fear of hanging did not restrain them. All taylors, sir,

all taylors."--"Why should the taylors be so angry with you?" cries the

player. "I suppose you don't employ so many in making your clothes."--"I

admit your jest," answered the poet; "but you remember the affair as

well as myself; you know there was a party in the pit and upper gallery

that would not suffer it to be given out again; though much, ay

infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in particular, were desirous of

it; nay, most of the ladies swore they never would come to the house

till it was acted again. Indeed, I must own their policy was good in not

letting it be given out a second time: for the rascals knew if it had

gone a second night it would have run fifty; for if ever there was

distress in a tragedy--I am not fond of my own performance; but if I

should tell you what the best judges said of it--Nor was it entirely

owing to my enemies neither that it did not succeed on the stage as well

as it hath since among the polite readers; for you can't say it had

justice done it by the performers."--"I think," answered the player,

"the performers did the distress of it justice; for I am sure we were in

distress enough, who were pelted with oranges all the last act: we all

imagined it would have been the last act of our lives."

The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted to answer when

they were interrupted, and an end put to their discourse, by an

accident, which if the reader is impatient to know, he must skip over

the next chapter, which is a sort of counterpart to this, and contains

some of the best and gravest matters in the whole book, being a

discourse between parson Abraham Adams and Mr Joseph Andrews.