# 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?--
"Or how would this disdain of Otway--
"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.