A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

MRS. DANGLE.
I confess he is a favourite of mine, because everybody else abuses him.

SNEER.
Very much to the credit of your charity, madam, if not of your judgment.

DANGLE.
But, egad, he allows no merit to any author but himself, that’s the truth on’t—though he’s my friend.

SNEER.
Never.—He is as envious as an old maid verging on the desperation of six and thirty; and then the insidious humility with which he seduces you to give a free opinion on any of his works, can be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance with which he is sure to reject your observations.

DANGLE.
Very true, egad—though he’s my friend.

SNEER.
Then his affected contempt of all newspaper strictures; though, at the same time, he is the sorest man alive, and shrinks like scorched parchment from the fiery ordeal of true criticism: yet he is so covetous of popularity, that he had rather be abused than not mentioned at all.

DANGLE.
There’s no denying it—though he is my friend.

SNEER.
You have read the tragedy he has just finished, haven’t you?

DANGLE.
Oh, yes; he sent it to me yesterday.

SNEER.
Well, and you think it execrable, don’t you?