Honrabble Barnet!—Retired from the littery world a year or moar, I didn’t think anything would injuice me to come forrards again; for I was content with my share of reputation, and propoas’d to add nothink to those immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so sallybrated.
Shall I tell you the reazn of my re-appearants?—a desire for the benefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with which my busm laboured, and which I must bring forth or die? Nonsince—stuff: money’s the secret, my dear Barnet—-money—L’argong, gelt, spicunia. Here’s quarter day coming, and I’m blest if I can pay my landlud, unless I can ad hartificially to my inkum.
This is, however, betwigst you and me. There’s no need to blacard the streets with it, or to tell the British public that Fitzroy Y-ll-wpl-sh is short of money, or that the sallybrated hauthor of the Y—— Papers is in peskewniary difficklties, or is fiteagued by his shuperhuman littery labors or by his famly suckmstansies, or by any other pusnal matter: my maxim, dear B., is on these pints to be as quiet as posbile. What the juice does the public care for you or me? Why must we always, in prefizzes and what not, be a-talking about ourselves and our igstrodnary merrats, woas, and injaries? It is on this subjick that I porpies, my dear Barnet, to speak to you in a frendly way; and praps you’ll find my advise tolrabbly holesum.
We brew, and we love our own tap—amen; but the pint betwigst us is this stewpid, absudd way of crying out, because the public don’t like it too. Why shood they, my dear Barnet? You may vow that they are fools; or that the critix are your enemies; or that the wuld should judge your poams by your critticle rules, and not their own: yon may beat your breast, and vow you are a marter, and you won’t mend the matter. Take heart, man! you’re not so misrabble after all; your spirits need not be so very cast down; you are not so very badly paid. I’d lay a wager that you make, with one thing or another—plays, novvles, pamphlicks, and little odd jobs here and there—your three thowsnd a year. There’s many a man, dear Bullwig, that works for less, and lives content. Why should’nt you? Three thowsnd a year is no such bad thing—let alone the barnetcy: it must be a great comfort to have that bloody hand in your skitching.
Us littery men I take to be like a pack of schoolboys—childish, greedy, envius, holding by our friends and always ready to fight. What must be a man’s conduck among such? He must either take no notis, and pass on myjastick, or else turn round and pummle soundly—one, two, right and left, ding dong over the face and eyes; above all, never acknowledge that he is hurt. Years ago, for instans (we’ve no ill-blood, but only mention this by way of igsample), you began a sparring with this Magaseen. Law bless you, such a ridicklus gaym I never see: a man so belaybord, beflustered, bewolloped, was never known; it was the laff of the whole town. Your intelackshal natur, respected Barnet, is not fizzickly adapted, so to speak, for encounters of this sort. You must not indulge in combats with us course bullies of the press: you have not the staminy for a reglar set-to. What, then, is your plan? In the midst of the mob to pass as quiet as you can: you won’t be undistubbed. Who is? Some stray kix and buffits will fall to you—mortial man is subjick to such; but if you begin to wins and cry out, and set up for a marter, wo betide you!
These remarks, pusnal as I confess them to be, are yet, I assure you, written in perfick good-natur, and have been inspired by your play of the Sea Capting, and prefiz to it; which latter is on matters intirely pusnal, and will, therefore, I trust, igscuse this kind of ad hominam (as they say) diskcushion. I propose, honrabble Barnit, to cumsider calmly this play and prephiz, and to speak of both with that honisty which, in the pantry or studdy, I’ve been always phamous for. Let us, in the first place, listen to the opening of the “Preface to the Fourth Edition.”
Now, my dear sir, look what a pretty number of please you put forrards here, why your play should’nt be good.
First. Good plays are almost always written by actors.
Secknd. You are a novice to the style of composition.
Third. You may be mistaken in your effects, being a novelist by trade, and not a play-writer.