Fourthly. Your in such bad helth and sperrits.
Fifthly. Your so afraid of the critix that they damp your arder.
For shame, for shame, man! What confeshns is these—what painful pewling and piping! Your not a babby. I take you to be some seven or eight and thutty years old—“in the morning of youth,” as the flosofer says. Don’t let any such nonsince take your reazn prisoner. What you, an old hand amongst us—an old soldier of our sovring quean the press—you, who have had the best pay, have held the topmost rank (ay, and deserved them too!—I gif you leaf to quot me in sasiaty, and say, “I am a man of genius: Y-ll-wpl-sh says so”)—you to lose heart and to cry pickavy, and begin to howl, because little boys fling stones at you! Fie, man! take courage; and, bearing the terrows of your blood-red hand, as the poet says, punish us, if we’ve ofended you; punish us like a man, or bear your own punishment like a man. Don’t try to come off with such misrabble lodgic as that above.
What do you? You give four satisfackary reazns that the play is bad (the secknd is naught—for your no such chicking at play-writing, this being the forth). You show that the play must be bad, and then begin to deal with the critix for finding folt!
Was there ever wuss generalship? The play is bad—your right—a wuss I never see or read. But why kneed you say so? If it was so very bad, why publish it? Because you wish to serve the drama! O fie! don’t lay that flattering function to your sole, as Milton observes. Do you believe that this Sea Capting can serve the drama? Did you never intend that it should serve anything, or anybody else? Of cors you did! You wrote it for money—money from the maniger, money from bookseller—for the same reason that I write this. Sir, Shakespeare wrote for the very same reasons, and I never heard that he bragged about serving the drama. Away with this canting about great motifs! let us not be too prowd, my dear Barnet, and fansy ourselves marters of the truth, marters or apostels. We are but tradesmen, working for bread, and not for righteousness’ sake. Let’s try and work honestly; but don’t let us be prayting pompisly about our “sacred calling.” The taylor who makes your coats (and very well they are made too, with the best of velvit collars)—I say Stulze, or Nugee, might cry out that their motifs were but to assert the eturnle truth of tayloring, with just as much reasn; and who would belive them?
Your apinion about the actors I shan’t here meddle with. They all acted exlently as far as my humbile judgment goes, and your write in giving them all possible prays. But let’s consider the last sentence of the prefiz, my dear Barnet, and see what a pretty set of apiniuns you lay down.
1. The critix are your inymies in this age.
2. In the nex, however, you hope to find newmrous frends.
3. And it’s a satisfackshn to think that, in spite of politticle diffrances, you have found frendly aujences here.
My dear Barnet, do you suppose that politticle diffrances prejudice pepple against you? What are your politix! Wig, I presume—so are mine, ontry noo. And what if they are Wig, or Raddiccle, or Cumsuvvative? Does any mortial man in England care a phig for your politix? Do you think yourself such a mity man in parlymint that critix are to be angry with you, and aujences to be cumsidered magnanamous because they treat you fairly? There, now, was Sherridn, he who roat the Rifles and School for Scandle ([ saw the Rifles after your play, and O, Barnet, if you knew what a relief it was!)—there, I say, was Sherridn—he was a politticle character, if you please—he could make a spitch or two—do you spose that Pitt, Purseyvall, Castlerag, old George the Third himself, wooden go and see the Rivles—ay, and clap hands too, and laff and ror, for all Sherry’s Wiggery? Do you spose the critix wouldn’t applaud to? For shame, Barnet! what ninnis, what hartless raskles, you must beleave them to be—in the fust plase, to fancy that you are a politticle genus; in the secknd, to let your politix interfear with their notiums about littery merrits.