No More Learning

Dang_. And what have you to do with the theatre, Mr.
Dangle? Why should you affect the character of a critic? I have
no patience with you! --haven't you made yourself the jest of all
your acquaintance by your interference in matters where you have
no business? Are you not called a theatrical Quidnunc, and a mock
Maecenas to second-hand authors?
_Dang_. True; my power with the managers is pretty
notorious. But is it no credit to have applications from all
quarters for my interest--from lords to recommend fiddlers, from
ladies to get boxes, from authors to get answers, and from actors
to get engagements?
_Mrs. Dang_. Yes, truly; you have contrived to get a share in
all the plague and trouble of theatrical property, without the
profit, or even the credit of the abuse that attends it.
_Dang_. I am sure, Mrs. Dangle, you are no loser by it,
however; you have all the advantages of it. Mightn't you, last
winter, have had the reading of the new pantomime a fortnight
previous to its performance? And doesn't Mr. Fosbrook let you
take places for a play before it is advertised, and set you down
for a box for every new piece through the season? And didn't my
friend, Mr. Smatter, dedicate his last farce to you at my
particular request, Mrs. Dangle?
_Mrs. Dang_. Yes; but wasn't the farce damned, Mr. Dangle?
And to be sure it is extremely pleasant to have one's house made
the motley rendezvous of all the lackeys of literature; the very
high 'Change of trading authors and jobbing critics! --Yes, my
drawing-room is an absolute register-office for candidate actors,
and poets without character. --Then to be continually alarmed with
misses and ma'ams piping hysteric changes on Juliets and
Dorindas, Pollys and Ophelias; and the very furniture trembling
at the probationary starts and unprovoked rants of would-be
Richards and Hamlets! --And what is worse than all, now that the
manager has monopolized the Opera House, haven't we the signors
and signoras calling here, sliding their smooth semibreves, and
gargling glib divisions in their outlandish throats--with foreign
emissaries and French spies, for aught I know, disguised like
fiddlers and figure dancers?
_Dang_. Mercy! Mrs. Dangle!
_Mrs. Dang_. And to employ yourself so idly at such an
alarming crisis as this too--when, if you had the least spirit,
you would have been at the head of one of the Westminster
associations--or trailing a volunteer pike in the Artillery
Ground! But you--o' my conscience, I believe, if the French were
landed to-morrow, your first inquiry would be, whether they had
brought a theatrical troop with them.
_Dang_. Mrs. Dangle, it does not signify--I say the stage is
_the mirror of Nature_, and the actors are _the Abstract
and brief Chronicles of the Time_: and pray what can a man of
sense study better? --Besides, you will not easily persuade me
that there is no credit or importance in being at the head of a
band of critics, who take upon them to decide for the whole town,
whose opinion and patronage all writers solicit, and whose
recommendation no manager dares refuse.
_Mrs. Dang_. Ridiculous! --Both managers and authors of the
least merit laugh at your pretensions. --The public is their
critic--without whose fair approbation they know no play can rest
on the stage, and with whose applause they welcome such attacks
as yours, and laugh at the malice of them, where they can't at
the wit.
_Dang_. Very well, madam--very well!
_Enter_ SERVANT.
_Ser_. Mr. Sneer, sir, to wait on you.
_Dang_. Oh, show Mr. Sneer up. --[_Exit_ SERVANT. ]--
Plague on't, now we must appear loving and affectionate, or Sneer
will hitch us into a story.
_Mrs. Dang_. With all my heart; you can't be more ridiculous
than you are.
_Dang_. You are enough to provoke--
_Enter_ SNEER.
Ha! my dear Sneer, I am vastly glad to see you. --My dear, here's
Mr. Sneer.
_Mrs. Dang_. Good-morning to you, sir.
_Dang_. Mrs. Dangle and I have been diverting ourselves with
the papers. Pray, Sneer, won't you go to Drury Lane Theatre the
first night of Puff's tragedy?
_Sneer_. Yes; but I suppose one shan't be able to get in,
for on the first night of a new piece they always fill the house
with orders to support it. But here, Dangle, I have brought you
two pieces, one of which you must exert yourself to make the
managers accept, I can tell you that; for'tis written by a person
of consequence.
_Dang_. So! now my plagues are beginning.
_Sneer_. Ay, I am glad of it, for now you'll be happy. Why,
my dear Dangle, it is a pleasure to see how you enjoy your
volunteer fatigue, and your solicited solicitations.
_Dang_. It's a great trouble--yet, egad, it's pleasant too.
--Why, sometimes of a morning I have a dozen people call on me at
breakfast-time, whose faces I never saw before, nor ever desire
to see again.
_Sneer_. That must be very pleasant indeed!
_Dang_. And not a week but I receive fifty letters, and not
a line in them about any business of my own.
_Sneer_. An amusing correspondence!
_Dang_. [_Reading_. ] _Bursts into tears and
exit_. --What, is this a tragedy?
_Sneer_. No, that's a genteel comedy, not a translation--
only taken from the French: it is written in a style which they
have lately tried to run down; the true sentimental, and nothing
ridiculous in it from the beginning to the end.
_Mrs. Dang_. Well, if they had kept to that, I should not
have been such an enemy to the stage; there was some edification
to be got from those pieces, Mr. Sneer!
_Sneer_. I am quite of your opinion, Mrs. Dangle: the
theatre, in proper hands, might certainly be made the school of
morality; but now, I am sorry to say it, people seem to go there
principally for their entertainment!
_Mrs. Dang_. It would have been more to the credit of the
managers to have kept it in the other line.
_Sneer_. Undoubtedly, madam; and hereafter perhaps to have
had it recorded, that in the midst of a luxurious and dissipated
age, they preserved two houses in the capital, where the
conversation was always moral at least, if not entertaining!
_Dang_. Now, egad, I think the worst alteration is in the
nicety of the audience! --No _double-entendre_, no smart
innuendo admitted; even Vanbrugh and Congreve obliged to undergo
a bungling reformation!
_Sneer_. Yes, and our prudery in this respect is just on a
par with the artificial bashfulness of a courtesan, who increases
the blush upon her cheek in an exact proportion to the diminution
of her modesty.
_Dang_. Sneer can't even give the public a good word! But
what have we here? --This seems a very odd--
_Sneer_. Oh, that's a comedy on a very new plan; replete
with wit and mirth, yet of a most serious moral! You see it is
called _The Reformed House-breaker_; where, by the mere
force of humour, house-breaking is put in so ridiculous a light,
that if the piece has its proper run, I have no doubt but that
bolts and bars will be entirely useless by the end of the season.
_Dang_. Egad, this is new indeed!
_Sneer_. Yes; it is written by a particular friend of mine,
who has discovered that the follies and foibles of society are
subjects unworthy the notice of the comic muse, who should be
taught to stoop only to the greater vices and blacker crimes of
humanity--gibbeting capital offences in five acts, and pillorying
petty larcenies in two. --In short, his idea is to dramatize the
penal laws, and make the stage a court of ease to the Old Bailey.
_Dang_. It is truly moral.
_Re-enter_ SERVANT.
_Ser_. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir.
_Dang_. Beg him to walk up. --[_Exit_ SERVANT. ] Now,
Mrs. Dangle, Sir Fretful Plagiary is an author to your own taste.
_Mrs. Dang_. 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.
_Dang_. 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.
_Dang_. 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.
_Dang_. There's no denying it--though he is my friend.
_Sneer_. You have read the tragedy he has just finished,
haven't you?
_Dang_. Oh, yes; he sent it to me yesterday.
_Sneer_. Well, and you think it execrable, don't you?
_Dang_. Why, between ourselves, egad, I must own--though he
is my friend--that it is one of the most--He's here--
[_Aside_. ]--finished and most admirable perform--
_Sir Fret. [Without_. ] Mr. Sneer with him did you say?
_Enter_ SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
_Dang_. Ah, my dear friend! --Egad, we were just speaking of
your tragedy. --Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable!
_Sneer_. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful--
never in your life.
_Sir Fret_. You make me extremely happy; for without a
compliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't a man in the world whose
judgment I value as I do yours and Mr. Dangle's.
_Mrs. Dang_. They are only laughing at you, Sir Fretful; for
it was but just now that--
_Dang_. Mrs. Dangle! --Ah, Sir Fretful, you know Mrs.
Dangle. --My friend Sneer was rallying just now:--he knows how she
admires you, and--
_Sir Fret_. O Lord, I am sure Mr. Sneer has more taste and
sincerity than to--[_Aside_. ] A damned double-faced fellow!
_Dang_. Yes, yes--Sneer will jest--but a better humoured--
_Sir Fret_. Oh, I know--
_Dang_. He has a ready turn for ridicule--his wit costs him
nothing.
_Sir Fret_. No, egad--or I should wonder how he came by it.
[_Aside_. ]
_Mrs. Dang_. Because his jest is always at the expense of
his friend. [_Aside_. ]
_Dang_. But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the
managers yet? --or can I be of any service to you?
_Sir Fret_.
No, no, I thank you: I believe the piece had
sufficient recommendation with it. --I thank you though. --I sent
it to the manager of Covent Garden Theatre this morning.
_Sneer_. I should have thought now, that it might have been
cast (as the actors call it) better at Drury Lane.
_Sir Fret_. O Lud! no--never send a play there while I live--hark'ee!
[_Whispers_ SNEER. ]
_Sneer_. Writes himself! --I know he does.
_Sir Fret_. I say nothing--I take away from no man's merit--am
hurt at no man's good fortune--I say nothing. --But this I
will say--through all my knowledge of life, I have observed--that
there is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human heart as
envy.
_Sneer_. I believe you have reason for what you say, indeed.
_Sir Fret_. Besides--I can tell you it is not always so safe
to leave a play in the hands of those who write themselves.
_Sneer_. What, they may steal from them, hey, my dear
Plagiary?
_Sir Fret_. Steal! --to be sure they may; and, egad, serve
your best thoughts as gypsies do stolen children, disfigure them
to make 'em pass for their own.
_Sneer_. But your present work is a sacrifice to Melpomene,
and he, you know, never--
_Sir Fret_. That's no security: a dexterous plagiarist may
do anything. Why, sir, for aught I know, he might take out some
of the best things in my tragedy, and put them into his own
comedy.
_Sneer_. That might be done, I dare be sworn.
_Sir Fret_. And then, if such a person gives you the least
hint or assistance, he is devilish apt to take the merit of the
whole--
_Dang_. If it succeeds.
_Sir Fret_. Ay, but with regard to this piece, I think I can
hit that gentleman, for I can safely swear he never read it.
_Sneer_. I'll tell you how you may hurt him more.
_Sir Fret_. How?
_Sneer_. Swear he wrote it.
_Sir Fret_. Plague on't now, Sneer, I shall take it ill! --I
believe you want to take away my character as an author.
_Sneer_. Then I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to
me.
_Sir Fret_. Hey! --sir! --
_Dang_. Oh, you know, he never means what he says.
_Sir Fret_. Sincerely then--do you like the piece?
_Sneer_. Wonderfully!
_Sir Fret_. But come, now, there must be something that you
think might be mended, hey? --Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck you?
_Dang_. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing for the
most part, to--
_Sir Fret_. With most authors it is just so, indeed; they
are in general strangely tenacious! But, for my part, I am never
so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect
to me; for what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, if
you don't mean to profit by his opinion?
_Sneer_. Very true. --Why, then, though I seriously admire
the piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection;
which, if you'll give me leave, I'll mention.
_Sir Fret_. Sir, you can't oblige me more.
_Sneer_. I think it wants incident.
_Sir Fret_. Good God! you surprise me! --wants incident!
_Sneer_. Yes; I own I think the incidents are too few.
_Sir Fret_. Good God! Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no
person for whose judgment I have a more implicit deference. But I
protest to you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the
incidents are too crowded. --My dear Dangle, how does it strike
you?
_Dang_. Really I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think
the plot quite sufficient; and the four first acts by many
degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If, I might
venture to suggest anything, it is that the interest rather falls
off in the fifth.
_Sir Fret_. Rises, I believe you mean, sir.
_Dang_. No, I don't, upon my word.
_Sir Fret_. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul! --it certainly
don't fall off, I assure you. --No, no; it don't fall off.
_Dang_. Now, Mrs. Dangle, didn't you say it struck you in
the same light?
_Mrs. Dang_. No, indeed, I did not. --I did not see a fault
in any part of the play, from the beginning to the end.
_Sir Fret_. Upon my soul, the women are the best judges
after all!
_Mrs. Dang_. Or, if I made any objection, I am sure it was
to nothing in the piece; but that I was afraid it was on the
whole, a little too long.
_Sir Fret_. Pray, madam, do you speak as to duration of
time; or do you mean that the story is tediously spun out?
_Mrs. Dang_. O Lud! no. --I speak only with reference to the
usual length of acting plays.
_Sir Fret_. Then I am very happy--very happy indeed--
because the play is a short play, a remarkably short play. I
should not venture to differ with a lady on a point of taste; but
on these occasions, the watch, you know, is the critic.
_Mrs. Dang_. Then, I suppose, it must have been Mr. Dangle's
drawling manner of reading it to me.
_Sir Fret_. Oh, if Mr. Dangle read it, that's quite another
affair! --But I assure you, Mrs. Dangle, the first evening you can
spare me three hours and a half, I'll undertake to read you the
whole, from beginning to end, with the prologue and epilogue, and
allow time for the music between the acts.
_Mrs. Dang_. I hope to see it on the stage next.
_Dang_. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid
as easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours.
_Sir Fret_. The newspapers! Sir, they are the most
villainous--licentious--abominable--infernal. --Not that I ever
read them--no--I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper.
_Dang_. You are quite right; for it certainly must hurt an
author of delicate feelings to see the liberties they take.
_Sir Fret_. No, quite the contrary! their abuse is, in fact,
the best panegyric--I like it of all things. An author's
reputation is only in danger from their support.
_Sneer_. Why, that's true--and that attack, now, on you the
other day--
_Sir Fret_. What? where?
_Dang_. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday: it was
completely ill-natured, to be sure.
_Sir Fret_. Oh so much the better. --Ha! Ha! Ha! I wouldn't
have it otherwise.
_Dang_. Certainly it is only to be laughed at; for--
_Sir Fret_. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow
said, do you?
_Sneer_. Pray, Dangle--Sir Fretful seems a little anxious--
_Sir Fret_. O Lud, no! --anxious! --not I--not the least. --
I--but one may as well hear, you know.
_Dang_. Sneer, do you recollect? --[_Aside to_ SNEER. ]
Make out something.
_Sneer_. [_Aside to_ DANGLE. ] I will. --[_Aloud_. ]
Yes, yes, I remember perfectly.
_Sir Fret_. Well, and pray now--not that it signifies--what
might the gentleman say?
_Sneer_. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the
slightest invention or original genius whatever; though you are
the greatest traducer of all other authors living.
_Sir Fret_. Ha! ha! ha! --very good!
_Sneer_. That as to comedy, you have not one idea of your
own, he believes, even in your commonplace-book--where stray
jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the
ledger of the lost and stolen office.
_Sir Fret_. Ha! ha! ha! --very pleasant!
_Sneer_. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the
skill even to steal with taste:--but that you glean from the
refuse of obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have
been before you; so that the body of your work is a composition
of dregs and sentiments--like a bad tavern's worst wine.
_Sir Fret_. Ha! ha!
_Sneer_. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast
would be less intolerable, if the thoughts were ever suited to
the expression; but the homeliness of the sentiment stares
through the fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a
clown in one of the new uniforms!
_Sir Fret_. Ha! ha!
_Sneer_. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the
general coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a
ground of linsey-woolsey; while your imitations of Shakspeare
resemble the mimicry of Falstaff's page, and are about as near
the standard as the original.
_Sir Fret_. Ha!