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.