_Captain._ Truly, if you did, I am afraid folks might make a farce of
it; and, therefore, should you change your style, I still advise a
volume of dramas like Lord Byron's.
_Author._ No, his lordship is a cut above me--I won't run my horse
against his, if I can help myself. But there is my friend Allan has
written just such a play as I might write myself, in a very sunny day,
and with one of Bramah's extra-patent pens. I cannot make neat work
without such appurtenances.
_Captain._ Do you mean Allan Ramsay?
_Author._ No, nor Barbara Allan either. I mean Allan Cunningham, who
has just published his tragedy of Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, full of
merry-making and murdering, kissing and cutting of throats, and
passages which lead to nothing, and which are very pretty passages for
all that. Not a glimpse of probability is there about the plot, but so
much animation in particular passages, and such a vein of poetry
through the whole, as I dearly wish I could infuse into my Culinary
Remains, should I ever be tempted to publish them. With a popular
impress, people would read and admire the beauties of Allan--as it is,
they may perhaps only note his defects--or, what is worse, not note
him at all.--But never mind them, honest Allan; you are a credit to
Caledonia for all that.--There are some lyrical effusions of his, too,
which you would do well to read, Captain.
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