Part 2

Behold! in clouds of fire serene, The royal hero heads his pow'rs: Alike to fame, with raptures seen, His younger hope, the eaglet soars. Fortune, to grace her fav'rite son, Stamps on his bleeding form renown. (1743)

[13] James Boswell, _Life of Johnson_, ed. George Birkbeck Hill, rev. L. F. Powell (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1934), I, 402.

[14] Boswell, II, 92-93.

[15] Thomas Davies, _Memoirs of the Life of David Garrick, Esq._ (London, 1780), II, 202.

[16] In the Twickenham Edition of _The Dunciad_ (London: Methuen, 2nd ed. rev., 1953, pp. xxxiii-xxxiv and (B) 341), James Sutherland refers to line 20 ("Soft on her lap her Laureat son reclines") and holds that Cibber's answer may have been less a protest than a warning. In _The New Dunciad_ (1742), however, the footnote to this line expands the satire, quotes from the _Apology_ and is a sharper attack than the line itself.

[17] Paston, I, 687.

[18] Joseph Spence, _Observations, Anecdotes and Characters of Books and Men_, ed. James M. Osborn (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), I, 110 (no. 251).

[19] Alexander Pope, Correspondence, ed. George Sherburn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956), IV, 415.

[20] Spence, I, 148-149 (no. 331).

[21] Pope, _Works_, V. 89 (Book I, line 109n). This verse appears in the Twickenham edition, V, 276, as a note to _Dunciad_ (B) Book I, line 104.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

The facsimile of _A Letter from Mr. Cibber to Mr. Pope_ (1742) is reproduced by permission from a copy of the first edition (Shelf Mark: 114527) in _The Huntington Library, San Marino, California_. The total type-page (p. 47) measures 165 x 85 mm.

A LETTER FROM Mr. _CIBBER_, TO Mr. _POPE_.

Price One Shilling.

A LETTER FROM Mr. _CIBBER_, TO Mr. _POPE_,

Inquiring into the MOTIVES that might induce him in his SATYRICAL WORKS, to be so frequently fond of Mr. CIBBER'S Name.

_Out of thy own Mouth will I judge thee._ Pref. to the _Dunciad_.

_LONDON_, Printed: And Sold by W. LEWIS in _Russel-Street, Covent-Garden_. M DCC XLII. Price 1s.

A LETTER TO Mr. _POPE_, &c.

_SIR_,

As you have for several Years past (particularly in your Poetical Works) mentioned my Name, without my desiring it; give me leave, at last, to make my due Compliments to _Yours_ in Prose, which I should not choose to do, but that I am really driven to it (as the Puff in the Play-Bills says) _At the Desire of several Persons of Quality_.

If I have lain so long stoically silent, or unmindful of your satyrical Favours, it was not so much for want of a proper Reply, as that I thought they never needed a Publick one: For all People of Sense would know, what Truth or Falshood there was in what you have said of me, without my wisely pointing it out to them. Nor did I choose to follow your Example of being so much a Self-Tormentor, as to be concern'd at whatever Opinion of me any publish'd Invective might infuse into People unknown to me: Even the Malicious, though they may like the Libel, don't always believe it. But since the Publication of your last new _Dunciad_ (where you still seem to enjoy your so often repeated Glory of being bright upon my Dulness) my Friends now insist, that it will be thought Dulness indeed, or a plain Confession of my being a Bankrupt in Wit, if I don't immediately answer those Bills of Discredit you have drawn upon me: For, say they, your dealing with him, like a Gentleman, in your _Apology for your own Life_, &c. you see, has had no sensible Effect upon him, as appears by the wrong-headed Reply his Notes upon the new _Dunciad_ have made to it: For though, in that _Apology_ you seem to have offer'd him a friendly release of all Damages, yet as it is plain he scorns to accept it, by his still holding you at Defiance with fresh Abuses, you have an indisputable Right to resume that Discharge, and may now, as justly as ever, call him to account for his many bygone Years of Defamation. But pray, Gentlemen, said I, if, as you seem to believe, his Defamation has more of Malice than Truth in it, does he not blacken himself by it? Why then should I give myself the trouble to prove, what you, and the World are already convinc'd of? and since after near twenty Years having been libell'd by our Daily-paper Scriblers, I never was so hurt, as to give them one single Answer, why would you have me seem to be more sore now, than at any other time?

As to those dull Fellows, they granted my Silence was right; yet they could not but think Mr. _Pope_ was too eminent an Author to justify my equal Contempt of him; and that a Disgrace, from such a Pen, might stick upon me to Posterity: In fine, that though I could not be rouz'd from my Indifference, in regard to myself, yet for the particular Amusement of my Acquaintance, they desired I would enter the Lists with you; notwithstanding I am under the Disadvantage of having only the blunt and weak weapon of Prose, to oppose you, or defend myself, against the Sharpness of Verse, and that in the Hand of so redoubted an Author as Mr. _Pope_.

Their spiriting me up to this unequal Engagement, I doubt is but an ill Compliment to my Skill, or my Discretion; or, at best, seems but to put me upon a level with a famous Boxer at the _Bear-Garden_, called _Rugged and Tough_, who would stand being drubb'd for Hours together, 'till wearying out his Antagonist by the repeated Labour of laying him on, and by keeping his own Wind (like the _Roman_ Combatant of old, who conquer'd by seeming to fly) honest _Rugged_ sometimes came off victorious. All I can promise therefore, since I am stript for the Combat, is, that I will so far imitate this Iron-headed Hero (as the _Turks_ called the late King of _Sweden_) as always to keep my Temper, as he did his Wind, and that while I have Life, or am able to set Pen to Paper, I will now, Sir, have the last Word with you: For let the Odds of your Wit be never so great, or its Pen dipt in whatever Venom it may, while I am conscious you can say nothing truly of me, that ought to put an honest Man to the Blush, what, in God's Name, can I have to fear from you? As to the Reputation of my Attempts, in Poetry, that has taken its Ply long ago, and can now no more be lessened by your coldest Contempt, than it can be raised by your warmest Commendation, were you inclin'd to give it any: Every Man's Work must and will always speak _For_, or _Against_ itself, whilst it has a remaining Reader in the World. All I shall say then as to that Point, is, that I wrote more to be Fed, than be Famous, and since my Writings still give me a Dinner, do you rhyme me out of my Stomach if you can. And I own myself so contented a Dunce, that I would not have even your merited Fame in Poetry, if it were to be attended with half the fretful Solicitude you seem to have lain under to maintain it; of which the laborious Rout you make about it, in those Loads of Prose Rubbish, wherewith you have almost smother'd your _Dunciad_, is so sore a Proof: And though I grant it a better Poem of its Kind, than ever was writ; yet when I read it, with those vain-glorious encumbrances of Notes, and Remarks, upon almost every Line of it, I find myself in the uneasy Condition I was once in at an Opera, where sitting with a silent Desire to hear a favourite Air, by a famous Performer, a Coxcombly Connoisseur, at my Elbow, was so fond of shewing his own Taste, that by his continual Remarks, and prating in Praise of every Grace and Cadence, my Attention and Pleasure in the Song was quite lost and confounded.

It is almost amazing, that you, who have writ with such masterly Spirit, upon the _Ruling Passion_, should be so blind a Slave to your own, as not to have seen, how far a low Avarice of Praise might prejudice, or debase that valuable Character, which your Works, without your own commendatory Notes upon them, might have maintained. _Laus propria sordet_, is a Line we learn in our Infancy. How applicable to your self then is what you say of another Person, _viz._

_Whose Ruling Passion is the lust of Praise; Born, with whate'er could win it from the Wise, Women and Fools must like him, or he dies._ Epist. to Ld. _Cobham_ Vers. 183.

How easily now can you see the Folly in another, which you yourself are so fond of? Why, Sir, the very Jealousy of Fame, which (in the best cruel Verses that ever fell from your Pen) you have with so much Asperity reproved in _Addison_ (_Atticus_ I mean) falls still short of yours, for though you impute it to him as a Crime, That he could----

_Bear, like the_ Turk, _no Brother near the Throne._ Vers. 190 of the same Epist.

Yet you, like outragious _Nero_, are for whipping and branding every poor Dunce in your Dominions, that had the stupid Insolence not to like you, or your Musick! If this is not a greater Tyranny than that of your _Atticus_, at least you must allow it more ridiculous: For what have you gain'd by it? a mighty Matter! a Victory over a parcel of poor Wretches, that were not able to hurt or resist you, so weak, it was almost Cowardice to conquer them; or if they actually _did_ hurt you, how much weaker have you shewn yourself in so openly owning it? Besides, your Conduct seems hardly reconcileable to your own Opinion: For after you have lash'd them (in your Epistle to Dr. _Arburthnot_, ver. 84.) you excuse the Cruelty of it in the following Line.

_Take it for a Rule, No Creature smarts so little as a Fool._

Now if this be true, to what purpose did you correct them? For wise Men, without your taking such Pains to tell them, knew what they were before. And that publick-spirited Pretence of your only chastising them, _in terrorem_ to others of the same malicious Disposition, I doubt is but too thin a Disguise of the many restless Hours they have given you. If your Revenge upon them was necessary, we must own you have amply enjoy'd it: But to make that Revenge the chief Motive of writing your _Dunciad_, seems to me a Weakness, that an Author of your Abilities should rather have chosen to conceal. A Man might as well triumph for his having kill'd so many silly Flies that offended him. Could you have let them alone, by this time, poor Souls, they had been all peaceably buried in Oblivion! But the very Lines, you have so sharply pointed to destroy them, will now remain but so many of their Epitaphs, to transmit their Names to Posterity: Which probably too they may think a more eligible Fate than that of being totally forgotten. Hear what an Author of great Merit, though of less Anxiety for Fame, says upon this Weakness,

_Fame is a Bubble, the Reserv'd enjoy, Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy._ Y-- Univers. Passion.

In a word, you seem in your _Dunciad_, to have been angry at the rain for wetting you, why then would you go into it? You could not but know, that an Author, when he publishes a Work, exposes himself to all Weathers. He then that cannot bear the worst, should stay at home, and not write at all.

But Sir--That _Cibber_ ever murmured at your Fame, or endeavoured to blast it, or that he was not always, to the best of his Judgment, as warm an Admirer of your Writings as any of your nearest Friends could be, is what you cannot, by any one Fact or Instance, disprove. How comes it then, that in your Works you have so often treated him as a Dunce or an Enemy? Did he at all intrench upon your Sovereignty in Verse, because he had now and then written a Comedy that succeeded? Or could not you bear, that any kind of Poetry, but that, to which you chiefly pretended, should meet with Applause? Or was it, that he had an equal Reputation for Acting his own Characters as for Writing them, or that with such inferior Talents he was admitted to as good Company as you, with your superior, could get into; or what other offensive Merit had he, that has so often made him the Object of your Contempt or Envy? It could not be, sure, simple Ill-nature, that incited you, because in the Preface to your _Dunciad_ you declare that you have------

"In this Poem attacked no Man living, who had not before printed, or published some Scandal against you."

How comes it, I say, that you have so often fallen foul upon _Cibber_ then, against whom you have no Complaint, nor whose Name is so much as mentioned in the printed List you have given us of all those high Offenders, you so imperiously have proscribed and punish'd. Under this Class at least, you acquit him of having ever provoked you?

But in your Notes, to this Preface (that is, in your Notes upon Notes) from this general Declaration, you make an Exception,--"Of two, or three Persons only, whose Dulness or Scurrility all Mankind agreed, to have justly intitled them to a Place in the _Dunciad_." Here then, or no where, you ground your Pretence of taking Me into it! Now let us enquire into the Justness of this Pretence, and whether Dulness in one Author gives another any right to abuse him for it? No sure! Dulness can be no Vice or Crime, or is at worst but a Misfortune, and you ought no more to censure or revile him for it, than for his being blind or lame; the Cruelty or Injustice will be evidently equal either way. But if you please I will wave this part of my Argument, and for once take no advantage of it; but will suppose Dulness to be actually Criminal, and then will leave it to your own Conscience, to declare, whether you really think I am generally so guilty of it, as to deserve the Name of the Dull Fellow you make of me. Now if the Reader will call upon My Conscience to speak to the Question, I do from my Heart solemnly declare, that I don't believe you _do_ think so of me. This I grant may be Vanity in me to say: But if what I believe is true, what a slovenly Conscience do you shew your Face with?

Now, Sir, as for my Scurrility, when ever a Proof can be produced, that I have been guilty of it to you, or any one Man living, I will shamefully unsay all I have said, and confess I have deserv'd the various Names you have call'd me.

Having therefore said enough to clear my self of any Ill-will or Enmity to Mr. _Pope_, I should be glad he were able equally to acquit himself to Me, that I might not suppose the satyrical Arrows he has shot at me, to have flown from that Malignity of Mind, which the talking World is so apt to accuse him of. In the mean while, it may be worth the trouble to weigh the Truth, or Validity of the Wit he has bestow'd upon me, that it may appear, which of us is the worse Man for it; He, for his unprovoked Endeavour to vilify and expose me, or--I, for my having or having not deserv'd it.

I could wish it might be observed then, by those who have read the Works of Mr. _Pope_, that the contemptuous Things he there says of me, are generally bare positive Assertions, without his any sort of Evidence to ground them upon: Why then, till the Truth of them is better prov'd, should they stand for any more, than so many _gratis Dictums_? But I hope I have given him fairer Play, in what I have said of him, and which I intend to give him, in what I shall farther say of him; that is, by saying nothing to his Disadvantage that has not a known Fact to support it. This will bring our Cause to a fair Issue; and no impartial Reader, then, can be at a loss on which side Equity should incline him to give Judgment. But as in this Dispute I shall be oblig'd, sometimes to be _Witness_, as well as _Accuser_, I am bound, in Conscience, not to conceal any Fact, that may possibly mitigate, or excuse the resentful manner, in which Mr. _Pope_ has publickly treated me. Now I am afraid, that I once as publickly offended him, before a thousand Spectators; to the many of them, therefore, who might be Witnesses of the Fact, I submit, as to the most competent Judges, how far it ought, or ought not, to have provoked him.

The Play of the _Rehearsal_, which had lain some few Years dormant, being by his present Majesty (then Prince of _Wales_) commanded to be revived, the Part of _Bays_ fell to my share. To this Character there had always been allow'd such ludicrous Liberties of Observation, upon any thing new, or remarkable, in the state of the Stage, as Mr. _Bays_ might think proper to take. Much about this time, then, _The Three Hours after Marriage_ had been acted without Success; when Mr. _Bays_, as usual, had a fling at it, which, in itself, was no Jest, unless the Audience would please to make it one: But however, flat as it was, Mr. _Pope_ was mortally sore upon it. This was the Offence. In this Play, two Coxcombs, being in love with a learned Virtuoso's Wife, to get unsuspected Access to her, ingeniously send themselves, as two presented Rarities, to the Husband, the one curiously swath'd up like an _Egyptian_ Mummy, and the other slily cover'd in the Paste-board Skin of a Crocodile: upon which poetical Expedient, I, Mr. _Bays_, when the two Kings of _Brentford_ came from the Clouds into the Throne again, instead of what my Part directed me to say, made use of these Words, viz. "Now, Sir, this Revolution, I had some Thoughts of introducing, by a quite different Contrivance; but my Design taking air, some of your sharp Wits, I found, had made use of it before me; otherwise I intended to have stolen one of them in, in the Shape of a _Mummy_, and t'other, in that of a _Crocodile_." Upon which, I doubt, the Audience by the Roar of their Applause shew'd their proportionable Contempt of the Play they belong'd to. But why am I answerable for that? I did not lead them, by any Reflection of my own, into that Contempt: Surely to have used the bare Word _Mummy_, and _Crocodile_, was neither unjust, or unmannerly; Where then was the Crime of simply saying there had been two such things in a former Play? But this, it seems, was so heinously taken by Mr. _Pope_, that, in the swelling of his Heart, after the Play was over, he came behind the Scenes, with his Lips pale and his Voice trembling, to call me to account for the Insult: And accordingly fell upon me with all the foul Language, that a Wit out of his Senses could be capable of------How durst I have the Impudence to treat any Gentleman in that manner? _&c. &c. &c._ Now let the Reader judge by this Concern, who was the true Mother of the Child! When he was almost choked with the foam of his Passion, I was enough recover'd from my Amazement to make him (as near as I can remember) this Reply, _viz._ "Mr. _Pope_----You are so particular a Man, that I must be asham'd to return your Language as I ought to do: but since you have attacked me in so monstrous a Manner; This you may depend upon, that as long as the Play continues to be acted, I will never fail to repeat the same Words over and over again." Now, as he accordingly found I kept my Word, for several Days following, I am afraid he has since thought, that his Pen was a sharper Weapon than his Tongue to trust his Revenge with. And however just Cause this may be for his so doing, it is, at least, the only Cause my Conscience can charge me with. Now, as I might have concealed this Fact, if my Conscience would have suffered me, may we not suppose, Mr. _Pope_ would certainly have mention'd it in his _Dunciad_, had he thought it could have been of service to him? But as he seems, notwithstanding, to have taken Offence from it, how well does this Soreness of Temper agree with what he elsewhere says of himself?

_But touch me, and no Minister so sore._ 1 Sat. 2 B. of Hor. ver. 76.

Since then, even his Admirers allow, that Spleen has a great share in his Composition, and as Thirst of Revenge, in full Possession of a conscious Power to execute it, is a Temptation, which we see the Depravity of Human Nature is so little able to resist, why then should we wonder, that a Man so easily hurt, as Mr. _Pope_ seems to be, should be so frequently delighted in his inflicting those Pains upon others, which he feels he is not himself able to bear? This is the only way I can account for his having sometimes carried his satyrical Strokes farther, than, I doubt, a true and laudable Satyrist would have thought justifiable. But it is now time to open, what on my own part I have to charge him with.

In turning over his Works of the smaller Edition, the eldest Date I find, in print, of my being out of his Favour, is from an odd Objection he makes to a, then, new Play of mine, _The Non-Juror_. In one of his Letters to Mr. _Jervas_, p. 85. he writes thus----

"Your Acquaintance, on this side the Water, are under terrible Apprehensions, from your long stay in _Ireland_, that you may grow too polite for them; for we think (since the great Success of _such a Play as the Non-Juror_) that Politeness is gone over the Water, _&c._

(By the way, was not his Wit a little stiff and weary, when he strained so hard to bring in this costive Reflection upon the _Non-Juror_? Dear Soul! What terrible Apprehensions it gave him!) And some few Lines after he cries out----

"Poor Poetry! the little that's left of thee, longs to cross the Seas----

Modestly meaning, I suppose, he had a mind to have gone over himself! If he had gone, and had carried with him those polite Pieces, _The What d'ye call it_, and _The Three Hours after Marriage_ (both which he had a hand in) how effectually had those elaborate Examples of the true Genius given, to the _Dublin_ Theatre, the Glory of Dramatick Poetry restor'd? But _Drury-Lane_ was not so favourable to him; for there alas! (where the last of them was unfortunately acted) he had so sore a Rap o' the Fingers, that he never more took up his Pen for the Stage. But this is not fair, you will say: My shewing Mr. _Pope_'s want of Skill in Comedy, is no excuse for the want of it in myself; which his Satyr sometimes charges me with: at least, it must be owned, it is not an easy thing to hit by his missing it. And indeed I have had some doubt, as there is no personal Reflection in it, whether I ought to have mention'd his Objection to _The Non-Juror_ at all; but as the Particularity of it may let one a good deal into the Sentiments of Mr. _Pope_, I could not refrain from bestowing some farther Notes upon it.