CONTAINING
A VINDICATION OF THE COMIC WRITER.
POPE attacked CIBBER from personal motives--by dethroning Theobald,
in the _Dunciad_, to substitute CIBBER, he made the satire not
apply--CIBBER'S facetious and serious remonstrance--CIBBER'S
inimitable good-humour--an apology for what has been called his
"effrontery"--perhaps a modest man, and undoubtedly a man of
genius--his humorous defence of his deficiency in Tragedy, both
in acting and writing--Pope more hurt at being exposed as a
ridiculous lover than as a bad man--an account of "The Egotist, or
Colley upon Cibber," a kind of supplement to the "Apology for his
life," in which he has drawn his own character with great freedom
and spirit.
Pope's quarrel with Cibber may serve to check the haughtiness of
genius; it is a remarkable instance how good-humour can gently draw a
boundary round the arbitrary power, whenever the wantonness of satire
would conceal calumny. But this quarrel will become even more
interesting, should it throw a new light on the character of one whose
originality of genius seems little suspected. Cibber showed a happy
address in a very critical situation, and obtained an honourable
triumph over the malice of a great genius, whom, while he complained
of he admired, and almost loved the cynic.
Pope, after several "flirts," as Cibber calls them, from slight
personal motives, which Cibber has fully opened,[212] at length from
"peevish weakness," as Lord Orford has happily expressed it, closed
his insults by dethroning Theobald, and substituting Cibber; but as he
would not lose what he had already written, this change disturbed the
whole decorum of the satiric fiction. Things of opposite natures,
joined into one, became the poetical chimera of Horace. The hero of
the _Dunciad_ is neither Theobald nor Cibber; Pope forced a dunce to
appear as Cibber; but this was not making Cibber a dunce. This error
in Pope emboldened Cibber in the contest, for he still insisted that
the satire did not apply to him;[213] and humorously compared the
libel "to a purge with a wrong label," and Pope "to an apothecary who
did not mind his business."[214]
Cibber triumphed in the arduous conflict--though sometimes he felt
that, like the Patriarch of old, he was wrestling, not with an
equal, but one of celestial race, "and the hollow of his thigh was
out of joint." Still, however, he triumphed, by that singular
felicity of character, that inimitable _gaiete de coeur_, that
honest simplicity of truth, from which flowed so warm an admiration
of the genius of his adversary; and that exquisite _tact_ in the
characters of men, which carried down this child of airy humour to
the verge of his ninetieth year, with all the enjoyments of strong
animal spirits, and all that innocent egotism which became frequently
a source of his own raillery.[215] He has applied to himself the
epithet "impenetrable," which was probably in the mind of Johnson when
he noticed his "impenetrable impudence." A critic has charged him with
"effrontery."[216] Critics are apt to admit too much of traditional
opinion into their own; it is necessary sometimes to correct the
knowledge we receive. For my part, I can almost believe that
Cibber was a _modest man_![217] as he was most certainly a man of
genius. Cibber had lived a dissipated life, and his philosophical
indifference, with his careless gaiety, was the breastplate which
even the wit of Pope failed to pierce. During twenty years'
persecution for his unlucky Odes, he never lost his temper; he
would read to his friends the best things pointed against them,
with all the spirit the authors could wish; and would himself
write epigrams for the pleasure of hearing them repeated while
sitting in coffee-houses; and whenever they were applauded as
"Palpable hits!"--"Keen!"--"Things with a spirit in them!"--he
enjoyed these attacks on himself by himself.[218] If this be vanity,
it is at least "_Cibberian_."
It was, indeed, the singularity of his personal character which so
long injured his genius, and laid him open to the perpetual attacks of
his contemporaries,[219] who were mean enough to ridicule undisguised
foibles, but dared not be just to the redeeming virtues of his genius.
Yet his genius far exceeded his literary frailties. He knew he was no
poet, yet he would string wretched rhymes, even when not salaried for
them; and once wrote an Essay on Cicero's character, for which his
dotage was scarcely an apology;--so much he preferred amusement to
prudence.[220] Another foible was to act tragedies with a squeaking
voice[221], and to write them with a genius about the same size for
the sublime; but the malice of his contemporaries seemed to forget
that he was creating new dramatic existences in the exquisite
personifications of his comic characters; and was producing some of
our standard comedies, composed with such real genius, that they still
support the reputation of the English stage.
In the "Apology for his Life," Cibber had shown himself a generous
and an ill-treated adversary, and at all times was prodigal of his
eulogiums, even after the death of Pope; but, when remonstrance and
good temper failed to sheathe with their oil the sharp sting of the
wasp, as his weakest talent was not the ludicrous, he resolved to
gain the laughers over, and threw Pope into a very ridiculous
attitude.[222] It was extorted from Cibber by this insulting line
of Pope's:--
And has not Colley, too, his Lord and w--e?
It seems that Pope had once the same! But a ridiculous story, suited
to the taste of the loungers, nettled Pope more than the keener
remonstrances and the honest truths which Cibber has urged. Those who
write libels, invite imitation.
Besides the two letters addressed by Cibber to Pope, this quarrel
produced a moral trifle, or rather a philosophical curiosity,
respecting Cibber's own character, which is stamped with the full
impression of all its originality.
The title, so expressive of its design, and the whim and good-humour
of the work, which may be considered as a curious supplement to the
"Apology for his Life," could scarcely have been imagined, and most
certainly could not have been executed, but by the genius who dared
it. I give the title in the note.[223] It is a curious exemplification
of what Shaftesbury has so fancifully described as "self-inspection."
This little work is a conversation between "Mr. Frankly and his old
acquaintance, Colley Cibber." Cibber had the spirit of making this Mr.
Frankly speak the bitterest things against himself; and he must have
been an attentive reader of all the keenest reproaches his enemies
ever had thrown out. This caustic censor is not a man of straw, set
up to be easily knocked down. He has as much vivacity and wit as
Cibber himself, and not seldom has the better of the argument. But the
gravity and the levity blended in this little piece form admirable
contrasts: and Cibber, in this varied effusion, acquires all our
esteem for that open simplicity, that unalterable good-humour which
flowed from nature, and that fine spirit that touches everything with
life; yet, as he himself confesses, the main accusation of Mr.
Frankly, that "his philosophical air will come out at last mere vanity
in masquerade," may be true.
I will attempt to collect some specimens of this extraordinary
production, because they harmonise with the design of the present
work, and afford principles, in regard to preserving an equability of
temper, which may guide us in Literary Quarrels.
_Frankly_ observes, on Cibber's declaration that he is not uneasy at
Pope's satire, that "no blockhead is so dull as not to be sore when he
is called so; and (you'll excuse me) if that were to be your own case,
why should we believe you would not be as uneasy at it as another
blockhead?
_Author._ This is pushing me pretty home indeed; but I wont give out.
For as it is not at all inconceivable, that a blockhead of my size may
have a particular knack of doing some useful thing that might puzzle a
wiser man to be master of, will not that blockhead still have
something in him to be conceited of? If so, allow me but the vanity of
supposing I may have had some such possible knack, and you will not
wonder (though in many other points I may still be a blockhead) that I
may, notwithstanding, be contented with my condition.
_Frankly._ Is it not commendable, in a man of parts, to be warmly
concerned for his reputation?
_Author._ In what regards his honesty or honour, I will make some
allowance; but for the reputation of his parts, not one tittle.
_Frankly._ How! not to be concerned for what half the learned world
are in a continual war about.
_Author_. So are another half about religion; but neither Turk or
Pope, swords or anathemas, can alter truth! There it stands! always
visible to reason, self-defended and immovable! Whatever it _was_, or
_is_, it ever _will be_! As no attack can alter, so no defence can add
to its proportion.
_Frankly._ At this rate, you pronounce all controversies in wit to be
either needless or impertinent.
_Author._ When one in a hundred happens _not_ to be so, or to make
amends for being either by its pleasantry, we ought in justice to
allow it a great rarity. A reply to a just satire or criticism will
seldom be thought better of.
_Frankly._ May not a reply be a good one?
_Author._ Yes, but never absolutely necessary; for as your work (or
reputation) must have been good or bad, before it was censured, your
reply to that censure could not alter it: it would still be but what
it was. If it was good, the attack could not hurt it: if bad, the
reply could not mend it.[224]
_Frankly._ But slander is not always so impotent as you seem to
suppose it; men of the best sense may be misled by it, or, by their
not inquiring after truth, may never come at it; and the vulgar, as
they are less apt to be good than ill-natured, often mistake malice
for wit, and have an uncharitable joy in commending it. Now, when this
is the case, is not a tame silence, upon being satirically libelled,
as liable to be thought guilt or stupidity, as to be the result of
innocence or temper?--Self-defence is a very natural and just excuse
for a reply.
_Author._ Be it so! But still that does not always make it necessary;
for though slander, by their not weighing it, may pass upon some few
people of sense for truth, and might draw great numbers of the vulgar
into its party, the mischief can never be of long duration. _A
satirical slander, that has no truth to support it, is only a great
fish upon dry land: it may flounce and fling, and make a fretful
pother, but it wont bite you; you need not knock it on the head; it
will soon lie still, and die quietly of itself._
_Frankly._ The single-sheet critics will find you employment.
_Author._ Indeed they wont. I'm not so mad as to think myself a match
for the invulnerable.
_Frankly._ Have a care; there's Foulwit; though he can't feel, he can
bite.
_Author._ Ay, so will bugs and fleas; but that's only for sustenance:
everything must feed, you know; and your creeping critics are a sort
of vermin, that if they could come to a king, would not spare him;
yet, whenever they can persuade others to laugh at their jest upon me,
I will honestly make one of the number; but I must ask their pardon,
if that should be all the reply I can afford them."
This "boy of seventy odd," for such he was when he wrote "The
Egotist," unfolds his character by many lively personal touches. He
declares he could not have "given the world so finished a coxcomb as
Lord Foppington, if he had not found a good deal of the same stuff in
himself to make him with." He addresses "A Postscript, To those few
unfortunate Readers and Writers who may not have more sense than the
Author:" and he closes, in all the fulness of his spirit, with a piece
of consolation for those who are so cruelly attacked by superior
genius.
"Let us then, gentlemen, who have the misfortune to lie thus at the
mercy of those whose natural parts happen to be stronger than our
own--let us, I say, make the most of our sterility! Let us double and
treble the ranks of our thickness, that we may form an impregnable
phalanx, and stand every way in front to the enemy! or, would you
still be liable to less hazard, lay but yourselves down, as I do, flat
and quiet upon your faces, when Pride, Malice, Envy, Wit, or Prejudice
let fly their formidable shot at you, what odds is it they don't all
whistle over your head? Thus, too, though we may want the artillery of
missive wit to make reprisals, we may at least in security bid them
kiss the tails we have turned to them. Who knows but, by this our
supine, or rather prone serenity, their disappointed valour may become
their own vexation? Or let us yet, at worst, but solidly stand our
ground, like so many defensive stone-posts, and we may defy the
proudest Jehu of them all to drive over us. Thus, gentlemen, you see
that Insensibility is not without its comforts; and as I give you no
worse advice than I have taken myself, and found my account in, I hope
you will have the hardness to follow it, for your own good and the
glory of
"Your impenetrable humble servant,
"C. C."
After all, one may perceive, that though the good-humour of poor
Cibber was real, still the immortal satire of Pope had injured his
higher feelings. He betrays his secret grief at his close, while he
seems to be sporting with his pen; and though he appears to confide in
the falsity of the satire as his best chance for saving him from it,
still he feels that the caustic ink of such a satirist must blister
and spot wherever it falls. The anger of Warburton, and the sternness
of Johnson, who seem always to have considered an actor as an inferior
being among men of genius, have degraded Cibber. They never suspected
that "a blockhead of his size could do what wiser men could not," and,
as a fine comic genius, command a whole province in human nature.