_Pope_ has so particularly picked me out of the Number to make an Example of: Why may I not take the same Liberty, and even single him out for another to keep me in Countenance? He must excuse me, then, if in what I am going to relate, I am reduced to make bold with a little private Conversation: But as he has shewn no Mercy to _Colley_, why should so unprovok'd an Aggressor expect any for himself? And if Truth hurts him, I can't help it. He may remember, then (or if he won't I will) when _b.u.t.ton_'s Coffee-house was in vogue, and so long ago, as when he had not translated above two or three Books of _Homer_; there was a late young n.o.bleman (as much his _Lord_ as mine) who had a good deal of wicked Humour, and who, though he was fond of having Wits in his Company, was not so restrained by his Conscience, but that he lov'd to laugh at any merry Mischief he could do them: This n.o.ble Wag, I say, in his usual _Gayete de Coeur_, with another Gentleman still in Being, one Evening slily seduced the celebrated Mr. _Pope_ as a Wit, and myself as a Laugher, to a certain House of Carnal Recreation, near the _Hay-Market_; where his Lordship's Frolick propos'd was to slip his little _Homer_, as he call'd him, at a Girl of the Game, that he might see what sort of Figure a Man of his Size, Sobriety, and Vigour (in Verse) would make, when the frail Fit of Love had got into him; in which he so far succeeded, that the smirking Damsel, who serv'd us with Tea, happen'd to have Charms sufficient to tempt the little-tiny Manhood of Mr. _Pope_ into the next Room with her: at which you may imagine, his Lordship was in as much Joy, at what might happen within, as our small Friend could probably be in Possession of it: But I (forgive me all ye mortified Mortals whom his fell Satyr has since fallen upon) observing he had staid as long as without hazard of his Health he might, I,

_p.r.i.c.k'd to it by foolish Honesty and Love,_

As _Shakespear_ says, without Ceremony, threw open the Door upon him, where I found this little hasty Hero, like a terrible _Tom t.i.t_, pertly perching upon the Mount of Love! But such was my Surprize, that I fairly laid hold of his Heels, and actually drew him down safe and sound from his Danger. My Lord, who staid t.i.ttering without, in hopes the sweet Mischief he came for would have been compleated, upon my giving an Account of the Action within, began to curse, and call me an hundred silly Puppies, for my impertinently spoiling the Sport; to which with great Gravity I reply'd; pray, my Lord, consider what I have done was, in regard to the Honour of our Nation! For would you have had so glorious a Work as that of making _Homer_ speak elegant _English_, cut short by laying up our little Gentleman of a Malady, which his thin Body might never have been cured of? No, my Lord! _Homer_ would have been too serious a Sacrifice to our Evening Merriment. Now as his _Homer_ has since been so happily compleated, who can say, that the World may not have been obliged to the kindly Care of _Colley_ that so great a Work ever came to Perfection?

And now again, gentle Reader, let it be judged, whether the _Lord_ and the _Wh.o.r.e_ above-mention'd might not, with equal Justice, have been apply'd to sober _Sawney_ the Satyrist, as to _Colley_ the Criminal?

Though I confess Recrimination to be but a poor Defence for one's own Faults; yet when the Guilty are Accusers, it seems but just, to make use of any Truth, that may invalidate their Evidence: I therefore hope, whatever the serious Reader may think amiss in this Story, will be excused, by my being so hardly driven to tell it.

I could wish too, it might be observed, that whatever Faults I find with the Morals of Mr. _Pope_, I charge none to his Poetical Capacity, but chiefly to his _Ruling Pa.s.sion_, which is so much his Master, that we must allow, his inimitable Verse is generally warmest, where his too fond Indulgence of that Pa.s.sion inspires it. How much brighter still might that Genius shine, could it be equally inspired by Good-nature!

Now though I may have less Reason to complain of his Severity, than many others, who may have less deserv'd it: Yet by his crowding me into so many of his Satyrs, it is plain his Ill-will is oftner at Work upon _Cibber_, than upon any Mortal he has had a mind to make a Dunce, or a Devil of: And as there are about half a Score remaining Verses, where _Cibber_ still fills up the Numbers, and which I have not yet produced, I think it will pretty near make good my Observation: Most of them, 'tis true, are so slight Marks of his Disfavour, that I can charge them with little more, than a mere idle Liberty with my Name; I shall therefore leave the greater part of them without farther Observation to make the most of their Meaning. Some few of them however (perhaps from my want of Judgment) seem so ambiguous, as to want a little Explanation.

In his First Epistle of the Second Book of _Horace_, ver. 86, speaking of the Uncertainty of the publick Judgment upon Dramatick Authors, after naming the best, he concludes his List of them thus:

_But for the Pa.s.sions,_ Southern _sure, and_ Rowe.

_These, only these support the crouded Stage, From eldest_ Heywood _down to_ Cibber_'s Age_.

Here he positively excludes _Cibber_ from any Share in supporting the Stage as an Author; and yet, in the Lines immediately following, he seems to allow it him, by something so like a Commendation, that if it be one, it is at the same time a Contradiction to _Cibber_'s being the Dunce, which the _Dunciad_ has made of him. But I appeal to the Verses; here they are--_ver._ 87.

_All this may be; the Peoples Voice is odd, It is, and it is not the Voice of G.o.d.

To_ Gammer Gurton _if it give the Bays, And yet deny_ The Careless Husband _Praise._

Now if _The Careless Husband_ deserv'd Praise, and had it, must it not (without comparing it with the Works of the above-cited Authors) have had its Share in supporting the Stage? which Mr. _Pope_ might as well have allow'd it to have had, as to have given it the Commendation he seems to do: I say (_seems_) because is saying (_if_) the People deny'd it Praise, seems to imply they _had_ deny'd it; or if they had _not_ deny'd it, (which is true) then his Censure upon the People is false.

Upon the whole, the Meaning of these Verses stands in so confus'd a Light, that I confess I don't clearly discern it. 'Tis true, the late General _Dormer_ intimated to me, that he believ'd Mr. _Pope_ intended them as a Compliment to _The Careless Husband_; but if it be a Compliment, I rather believe it was a Compliment to that Gentleman's Good-nature, who told me a little before this Epistle was publish'd, that he had been making Interest for a little Mercy to his Friend _Colley_ in it. But this, it seems, was all he could get for him: However, had his Wit stopt here, and said no more of me, for that Gentleman's sake, I might have thank'd him: But whatever Restraint he might be under then, after this Gentleman's Decease we shall see he had none upon him: For now out comes a new _Dunciad_, where, in the first twenty Lines he takes a fresh _Lick at the Laureat_; as Fidlers and Prize-fighters always give us a Flourish before they come to the Tune or the Battle in earnest. Come then, let us see what your mighty Mountain is in Labour of? Oh! here we have it! _New Dun. ver._ 20.

Dulness mounts the Throne, _&c._ and----

_Soft in her Lap her Laureat Son reclines._

Hah! fast asleep it seems! No, that's a little too strong. _Pert_ and _Dull_ at least you might have allow'd me; but as seldom asleep as any Fool.----Sure your own Eyes could not be open, when so lame and solemn a Conceit came from you: What, am I only to be Dull, and Dull still, and again, and for ever? But this, I suppose, is one of your _Decies repet.i.ta placebit_'s. For, in other Words, you have really said this of me ten times before--No, it must be written in a Dream, and according to _Dryden_'s Description of dead Midnight too, where, among other strong Images, he gives us this--

_Even l.u.s.t and_ Envy _sleep._

Now, Sir, had not _Your_ Envy been as fast as a fat Alderman in Sermon-time, you would certainly have thrown out something more spirited than so trite a Repet.i.tion could come up to. But it is the Nature of Malevolence, it seems, when it gets a spiteful Saying by the end, not to be tired of it so soon as its Hearers are.----Well, and what then? you will say; it lets the World see at least, that you are resolv'd to write _About me_, and _About me_, to the last. In fine, Mr. _Pope_, this yawning Wit would make one think you had got into the Laureat's Place, and were taking a Nap yourself.

But, perhaps, there may be a concealed Brightness in this Verse, which your Notes may more plainly ill.u.s.trate: let us see then what your fict.i.tious Friend and Flatterer _Scriblerus_ says to it. Why, first he mangles a Paragraph which he quotes from my _Apology_ for my own Life, _Chap._ 2. and then makes his particular Use of it. But as I have my Uses to make of it as well as himself, I shall beg leave to give it the Reader without his Castrations. He begins it thus,

"When I find my Name in the Satyrical Works of this Poet," _&c._

But I say,----

"When I, therefore, find my Name, _at length_, in the Satyrical Works _of our most celebrated living Author_"----

Now, Sir, I must beg your Pardon, but I cannot think it was your meer Modesty that left out the t.i.tle I have given you, because you have so often suffer'd your Friend _Scriblerus_ (that is yourself) in your Notes to make you Compliments of a much higher Nature. But, perhaps, you were unwilling to let the Reader observe, that though you had so often befoul'd my Name in your Satyrs, I could still give you the Language due to a Gentleman, which, perhaps, at the same time too, might have put him in mind of the poor and pitiful Return you have made to it. But to go on with our Paragraph----He again continues it thus----

"I never look upon it as any Malice meant to me, but Profit to himself"----

But where is my Parenthesis, Mr. _Filch_? If you are asham'd of it, I have no reason to be so, and therefore the Reader shall have it: My Sentence then runs thus----

"I never look upon those Lines as Malice meant to me (for he knows I never provok'd it) _&c._

These last Words indeed might have star'd you too full in the Face, not to have put your Conscience out of countenance. But a Wit of your Intrepidity, I see, is above that vulgar Weakness.

After this sneaking Omission, you have still the same Scruple against some other Lines in the Text to come: But as you serve _your_ Purposes by leaving them out, you must give me leave to serve _mine_ by supplying them. I shall therefore give the Reader the rest entire, and only mark what you don't choose should be known in _Italicks_, viz.

"_One of his Points must be to have many Readers_: He considers, that my Face and Name are more known than _those of_ many _Thousands of more Consequence_ in the Kingdom, that, therefore, _right or wrong_, a Lick at the Laureat will always be a sure Bait, _ad captandum vulgus_, to catch him little Readers: _And that to gratify the unlearned, by now and then interspersing those merry Sacrifices of an old Acquaintance to their Taste, in a Piece of quite right Poetical Craft_."

Now, Sir, is there any thing in this Paragraph (which you have so maim'd and sneer'd at) that, taken all together, could merit the injurious Reception you have given it? Ought I, for this, to have had the stale Affront of _Dull_, and _Impudent_, repeated upon me? or could it have lessen'd the Honour of your Understanding, to have taken this quiet Resentment of your frequent ill Usage in good part? Or had it not rather been a Mark of your Justice and Generosity, not to have pursued me with fresh Instances of your Ill-will upon it? or, on the contrary, could you be so weak as to Envy me the Patience I was master of, and therefore could not bear to be, in any light, upon amicable Terms with me? I hope your Temper is not so unhappy as to be offended, or in pain, when your Insults are return'd with Civilities? or so vainly uncharitable as to value yourself for laughing at my Folly, in supposing you never had any real malicious Intention against me? No, you could not, sure, believe, the World would take it for granted, that _every_ low, vile Thing you had said of me, was evidently _true_? How then can you hold me in such Derision, for finding your Freedom with my Name, a better Excuse than you yourself are able to give, or are willing to accept of? or, admitting, that my deceived Opinion of your Goodness was so much real Simplicity and Ignorance, was not even That, at least, pardonable?

Might it not have been taken in a more favourable Sense by any Man of the least Candour or Humanity? But--I am afraid, Mr. _Pope_, the severely different Returns you have made to it, are Indications of a Heart I want a Name for.

Upon the whole, while you are capable of giving such a trifling Turn to my Patience, I see but very little Hopes of my ever removing your Prejudice: for in your Notes upon the above Paragraph (to which I refer the Reader) you treat me more like a rejected Flatterer, than a Critick: But, I hope, you now find that I have at least taken off that Imputation, by my using no Reserve in shewing the World from what you have said of _Me_, what I think of _You_. Had not therefore this last Usage of me been so particular, I scarce believe the Importunity of my Friends, or the Inclination I have to gratify them, would have prevailed with me to have taken this publick Notice of whatever Names you had formerly call'd me.

I have but one Article more of your high-spirited Wit to examine, and then I shall close our Account. In _ver._ 524 of the same Poem, you have this Expression, _viz._

Cibberian _Forehead_------

By which I find you modestly mean _Cibber_'s Impudence; And, by the Place it stands in, you offer it as a Sample of the _strongest_ Impudence.----Sir, your humble Servant----But pray, Sir, in your Epistle to Dr. _Arbuthnot_, (where, by the way, in your ample Description of a Great Poet, you slily hook in a whole Hat-full of Virtues to your own Character) have not you this particular Line among them? _viz._

_And thought a_ Lye, _in Verse or Prose the same._

Now, Sir, if you can get all your Readers to believe me as Impudent as you make me, your Verse, with the Lye in it, may have a good Chance to be thought true: if _not_, the Lye in your Verse will never get out of it.

This, I confess, is only arguing with the same Confidence that you sometimes write; that is, we both flatly affirm, and equally expect to be believ'd. But here, indeed, your Talent has something the better of me; for any Accusation, in smooth Verse, will always sound well, though it is not tied down to have a t.i.ttle of Truth in it; when the strongest Defence in poor humble Prose, not having that harmonious Advantage, takes no body by the Ear: And yet every one must allow this may be very hard upon an innocent Man: For suppose, in Prose now, I were as confidently to insist, that you were an _Honest, Good-natur'd, Inoffensive Creature_, would my barely saying so be any Proof of it? No, sure! Why then might it not be suppos'd an equal Truth, that Both our a.s.sertions were equally false? _Yours_, when you call me _Impudent_; _Mine_, when I call you _Modest_, &c. If, indeed, you could say, that with a remarkable Shyness, I had avoided any Places of publick Resort, or that I had there met with Coldness, Reproof, Insult, or any of the usual Rebuffs that Impudence is liable to, or had been reduced to retire from that part of the World I had impudently offended, your _Cibberian Forehead_ then might have been as just and as sore a Brand as the Hangman could have apply'd to me. But as I am not yet under that Misfortune, and while the general Benevolence of my Superiors still suffers me to stand my ground, or occasionally to sit down with them, I hope it will be thought that rather the _Papal_, than the _Cibberian_ Forehead, ought to be out of Countenance. But it is time to have done with you.

In your Advertis.e.m.e.nt to your first Satyr of your second Book of _Horace_, you have this just Observation.

_To a true Satyrist, nothing is so odious, as a Libeller._

Now, that you are often an admirable Satyrist, no Man of true Taste can deny: But, that you are always a _True_ (that is a _just_) one, is a Question not yet decided in your Favour. I shall not take upon me to prove the Injuries of your Pen, which many candid Readers, in the behalf of others, complain of: But if the gross things you have said of so inconsiderable a Man as myself, have exceeded the limited Province of a _true_ Satyrist, they are sufficient to have forfeited your Claim to that t.i.tle. For if a Man, from his being admitted the best Poet, imagines himself so much lifted above the World, that he has a Right to run a muck, and make sport with the Characters of all Ranks of People, to soil and begrime every Face that is obnoxious to his ungovernable Spleen or Envy: Can so vain, so inconsiderate, so elated an Insolence, amongst all the Follies he has lash'd, and laugh'd at, find a Subject fitter for Satyr than Himself? How many other different good Qualities ought such a Temper to have in Balance of this One bad one, this abuse of his Genius, by so injurious a Pride and Self-sufficiency? And though it must be granted, that a true Genius never grows in a barren Soil, and therefore implies, that great Parts and Knowledge only could have produced it; Yet it must be allow'd too, that the fairest Fruits of the Mind may lose a great deal of their naturally delicious Taste, when blighted by Ill-nature. How strict a Guard then ought the _true_ Satyrist to set upon his private Pa.s.sions! How clear a Head! a Heart how candid, how impartial, how incapable of Injustice! What Integrity of Life, what general Benevolence, what exemplary Virtues ought that happy Man to be master of, who, from such ample Merit, raises himself to an Office of that Trust and Dignity, as that of our Universal Censor? A Man so qualified, indeed, might be a truly publick Benefit, such a one, and only such a one, might have an uncontested Right----

--------_To point the Pen, Brand the bold Front of shameless, guilty Men; Dash the proud Gamester, in his gilded Car, Bare the mean Heart that lurks beneath a Star._

But should another (though of equal Genius) whose Mind were either sour'd by Ill-nature, personal Prejudice, or the l.u.s.t of Railing, usurp that Province to the Abuse of it. Not all his pompous Power of Verse could shield him from as odious a Censure, as such, his guilty Pen could throw upon the Innocent, or undeserving to be slander'd. What then must be the Consequence? Why naturally this: That such an Indulgence of his Pa.s.sions, so let loose upon the World, would, at last, reduce him to fly from it! For sure the Avoidance, the Slights, the scouling Eyes of every mixt Company he might fall into, would be a Mortification no vain-glorious Man would stand, that had a Retreat from it. Here then, let us suppose him an involuntary Philosopher, affecting to be----_Nunquam minus solus, quam c.u.m solus_----never in better Company than when alone: But as you have well observed in your Essay----

_Not always_ Actions _shew the Man-- Not therefore humble He, who seeks Retreat, Guilt guides his Steps, and makes him shun the Great._

(I beg your Pardon, I have made a Mistake; Your Verse says _Pride_ guides his Steps, _&c._ which, indeed, makes the Ant.i.thesis to _Humble_ much stronger, and more to your Purpose; but it will serve mine as it is, so the Error is scarce worth a Correction.) But to return to our Satyrical Exile,----Whom though we have supposed to be oftner alone, than an inoffensive Man need wish to be; yet we must imagine that the Fame of his Wit would sometimes bring him Company: For Wits, like handsome Women, though they wish one another at the Devil, are my Dear, and my Dear! whenever they meet: Nay some Men are so fond of Wit, that they would mix with the Devil himself if they could laugh with him: If therefore any of this careless Cast came to kill an Hour with him, how would his smiling Verse gloss over the Curse of his Confinement, and with a flowing animated Vanity commemorate the peculiar Honours they had paid him?

But alas! would his high Heart be contented, in his having the Choice of his Acquaintance so limited? How many for their Friends, others for themselves, and some too in the Dread of being the future Objects of his Spleen, would he feel had undesired the Knowledge or the Sight of him!

But what's all this to you, Mr. _Pope_? For, as _Shakespear_ says, _Let the gall'd Horse wince, our Withers are unwrung_! But however, if it be not too late, it can do you no harm to look about you: For if this is not as yet your Condition, I remember many Years ago, to have seen you, though in a less Degree, in a Sc.r.a.pe, that then did not look, as if you would be long out of another. When you used to pa.s.s your Hours at _b.u.t.ton_'s, you were even there remarkable for your satyrical Itch of Provocation; scarce was there a Gentleman of any Pretension to Wit, whom your unguarded Temper had not fallen upon, in some biting Epigram; among which you once caught a Pastoral Tartar, whose Resentment, that your Punishment might be proportion'd to the Smart of your Poetry, had stuck up a Birchen Rod in the Room, to be ready, whenever you might come within reach of it; and at this rate you writ and rallied, and writ on, till you rhym'd yourself quite out of the Coffee-house. But if Solitude pleases you, who shall say you are not in the right to enjoy it? Perhaps too, by this time you may be upon a par with Mankind, and care as little for their Company as they do for Yours: Though I rather hope you have chosen to be so shut up, in order to make yourself a better Man. If you succeed in _that_, you will indeed be, what no body else, in haste will be, A better Poet, than you _Are_. And so, Sir, I am, just as much as you believe me to be,

_Your Humble Servant_,

COLLEY CIBBER.

_July_ the 7th 1742.