With what good-humour he retorts a piece of sly malice of Pope’s; who, in the notes to the Dunciad, after quoting Jacob’s account of Cibber’s talents, adds—“Mr. Jacob omitted to remark that he is particularly admirable in tragedy.” To which Cibber rejoins—“Ay, sir, and your remark has omitted, too, that (with all his commendations) I can’t dance upon the rope, or make a saddle, nor play upon the organ. My dear, dear Mr. Pope, how could a man of your stinging capacity let so tame, so low a reflection escape him? Why, this hardly rises above the petty malice of Miss Molly. ‘Ay, ay, you may think my sister as handsome as you please, but if you were to see her legs!’ If I have made so many crowded theatres laugh, and in the right place, too, for above forty years together, am I to make up the number of your dunces, because I have not the equal talent of making them cry too? Make it your own case. Is what you have excelled in at all the worse for your having so dismally dabbled in the farce of Three Hours after Marriage? What mighty reason will the world have to laugh at my weakness in tragedy, more than at yours in comedy?”
I will preserve one anecdote of that felicity of temper—that undisturbed good-humour which never abandoned Cibber in his most distressful moments. When he brought out, in 1724, his Cæsar in Egypt, at a great expense, and “a beggarly account of empty boxes” was the result, it raised some altercations between the poet and his brother managers, the bard still struggling for another and another night. At length he closed the quarrel with a pun, which confessed the misfortune, with his own good-humour. In a periodical publication of the times I find the circumstance recorded in this neat epigram:—
|
On the Sixth Night of Cibber’s “Cæsar in Egypt.”
When the pack’d audience from their posts retired, And Julius in a general hiss expired; Sage Booth to Cibber cried, “Compute our gains! These dogs of Egypt, and their dowdy queans, But ill requite these habits and these scenes, To rob Corneille for such a motley piece: His geese were swans; but zounds! thy swans are geese!” Rubbing his firm invulnerable brow, The bard replied—“The critics must allow ’Twas ne’er in Cæsar’s destiny TO RUN!” Wilks bow’d, and bless’d the gay pacific pun. |
A wicked wag of a lord had enticed Pope into a tavern, and laid a love-plot against his health. Cibber describes his resolute interference by snatching “our little Homer by the heels. This was done for the honour of our nation. Homer would have been too serious a sacrifice to our evening’s amusement.” He has metamorphosed our Apollo into a “Tom-tit;” but the Ovidian warmth, however ludicrous, will not now admit of a narrative. This story, by our comic writer, was accompanied by a print, that was seen by more persons, probably, than read the Dunciad. In his second letter, Cibber, alluding to the vexation of Pope on this ridiculous story, observes—“To have been exposed as a bad man, ought to have given thee thrice the concern of being shown a ridiculous lover.” And now that he had discovered that he could touch the nerves of Pope, he throws out one of the most ludicrous analogies to the figure of our bard:—“When crawling in thy dangerous deed of darkness, I gently, with a finger and a thumb, picked off thy small round body by thy long legs, like a spider making love in a cobweb.”
“The Egotist, or Colley upon Cibber; being his own picture retouched to so plain a likeness that no one now would have the face to own it BUT HIMSELF.
| ‘But one stroke more, and that shall be my last.’ |
London, 1743.
Dryden.”