This play will ever be a memorial of the injustice of Pope.

It was Colley Cibber, the author of this
excellent, this moral, comedy, whom Pope made the hero of his "Dunciad."²

Pope, it is said, was an unsuccessful
dramatist,³ and ever after hated both plays and players. This hatred was
the genuine product of a disappointed artist, for he hated only the skilful ones.
A
man of less talent than Cibber, and less
favoured by the town, had been too mean for the great poet's vengeance—the man,
who was already ridiculous, it had been loss of time to ridicule—Pope chose the very person, on whom his
shafts could make the deepest wound: One, who like Cibber, wrote so much, that he sometimes
failed of writing well; and yet who, at times, wrote so excellently, that reputation
was dear to him. As a proof that it was, he did not even affect to disguise the
impression which this wanton attack made upon him; and in a letter to the author of
"The Dunciad," complaining on the subject, he asserts, that his
enemy can give no proof, but that the object of his satire had ever been his
b 2[Page 4] ardent admirer. Then,
alluding to the miserable excuse given by Pope for this outrage—"The dulness of him he assailed"⁴ —Cibber thus reasonably and feelingly
proceeds.

Dulness can be no vice or crime; or is, at worst, but a misfortune, and you
ought no more to censure or revile a man for it, than for his being blind or lame.
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 so
guilty of it as to deserve the name of the dull fellow you make me? Now, if I am
called upon to speak from my own conscience on 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 show your face with!⁵

It is for the reader of "The Careless Husband" to decide at once,
whether its author was, or was not, a dunce. In a production, where less weight of
argument would be given on the side of the author, it might be deemed impertinent
to
anticipate the reader's pleasure of judging for himself; but the high character of
this play, joined to that which it will instantly say in its own defence, banishes
all doubt upon the subject. The author must be acquitted by the reader of his
accuser's charge—and the accuser must be condemned.

"The Careless Husband" is, as originally written,[Page 5] very
long—it contains more pages than most plays—but, containing more matter
too, it seems short in the perusal.

The dialogue is so brilliant, at the same time, so very natural, that its force will
admit of no augmentation, even from the delivery of the best actors: nor is this
admirable work, according to the present demand for perpetual incident, so well
calculated to please on the stage, as in the closet.⁶

The occurrences, which take place in this drama, are of that delicate, as well as
probable kind, that their effect is not sufficiently powerful in the
representation—whereas, in reading, they come to the heart with infinitely more
force, for want of that extravagance, which public exhibition requires. The smaller
avenues to the mind and bosom are often the surest passages to convey sensations of
pain or delight; and the connoisseur in all the little touches of refined nature,
may
here indulge his taste, whilst, as an auditor, he might possibly be deprived of his
enjoyment, by the vain endeavour of performers, to display, by imitation, that, which
only real life can show, or imagination pourtray.

Here are no violent passions, such as are usually depicted on a stage; but merely
such as commonly govern mankind.

Sir Charles's⁷ tenderness for his wife is so unforced, and his contempt
for his mistresses so undesignedly cool, that an actor must possess the most
consummate talents, in the minutiæ of his art, before he can affect an audience by
the one, or edify them by the other—
b 3[Page 6]yet, the first is extremely moving, and the last,
highly instructive.

Nor is there an actress who could utter the common-place reproaches of Lady
Graveairs, most pleasantly unconnected with sense, half so well as the reader's fancy
can hear them.

Characteristic traits, such as these, too diminutive indeed for the tongue to reveal,
or the ear to catch, in a theatre, abound throughout this whole comedy; and seem to
have been produced by a judgment somewhat too nice, considering they were meant for
dramatic action.

It is not the fault of Cibber, if the
virtues of Lady Easy appear old to the reader—the plagiarism of subsequent
authors, can alone take from the just appearance of their originalty.

Although every character of this drama (now a hundred years old) is a person of
fashion—and fashion changes perpetually,—still every one, here described,
is, at this very time, perfectly fashionable. They talk, they think, they act, they
love, and hate, like people of rank to this very day. Change but their dinner hour,
from four to seven, and blot out the line, where a lady says, "she is going to
church," and every
article, in the whole composition, will be perfectly modern.

Cibber's grand foe, even Pope, was compelled to own the merit of
this play; but, then he alleged, it must be written by mere accident. Pope's party went farther, and said, that
Cibber claimed that which was not
his, but was assuredly written by another.

[Page 7]

Cibber's person was insignificant, and
his mind addicted to vanity—misfortunes which mostly combine. He was,
nevertheless, goodnatured and forgiving—but he was honoured with the patronage
and friendship of the great; and this, in his occupation of a player, was an
unpardonable failing in the eye of his enemy.

That admirable poet should have considered, that, of all artists, the actor is most
an object of curiosity and incitement to personal acquaintance. The purchaser of a
picture, or a book, makes the genius of the painter, or the author, who have produced
these works, as it were, of his household, and he requires no farther
intimacy—But the actor must come himself to his admirer, as the only means of
yielding, to his domestic pleasures, even the shadow of his art.