art. He was playing to
you all the while that he was playing upon Sir Peter and his lady. You
had the first intimation of a sentiment before it was on his lips.
His altered voice was meant to you, and you were to suppose that his
fictitious co-flutterers on the stage perceived nothing at all of it.
What was it to you if that half-reality, the husband, was over-reached
by the puppetry--or the thin thing (Lady Teazle's reputation) was
persuaded it was dying of a plethory? The fortunes of Othello and
Desdemona were not concerned in it. Poor Jack has passed from
the stage--in good time, that he did not live to this our age of
seriousness. The fidgety pleasant old Teazle _King_ too is gone in
good time. His manner would scarce have passed current in our day.
We must love or hate--acquit or condemn--censure or pity--exert our
detestable coxcombry of moral judgment upon every thing. Joseph
Surface, to go down now, must be a downright revolting villain--no
compromise--his first appearance must shock and give horror--his
specious plausibilities, which the pleasurable faculties of our
fathers welcomed with such hearty greetings, knowing that no harm
(dramatic harm even) could come, or was meant to come of them, must
inspire a cold and killing aversion. Charles (the real canting person
of the scene--for the hypocrisy of Joseph has its ulterior legitimate
ends, but his brother's professions of a good heart centre in
down-right self-satisfaction) must be _loved_, and Joseph _hated_. To
balance one disagreeable reality with another, Sir Peter Teazle must
be no longer the comic idea of a fretful old bachelor bridegroom,
whose teazings (while King acted it) were evidently as much played off
at you, as they were meant to concern any body on the stage,--he must
be a real person, capable in law of sustaining an injury--a person
towards whom duties are to be acknowledged--the genuine crim-con
antagonist of the villainous seducer, Joseph. To realize him more,
his sufferings under his unfortunate match must have the downright
pungency of life--must (or should) make you not mirthful but
uncomfortable, just as the same predicament would move you in a
neighbour or old friend. The delicious scenes which give the play its
name and zest, must affect you in the same serious manner as if you
heard the reputation of a dear female friend attacked in your real
presence. Crabtree, and Sir Benjamin--those poor snakes that lived
but in the sunshine of you