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 overreached
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
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 everything. 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.
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