an injury—a person towards whom duties
are to be acknowledged—the genuine crim-con
antagonist of the villanous seducer Joseph. To
realise 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 live but in the sunshine of your mirth—must
be rippened by this hot-bed process of realization
into asps or amphisbaenas; and Mrs. Candour—O!
frightful! become a hooded serpent. Oh who that
remembers Parsons and Dodd—the wasp and
butterfly of the School for Scandal—in those
two characters; and charming natural Miss Pope, the
perfect gentlewoman as distinguished from the fine
lady of comedy, in this latter part—would
forego the true scenic delight—the escape
from life—the oblivion of consequences—the
holiday barring out of the pedant Reflection—those
Saturnalia of two or three brief hours, well won from
the world—to sit instead at one of our
modern plays—to have his coward conscience
(that forsooth must not be left for a moment) stimulated
with perpetual appeals—dulled rather, and
blunted, as a faculty without repose must be—and
his moral vanity pampered with images of notional
justice, notional beneficence, lives saved without
the spectators’ risk, and fortunes given away
that cost the author nothing?
No piece was, perhaps, ever so completely cast in
all its parts as this manager’s comedy.
Miss Farren had succeeded to Mrs. Abingdon in Lady
Teazle; and Smith, the original Charles, had retired,
when I first saw it. The rest of the characters,
with very slight exceptions, remained. I remember
it was then the fashion to cry down John Kemble, who
took the part of Charles after Smith; but, I thought,
very unjustly. Smith, I fancy, was more airy,
and took the eye with a certain gaiety of person.
He brought with him no sombre recollections of tragedy.
He had not to expiate the fault of having pleased
beforehand in lofty declamation. He had no sins
of Hamlet or of Richard to atone for. His failure
in these parts was a passport to success in one of
so opposite a tendency. But, as far as I could
judge, the weighty sense of Kemble made up for more
personal incapacity than he had to answer for.
His harshest tones in this part came steeped and dulcified
in good humour. He made his defects a grace.
His exact declamatory manner, as he managed it, only
served to convey the points of his dialogue with more
precision. It seemed to head the shafts to carry
them deeper. Not one of his sparkling sentences
was lost. I remember minutely how he delivered
each in succession, and cannot by any effort imagine
how any of them could be altered for the better.