The whole is a passing pageant, where we should sit as unconcerned at the issues, for life or death, as at a battle of the frogs and mice.  But like Don Quixote, we take part against the puppets, and quite as impertinently.  We dare not contemplate an Atlantis, a scheme, out of which our coxcombical moral sense is for a little transitory ease excluded.  We have not the courage to imagine a state of things for which there is neither reward nor punishment.  We cling to the painful necessities of shame and blame.  We would indict our very dreams.

Amidst the mortifying circumstances attendant upon growing old, it is something to have seen the School for Scandal in its glory.  This comedy grew out of Congreve and Wycherley, but gathered some allays of the sentimental comedy which followed theirs.  It is impossible that it should be now acted, though it continues, at long intervals, to be announced in the bills.  Its hero, when Palmer played it at least, was Joseph Surface.  When I remember the gay boldness, the graceful solemn plausibility, the measured step, the insinuating voice—­to express it in a word—­the downright acted villany of the part, so different from the pressure of conscious actual wickedness,—­the hypocritical assumption of hypocrisy,—­which made Jack so deservedly a favourite in that character, I must needs conclude the present generation of playgoers more virtuous than myself, or more dense.  I freely confess that he divided the palm with me with his better brother; that, in fact, I liked him quite as well.  Not but there are passages,—­like that, for instance, where Joseph is made to refuse a pittance to a poor relation,—­incongruities which Sheridan was forced upon by the attempt to join the artificial with the sentimental comedy, either of which must destroy the other—­but over these obstructions Jack’s manner floated him so lightly, that a refusal from him no more shocked you, than the easy compliance of Charles gave you in reality any pleasure; you got over the paltry question as quickly as you could, to get back into the regions of pure comedy, where no cold moral reigns.  The highly artificial manner of Palmer in this character counteracted every disagreeable impression which you might have received from the contrast, supposing them real, between the two brothers.  You did not believe in Joseph with the same faith with which you believed in Charles.  The latter was a pleasant reality, the former a no less pleasant poetical foil to it.  The comedy, I have said, is incongruous; a mixture of Congreve with sentimental incompatibilities; the gaity upon the whole is buoyant; but it required the consummate art of Palmer to reconcile the discordant elements.