Jack had two voices,--both plausible, hypocritical, and insinuating; but his secondary or supplemental voice still more decisively histrionic than his common one. It was reserved for the spectator; and the dramatis personas were supposed to know nothing at all about it. The _lies_ of young Wilding, and the _sentiments_ in Joseph Surface, were thus marked out in a sort of italics to the audience. This secret correspondence with the company before the curtain (which is the bane and death of tragedy) has an extremely happy effect in some kinds of comedy, in the more highly artificial comedy of Congreve or of Sheridan especially, where the absolute sense of reality (so indispensable to scenes of interest) is not required, or would rather interfere to diminish your pleasure. The fact is, you do not believe in such characters as Surface--the villain of artificial comedy--even while you read or see them. If you did, they would shock and not divert you. When Ben, in Love for Love, returns from sea, the following exquisite dialogue occurs at his first meeting with his father-- _Sir Sampson._ Thou hast been many a weary league, Ben, since I saw thee. _Ben._ Ey, ey, been! Been far enough, an that be all.--Well, father, and how do all at home? how does brother Dick, and brother Val? _Sir Sampson._ Dick! body o' me, Dick has been dead these two years. I writ you word when you were at Leghorn. _Ben._ Mess, that's true; Marry, I had forgot. Dick's dead, as you say--Well, and how?--I have a many questions to ask you--