Note 89 — JOURNAL. (continued 6)

It may not be amiss here to say one word with regard to the gratitude which audiences in some parts of the world claim from actors, and about which I have lately heard a most alarming outcry. Do actors generally exercise their profession to please themselves and gratify their own especial delight in self-exhibition? Is that profession in its highest walks one of small physical exertion and fatigue (I say nothing of mental exertion), and in its lower paths is it one of much gain, glory, or ease? Do audiences, on the other hand, use to come in crowds to play-houses to see indifferent performers? and when there, do they, out of pure charity and good-will, bestow their applause as well as their money upon tiresome performances? I will answer these points as far as regards myself, and therein express the gratitude which I feel towards the frequenters of theatres. I individually disliked my profession, and had neither pride nor pleasure in the exercise of it. I exercised it as a matter of necessity, to earn my bread,—and verily it was in the sweat of my brow. The parts which fell to my lot were of a most laborious nature, and occasioned sometimes violent mental excitement, always immense physical exertion, and sometimes both. In those humbler walks of my profession, from whose wearisomeness I was exempted by my sudden favour with the public, I have seen, though not known, the most painful drudgery,—the most constant fatigue,—the most sad contrast between real cares and feigned merriments,—the most anxious, penurious, and laborious existence imaginable. For the part of my questions which regarded the audiences, I have only to say, that I never knew, saw, heard, or read of any set of people who went to a play-house to see what they did not like; this being the case, it never occurred to me that our houses were full but as a necessary consequence of our own attraction, or that we were applauded but as the result of our own exertions. I was glad the houses were full, because I was earning my livelihood, and wanted the money; and I was glad the people applauded us, because it is pleasant to please, and human vanity will find some sweetness in praise, even when reason weighs its worth most justly. Thus I cannot say that in general I had any great gratitude towards my audiences. Once or twice, however, that feeling was excited between me and my witnesses, and the circumstance of which I have spoken in my journal was one of the instances. But this was a different matter altogether. I was no longer before an audience labouring for their approbation as an actress. I was dragged before so many judges in my own person, to answer for words spoken in private conversation. The same clapping of hands, with which they rewarded my exertions in my profession, was the only method by which they could intimate the "not guilty," which was their judgment upon the appeal that had been made to them against me; but with this difference, that I never felt obliged to them, or grateful for their applause before, and did feel obliged and grateful for their verdict then. Now, as regards the benefit-nights of actors, I do not observe that even on these occasions much gratitude is owing to the people who attend them; for I know, and so does every member of the profession, that the oldest and best actor on any stage,—the one who for a series of years has appeared before audiences to whom his private respectability and worth were well known,—the longest-established favourite of the public (as they are termed), will assuredly have empty houses on his benefit-nights, if, trusting to the feeling of that public, to whom he owes so much gratitude, he failed to secure the assistance of whatever star (tragedian, pantomimist, or dancing dog, it matters not which), happens to be the newest object of attraction. I speak all this more particularly as regards this country, for it is here that I have heard most of this species of cant. Gratitude is a good word and an excellent thing, and neither in speaking or acting should it be misapplied. In the aristocratical lands over the water, this nonsense about patronage might surprise one less; but in America it seems strange there should be any mistake about a simple matter of traffic—'tis nothing in life else. We give our health, our strength, our leisure, and our pleasure, for your money and your applause, neither of which do we beg or borrow from you. This being the case, where lies the obligation, and where the gratitude? As to the pretty speeches which actors make when called from behind the curtain, they always appeared to me very much of the same order as advertisements in newspapers—A. D. returns his grateful acknowledgments to the public for their liberal support, etc., etc. That calling performers on after a play is a foreign, not an English, custom, and, to my mind, one more honoured in the breach than in the observance. Extraordinary occasions might warrant extraordinary demonstrations; but it is a pity to make that a common ceremony, which, rarely granted, would be a gratifying testimony of feeling, and excite rational gratitude in those on whom it was conferred.