such as this count for nothing? Is my occupation to become
like that of the Moor of Venice--merely because managers are forgetful?
Do we make no sacrifices when we come to their aid? What about the
expense of coming to and fro? What about wear and tear of dress clothes,
useless to some of us except for such purposes, and, in honesty I should
add, so far as the nether portions are concerned, for attending
funerals?

Let me discuss what is urged against us. It is said that if we did not
get free tickets we should pay to visit the play. There is a little
truth in this, but not much. We might take tickets for the pit to see
the good plays; our judgment tells us they are but few, whereas a sense
of duty compels us in our quasi-professional capacity to attend even the
most deplorable rubbish. This aspect of the matter amounts to no more
than a trifle. The managers would gain little from our occasional
shillings and lose much by our frequent absence.

It is urged that we do not applaud. I maintain that deceitful applause
is not in our implied contract; certainly we never hiss or boo, though
there is a splendid tradition rendered popular by poor Lal Brough that
one of us found a play so utterly bad that he left his seat, went to the
box-office, and bought a ticket, in order that he might express his
opinion without prejudice to his conscience. As a body we are playgoers
of judgment and experience, and, though I protest that we clap
generously when there is a reasonable opportunity, the suggestion that
we are a claque failing to do its duty because we do not applaud bad
pieces is an outrageous insult.

No, sir; I do but humbly voice the opinion of my fellow-deadheads when
I say that we would rather be abolished than have to offer sycophantic
applause as part of the bargain. I insist a little upon this aspect,
because the refusal to applaud rubbish seems to be looked upon as the
dead head and front of our offending, if I may take a trifling liberty
with the words of the Swan of Avon.

I had forgotten, sir, to mention one of our most important services. It
is notorious that many plays are run in London without there being any
expectation that they will make money in the Metropolis, but in the
belief that if they can be called "a great London success," our
simple-minded cousins in the country will accept them with enthusiasm.
How, I ask you, are these London successes manufactured? How could they
be without our aid? I could na