e triumphs of great singers because there
is an element of desire for an "encore" in them. Moreover, music is
beside the question, because its appeal is of a different character from
that of drama.

These remarks may seem to have a grudging tone, to sound as if one
desired to belittle the triumphs of the stage: in reality their object
is simply to state what a careful observer regards as facts bearing upon
an interesting, important question. Broadly speaking, it is doubtful
whether in our theatres the phenomenon discussed under the name of "the
psychology of crowds" is manifested to a substantial effect, except on
very rare occasions, partly, no doubt, because a London audience is
intensely heterogeneous--a wave of emotion in a West End playhouse has
to surmount a large number of obstacles, losing force at each, or, to
change the figure, a current of emotion has to pass through a great many
bad conductors.

In respect only of laughter does the crowd exercise its power at all
frequently, and then, as a rule, the subject-matter is not of the finest
quality. Laughter certainly is infectious, curiously infectious, but it
is more catching when caused by farce than by comedy. Few of us could
deny that, as a member of the crowd, he has not sometimes laughed
against his will and judgment at matters possessing a humble standard of
humour. We are not grateful afterwards to the author or the low
comedians--we suffer from an unpleasant loss of self-respect when we
have been coerced by the crowd into laughing at mere buffooneries.

Concerning the Pit

Sometimes the ticket sent for a first night suggests a belief by the
manager in the theory that the further one is from the stage the better
one can see and hear--a theory which is accepted as accurate by none
save the managers themselves. Possibly the seats in question are
allotted in order to keep us at an agreeable distance from the
orchestra, which in many theatres is altogether undesirable, or at least
plays much music of an exasperating character. When such tickets come,
and the seat is in the last row of the stalls, it is worth while to go
to the theatre unpunctually before the appointed time.

By the way, it is noticeable that theatres are divisible into two
classes--those at which the curtain is raised with a military severity
at the very moment when the clock strikes, and others where a quarter
of an hour's grace is given--to the players. In the case of French
compani