takes large and solemn strides." Remorse "bends
the knees;" Hatred "throws out the hands;"
Threatening "brandishes the hands;" Acquitting
(a passion I never heard of before, out of
the jury-box) "waves the hands;" Fear "draws
back the elbows parallel with the sides;" Hope
"spreads the arms;" Denying (a passion to
which we are all subject, especially when we are
asked for money) "pushes your open right hand
from you, and turns your face the contrary
way." As for the lungs, the vocal contortions
prescribed for them equal the contortions
imposed on the face and limbs. The victims of
the stage are expected to speak on a system of
impossible modulation, comprised under the
following heads: "High, loud, and quick; Low,
loud, and quick; High, loud, and slow; High,
soft, and slow." And when they have accomplished
these preliminary vocal gymnastics, they
are condemned to get on next to "Pauses of
Reflection, and to Pauses of Confusion, filled up
with Hesitative Pantings." I pledge my word
of honour to the correctness of these phrases, as
being exactly copied from the pamphlet.

On the stage. I have considered these
atrocities, hitherto, purely with reference to the
public life, or business existence, of the sufferers.
But suppose we now follow them, men and
women, into private life? Here, the prospect
is hideous. When people have accustomed
themselves to the practice of contortions, night
after night (it may be for years together,
assuming that the bodily energies of theatrical
individuals are of peculiarly robust fabric), those
contortions must become habitual, and must
cling to them as a kind of second nature in their
brief moments of retirement by their own
firesides. What is the necessary consequence?
This unhappy race must be unspeakably
portentous and terrible to the humanity that
surrounds them. Conceive the effect of stretched
nostrils, distended mouths, clouded foreheads,
inflamed eyeballs, and hesitative pantings, within
the sacred circle of home, and before the
scared tribunal of the neighbouring trades-people!
Let me take two instances only
in support of the lamentable considerations
here suggested. When I relieve a
meritorious and miserable crossing-sweeper, my
emotions of pity are simply expressed by
my putting my hand in my pocket and giving
the man a penny. What actor, in a similar
position, could be expected to conduct himself
in a similar manner? He has been learning to
express the emotion of Pity on the stage; he
has practised his art so often, that the actions
connected with it have become a habit and a
second nature to him; and, as a necessary
consequence, when he relieves his necessitous
fellow-citizen, his emotions of Pity (as I find
from the directions in the pamphlet, under that
head) mechanically lead him into looking down
on the crossing-sweeper "with lifted hands,
eyebrows drawn down, mouth open, and features
drawn together." His voice (when he says,
Here's a penny for you) is "frequently
interrupted with sighs;" and his hand (when he has
presented the penny) is "employed in wiping
his eyes."

Again, when my own beloved wife enters the
butcher's shop, a little anxious and perplexed
about what she shall order for dinner, she taps
her pearly teeth with the handle of her parasol,
and looks with smiling uncertainty at the rosy
murderer of sheep and oxen who awaits her
orders knife in hand. In a similar position,
how does the actor's own beloved wife, who is
on the stage, and who has performed Anxious
and Perplexed characters so many hundreds of
times that she has become part and parcel of
those characters herself, necessarily and inevitably
behave before the butcher? Guided
once more by the pamphlet, (see "Anxiety
or Perplexity," in the list of passions), I find
that the unhappy woman enters the shop
with "all the parts of her body drawn together;
with her arms either crossed upon her bosom,
or covering her eyes, or rubbing her forehead;
with her head hanging on her breast; with her
eyelids close shut and pinched, and with her
whole body vehemently agitated."

With this impressive picture I close the
case I have undertaken to prove. More
disclosures might be added, but they would only
prolong to no purpose this painful and serious
subject. The nervous systems of our governing
classes are precious to their country; and I
decline to proceed any farther, after the shocks
which I must have inflicted, by this time, on
the impressionable nature of the Lord Chamberlain.
I have shown, on printed and published
authority, what the effect of the stage profession
is on the lungs, limbs, and faces, on the public
and private lives, of actors and actresses; and I
have surely established my claim, in the eyes of
all friends of humanity, to call for the peremptory
and merciful suppression of playhouses
and players. The decision now rests with his
lordship. I will allow him a brief interval for
Pauses of Reflection and Pauses of Confusion;
and I await his answer—either High, loud, and
quick, or Low, loud, and quick, which he
pleases—with Hesitative Pantings, on my own
part.

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