The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 1: Miscellaneous ProseLamb, Charles
General
The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 1: Miscellaneous Prose
Lamb, Charles
English literature
Is it a stale remark to say, that I have constantly found the interest
excited at a play-house to bear an exact inverse proportion to the price
paid for admission. Formerly, when my sight and hearing were more
perfect, and my purse a little less so, I was a frequenter of the upper
gallery in the old Theatres. The eager attention, the breathless
listening, the anxiety not to lose a word, the quick anticipation of the
significance of the scene (every sense kept as it were upon a sharp look
out), which are exhibited by the occupiers of those higher and now
almost out-of-sight regions (who, going seldom to a play, cannot afford
to lose any thing by inattention), suffer some little diminution, as you
descend to the lower or two-shilling ranks; but still the joy is lively
and unallayed, save [that] by some little _incursion_ of _manners_, the
expression of it is expected to abate somewhat of its natural
liveliness. The oaken plaudits of the trunkmaker would _here_ be
considered as going a little beyond the line.--In the pit first begins
that accursed critical faculty, which, making a man the judge of his own
pleasures, too often constitutes him the executioner of his own and
others! You may see the _jealousy of being unduly pleased_, the
_suspicion of being taken in to admire_; in short, the vile critical
spirit, creeping and diffusing itself, and spreading from the wrinkled
brows and cloudy eyes of the front row sages and newspaper reporters
(its proper residence), till it infects and clouds over the thoughtless,
vacant countenance, of John Bull tradesmen, and clerks of
counting-houses, who, but for that approximation, would have been
contented to have grinned without rule, and to have been pleased without
asking why. The sitting next a critic is contagious. Still now and then,
a _genuine spectator_ is to be found among them, a shopkeeper and his
family, whose honest titillations of mirth, and generous chucklings of
applause, cannot wait or be at leisure to take the cue from the sour
judging faces about them. Haply they never dreamed that there were such
animals in nature as critics or reviewers; even the idea of an author
may be a speculation they never entered into; but they take the mirth
they find as a pure effusion of the actor-folks, set there on purpose to
make them fun. I love the unenquiring gratitude of such spectators. As
for the Boxes, I never can understand what brings the people there. I
see such frigid indifference, such unconcerned spectatorship, such
impenetrability to pleasure or its contrary, such being _in the house_
and yet not _of it_, certainly they come far nearer the nature of _the
Gods_, upon the system of Lucretius at least, than those honest, hearty,
well-pleased, unindifferent mortals above, who, from time immemorial,
have had that name, upon no other ground than situation, assigned them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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