to a particular play, the audience--what is called the audience--need
give no further trouble. They themselves cannot alter; they are fixed
and compelled by the tremendous force of averages. The most inexorable
of laws, and the most irresistible of necessities are upon them; they
cannot do otherwise; they are out of the reach of accidents; they are
made fast in their own mediocrity. They are a thousand London people;
and no genius, or no imbecility, amongst them has any effect upon that
secure sovereignty of a number.

The long laugh generally means that the house--by its unalterable
majority--has laughed at one joke three times. The stage waits upon the
audience, and the audience rehearses its collective and inevitable laugh.
It performs. It communicates itself, and art is a communication. A
small and chosen party is made up, behind the footlights, to see a
thousand people, given helpless into the hands of destiny and subject to
averages, so express themselves.

The audience's audience (the people on the stage) are persuaded into
applauding the laugh too long and too often. The author is, of course,
one of them, and he applauds by making too many such translations. They
are perhaps worth making, and even worth renewing in acknowledgement of a
smile; but it is surely to encourage the house unduly to make them so
important. The actors applaud their audience by repeating--and not once
or only twice--a piece of comic business. Does the Average laugh so well
as indeed to deserve all this?

The Average does little more than laugh. It knows that its own truest
talents are indubitably comic. We have no real tragic audiences. This
is no expression of regret over legitimate audiences, or audiences of the
old school, or any audiences of that kind, whose day may or may not have