“When an author dies it is no matter, for his work remains.  When a great actor dies, there is a void produced in society, a gap which requires to be filled up.  The literary amateur may find employment for his time in reading old authors only, and exhaust his entire spleen in scouting new ones; but the lover of the stage cannot amuse himself in his solitary fastidiousness by sitting to witness a play got up by the departed ghosts of first-rate actors, or be contented with the perusal of a collection of old playbills; he may extol Garrick, but he must go to see Kean, and, in his own defence, must admire, or at least tolerate, what he sees, or stay away against his will.”  And Cibber, in his apology, has placed on record an elaborate lament, “that the momentary beauties flowing from an harmonious elocution cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record; that the animated graces of the actor can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them; or, at least, can but faintly glimmer through the memory or imperfect attestation of a few surviving spectators.”

The complete suspension of applause, genuine or factitious, must result in the exceeding depression of the player.  He must feel himself deprived of his proper sustenance; and something of dismay must possess him, when he finds that all his efforts move his audience in no way; that they are not en rapport with him; that while he labours they are listless.  Henderson committed himself to the exaggeration that no actor could perform well, unless he was systematically flattered both on and off the stage.  Liston, the comedian, found applause, of whatever kind, so absolutely necessary to him that he declared he liked to see even a small dog wag his tail in approbation of his exertions.  Mrs. Siddons complained of the inferior measure of applause that she obtained in the theatres of the provinces.  At Drury Lane her grand bursts of passion were received with prolonged cheering and excitement, that gave her rest and breathing-time, and prepared her for increased efforts.  The playgoers of York were at one time so lukewarm in their reception of popular players, that, at the instance of Woodward, Tate Wilkinson, the manager, called on the chief patrons of the theatre, and informed them that the actor was so mortified by their coolness, that he could not play nearly so well in York as in London, Dublin, and Edinburgh.  The York audience benefited by the remonstrance, and on Woodward’s next appearance, greatly to his delight, awarded him extraordinary applause.

The system of calling, or recalling, a favourite performer, which now appears to be established in our theatres, is of foreign origin, and was first instituted in London at the Italian Opera House.  “It is the highest ambition of the opera-singers,—­like the Methodists—­to have a call” says Parke, the oboe-player, in his “Musical Memoirs,” published in 1830; and he describes the opera season of 1824, when Rossini was director