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After rehearsal, came home, habited, and went to the riding-school to try some horses. Merci de moi! what quadrupeds! How they did wallop and shamble about; poor half-broken dumb brutes! they know no better; and as the natives here are quite satisfied with their shuffling, rollicking, mongrel pace, half trot, half canter, why it is not worth while to break horses in a christian-like fashion for them.[39] I found something that I think my father can ride with tolerable comfort, but must go again to-morrow and see after something for myself. Came home: the enchanting Mr. Head has allowed me a piano-forte; but in bringing it into the room, the stupid slave broke one of its legs off, whereat I was like to faint, for I thought Mr. Head would wish me hanged therefor. Nothing can exceed the civility of the people here, and the house is extremely well kept, quiet, and comfortable. Came home in high delight with this Quaker city, which is indeed very pretty and pleasant. Played on the piano: dressed for dinner. After dinner, practised till tea-time, finished journal, discussed metaphysics with D——, for which I am a fool; wrote to-day's journal, and now to bed. I have a dreadful cold and cough, and have done nothing but hack and snivel the whole day long: this is a bad preparation for to-morrow's work. Howsoever——
Friday, 12th.
Rose at eight. After breakfast, sat writing journal and letter to ——. At half-past eleven, went to rehearsal. Afterwards walked down to the riding-school with my father. The horse I was to look at had not arrived; but my father saw the grey. We were there for some time; and during that whole some time a tall, thin, unhappy-looking gentleman, who had gotten up upon a great hulking rawboned horse, kept trotting round and round, with his legs dangling down, sans stirrups, at the rate of a mile and a quarter an hour; occasionally ejaculating in the mildest of tones, "keome—keome up;" whereat the lively brute, nothing persuaded, proceeded in the very same pace, at the very same rate; and this went on till I wondered at the man and the beast. Came home and put out things for the theatre. My cold and cough are dreadful. After dinner, practised: invented and executed a substitute for the coques de perle in my Bianca dress; and lay down to rest a little before my work. At six, went to the theatre: the house was very full; and D—— and my father say that I was extremely ungracious in my acknowledgment of their greeting. I cannot tell; I did not mean to be so; I made them three courtesies, and what could woman do more? Of course, I can neither feel nor look so glad to see them as I am to see my own dear London people: neither can I be as profound in my obeisance, as when my audience is civil enough to rise to me: "there is differences, look you."
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My Fazio had a pair of false black whiskers on, which distilled a black stripe of trickling cement down his cheeks, and kept me in agony every time he had to embrace me. My voice was horrible to hear; alternately like Mrs. —— and ——, and every now and then it was all I could do to utter at all. This audience is the most unapplausive I ever acted to, not excepting my excitable friends north of the Tweed. They were very attentive, certainly, but how they did make me work! 'Tis amazing how much an audience loses by this species of hanging back, even where the silence proceeds from unwillingness to interrupt a good performance: though in reality it is the greatest compliment an actor can receive, yet he is deprived by that very stillness of half his power. Excitement is reciprocal between the performer and the audience: he creates it in them, and receives it back again from them; and in that last scene in Fazio, half the effect that I produce is derived from the applause which I receive, the very noise and tumult of which tends to heighten the nervous energy which the scene itself begets. I know that my aunt Siddons has frequently said the same thing. And besides the above reason for applause, the physical powers of an actor require, after any tremendous exertion, the rest and regathering of breath and strength, which the interruption of the audience affords him; moreover, as 'tis the conventional mode of expressing approbation in a theatre, it is chilling and uncomfortable to go toiling on, without knowing whether, as the maidservants say, "one gives satisfaction or no." They made noise enough, however, at the end of the play. Came home, supped, and to bed; weary to death, and with a voice like a cracked bagpipe.