At the end of these ten or fifteen minutes, if you have become at all en rapport with your audience, they cease to scan, and begin to listen. Then your friends—the ones you would love if you lived with them,—the ones whose souls emigrated from the same regions of the Mysterious Country as did yours—open the windows of their faces, and send you carrier-pigeons of smiles. The interest grows; new friends join your party; you feel more and more at home; you are at home. The old hackneyed lines of your lecture glow with new meaning to you, furnished from the hearts of these new-old friends. You feel that the audience is helping you, sympathizing with you, loving you. The remainder of the evening is a garden of pleasure; your path is strewn with roses, so thick that they shield you from the thorns; and you close with a little pang of regret.
Of course there are exceptions; once in a while an audience has to be encountered that would need all the tongues of men and angels, and considerable charity besides, to make it endurable. Every one seems in a half-comatose condition, and insusceptible of sustaining a feeling of any kind. I have sometimes almost prayed for a mild earthquake, or something that would rouse them. In one case it was explained to me that a funeral had taken place, two hours before, in the same church, and the congregation hadn't quite got over it. I sincerely hope that they recovered before the coming of the next lecturer on the course.
But the usual drawback in this respect is one, or two, or more, who apparently will not have their composed features disarranged by anything said or done. These well-meaning but plain-featured people are the lecturer's rocks, upon which his enthusiasm will rive in twain,—if he will allow it. Lecturers differ in regard to these encumbrances. Some ignore them, and appeal to the agreeable and helpful portion of their audiences, leaving their indifferent foes to "fall in," if they like. Others are attracted constantly to these sour faces by the fascination of repulsion; still others address themselves to the ungrateful task of winning the facial enemies over. The last-named are in the minority; for lecturers find that a face is sometimes a mask, and it may be that the heart and the countenance are not working together.
Applause varies greatly with different audiences. Some are very demonstrative, and respond continually; others are quiet, but not less appreciative. Distinguished lecturers and readers have been known to pause in the midst of their discourse and beg their hearers, if they pleased, to favor them with a little cheering. This, however, does not have a very good effect on an audience; not half so good as did the method of poor Artemus Ward, who used to stop suddenly at the end
