My antagonism to the critics is not sweeping. I have the most supreme respect for the memory of such critics as the late Mr. Clapp of Boston, Mr. McPhelim of Chicago, Clement Scott and Joseph Knight of London, Mr. Wiliard of Providence, "Brick" Pomeroy, Joseph Bradford and Frank Hatton. I have the same regard for some of the living critics including, the Hon. Henry Watterson, Arthur Warren, James O'Donnell Bennett, Philip Hale, Blakely Hall, Amy Leslie, George Goodale, Ashton Stevens, Lyman P. Glover, Lawrence Reamer, Elwyn Barron, Stilson Hutchins, Marion Reedy and many others. These gentlemen know whereof they write and never allow personalities to enter their critical views. But for those effeminate, puerile, sycophantic, dogmatic parasites who live from hand to mouth, who bite the hands that feed them, whose exposed palms are always in evidence (to receive the stipends that warp their supposed knowledge of the art)—I have an equal amount of disgust.
"Alan Dale" whose real name is Cohen called on me some years ago in Paris with instructions from his master, Mr. Hearst, to interview me.
I sent my servant to tell him to come up and arranged the furniture for his reception (I did not care to pay for breakage and I was afraid his thick skull might destroy some of the bric-a-brac if he fell where I intended he should fall!). I set the scene for him, but when he entered and I contemplated this little, self-opinionated, arrogant, subservient, and grovelling person I asked myself "What's the use?"—gave him an interview and dismissed him.
I felt only pity for the poor, little, puny hireling!
(Since the above was penned I have read a most complimentary criticism of my Fagin in "Oliver Twist" written by "Alan Dale." Consequently the above remarks "don't go!")
An astute gentleman on one of the Chicago papers, gushing over "the great art of Mr. John Hare" as old Eccles in "Caste," wrote:
"What a remarkable metamorphosis it was to see Mr. Hare, the quiet, dignified man of the world, in his dressing-room discussing his profession when, a few moments before, he had been depicting the drunken sot with shaggy eyebrows, dishevelled hair, unkempt beard and filthy clothes!"
This he considered the art of acting. I call it the art of make-up. He further annoyed me by saying, "This should be a lesson to some of our comedians, who fancy themselves actors, who simply come on the stage, speak fat lines and have only to appear natural."
"Only to appear natural!" I happen to know the critic who wrote the above article. He is a remarkably graceful man and a most proficient golf player. Now taking him at his word I should like to place that gentleman in a conspicuous place on my stage, in evening dress, and have him rise, walk across the stage, ask the servant to assist him on with his coat, bid the other characters good night and make an exit. He would, I am sure, cease chiding any actor for being "natural." It is far easier to be somebody else on the stage, with the aid of wig and grease paint, than to appear as one's self.
No one fails to recognize Bernhardt or Duse. Neither did Booth nor Forrest sink his individuality or hide his face, like the ancient Greeks, behind a mask. I'll wager that if Mr. Hare had been an American the hound would have objected to the Hare's disguise!