Am I presumptuous, then, in asserting that the stage is not only an instrument of amusement, but a very active agent in the spread of knowledge and taste?  Some forms of stage work, you may say, are not particularly elevating.  True; and there are countless fictions coming daily from the hands of printer and publisher which nobody is the better for reading.  You cannot have a fixed standard of value in my art; and though there are masses of people who will prefer an unintelligent exhibition to a really artistic production, that is no reason for decrying the theatre, in which all the arts blend with the knowledge of history, manners, and customs of all people, and scenes of all climes, to afford a varied entertainment to the most exacting intellect.  I have no sympathy with people who are constantly anxious to define the actor’s position, for, as a rule, they are not animated by a desire to promote his interests. “’Tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus;” and whatever actors deserve, socially or artistically, they are sure to receive as their right.  I found the other day in a well-circulated little volume a suggestion that the actor was a degraded being because he has a closely-shaven face.  This is, indeed, humiliating, and I wonder how it strikes the Roman Catholic clergy.  However, there are actors who do not shave closely, and though, alas!  I am not one of them, I wish them joy of the spiritual grace which I cannot claim.

It is admittedly unfortunate for the stage that it has a certain equivocal element, which, in the eyes of some judges, is sufficient for its condemnation.  The art is open to all, and it has to bear the sins of many.  You may open your newspaper, and see a paragraph headed “Assault by an Actress.”  Some poor creature is dignified by that title who has not the slightest claim to it.  You look into a shop-window and see photographs of certain people who are indiscriminately described as actors and actresses though their business has no pretence to be art of any kind.

I was told in Baltimore of a man in that city who was so diverted by the performance of Tyrone Powar, the popular Irish comedian, that he laughed uproariously till the audience was convulsed with merriment at the spectacle.  As soon as he could speak, he called out, “Do be quiet, Mr. Showman; do’ee hold your tongue, or I shall die of laughter!” This idea that the actor is a showman still lingers; but no one with any real appreciation of the best elements of the drama applies this vulgar standard to a great body of artists.  The fierce light of publicity that beats upon us makes us liable, from time to time, to dissertations upon our public and private lives, our manners, our morals, and our money.  Our whims and caprices are discanted on with apparent earnestness of truth, and seeming sincerity of conviction.  There is always some lively controversy concerning the influence of the stage.  The battle between old methods and new in art is waged everywhere.