It has been a pleasant task to pay my tribute to brilliant artists of foreign birth; I do not wish to write of gifted women now before the public, but let me render homage to comrades of the stage in days gone by who were born in these isles, and who reigned in their kingdom with a splendour equal to the great of any land. That mistress of her beautiful art, Madge Kendal; the incomparable Ellen Terry; the glorious and unique Mrs. John Wood; and Marie Bancroft—the salt of the art they adorned, who, in their bright springtime and their affluent summer, filled the scene: all as distinct from one another as Raphael from Rubens, as Watts from Whistler, yet each stamping the mark of her personality on every part she played, and of whom it might be said the deaf could hear them in their eloquent faces: the blind could see them in their vibrant voices. Deep is the debt which never can be paid for the cares they lightened, for the sorrows they soothed; they dragged creatures from the books wherein they were born, making them live, their hearts beating, their pulses throbbing, and enshrined their joyousness in many grateful memories.
The mantle of the great must be of their own weaving; on other shoulders it is bound to be a misfit.
It is pleasant to have one's views confirmed; the more so in the judgment of a distinguished American man of letters whose knowledge of people connected with the stage was remarkable.
"Our age indeed has no Colley Cibber to describe their loveliness and celebrate their achievements; but surely if he were living at this hour, that courtly, characteristic, and sensuous writer—who saw so clearly and could portray so well the peculiarities of the feminine nature—would not deem the period of Marie Bancroft and Ellen Terry, of Clara Morris and Ada Rehan, of Sarah Bernhardt and Jane Hading, unworthy of his pen. As often as fancy ranges over those bright names and others that are kindred with them—a glistering sisterhood of charms and talents—the regret must arise that no literary artist with just the gallant spirit, the chivalry, the fine insight and the pictorial touch of old Cibber is extant to perpetuate their glory."
Ouida
I turn to another calling, and can say something of two distinguished women whose fame was earned as writers of fiction—Ouida (Louise de la Ramée) and Miss Braddon (Mrs. Maxwell). They were much of an age, but their careers had no other resemblance; except in their enormous vogue and hold upon the public of their day.
The name "Ouida" was a nursery corruption of Louisa. She had an English mother and a French father, but lived chiefly in Italy.
My wife and I first met her at the Langham Hotel, where she stayed when in London—as odd to look upon as she was pleasant to talk with. She had strange large eyes of a sort of dark blue and, in her white satin gown and sandalled shoes, was strangely reminiscent of mid-Victorian days. She always wore white frocks in the summer time and, as I was told, black velvet in the winter months.
We hoped Ouida might, as she earnestly wished, write a play for us, but she got no further than a title. Of her novels, if I remember rightly, quite a fairly good play was concocted from Moths. She had a great appreciation of my wife, both on and off the stage, and we valued her friendship. There are few readers nowadays, I suppose, of Under Two Flags, Puck, or Two Little Wooden Shoes, which engrossed the public of her time. She was proud of the fact that Bulwer Lytton read every book she wrote.
As an instance of her "style," here is a description of a young Italian peasant girl: