70 Sir Squire Bancroft [March 17, 



filled the scene : each as distinct from one another as Raphael from 

 Rubens, as Watts from Whistler, yet each stamping the hall-mark of 

 her own strong personality on every part she played, all being gifted 

 with those flecks and gleams of genius which are pearls beyond price 

 and purchase. They are actresses of whom it might indeed be said 

 the deaf could hear them in their eloquent faces : while the blind 

 could see them in their vibrant voices. How deep is the debt which 

 never can be paid them for the cares they have lightened, for the 

 sorrows they have lessened, for the very mine of sweet memories 

 their names recall ; they have dragged creatures from out the 

 covers of the books where they were born, making their hearts beat 

 and their pulses throb, often embellishing raw material with ex- 

 quisite embroidery, and have enshrined their joyousness in many a 

 grateful memory throughout the English-speaking world. 



It may be that for the too early withdrawal from triumphant 

 scenes of the great gifts of one famous actress I was in part to blame 

 — if blame there was. I must plead excuse in a vivid remembrance 

 of pitiful words, written by a powerful pen, on the subject of linger- 

 ing too long upon tlie stage : words which drew with terrible force 

 the painful picture of a much-loved servant of the public clinging to 

 the faded chaplet won as its idol in earlier days ; of clutching at the 

 withered trophy after the time had arrived for its graceful surrender 

 to youth and promise ; and before the admiration once so showered 

 upon her should be replaced by indulgence : indulgence to be followed 

 by the bitterness of compassion ; compassion, in its turn, by the 

 anguish of what is worse than all — indifference. Indulgence — com- 

 passion — indifference. The mere utterance of such words causes one 

 pain. Twilight in art — as in nature — must be sad ; surely a sweeter 

 picture is the splendid sinking of an autumnal sun. The clever 

 woman was right who compared glory to wine — as it could provoke 

 both intoxication and thirst. Even of the illustrious Sarah Siddons. 

 Hazlitt once wrote, " Players should be immortal, but they are not, 

 Like other people they cease to be young, and are no longer them- 

 selves. It is the common lot. Any loss of reputation to Mrs. 

 Siddons, is a loss to the world. Has she not had enough of glory ? 

 The homage she has received is greater than that which is paid to 

 queens. The enthusiasm she excited had something idolatrous about 

 it : does she think we have forgot her ? Or would she remind us 

 of herself by showing us what she was not? " 



These thoughts bring to my mind the strong consciousness, in all 

 its force, tliat the stage will soon have to mourn the loss, through 

 his intended retirement, of one who for many years has justly been 

 regarded by his comrades as tlieir chief, in words familiar to him 

 " like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw." Throughout his splen- 

 did record of work he has been devoted and true to the art he has 

 loved and lived by : upholding always its better aims, its nobler 

 purpose : earning always the respect, the regard, the love of that 



