Part 4

Honoria bided home with her child and mourned for the dead. As a clever woman—far cleverer than her husband—she had seen his faults while he lived; yet had liked him enough to forgive without difficulty. But now these faults faded, and by degrees memory reared an altar to him as a man little short of divine. At the worst he had been amiable. A kinder husband never lived. She reproached herself bitterly with the half-heartedness of her response to his love; to his love while it dwelt beside her, unvarying in cheerful kindness. For (it was the truth alas! and a worm that gnawed continually) passionate love she had never rendered him. She had been content; but how poor a thing was contentment! She had never divined his worth, had never given her worship. And all the while he had been a hero, and in the end had died as a hero. Ah, for one chance to redeem the wrong! for one moment to bow herself at his feet and acknowledge her blindness! Her prayer was ancient as widowhood, and Heaven, folding away the irreparable time, returned its first and last and only solace—a dream for the groping arms; waking and darkness, and an empty pillow for her tears.

From the first her child had been dear to her; dearer (so her memory accused her now) than his father; more demonstratively beloved, at any rate. But in those miserable months she grew to love him with a double strength. He bore George's name, and was (as Sir Harry proclaimed) a very miniature of George; repeated his shapeliness of limb, his firm shoulders, his long lean thighs—the thighs of a born horseman; learned to walk, and lo! within a week walked with his father's gait; had smiles for the whole of his small world, and for his mother a memory in each.

And yet—this was the strange part of it, a mystery she could not explain, because she dared not even acknowledge it—though she loved him for being like his father, she regarded the likeness with a growing dread; nay, caught herself correcting him stealthily when he developed some trivial trait which she, and she alone, recognized as part of his father's legacy. It was what in the old days she would have called "contradictious;" but there it was, and she could not help it; the nearer George in her memory approached to faultlessness, the more obstinately her instinct fought against her child's imitation of him; and yet, because the child was obstinately George's, she loved him with a double love.

There came a day when he told her a childish falsehood. She did not whip him, but stood him in front of her and began to reason with him and explain the wickedness of an untruth. By and by she broke off in the midst of a sentence, appalled by the shrillness of her own voice. From argument she had passed to furious scolding. And the little fellow quailed before her, his contrition beaten down under the storm of words that whistled about his ears without meaning, his small faculties disabled before this spectacle of wrath. Her fingers were closing and unclosing. They wanted a riding-switch; they wanted to grip this small body they had served and fondled, and to cut out what? The lie? Honoria hated a lie. But while she paused and shook, a light flashed, and her eyes were open, and saw—that it was not the lie.

She turned and ran, ran upstairs to her own room, flung herself on her knees beside the bed, dragged a locket from her bosom and fell to kissing George's portrait, passionately crying it for pardon. She was wicked, base; while he lived she had misprized him; and this was her abiding punishment, that even repentance could purge her heart of dishonoring thoughts, that her love for him now could never be stainless though washed with daily tears. "'_He that is unjust let him be unjust still_'—_Must_ that be true, Father of all mercies? I misjudged him, and it is too late for atonement. But I repent and am afflicted. Though the dead know nothing—though it can never reach or avail him—give me back the power to be just!"

Late that afternoon Honoria passed an hour piously in turning over the dead man's wardrobe, shaking out and brushing the treasured garments and folding them, against moth and dust, in fresh tissue-paper. It was a morbid task, perhaps, but it kept George's image constantly before her, and this was what her remorseful mood demanded. Her nerves were unstrung and her limbs languid after the recent tempest. By and by she locked the doors of the wardrobe, and passing into her own bedroom, flung herself on a couch with a bundle of papers—old bills, soiled and folded memoranda, sporting paragraphs cut from the newspapers—scraps found in his pockets months ago and religiously tied by her with a silken ribbon. They were mementoes of a sort, and George had written few letters while wooing—not half a dozen, first and last.

Two or three receipted bills lay together in the middle of the packet—one a saddler's, a second a nurseryman's for pot-plants (kept for the sake of its queer spelling), a third the reckoning for a hotel luncheon. She was running over them carelessly when the date at the head of this last one caught her eye. "August 3d"—it fixed her attention because it happened to be the day before her birthday.

August 3d—such and such a year—the August before his death; and the hotel a well-known one in Plymouth—the hotel, in fact, at which he had usually put up.... Without a prompting of suspicion she turned back and ran her eye over the bill. A steak, a pint of claret, vegetables, cheese, and attendance—never was a more innocent bill.

Suddenly her attention stiffened on the date. George was in Plymouth the day before her birthday. But no; as it happened, George had been in Truro on that day. She remembered, because he had brought her a diamond pendant, having written beforehand to the Truro jeweller to get a dozen down from London to choose from. Yes, she remembered it clearly, and how he had described his day in Truro. And the next morning—her birthday morning—he had produced the pendant, wrapped in silver paper. "He had thrown away the case; it was ugly, and he would get her another...."

But the bill? She had stayed once or twice at this hotel with George, and recognized the handwriting. The book-keeper, in compliment perhaps to a customer of standing, had written "George Vyell, Esq.," in full on the bill-head; a formality omitted as a rule in luncheon-reckonings. And if this scrap of paper told the truth—why _then George had lied_!

But why? Ah, if he had done this thing, nothing else mattered; neither the how nor the why! If George had lied.... And the pendant, had that been bought in Plymouth and not (as he had asserted) in Truro? He had thrown away the case. Jewellers print their names inside such cases. The pendant was a handsome one. Perhaps his check-book would tell.

She arose; stepped half-way to the door; but came back and flung herself again upon the couch. No; she could not ... this was the second time to-day ... she could not face the torture again.

Yet ... if George _had_ lied!

She sat up; sat up with both hands pressed to her ears, to shut out a sudden voice clamoring through them—

"_And why not? A son's a son—curse you—though he was your man!_"

(To be concluded in November.)

HEY NONNY NO

By Marguerite Merington

There is a race from eld descent, Of heaven by earth in joyous mood, Before the world grew wise and bent In sad, decadent attitude. To these each waking is a birth That makes them heir to all the earth, Singing, for pure abandoned mirth, Non nonny non, hey nonny no.

Perchance ye meet them in the mart, In fashion's toil or folly's throe, And yet their souls are far apart Where primrose winds from uplands blow. At heart on oaten pipes they play Thro' meadows green and gold with May, Affined to bird and brook and brae. Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.

Their gage they win in fame's despite, While lyric alms to life they fling; Children of laughter, sons of light, With equal heart to starve or sing. Counting no human creature vile, They find the good old world worth while; Care cannot rob them of a smile. Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.

For creed, the up-reach of a spire, An arching elm-tree's leafy spread, A song that lifts the spirit higher To star or sunshine overhead. Misfortune they but deem God's jest To prove His children at their best, Who, dauntless, rise to His attest. Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.

Successful ones will brush these by, Calling them failure as they pass. What reck they this who claim the sky For roof, for bed the cosmic grass! When, failures all, we come to lie, The grass betwixt us and the sky, The gift of gladness will not die! Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF MRS. JOHN DREW

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HER SON

The following retrospect of a life well spent in the pursuit of the most exacting of professions was written down for the immediate delectation and edification of the children and grandchildren of the gifted woman who penned it.

I think, however, that when such an example may teach so much; where the life of an actress has been so full of incident and accident, and all resulting—through force of character and absolute intrinsic worth—in ultimate personal and professional regard and reverence, I think that the record of such a life, reaching over seventy years of the dramatic history of our country, cannot be without interest to all who have at heart the development of art at its best.

It would ill become me, here, to more than touch upon the domestic side of her character, but I may be permitted to say, that when to artistic perfection she added discipline tempered with gentleness and loving-kindness as a mother, and when to her other attributes and excellences was joined the organizing ability and perfect control of a theatrical stock company for many years, surely it is no assumption to say of her to-day, as was said of Maria Theresa, of Austria, "sexua femina ingenio vir." Such a character and personality must be salient in any time or age, and cannot but serve as an exemplar. And perhaps the fact of four generations of this same family having engaged in the profession of acting—with credit to their calling, and honor to themselves—may still further emphasize the real worth of that calling, both to the individuals engaged therein and the world at large.

And now, without further proem, I beg the public's acceptance of these present recollections of a woman pre-eminent in the profession she so long adorned.

JOHN DREW.

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

From a photograph in the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.]

I was born in Lambeth Parish, London, England, on January 10, 1820; my father, Thomas Frederick Lane, was an actor of considerable provincial fame, and my mother, _née_ Eliza Trenter, a very pretty woman and a sweet singer of ballads. That was an eventful year for theatrical people. The old King, George the Third, died, and all theatres were closed for one month; and there was considerable suffering among our kind, as I have been told since. At twelve months old my mother took me on the stage as a crying baby; but cry I would not, but at sight of the audience and the lights gave free vent to my delight and crowed aloud with joy. From that moment to this, the same sight has filled me with the most acute pleasure, and I expect will do so to the last glimpse I get of them, and when no longer to be seen, "Come, Death, and welcome!" I acted (?) all the "children's" parts in the plays then usual—_Damon's_ child—and had to be kept quiet with cherries before my last entrance, and then Mr. Macready's eyes frightened me into an awed silence. Then I remember (I was about five) playing the rightful heir in a melodrama called "Meg Murdock; or, the Haggard of the Glen," where the bad man came on when I was sleeping to murder me! Of course I awakened, and we both traversed the stage from different sides, taking the greatest care not to meet, when I stumbled over a property pitcher, and exclaimed "Oh, it's only the jug!" which was always the signal for great applause, and completely baffled the bad man. After that, in Liverpool, I remember playing the brother of "Frankenstein," who is killed by the Monster of Frankenstein's creation, acted by the celebrated T. P. Cooke, and to this hour can remember the horror which possessed me at his look and attitude, my own form dangling lifeless in his arms. He was a very amiable man, and always had some nice thing to give me after the play. Of course, I cannot give any consecutive account of the towns we played in. In one of them the beautiful Miss Maria Foote acted, and I suppose I must have done something to please her, as she sent for me her last night and gave me a lovely wax doll dressed as _Maria Darlington_, one of her favorite parts; and I thought her mother much prettier than she was! Then again, in Liverpool—by this time I was seven, or very near it—we (mother and myself, my father was dead two years ago) were at Cooke's amphitheatre when they played dramas where horses were the principal actors; one of these was called "Timour, the Tartar." I was _Prince Agib_, confined in prison by _Timour_, because I was the true heir to the throne. My mother comes to the court to beseech for my liberty and gets into more trouble, and is cast into "the lowest dungeon by the moat," I having obtained my liberty in the meanwhile. The last scene shows a practical cataract in the centre of the stage, with a prison to the right; at a given call I rush on, on horseback, and exclaim, "My mother, I will free you still!" and rush down to the prison, almost under the water, take my mother (personated by a young circus rider) on my horse, clasping me round the waist, and dash up the cataract. This had been done with enthusiastic applause for many nights; but this evening the horse stumbled when on the third table, and rolled down to the other two to the stage. My mother, being a very fine rider, saved me from serious injury, and the curtain fell. There was a universal wish on the part of the audience to know if "the dear little girl was much hurt;" but she was insensible to the kind wishes of her audience, I believe I may truly say for the first and only time in her life.

From a lithograph by C. G. Childs, published by R. H. Hobson, Philadelphia. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.]

PHILADELPHIA.

_MONDAY EVENING, JANUARY 5, 1829._

CHESTNUT STREET THEATRE.

MISS LANE.—This astonishing little creature appeared at the Chestnut Street Theatre last evening. She is not more than ten years of age, and evinces a talent for and a knowledge of the stage beyond what we find in many experienced performers of merit. The entertainment of _Twelve Precisely_ is well adapted to the display of the versatility of her powers; and in the _Irish Girl_ she may, with truth, be pronounced inimitably comic. Her brogue and manner are excellent. The _Young Soldier_ was also admirably assumed; his coxcombical airs were natural, evinced astonishing observation in a child so young, and literally convulsed the house with laughter. Her performance of _Little Pickle_ also possessed great merit, and the applause bestowed upon her throughout the evening bespoke the wonder and delight of the audience. Those who have a taste for the wonderful should not miss the present opportunity of gratifying it. We promise ourselves a treat of no ordinary kind when she appears as _Goldfinch_ in the _Road to Ruin_.—_Extract from a Philadelphia Newspaper._

Just after this my mother made engagements for us to go to America, that El Dorado to an imaginative class, which assuredly theatrical people are. Mr. John Hallam, the accredited agent for Price & Simpson, of the old Park Theatre, New York, engaged, as was then the fashion, an entire company, and went with us himself in the packet-ship Britannia. The following persons were included in the company, viz.: Mr. Henry Smith, John Sefton, Mr. Robert Grierson, Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, Miss Stannard and her sister Mrs. Hallam, lately married, Master Henri Wells and Miss Wells, dancers. We had an exceptionally fine passage of four weeks (no steam in those days), and landed in New York on June 7, 1827. We remained in New York a few days, long enough to completely change my mother's appearance; the mosquitoes found her a very healthy English woman and feasted at their will. We were then sent to Philadelphia, to the old Walnut Street Theatre. I remember seeing the "first appearance" of most of the parties, of course; my mother's made the finest impression on me. It was as _Margeritta_ in "No Song, no Supper." The symphony of her entrance song is a long one, and the orchestra had to play it twice, her reception was so hearty and her nervousness so great. I appeared in September, I think, as _The Duke of York_ to the elder Booth's _Richard III._ Then we were sent to Baltimore, to Mr. Joe Cowell's Theatre, where I had the honor of appearing as _Albert_ to Mr. Edwin Forrest's _William Tell_, and received a medal from that gentleman for the performance. At that time he was, I suppose, about twenty-two or twenty-three, and the handsomest man I ever saw. Alas! how he changed! Mr. Forrest was never a good-tempered man, and was apt to be morose and churlish at rehearsals. But he had many noble qualities; he was the "fairest" actor that ever played. If the character you sustained had anything good in it, he would give you the finest chance of showing it to the audience. He would get a little below you, so that your facial expression could be fully seen; he would partially turn his back, in order that the attention should be given entirely to you. This will be better understood by actors, who know how differently some players act. He was not without appreciation of a little "joke" either. On one occasion, at the old Park Theatre, we were playing, as an afterpiece, "Therese, the Orphan of Geneva." He, as _Carwin_, rushes with a drawn dagger into the pavilion where he believes that _Therese_ is sleeping. Immediately the place is struck by lightning; he then staggers out of the pavilion, exclaiming, "'Tis done; _Therese_ is now no more." Then _Therese_ enters and rushes into the pavilion to rescue her benefactress. On this occasion I, as _Therese_, rushed from the house before _Carwin_ had time to come out, and we met, face to face, in the apartment of the murdered countess, who had hardly finished screaming for her life. I was horror-stricken at my error. "Oh! horrors, Mr. Forrest, what shall I do?" He smiled the beautiful smile which illuminated his face, and said: "Never mind—I'll go out by the back-door!"

From a photograph by Meade Brothers, New York. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.]

From a lithographic reproduction of a drawing by Gigoux. Published by John Spratt, London, 1830. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.]

I must mention now that my mother had been married some months before to Mr. John Kinlock, a stage manager, and a very capable actor and manager.