The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, 1895-08-18

and said: when Matilda Heron is gone,
and that will not be long, you will all soon
forget her; but here is her picture. her very
| life and soul-take care of my Bijoul'
| An enormous fortune was amassed bv
| this great tragic actress during her re-
markedly eventful theatric career, her
carefully kept diary showing that her re-
ceipts from Camille" alone had reached
nearly quarter of million; yet, owing
to expensive habits and luxurious tastes,
she was, during her later years. entirely
dependent upon her little daughter s
stage earnings and her own small income
derived from her instructions in stage
elocution. This condition, with ordinary
prudence, might have been avoided. In
deed, Nine. Heron might have been wealthy
| had she but limited her expenses to any
reasonable degree. Even at the height of her
success, when managers were paying her
great sums, her agent, with much diff
Guilty, kept her supplied with funds. She
| welcomed not only friends, but all whom
she met, to table bountifully laden with
choicest viads. Her most modest meal
was a sumptuous feast. Then, again,
while she numbered among her posses
sions numerous costly jewels and rare
| laces, as well as surprising amount OF
elaborate GOODS of every description, yet
for her to see an expensive article OF rarity
and oddity Immediately summoned an I'M
comfortable desire to possess 1t, and she
would at once obtain it, regardless OF cost.
The annual amount of her livery bills
alone was ample to support goodly sized
family. She followed the scriptural in
junction literally, and took no heed of the
morrow.
That this life of revelry could cease
never occurred to her mind, and when her
resources were finally exhausted her ex-
travagant desires still remained, and it
was indeed pitiful to note her disappoint-
ment and surprise in being unable to
crafty them. And with this depletion of
her funds she bitterly experienced the
cutting-off OF her association by those she
SO short time before had entertained as
friends F"
At this point her halo of fame was trans
formed into glare of notoriety. With de-
cline of popularity, in every sense of the
word, her life naturally became a troublous
and sorrowful one. Her ability was soon
forgotten, and she was remem bered but as
Eighty relic Of a past decade. Finally,
realizing her unfortunate position, she be-
came embittered and at emnity with the
world at large; her thoughts turning to
her Creator, then her life became one of
profound devotion, and she sought in
prayer the peace of mind she could not
otherwise obtain.
Matilda Heron's last public appearance
took place in April, 1876, at a performance
of ''Medea" for the benefit of her daughter
Shortly after this, during the initial per-
Torrance of a pretty little play, in which
Bijou took minor party, the attention of
the audience was divided literally between
the players on the stage and woman in
the corner of the dress circle, who, at every
point of interest, to her, stood up and
wildly waved her arms and handkerchief
in token of admiration. At first the inter-
ruption was quite offensive, but as the play
went on Nine. Heron was recognized, and
ympathy for the mother joined hands
with pity for the weak, and turned the
offending to pleasure.
Early in November of 1876 Nine. Heron
was taken seriously ill, her complaint
being internal hemorrhage. 1t was clearly
evident, she being but shadow of her
former self, that she had not long to live.
In her sadness and affection she felt she
had but one earthly tie, and that her lit
tie 13-year-old Bijou, who watched long
and patiently at her mothers bedside.
The once famous actress heart was con-
centrated upon the pale, shrinking child
beside her.
When from her pallid, trembling lips as
she was about to pass to the great beyond,
issued the pathetic expression, "Poor TIL
liel you have never done wrong to any
one, F" she fervently embraced her darling
daughter, and then exclaimed, "Oh! l am
so happy" And she who had simulated
painful death thousand times, expired
peacefully at last on Wednesday, March Z,
1877, at her home, 132 East Twenty-fifth
street, New York City. For several days
previous, being perfectly resigned to die,