Funeral of Mary Gannon.
To-day at 12 o’clock the last and ceremonies of humanity will be performed over the remains of MARY GANNON, and another brilliant career will be ended in the gloom of the tomb. Although MARY GANNON had been a sufferer for many years, she appeared before the public so late as the 27th of January last. It was in Mr. LESTER WALLACK’S piece of “Ours.” Her charming archness in the camp scene, where for the first time she came near to “the horrors of war,” is not likely to be soon forgotten, nor is it probable that it will be quickly replaced by a better impression. In such scenes, and generally with Mr. J. LESTER WALLACK, (who was the particular “horror” in question,) she was inimitable. When she left the stage that night she was conscious that her career had ended. A dreadful presentment clouded her spirits, and she knew that it was the warning of death. And so from the gay dress of the comedy she passed rapidly to the simple shroud of the grave. Peace be with her.
In an artistic point of view, MARY GANNON’S career was certainly not completed. From the time she made her reappearance on Mr. WALLACK’S stage in 1855 she has steadily improved, and until the malady which bore her off had depressed her spirits, there was a tendency to enlarge in style, as well, if possible, to a wider appreciation of spirit. In quickness of apprehension there have been few such actresses, and we know of none now remaining. Her presence on the stage seemed to give it a special intelligence which it did not possess before. She reflected the thoughts of her associates, as well as responded to their words. There was nothing harsh or incisive in her manner. It was a pouting cunning, an ingenuous slyness—combined with infinite knowledge of stage routine, and a naturally graceful and winning way—that made all hearts captive. We have referred to her routine—the hard road that an artiste must travel ere she can rise above mediocrity. MARY GANNON’S earliest recollections were of the stage. When she was five years old she was dependent on her own exertions for a livelihood, and from that time almost to the day of her death—with brief intervals, perchance, of respite and kindliness—she has not only depended in a similar way on her own brave heart, but has had others dependent on her. She was singularly good and willing. No one could see her perform without perceiving that she had a wonderfully sympathetic nature. Alas! all is now stilled in death [sic]. The face that has cheered the town so often will look grimly and blankly at its cold sky to-day, and then be hid forever [. . .] She died peacefully at the age of 39 years, and the critic of the Tribune adds, very touchingly and truly: “She passed away in the prime of her years, and in the fullness of her fame; and she is happy in leaving a name that will often be thought of with a sigh, and that never will be mentioned without a smile.”
New York Times 2/25/1868: 4. Print.