 Remember a hallmark card when you carry enough to send the very best. Mark greeting cards bring you Joseph Cotton in The Man Without a Home on the Hallmark Playhouse. Witness stars and outstanding stories chosen by one of the world's best known authors. They distinguish novelists, Mr. James Hilton. And this is James Hilton. Tonight on our Hallmark Playhouse we dramatize a story by Rupert Hughes called The Man Without a Home, which tells in truth the story of John Howard Payne, a man who made himself a home in the hearts of the world by writing the words of a song, the well-known song, Home Sweet Home. Mr. Hughes, who recently reached the grand old age of 80, is old enough to have heard its song by many of the great singers of the past, Madam Patty, Madam Melba and others, and to have felt how movingly it expressed the hopes and dreams of so many people in the days when they were making new homes and still longing for the old ones. Like all songs which live beyond their first popularity, it has words and music happily mated and eternally meaningful. The music, by the way, is from an old Italian folk tune. We shall hear it tonight as we hear the story of John Howard Payne. And to play his part, we are fortunate indeed to have with us again one of the long-standing favorites of the Hallmark Playhouse, Joseph Cotton. And now here is Frank Goss from the makers of Hallmark Cards. When you're looking for a way to say something to someone you care for, look for a Hallmark card and you'll find the right words. Because Hallmark cards are designed to say what you want to say, the way you want to say it. And in the good taste you demand of anything that bears your personal signature. That's why Hallmark on the back of a greeting card has come to mean you cared enough to send the very best. And now, Rupert Hughes, the man without a home, starring Joseph Cotton. It's a love story of real people in a world once real, the story of an American and a song. There was a time in this man's life when he sat by a window in the gaudy, sweltering city of Tunis, but the scenes around him he was barely aware of. Other scenes of England and his own past sprang to life in his heart. My dear Mary, at long last I'm writing the letter that should have been written long ago. At long last I'm going to attempt to express the words I've been unable to speak. I know that among my friends I must be considered a man who has no love story. That does not concern me, but it does concern me to think that perhaps you share their feelings. That you have never realized how long or how deeply I have loved a girl named Mary Gardner. Let me tell you my love story, a story in which you played the heroine and never knew it. It began on a Friday, I shall never forget the day, June the 14th, 1813. I stood in front of the new Drury Lane with a few other onlookers, watching a poster put up. A sailor smelling of salt water and tar read it off. Oh, it is Friday evening, June the 14th. His majesty's servants will perform at the theatre royal Drury Lane, the tragedy of Douglas. Gentlemen, gentlemen, his first appearance was to take the part of young Norville, and I listened to the reaction of those around the theatre with a sinking heart. My dear tell, he's a blumen American! The sailor quieted down immediately, I turned as did the others, and saw you for the first time. Time blew as your eyes, you smiled and when I looked at you I saw the answer to all loneliness, the end of all seeking. I wanted to walk up to you and say, I found you come with me and never leave me. The convention kept me silent and I stood in the shadows of Drury Lane, helplessly watching you walk away. One of my friends came up to me then. There's something wrong, Paine. You look as though you've just seen a ghost. John, do you know who that girl is, the one in the middle in the blue dress? I should say I do, even from here. That's Mary Godwin. A beauty, isn't she? Beautiful. I've never seen anyone like her before. Well, if you'll take my advice, you'll stay away from her. That's a temperamental, strange, mixed up family, and nothing but trouble can come from getting involved with any one of them. I must meet her. You won't get me to introduce you? All right, I'll find someone who will. In the meantime... In the meantime, you'd better get into costume. Yeah, I guess you're right. And so my play began at Drury Lane. The audience that I had feared was warm and friendly, and after the performance, Lord Byron came back to congratulate me. The poet, Colridge, and with him, the young man so widely known as Colridge's pet lamb, Charles. Charles and I became friends immediately, and it was he who took me around to your house to dine a few weeks later. I met your parents. I met your sisters. I kept waiting for you to join us, but finally, just as we were starting into dinner, your mother said... What a shame that you won't be able to meet Mary, Mr. Payne. I won't be able to meet Mary. No. Mary's behaved very badly. Very badly indeed. Without consulting any of us, she has eloped with Percy Shelley. It eloped with... They sailed for France a few days ago. I went there myself to try and bring them back, but it was no use. Mary Shelley. Your house into darkness and pain. I had lost a girl I had never met to a man I had never met. It was foolish to be taking it so hard. I knew that, but it didn't help. I kept seeing your face turned up toward mine, your hands reaching out to me, drawing me close. I went back to my rooms. I sat by the fire you would never light. Looked out at the moon that you would never watch with me. All night I sat thinking of what might have been. And when morning came, I said... I have put her out of my life I will never think of her again. For a while I believed it or told myself I did. Summer came, the jewelry lane closed. I went on a tour of the Isles and near the birthplace of William Shakespeare, I met a friend from home, Washington Irving. Strangely enough, he had news of you. Have you seen his new book, John? It's well worth your time. What book is that? It's called Frankenstein. Just came out. Oh, yes, I've heard of it. Do you know who wrote it? The author's name isn't on it, is it? No. No, the author is a 19-year-old girl. Manny Gottwin. He named I could not escape from your name or from your memory. A few weeks later, back in London, I dropped in for tea at the home of Charles Lamb, that quite a large group, and there it was that I saw you for the second time. This time you were gowned in white and the warm glow of summer was on your face. I'd found you unforgettable in the spring that your summer years fulfilled all the promise of your springtime beauty. You held a child in your arms, Shelley was beside you. And there was a glory in your face each time you looked at him. I stood in the back of the room watching you, not caring whether I was observed, forgetting everything except that last I stood in the same room with you. John, how are you, my friend? Good afternoon, Mr. Colridge. That's Percy, Shelley, and Manny. Have you met them before? Oh, no, I've never met either of them. Well, come along. Let me introduce you. No, no, as a matter of fact, I was just leaving. I'm late for an appointment. Shoot yourself. It's your loss, my friend. Yes, I know. It's my loss. I hurried away, afraid to meet you, lest some unlucky word or silence betray me. I knew then that there would never be lips or arms for me or love the home for you were of all these things and you were forever lost to me. My only refuge was work, so I put all the funds I had and could borrow into an old theater at Sadler's Wells. And you may recall what a disastrous venture that turned out to be. I fought for my very life, writing plays, acting in them, working like mad to stave off ruin, only to increase the final avalanche of debt. Finally, I was forced to dismiss the company and lock the theater doors. Yes, yes, I'm coming. Mr. Paine? Yes, who are you? I have a paper here. One of your creditors has asked for your arrest. My arrest? Yes, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come along with me. Oh, I'll get my coat. I suppose this means debtors' prison, old fleet. It doesn't have to, if you can pay your creditors. Then it does mean prison. You know, I saw you in Hamlet. And as Romeo, you were a bit of all right. Thanks. You'll meet a lot of actors and playwrights and poets at old fleet. It's the weather world, isn't it? How can a man get the money to pay his debts if he's locked up behind bars and can't earn it? Aye, they all ask that, but it's no good asking me. I'm just carrying out orders. Come along, Mr. Paine. And to the dark streets. This, then, was the end. This was the mark I was going to make and leave behind me. John Howard Paine was going to end his days in old fleet prison. Turn to the second act of the man without a home starring Joseph Cotton. Whenever we hear or sing the words of home, sweet home, we're struck anew with their beauty, their sincerity, their feeling. Words have ever had the power to stir us, especially when they express our own emotions. And the makers of hallmark cards know and respect this power of words. They know that when you're looking for a greeting card, you're looking for the right words to express your feelings. And that's why the words inside a hallmark card are selected with such care, why there are so many different hallmark cards for you to choose from, why you can always find a hallmark card with words that seem to have been written, especially for you. So the next time you'd like to remember someone in a special way, on a special occasion, look for a hallmark card and your search will be easier. For in fine stores across the country, you can always find a hallmark card that says what you want to say, just the way you want to say it. Says it with the good taste you demand of anything that bears your personal signature. And another point to remember, that hallmark on the back also says something you want to say. For the hallmark on the back of the card you send tells your friends, you who cared enough to send the very best. Now back to James Hilton and the second actor, the man without a home, starring Joseph Cotton. Doubt is the brilliant sky of Tunis, so far from America the land that was his, so far from England where he had left his heart, so far from home and the remembered past. Lonely at Fleet Prison. At first it seemed that there would be no way to get released, but finally I wrote a play on the strength of its production I was able to get out of prison. Knowing there were other creditors who would be after me at once, I went to Paris and they are a Washington Irving family and we lived in an old French castle and started writing. It was there that Charles Lamb came with news of you. John, didn't you know Shelly is dead? Shelly? When Charles, what happened? He drowned off the coast of Italy. He'd been sailing, Byron and Trelawney found his body. What about Mary? She's safe. Is there anything we can do? I rather imagine she wants to be by herself. I'd like to know that she's provided for, that she has shelter, food. There's nothing you can do now. Perhaps in time. Summer became autumn, autumn winter. When winter came, old longings began to stare in me. I thought of white holidays, snow and sleigh bells, kitchens fragrant with spiced pies and cakes, turkeys browning in the ovens, families gathered around half-fires. I thought of crossing the threshold of my childhood and warming my heart again before the memories of my youth. I walked along the trees and boulevards in the thin, silk and rain, hungry for gales and blizzards and the Christmas festivities of my native land. Heart hungry for home. And gradually the realization came to me that I, I had no home. I had become a wanderer, a strolling player. I'd grown no roots, made no permanent place for myself. There was no girl to go sleigh riding with me, no child to come in hand in mind, no one to talk to or turn to laugh with or weep with. Pleasures and palaces had been mine, but they were all empty. Pleasures and palaces. Words began to form inside me. Good pleasures and palaces. I went back to my room to write them down. Good pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, be it ever so humble. All night I sat going over the words, changing, trying, writing. It was dawn when I laid the poem on my desk and went to bed. I didn't know whether it was good or bad. I only knew it voiced my own longings and my own values of things that were not mine. I found music for my poem and slipped it into an op-reader I was working on. It was produced by Charles Kemble at Covent Garden. I had little hopes of anything happening to the song, but soon I began to hear from it. I was told its popularity was spreading to other lands and I wondered if in some far-off country you might hear it. I was thinking of this one day. I walked along the boulevard and suddenly saw you. You were wearing black and it was the autumn of your life. I would love you in spring and summer felt my heart pause and quickened before the rich maturity of your beauty. I stood back to let you pass and was amazed to hear you speak my name. Isn't it, Mr. John Howard's pain? I beg your pardon? You wouldn't know me, of course. I marry Shelley. Mrs. Percy B. Shelley. I not know you. I was only a girl when you first played in London. I saw you on the stage. You saw me? I didn't know you. Well, I was only one among your thousands of worshipers. I slipped into the theatre only once or twice. I couldn't afford to go off on her. Then I saw you at Charles Lamb's house one afternoon. It was a tea. I shouldn't be keeping you in the street like this. I'm just in Paris for a day or two on my way back to England. It's been a great pleasure meeting you at last. Goodbye. So, if you were just to be in Paris a day or so, would you... Well, that is to say, I know it's very sudden and you have a great many friends here, but if you did not happen to be engaged this evening, would you care to join me for the theatre and supper? Very kind of you. So at last I was able to sit beside you, able to look into your eyes to watch you smile, even to touch your hand. At supper we talked pleasantly of nothings of the weather of fashions of politics of art and all the words that I had stored within me for years came clamoring to my tongue. I forced them back again and again. Then when I felt I could hold them back no longer, the orchestra started playing my song. You listened to it, your eyes lost. My son has always loved that song. Tell me about yourself. His eyes are blue. His name is Percy. After his father, of course. Forgive me. One tries to control. Sometimes it takes more strength than I can summon. Shelley was like no other man had ever lived to know him. I'm going to lose him. You're too young to utter the grave with a death. But I have, Mr. Payne. I have loved one person so completely. Oh, forgive me. It's late and I must be getting back to my hotel. It's been a delightful evening and I thank you for sharing it with me. You walk back through the quiet streets to your hotel. Both of us caught in the spell of things that were no longer possible. You with your memories of Shelley. I with my memories of you. Good night, Mr. Payne. Thank you again for a most pleasant evening. I watched you turn from me and enter your hotel. I wanted to go after you and make you aware of me. I wanted to say to you, I loved you before Shelley and love you after Shelley. But I made no movement, spoke no word. I waited until your window was dark and then walked across the street to a small park and sat on a bench and watched your window until dawn. Years passed before I saw you again. I went home to America and heard my songs sung by families and their firesides, by children in their school rooms, by the man on the street. It was wonderful consolation for my pride but very little for my empty pocketbook. And then John Tyler became president of the United States and he sent Washington Irving to be minister to the court at Spain and your humble servant as counsel to Tunis. I went to Tunis by way of London so I could see you again. A tall young man met me at the door and introduced himself as Percy B. Shelley. And then you came towards me with your hand outstretched and now you were dressed in mellowed amber into the winter of your life. Oh, you're more beautiful than even I remember. Oh, your eyes are failing, thank heaven. And the room is dark. What brings you here after all these years? I'm on my way to Tunis as American counsel. You in Tunis? That's ridiculous. Well, that's what I told the president but he didn't agree with me. Did you see my son? Let me in. Your father. Handsome, clever, reckless. He's Shelley all over again. Doesn't that make you very happy? Oh, yes. His father is still more alive and real to me than anyone else in the world. Except his son. John, I'm sorry you never really loved. Never married. You've missed the best that life can bring you. You've missed the greatest happiness that can come. The moment I saw her, Shelley. And so we spent the afternoon talking of Shelley. I left you at the end of that day and failed for Tunis. And all the way here on the ship I was planning this letter for I'm unwilling that you should think there was no love story to my life. I'm unwilling that you should never know whom it was I loved and why I lived without love, without happiness, without a home. Neither of us is young any longer. Is it too late to tell you now? Is there any hope that perhaps now... Yes, come in. The mail has just arrived, Mr. Payne. Thank you, Cronin. Well, Washington Irving. It's time a letter was coming from you. My dear John, I suppose you've heard by now that Mary Shelley is dead. She died last... It's too late after all, isn't it, Mary? Much, much too late. Payne died in the year 1852. He died as he had lived most of his life away from home. His song, however, had become immortal. Gold hunters crossing the prairies in covered wagons had taken it westward. It had been sung in northern parlors and on southern verandas. Farmers hummed it as they plowed, and in concert halls from New York to San Francisco it kindled memories in the hearts of listeners. Memories often of far-off lands and half-forgotten years. John Howard Payne, the man without a home, had somehow been able to put into words what home could mean to all men everywhere. A great day for the Irish is St. Patrick's Day. It's the day you'll be wanting to share smiles and shamrocks with all your friends, whether they're Irish or not. And that you can do in the proper merry way when you send a Hallmark St. Patrick's Day card. You'll find a twinkling collection of Hallmark St. Patrick's Day cards at the fine stores where Hallmark cards are sold. There are ones with all the wit and sparkle of laughing Irish eyes, and ones as sweet and sentimental as any mother McCree could want. You'll find cards for the Riley's and the O'Malley's, the Kelly's and the Quinn's, and of course for all those friends who aren't Irish, but who like to share in the friendly enjoyment of St. Patrick's Day too. And when you're selecting your St. Patrick's Day cards, remember that added enjoyment you can give your friends. The pleasure that comes when they see that familiar Hallmark on the back of the card you send and realize you cared enough to send the very best. Here again is James Hilton. We feel we've been very fortunate to have you with us on Hallmark Playhouse so regularly this year, Joe. Each time you're here, I think this is the best performance of them all, and then each time you come up with a performance to top the last one. Thank you, Jimmy. That's the kind of speech I simply hate to interrupt, but actually the atmosphere of friendliness you have here on the Hallmark Playhouse couldn't help but lend inspiration to an actor. Something like the warm, relaxed feeling your Hallmark cards give a person. We all thrive on friendliness, you know. All right, Joe, Joe, and speaking of friends, we're going to have another old friend with us on Hallmark Playhouse next week. What was that, Jimmy? Deborah Carr, no less. Oh, sure, we'll be listening then. And as our story, we shall dramatize a charming and romantic Irish novel by Anne Crohn called This Pleasant Lee. Our Hallmark Playhouse is every Thursday. Our producer-director is Bill Gay. Our music tonight has been conducted by David Rose, and our script tonight was adapted by Gene Holloway. Until next Thursday then, this is James Hilton saying, Good night. Consult your local newspaper for time and station. This is Frank Goss saying, Good night to you all, until next week at the same time. When Hallmark Playhouse returns to present Deborah Carr in Anne Crohn's This Pleasant Lee, and the week following Laura Hilliard's time-remembered starring Jane Weiman, and the week after that, Olly Gould's Yankee storekeeper on the Hallmark Playhouse. Stay tuned for Mr. Comedian, which will be heard over most of these stations. This is the CBS radio network. This is KMBC, Kansas City, Missouri.