The Last Engagement of Junius Brutus Booth.

Evening Post, Volume L, Issue 42, 17 August 1895, Page 1 (Supplement)

The Last Engagement of Junius Brutus Booth.

One August I spent two weeks at a health r resort in the South. Among the guests at 8 the country hotel, hid away in the hills of j. Tennessee, was an old gentleman from r Kansas. He was judge in the district in c which he lived. One afternoon, as I was j returning from a game of tennis, I met the 1 judge coming out. He told me to put my t racket in the office and join him in a walk c to the spring. I lost no time in doing so. The spring was down a ravine some c hundred yards away. Taking a drink of t sulphur water, and seating ourselves on an « old rustic seat in the spring-house, my old friend began : "So you intend doing your j life's work behind the footlights ? I sometimesregretthatlevergaveitup." "Yes," 1 I replied; "if untiring work, together with t what little talent I may have, can make an j aotor, I will be one. -But- you never told me before that you had ever been on the stage." i "Yes, I was with old Junius Brutus c Booth once for a few months. It was when he had his three boys with him — Junius s Brutus, jun., Edwin, and John Wtlkes. The \ old fellow was grand, and the public I appreciated him. This morning, when I saw you out on the porch so absorbed in 1 reading ■ Richard 111.,' it called to my mind j a little incident. It was in 1852. I was nineteen then. The old man and his sons t were playing a very eucceesful engagement s in Sun Francisco. The houoe had been s crowded every night for weeks. People ' would buy the same seats for six nights running. c " One evening during our last week there — it was about six o'clock — I met Edwin in h the corridor of the hotel, snd he said: y ' Have you seen father ? None of us have a seen him since dinner. lem afraid he is t off in some saloon and we must look him up. o And if we find him the chances are that he o will be in no condition to give the perform- s ance to-night, and it's so late now. Here, I take this five dollars and go out and get a t carriage and help us to find him. The other i boys have been out some time and have not r returned.' o "I lust no time in joining the Hoarch. 3 Going down all the various alleys and a obscure streets, I looked into every saloon t and drinking- hall that I found. I kept v this up for an hour, but no clue did I find n to the whereabouts of the runaway iliohard. I Finally, I went down a rickety old flight of s steps into one of those Bath-Kellers, bo r many of which are to be found in San Francisco to-day. The place was dark and dingy. The floor was covered with sawdust, s Drinking- tables were scattered about. The only apparent occupant was a little, low J barkeeper in a white apron, standing behind ii a bar on the side of the room. "I went up to him, and said: 'Have you seen Mr. Booth, the actor ? I mean the old p fentleman.' He replied thmt he had not. continued: 'Do you know hiir. when you ri see him ?' To this the Faderlander made o answer : ' Oh, ya, I already saw him ack "> dree times dis week.' Noticing an open o door at the end of the hall opposite the a stage, and well knowing a few of the £ idiosyncrasies of the missing one, without y saying a word I walked down the hall and V looked in. The doorway led into a little a rubbish room— a dark, diurnal place. There, d upon a tier of barrels higher than my head, J was stretched the limp form of a man. ti Although it was too dark to more than make out the merest outline of the body, I y could not have been more positive of who it was had a beam of light fallen full in his o face. There lay Biobard, resting more 1 peacefully than he did on the eventful night o on Bosworth Field. p "With uo little difficulty I aroused him and ft got him to his feet. As we emerged into a the hall from this queer bedchamber, draped tl with cobwebs and frescoed with mildew, the old man dropped down in a seat at the n nearest table and refused to go a step further until he had a drink of 'half-and-half.' In ji his later years this was the only thing haever drank. His head fell over on his arms as £ they lay folded upon the table, and in a y moment he was again fast asleep. ' ' Leaving him where he vroe, I went into o the street andproenred two heads of lettuce, and got our old German friend to make a a salad of them. I aroused him and tried to a induce him to eat it. But he said he did } not want anything but 'half-and-half,' and ' he thundered it out in an angry way, too. It seemed a hopeless case. After long persuasion he consented to eat the lettuce if I would give him a glass of ■ half-and-half.' s I agreed ; but he said he was to have the drink first. I again agreed. As he ate the i salad 'l talked to him, and tried to get him interested in something. But I was unsuc- i ; cessful. When he had finished I implored him to get into the carriage and go to the theatre, telling him it was almost time to begin the performance. As wo were about 1 to leave the place the barkeeper stopped me and told me that I could not take that man away until his bill was paid. Turning over a little shite that hung on the wall, and adding a few figures that no one on earth but himself could have deciphered, he said: 3 'He owes ninedy zents for mixed malt £ trinks.' t " When we entered the dressing-room it ■was time for the curtain to be rung up. The 1 house was filled to overflowing. I shall never forget every little incident about the i dressing-room; I can see them now as plainly as though it were but yesterday, the three champagne baskets spread out on the r floor. They contained all his costumes for the performance. Ab quickly as I could I removed his street dress and put on him a c magnificent suit of garnet whioh he was s accustomed to wear in the first act. While t I was dressing 1 him Edwin came to the door 1 and' looked in not less than half-a-dozen times. It was almost nine o'clock when the ' old man was ready, hump and all. Edwin's I face was the picture of despair when he saw the pitiful condition of his father and heard ' the repeated calls from the front for the cur- t tain to go up. He insisted on goiog out J and dismissing the audience, telling- them that his father was sick. I persuaded him I to give up this idea, assuring him that the J performance would go off smoothly as soon 1 as we could get it started. But I never I believed what I was saying at the time. d "At last the curtain went up. Edwin and f I went to the flies with Richard, one on c each side holding him up We shoved him on. In an instant the outburst of applause ■wasdoafoning-. The wily Duke of Hypocrisy, faltering more from the effects of 'half-and-half' than his own deformity, dragged himself along until he leaohed the centre of the footlights. Here he stopped and began pulling on the wristbands of his gauntlets, ■ first ono and then the other. They did not ' seem to be comfortable to him. There was ' a long silence, then another round of l applause, followed by a silence that was ' growing to be painful. Edwin said : 'My God ! he'll never begin.' The words had ' hardly fallen from bis lips when the old ' aotor, stepping back a littlo, began : ' Now 8 the winter of our discontent ' ] "Sweeter or more welcome words I never " hoard. The whole play went off without a hitch, and I never heard him read his lines 1 half as grandly as he did that night. ' ' ' On the following Monday we set sail for . Panama. The boys stayed in California the : rest of the season, and played with much success. Before I left I sold my entire wardrobe, as I had determined to quit the stage. Bnt I never told Mr. Booth this. 1 iiud concluded to study law when I got home. Crossing the Isthmus and taking another vessel there, we found ourselves two weeks later in New Orleans. Here we spent a week, at the_ end of whioh time we went up the Mississippi river on a steamer. "At Cairo I lefc him and 'went to join my people, who were living in Illinois. At the time ho had a slight cold, but its result was never suspected. I learned that he grew rapidly w ors>e immediately after our parting ; that two dnys later death came, and the curtain went down on tho grand old player for ever."— Philip H. Thompson, in tho Illustrated Americau.