A CROWN OF HONOR.
MRS. GLADSTONE TO-DAY.
Mrs. Gladstone gives the girls who are in service an annual treat every summer down at the Convalescent Home at Woodsford. About a year ago a party of them enjoyed luncheon and tea on the lawn there, under the shadow of a rare kind of sycamore which their hostess had brought in a flower-pot, as a little seedling, from an old tree which spreads its ample branches close to her orphanage at Hawarden. Mrs. Gladstone told the girls that, when she planted it, she never thought to live so long as to see it large enough to shelter a party of forty in the shadow of its foliage. Such works of beneficence as have just been sketched are only a few of those forming a crown of honor and glory for the head of the great Premier’s wife. She was in that early band who began penitentiary work at Clewer before it took shape under Mrs. Monsel’s management. That must have been soon after her marriage. To that early time, too, belong the beginnings of the House of Charity for distressed persons in London, which is carried on at Soho, and rejoices in its forty-sixth annual report. This is to help persons a little higher than the working-class, who have fallen into temporary distress from sickness or other vicissitudes.
As for the deeds of private kindness, it can truly be said that Mrs. Gladstone has sown them on all sides, and it is characteristic of that noble woman’s nature that she is loyal to the last to those who need her help, even if it be for a lifetime.
A BOYS’ REPUBLIC.
THE STORY OF CAMP CHOCORUA.
By Alfred Balch.
There is an island in Big Asquam Lake, New Hampshire, lying almost under the shadow of Mount Chocorua, and on it there are many buildings, rough but weather-tight; paths which have been carefully built to grade; a boat-yard, with ways leading to the water; a long wharf projecting out toward a swimming raft which is floating where there is depth for diving; a sea wall of heavy stone, against which the ice is powerless. Down by the water’s edge, and squatting on a wooden stage within easy reach, a group of boys are washing dishes. From time to time one of them, who while working as hard as any, keeps his eye on the others, gives a short order which is instantly obeyed. Other boys are sitting on the porch, polishing lantern and lamps, while yet others are sweeping up the litter which disfigures the open space. There are buildings to the right and left, there are canvas canoes and boats floating near the wharf, and a great flat boat—somewhat rudely made—is moored in front of the sea wall. With each group of boys is a young man, busily employed in the same work, but it is noticeable that he gives no orders.
From the island itself the view is exquisitely beautiful. To the north the White Mountains rest like a mighty barrier, walling in the valley at their feet. The lake itself lies smiling under the sunlight of the perfect day, or darkening under the shadow of the drifting cloud. The breeze is barely enough to fill the sails of the white canoe outside there, while the scarlet cap of the boy sailing it makes a patch of color. There are other islands with long vistas of water between them, relieving the vivid green of the trees which cover them with foliage, and coming toward the wharf is a boat filled with girls; in the stillness their gay laughter sounds pleasantly. Everywhere is the beauty of the mountains and the lake, and the voices of the boys at work fill the very air with life.
Big Asquam Lake was more picturesque during the summers from 1881 to 1889, because Camp Chocorua was there, than it has been since. The camp was founded by Mr. Ernest Berkeley Balch as a summer camp for boys, in which they could have plenty of outdoor sport, a reasonable amount of work, and abundant opportunity to enjoy themselves in their own way. Starting with five boys and a small 243 frame shanty in 1881, it grew into one of the oddest institutions that may be imagined. It was different in many ways from anything else of the kind, and its great success was due to the fact that it was modelled on real life as men see it. The motive underlying all of its pleasant features and most quaint customs was twofold: first, responsibility, personally and for others; and, second, work—not only the work which each one must do for himself, but also that extra work which brings with it a tangible reward. The boys were encouraged in everything that would tend to develop them physically, to make them strong and healthy, but they also found themselves members of a little world that had a high standard of honor, a world in which the laws governing the conflicting interests of men were recognized and obeyed. How this was done, how Camp Chocorua was governed and run, and why the boys who were there still look on it so affectionately is not an uninteresting story.
“The Camp,” as it is always called by those who were there, took in all of the space on the island. In 1889, the last year, the buildings included the office; the big dormitory—in the upper story of which was the library, with a large room below, having at one end the great fireplace, where the camp-fire blazed and burned; the dining-house—an open shed; the cook-house, with the ice-house at its back; the store-house and faculty quarters—the upper story of this was the hospital; and the carpenter’s shop, down by the boat-yard. There were many paths built carefully to grade, and one of these led to the grove of silver birches, in the midst of which was the chapel. I think this was one of the prettiest places I ever saw. The walls were the living trees, the seats were rustic benches, and the reading-desk was a rock, oddly fashioned, of the stone of the Granite State, into the form of a lectern. Every Sunday afternoon when it was fair weather the service was held here.
It is not, however, in the buildings, on the island, nor in the trees that one can find the interest of Camp Chocorua. It was in the life led by the boys, in their customs and laws, in their courts and contracts, that this resides.
THE CHAPEL.
One of the fundamental rules of the place was that every boy or man there should do his own work and his share of the common work of the camp. Many of the boys who came had never in their lives done anything for themselves, and the first thing demanded of them, that they should make up their 244 own beds and take care of their own clothes, came very hard. The boy was careless, he lost his waterproof, he could not put on his shoes, or could not remember to put away his clothes. There was no punishment for his fault; he was simply ranked as an “Incapable.” An Incapable was a boy who did no work of any kind, who belonged to no crew, who had no part in the busy life of the camp except that of a spectator. More than this, an Incapable was forbidden to refuse assistance from any member of a crew, and as it speedily became the fashion to help an Incapable, he had no lack of such assistance. Any one who can remember the scorn a boy feels for another who, he thinks, is less manly than himself will understand the sort of blistering sore applied to an Incapable. It was not without a pathetic side, the way in which these little chaps would work to learn how to dress themselves and lace their own shoes, and the anxiety they showed to keep their clothes and bed in order; and as an Incapable had the right to an examination, by a member of the faculty, at any time, as to his capability, few there were who were not assigned to a crew within two weeks.
The supreme power in Camp Chocorua resided in the founder, although he could not, except in extreme cases, traverse one of the customs of the camp, for these were, in fact, unwritten laws. Associated with him were the members of the faculty, generally four in number, and it was their duty to oversee and watch the boys. One of the faculty was always with a crew, and he had the right to give general orders and to inspect the work done, as a whole. He had no power, however, over the individual members of that crew, for this resided wholly in the stroke, or, in his absence, in the sub-stroke. To compare one thing with another, the member of the faculty was the general commanding the brigade, and the stroke was the colonel in command of a regiment. The general could give his orders and comment on how they were carried out, but it was the colonel who decided on details. The member of the faculty with a crew worked as they worked, taking such part of the labor as he saw fit, or doing that which the stroke asked him to. The boys in the camp were divided into four crews, and at the beginning of the camp year the strokes were appointed by the faculty. As soon as a stroke was named, he had the power of appointing his sub-stroke, or second in command of the crew, on the principle that as he was responsible for all the sub-stroke did, it was but fair he should have his choice.
The crews did all the routine work of the camp, three being on duty every 245 day and one off. These three were the kitchen crew, which supplied the cook’s boy to prepare vegetables and run errands, and which cleaned all the pots, pans, and kitchen utensils; the police crew, which cleaned the lamps, swept the rooms, and removed all litter from the grounds; and the dish crew, which washed all the larger dishes used on the table, as well as the plate, cup, knife, fork, and spoon of any guest for the first three days of his stay on the island. After that the guest did his own work. The dish crew supplied the inspector of dishes—generally the sub-stroke—and visitors, I remember, got useful lessons on what constituted cleanliness as they stood meekly before him. It was safe to say that any article passing inspection was in a condition to be used again. Each crew in turn became kitchen, police, and dish, during three days, and on the fourth, the off crew. This was expected to do any work outside of the regular duties of the day, such as manning a boat for visitors, handling express matter or supplies, or, in short, anything not done by the others. The milk boat was manned by the kitchen crew, and the mail boat by the police. Practically speaking, each crew worked about five hours a day.
It was a cardinal principle in Camp Chocorua that the boys should govern the boys. The strokes were to all intents and purposes supreme over their crews, and under no circumstances did a member of the faculty give an order to a member of a crew. The order was given to the stroke or sub-stroke in command, and he carried it out as he saw fit. The stroke was expected not only to rule his crew and see they did the work, he must also set them an example by doing as much or more than any one of them. In point of fact, the stroke and sub-stroke were generally the two most efficient boys in a crew. But in such a system as this, that a member of a crew might be disobedient, or a stroke might be tyrannical, was not lost sight of. The stroke had no power to punish, but he could, were his orders disobeyed, direct a boy to report to the faculty. On the other hand, although the presence of a member of the faculty prevented any open bullying, it was within the power of a stroke to “work” a boy, and that boy had an appeal to the faculty. As in Camp Chocorua in proportion to the power was the responsibility, the appeal was a much more serious thing than the report. When the latter was made by order of a stroke, the boy might be reprimanded, given a good talking, or be shifted into another crew. In extreme cases he might be declared an Incapable—than which nothing was 246 more detested. If it were found that a boy could not get along with any stroke he might be sent home, because this meant he refused to submit to the discipline of the camp.
The position of stroke was the most sought for in Camp Chocorua. It was understood the stroke had to get the work done perfectly, rule his crew justly and without friction, and personally be a model of a camp boy. If he failed in either of these, the inference was obvious—he was unfit for the position; the faculty had made a mistake in putting him into it. If a complaint of tyranny was proved, there was but one thing to do—the stroke was reduced in rank. He lost all the privileges of his position, and in the eyes of all, men and boys alike, he was disgraced; he was officially declared to be unfit to govern others. It is difficult to find among the possible experiences of men anything equal in severity, and the boys in the camp dreaded such punishment as they dreaded nothing else. It was bad enough when a sub-stroke was reduced, but to a stroke it was terrible. The system, however, was in itself almost enough to prevent this punishment. A stroke was expected to keep his crew happy and contented, and there were keen eyes watching him all the while, and kindly men ready to give a hint.
Under its curious double government by faculty and boys, Camp Chocorua prospered and grew. The personal and routine work was done, the boys played baseball or tennis, they swam and dived, and went sailing, rowing and paddling. No ambition was greater in the mind of a camp boy than that of owning a canoe, and as many of them were not rich enough to buy, the boat-yard was established in the cove. Here was the carpenter shop, with a full set of tools and a bench, and outside its open door were the ways on which the canoes were built. At one time the yard was full of the pretty little boats in all stages, from the keel with its newly joined ribs to the completed canoe on whose canvas cover the paint was slowly drying. Exceedingly good canoe builders some of the boys turned out to be, and their models were not only fast but safe. Here, too, was the floor on which they cut their sails, or sat and talked as they stitched in the leach lines or fastened the reef points in place. Many of the canoes were the work of their owners’ hands in every part—hull, paddle, sails, and rigging. When the fleet came in, paddling in open order, I never saw anything prettier in my life than the white hulls gliding so easily over the placid water, the boys singing and keeping stroke, while beyond lay the green islands, casting the long shadows from their trees under the setting sun. It was in this yard that the great flatboat was built in which the whole camp moved about the lake, ten oars on a side, and every boy tugging for all he knew. An unwieldy craft, in which one earned his passage. It was in this yard, too, that the best canoe designers earned much money from their less skilful comrades.
The financial system of Camp Chocorua 247 was as odd, when one thinks of it as applied to boys from eight to fourteen years, as were many other things about the place. Each boy had an allowance of twenty-five cents a week paid by the camp, and no boy, no matter what the wealth of his parents, was allowed to bring money given him to the camp. His outfit might include fishing-tackle, but a canoe was barred. If, as was generally the case, he wanted more money than his allowance, he could get it by working during his own time. While the boys did the routine work of the camp as a part of their duty, they had nothing to do with permanent improvements, yet there were many of these made during the nine years. These were paid for by the camp, and it was a cardinal principle that when work of this kind was to be done, the boys should earn the money if they chose. Out of this rose the system of contracts. The work to be done was announced beforehand, and then sold to the lowest bidder, who was required to sign a contract. This was printed in legal form, with the camp as party of the first part, and the contractor as party of the second, the price to be paid and the time being duly entered. The book of contracts is one of the most curious things to study. One of the pages reads “building one yard on the chapel path to grade,” price five cents, and time one week. “Removing a stump in front of the office and filling the hole,” is another, price twenty-five cents. Some of the contracts were taken by firms and others by companies. “The Goodwill Contract Company” takes a contract to do the washing of the camp, and the president’s signature is affixed. If a contract was performed, the price was credited to the contractor in the bank. It might be that, owing to circumstances, the time was extended, or the contract might be forfeited for non-performance. In the latter case it was sold again to the 248 lowest bidder, and the difference—if any—between the original contract price and the sum charged to finish the work was charged to the contractor. It was very rarely that an old camp boy either underestimated the amount of work necessary or the time required, and the forfeitures were for the most part among the new boys. They learned quickly, however. Under this contract system the paths were made, the wharf built, and, in fact, the majority of the permanent improvements carried out. The contracts were not always with the camp. The boys made them with each other, as in the building of canoes, and as the boys had no power to put up a forfeited contract at auction, the courts became necessary. The camp, the men or the boys were all alike subordinate to the courts; either could sue or be sued, and each was bound by the result.
In the court of first instance one of the faculty presided as judge, and there might or might not be a jury. The parties to the cause could argue their own cases, or they could appear by counsel chosen from the boys or the faculty. In case plaintiff or defendant chose, he could appeal from the decision, providing he deposited a check for the full amount of damages and costs. The Appellate Court consisted of a majority of the members of the faculty—not less than three—and in this there was no jury. It must be acknowledged that in appeal cases the judges took cognizance of the facts as well as the law. But the law of the camp was so well known to every boy there, and it was so simple, that no boy could fail to see the justice of the decision. It must be remembered when these courts are considered that to the boys they were very real. It cost five cents to bring a suit, and fifteen for an appeal, and the sums sued for were lost or won in reality. The costs went to the officers of the court, excluding the judges, who served for honor. If counsel were employed they had to be paid, unless they volunteered, and it came to be naturally understood that a plaintiff or defendant in the wrong could not get volunteer counsel. The verdict—when there was a jury—was that of the boys themselves; they condemned 249 or approved of what other boys had done. As the boys were trusted to rule each other, so they were the guardians of each other’s rights, while the power of appeal made it impossible that any wave of temporary unpopularity should bring injustice to any boy. Camp Chocorua was builded on this idea of the boys managing themselves, but there was ever present the superior authority to prevent wrong being done, and the very existence of this authority made it rarely called on.
THE CAMP ON MARCH.
The keenness in business of these boys is well illustrated by the story of the Soda-Water Trust. Whenever the boys went to the store in Holderness they generally bought soda-water. This went on until some one suggested the apparatus could be bought and the soda-water made in the camp. Two firms—one of three boys and the other of two—each firm having a bank account large enough to purchase the apparatus and supplies, were formed at once. But the privileges or monopolies in the camp were always sold for the benefit of the Charity Fund, 250 and it was promptly announced the soda-water franchise would be put up at auction. The two firms were rich, but they were not willing to enter a contest of this kind. The members got together and talked matters over at length, finally resolving to form a trust. When the time came the trust bid one cent for the franchise, and there being no other bid it was sold at this price. When their apparatus came the trust did a rushing business.
A HALT FOR SUPPER.
THE BARGE.
In the Camp Chocorua bank, each man and boy had an account. Payments of all kinds were made by check. The allowance was added to the account each week, and as the boys made money the credits grew larger. At the end of the camp season the depositor could either draw out his balance or have it carried over to the next summer. During the winter he was allowed to earn money by work, provided he received no more for it than would have been paid to anyone else, and this money could be added to the bank account. One boy brought nine dollars and seventy-five cents as the result of shovelling snow, but the canoe his father gave him could only be kept when he showed himself able to pay for it. This he could only do by borrowing from the bank the necessary balance; but his credit was good, and the summer was not half over before he had paid back the loan. I have often laughed when I have thought of the feeling with which that father must have looked on his son’s check, and realized what it meant. If the boys in Camp Chocorua learned anything, they learned not to be ashamed of labor in any form. The dignity of work was silently taught them, even as they were taught to expect the tangible rewards.
It was towards the middle of the second term of the camp that the sports took place. For days before, the boys were at work cleaning the camp up, and the cooks—two of the 251 boys—were busy getting the lunch ready. To the sports all the friends and relations of the boys were invited, and there were usually many grown people present. There was a game at baseball, some sets at tennis; there were sailing, rowing, and paddling matches, swimming and diving contests, foot races, and the like. The prizes were simple enough, bits of ribbons with the name of the camp, the contest, and the date painted on, yet they were valued very highly. Splendid work the boys did in these sports, and conclusive was the evidence of their thorough training during the summer. Those who attended the sports once were always glad to come again, for long as the days were, they were filled with fun and frolic. In the evening the boys and their visitors gathered around the great fireplace in the dormitory building, and there, in the light of the camp fire, joined in the camp songs. The last song of all was “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” the verses being sung as a solo, and the chorus by everyone present; and it was with the grand old melody still ringing in their ears that the guests took the boats which carried them home.
There was one prize awarded at the sports which might come to any boy. This was the “C. C.” pin in silver. Those who won it were the boys who had in their own way shown themselves to have got the greatest good out of the camp, and who had done the most good to others. The pins were not common; two or three, perhaps, were given in a summer, and sometimes none at all. It is most difficult to define the conditions under which the pin was given; it came as the result of a unanimous feeling in the faculty that it had been won, rather than as the result of rules obeyed. A conscious effort to win it was enough to prevent success. The boy had to show the manliness, justice, truth, conscientiousness in him, not for reward, but because he had them in him; and then the reward, or rather the recognition, came. Intrinsically these little pins 252 are worth nothing; but those who have them value them as they value few things, and they are right.
The cruise which marked the end of the summer’s camp life was one of the most picturesque things imaginable. An ox-cart with four oxen carried the blankets, dishes, and stores; Porgus, the great, slobbering bloodhound, was fastened to the rear axle, the Infant—the youngest boy in camp—mounted the donkey, and with faculty and boys on foot, the camp set out. The routes taken during the nine cruises included all the best known roads in the White Mountains. Generally, those boys who wished to made up a separate party, and climbed some one of the great peaks, while the rest confined themselves to lower levels. At night they all slept in some barn. The routine work of the cooks and crews went on as usual, and the whole thing was pick-nicking on a grand scale. Sometimes the ox-cart would stall, or the oxen be unable to haul it up a hill, and then the rope was fastened on, and the whole camp toiled on and pulled. It was an experience to pass them at this time, to listen to the orders of the strokes, to hear the chaff flying back and forward, and to watch the crowd, all clad in gray knickerbockers and jackets, gray stockings and flannel shirts, and wearing the scarlet knit Scotch caps which completed the camp uniform.
There is a story about Porgus, the big bloodhound, which is worth telling. When they first got him everyone supposed he was exceedingly fierce, and, lest he should bite, he was tied up on another island, and his food taken to him twice a day. Suddenly, one day, Porgus was seen swimming towards Chocorua, and, the alarm being given, everyone except the man who knew him took refuge in the house. The dog was taken back and tied up, but as he could gain nothing by howling he broke away once more. The fact of the matter was, that Porgus was lonely, and that so far from being 253 fierce, he was one of the most good-natured beasts in the world. This having been found out, he was added to the list of camp pets. These at various times included a flying squirrel that had a habit of jumping on your shoulder as you passed his tree; a black sheep called Billy, who learned to butt anyone in the neighborhood; the donkey, and the kyuse—the latter a mustang pony. All of these in their time were important members of the camp. Old Captain Cairns, too, a man who lived alone in a most curious house on one of the islands, was one of the greatest friends of the boys, and always came to the sports. The captain was a curiosity in his way, and he never got tired of telling yarns about the places he had been to or the people he had seen.
CAPTAIN CAIRN’S HOUSE.
The story of Camp Chocorua, of the healthy, open-air life, of the high standards so rigidly lived up to, of the fun they had, of the work they did, and of the lessons in manliness they so unconsciously learned, is really written in the memories of the boys who, during those nine summers, spent their time on that little island. This article is but a brief account of the methods through which so much was done. The place now belongs to the founder, and a custodian is kept there to look after it. The buildings are open to the old camp boys, and many of them spend their vacation time there. For the most part, they are men in the world now, but none the less do they look back at the camp with pleasant memories, feeling and realizing, as they never did then, all that 254 the camp life meant to them. Everything is ready for them; they have but to hang up the great Chinese gong on which the hours were struck, and the camp is open. They can sail, row, and swim, and at night, sitting before the “camp fire,” they can bring back the days when they were boys; they can tell their stories of the contracts and the trials, the sports and the cruises; they can laugh over half-forgotten jokes, or speak in lower tones of the boys who are now dead. For although Camp Chocorua has ceased to be, Camp Chocorua lives in the memories of the camp boys.
THE HAPPY LIFE.
By Sir Henry Wotton.
(1568-1639.)
How happy is he, born and taught,
That serveth not another’s will,
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill.
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame or private breath!
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
Who hath his life from humors freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great.
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall—
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing yet hath all.
EDWIN BOOTH.
ON AND OFF THE STAGE.
Personal Recollections.
By Adam Badeau.
The Friday before Booth was taken ill, I spent two or three hours with him in his rooms at the Players’ Club, and while there it occurred to me that a picture, not of the actor merely, but of the man whom I had known for more than thirty years, in the glow of youth and the prime of manhood, down to the weary invalid, stricken before his time, in the characters that were not assumed—of husband, father, brother, son, and friend—would have an interest far beyond any critical analysis of his performances or historical account of his engagements. He did not object to my painting him as I had known him in the most intimate relations of his life—an actor is always used to being described and criticised—and he gave me incidents and information, all that I sought. Thus in what I have to say there will be nothing second-hand, nothing that he has not himself told me at one time or another, or that I have not observed in the friendship of a lifetime.
I first met him when he was twenty-three, and I only twenty-five years old, and from that time till his marriage and my own entrance into the army we were as intimate as it is possible for two young men to be. I have the right, therefore, to tell what I shall unfold, for he gave it to me, and I have a further right in the certainty that nothing I can tell will depreciate his fame. If I portray all that I know, no one who reads will fail to think more highly and tenderly of the nature that was cloaked under Richard and Iago, suggested perhaps by points in Othello and Lear, but only really indicated in Hamlet, the melancholy, moody, dreamy, filial, tender Dane.
He was born in 1833, in the night of the historical meteoric display—the “star-shower,” he always called it. His father was a famous actor in the parts which the son so often played. I never saw the elder, but others assured me he possessed a tragic genius perhaps at times even more tremendous than that of the Booth I knew. He was an Englishman, and the rival of Edmund Kean. The family tradition is that he was driven from London by a cabal of Kean’s admirers, and came to America in 1821, almost immediately after his marriage.
Junius Brutus Booth must have been an extraordinary person off the stage; erratic almost to insanity, gloomy, given to fits of passion, but full of warm affections; a man with a temper almost uncontrollable, yet more often morose than violent, who refused to play, even when announced, unless he was in the vein, and walked the streets for hours after acting, and sometimes before. His wife for years accompanied him to the theatre, acting as dresser, and Edwin was taken with them. He thus received his first impressions of the stage when he was three or four years old. The wife remained in the dressing-room during the play, and when the child grew sleepy he was put to bed in a chest of drawers that held his father’s wardrobe. If he wakened he had the theatrical wigs and paint-pots for his toys. A few years later he took his mother’s place and dressed his father for the stage.
From photo by F. Gutekunst.
Copyright by F. Gutekunst, Philadelphia.
There were several children, and three 257 of the sons became actors. I asked him whether he was the favorite, but he said no: his father always preferred John Wilkes. Yet Edwin had the greatest influence with the tragedian when the gloomy fits came on, and followed him many a night through the streets to see that he got no harm. He could prevail on him to act when no other could, and often told me of his attempts to direct their wanderings so that they might reach the stage-door in time. He himself was melancholy and moody, and lived very much in the imagination. It must have been a strange spectacle—this erratic genius and his anxious child, both slightly formed, with the same wonderful piercing eyes, stumbling about the streets at dark, the boy trying to persuade the father, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing altogether.
The story of Edwin’s first appearance on any stage has often been told. It was as Tressel to his father’s Richard III. He was not yet sixteen and received no encouragement nor sign of approval from his strangely constituted parent, but a little later the two were walking in Broadway, when they met a Mr. Conway, an English actor well known to play-goers of the last generation. Booth stopped to talk, and Conway, who was pompous in speech, inquired rather elaborately:
“Upon which of your sons do you intend to confer your mantle?”
The great player did not reply in words, but laid his hand on Edwin’s head with a sort of solemnity, perhaps suggested by Conway’s tone. The lad attached little significance to the action at the moment, but afterward felt certain that his father meant all that the gesture implied. I asked him how old he was when this occurred. “Only a stripling,” he said, “about as high as the top of that candle,” and he pointed to the mantelpiece.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “you are not as high as that now.”
“Ah! but I wore a hat,” he replied; “and my father had to reach up to put his hand on me. I was taller than he.”
He first played Richard III. at the old Chatham Street Theatre in New York, as a substitute for his father, who either could not be found or refused to act. When the manager learned this fact he said to Edwin: “Then you must play Richard.” The lad, just seventeen, was naturally unwilling, but he knew the text from having heard his father so often in the part, and their figures were not unlike. The assistants dressed him in his father’s clothes, and he made up his face as like as possible to the great actor in Richard III. The audience was surprised when he appeared, but allowed him to go on, and he must have played with a certain degree of power, for he was called out at the end of the first act, and went through the entire exacting tragedy. When the play was over he hastened home and found his father, who offered neither comment nor inquiry. In this way the strange pair went on, leading a life as curious as any of the mimic ones they portrayed on the stage; for Edwin now played at times, even in prominent parts, but made no especial mark, being dwarfed, of course, by his father’s superlative ability.
In 1852 they went to California, but the wayward elder remained only a few months, then suddenly returned to the Atlantic States, leaving Edwin behind with his brother Junius, also an actor of some prominence. The brothers played together occasionally, but the times were rough and their success was small. Edwin was soon reduced to the hard straits of a strolling player’s life: borrowing a few dollars now and then, walking hungry through mountain snows, living sometimes in a ranch, sometimes on the pittance of a stock-actor’s salary, but sometimes making a hit, drawing crowded houses and filling his purse for a while.
In November, 1852, he got word of the death of his father, a terrible blow to him, whose relations with the great actor were so peculiar. Throughout his life he retained the liveliest memories of his father’s character and presence. He liked to talk of him, and spent hours with me describing the peculiarities that left so profound an impression on him. But though he saw their strangeness, the reverent tone in 258 which he told of them was always marked.
Doubtless he inherited the dramatic genius and some of the temperament of his parent. He was not so wildly passionate on the stage, and his temper was never so uncontrollable, but his brooding melancholy, the sensitiveness of his nature, the depth of his affections, the quaint humor so strange in a tragic actor, his vivid imagination—many, indeed, of his especial gifts and faults—were unquestionably transmitted with his blood by him who was at once the author of his physical being and the begetter of his genius. The likeness extended to feature and gesture. I have a picture of the father given me by the son, which might easily be taken for one of Edwin in Richard III.; and older play-goers always declared that in the great tragic scenes the son recalled, in tone and look and power, the peculiar magnetic quality that made the elder so remarkable. I have thought sometimes that the awful bursts of passion of his younger days were more effective even than the elaborate manner of his later art. He told me more than once that his life-long friend and comrade, Joseph Jefferson, often warned him against refining away his power, and thought the classic finish hardly compensated for the natural intensity which it replaced.
His feeling for his father certainly added to the power of his performance of Hamlet. His greatest scenes in this tragedy were those with the ghost, and when Booth addressed the shade, and exclaimed:
“I’ll call thee Hamlet,
King, Father, royal Dane,”
there was a pathos in the word “father” which those who ever heard him utter it must recall. He dropped on one knee as he spoke it, and bowed his head, not in terror, but in awe and love, and tender memory of the past; he had a feeling that he was actually in the presence of that weird shade whom he had known on earth, and he was not afraid.
The fatherless son remained in California, playing with varied success, sometimes as leading-man with Miss Heron, Laura Keene, or Mrs. Forrest Sinclair, sometimes as a star, sometimes in the stock company of those days, taking any part to which he was assigned. The experience was doubtless valuable to him, and he acknowledged that he owed to it much of his ease on the stage, his familiarity with the business, his self-possession under all circumstances, and his readiness in emergencies.
During his stay on the Pacific Coast he once visited the Sandwich Islands, and with an impromptu company gave a few performances. He had great trouble in announcing his plays, for the boys who were employed to post the bills ate up all the paste; but the houses were full, and the audience included the king. The court, however, was in mourning, and His Majesty could not be seen in front, so a chair was draped with theatrical robes behind the scenes, and there the real king applauded the mimic one in “Richard III.” The throne was needed for the coronation scene, and Kamehameha kindly abdicated for that occasion. In 1851 young Booth, as he was now called, returned to the Eastern States and played in Baltimore, Richmond, Boston—everywhere with great success. He was at once recognized as the dramatic descendant of his father, and the future head of the American stage.
In May, 1857, he entered upon his first engagement in New York, and on one of the earlier nights I strolled into the theatre while he was playing Richard III. I had seen his name in the bills, but he was heralded as the “Hope of the Living Drama,” and I had no great expectations from such an announcement. But I was struck at once with his dramatic fire, his grace, his expressive eye and mobile mouth, his natural elocution, and the decided genius he displayed. I remember even now, after the lapse of thirty-six years, the prodigious effect in the fourth act, when Richard exclaims:
“What do they in the North
When they should serve their sovereign in the West?”
His whole face and form were ablaze with expression—literally transfigured; and his voice embodied a majestic terrible rage that electrified the listeners. Men rose in all parts of the house and shouted with delight. I had seen Rachel and Forrest and Cushman and Grisi then, and I have seen Bernhardt and Irving and Salvini and Ristori since, but I never saw or heard on the stage anything more tremendous than the picture he presented and the passion he portrayed in his youth in Richard III.
I went the next night and the next, and found the fascination increase. I saw him in Petruchio, Brutus, Hamlet, Richelieu, Lear, Iago, Claude Melnotte, Sir Giles Overreach, Romeo, and Pescara. He was uneven and fitful in everything, but in every part he played he did something that no other actor could rival. His youth, too, had a charm; the very crudeness of his acting gave a certain interest—it left room for anticipation. I was very much attracted by the stage at that time, so I called on young Booth and told him what I thought of his acting. He had plenty of admirers, but my enthusiasm seemed to touch him, and we struck up a friendship at once. At the end of a week he consented to spend Sunday with me; and from that time dated a peculiar intimacy. I had a good deal of leisure and could pass my days as well as nights in his company, and I knew no greater pleasure than he gave me, either on or off the stage. He was not then a finished scholar, nor by any means the great artist that he afterward became, and I was anxious that he should be both. I used to hunt up books and pictures about the stage, the finest criticisms, the works that illustrated his scenes, the biographies of great actors, and we studied them together. We visited the Astor Library and the Society Library to verify costumes, and every picture or picture-gallery in New York, public or private, that was accessible. He discussed his parts with me, and with the conceit of youth I often ventured to differ with him on points in his art where he should have been an authority. Often we quarrelled all day about an interpretation or a rendering, and I went to the theatre at night to be convinced that he was right and I was wrong. Sometimes he gave me a private box, and I took notes of the performance, and of the criticisms or changes that occurred to me. Next day we went over them together, and at night he would play Richard or Iago according to my suggestions—perhaps as much to gratify me as because he thought my judgment correct.
Oftener I went to his dressing-room. It was very fascinating to watch the face of the character he was to play grow and vary beneath his hand. The character itself seemed to grow at the same time. When we entered at the stage door he was my friend—“Ned,” I always called him; but as the paint and the cotton eyebrows, the wig and the tights, were put on, the stage personage appeared; and when Hamlet or Romeo was ready his manner assumed all the grace and dignity of the Prince or the Montagu. After he had played a scene or two the transformation was complete, and lasted till the stage clothes were taken off.
How completely he personated the characters that he assumed I can testify from comparison with what may be called his originals, the actual Hotspurs and Hamlets, the soldiers and princes, of the real world. One night in Louisiana before a battle I was with General T. W. Sherman while he was giving orders to his officers and aides-de-camp. It was nearly midnight, and there was to be an attack at dawn. First came in one messenger, then another, next the leader of the advance, last the captain of the reserves. The night was warm and the tent was thrown open; a candle burned on a table within, while the general paced up and down in the darkness outside. There was a hush and a bustle combined, a subdued intensity and a dramatic haste, as the commander gave his different orders and received his successive subordinates, that brought to my mind at the moment the tent scene in “Richard III.” I thought, just then, “How like all this is to what I have 260 seen on the stage.” Yet Booth had never witnessed actual war.
In the same way in Europe: I often thought of him when princes and sovereigns were holding levees or processions, receiving homage or conferring honors; no Guelph or Bourbon of them all went through his part with greater dignity or grace than the young American who had never been at court; and sometimes the magic of genius arrayed him in a majesty which all the reality of their grandeur could not inspire.
There was one character, however, that he could not play—the lover. He was the poorest of Romeos, and he knew it. He looked the part, of course, in his youth; the women always wanted to see him play it, and the actresses all wanted to be Juliet; but there was a lack of tenderness in his eye, and of ardor in his tone; even the gestures were tame. He was not anxious or persuasive enough; he was too confident, or too indifferent. The only point in the play where he rose to his usual level was in the fight with Tybalt; but then there was killing to be done, and this was passion of a different sort—this was tragedy. Then he became inspired, and looked for a moment like one of the demi-gods in Homer’s battles. But in the scenes with the friar and with Juliet, even in the balcony scene, he was comparatively spiritless. Whether he was not actually a good lover, or whether he felt a certain delicacy about love-making in public, the fact remains that he was always more effective in parts that represent harsh or violent emotions than in tender ones with women.
So, too, though he had a keen sense of humor, and was full of jokes and funny stories off the stage, and told them with a genuine comic power, he could not act a comic part. I once saw him in “Little Toddlekins,” in white trousers and a high hat, and I never wanted to see him in farce again. Even in high comedy he was not so interesting as in tragedy. Benedick himself was not to his taste, and his nearest approach to success in comedy was as Don Cæsar de Bazan; but there the fascination was in his superb appearance and irresistible grace quite as much as in dramatic power. His Don Cæsar, however, was a wonderful picture, an embodied romance. He delighted in the caustic speeches of Shylock or Hamlet, or the irony of Iago, but these can hardly be called comedy. His Petruchio was a game of romps; but it was Donatello romping with Miriam, or Bacchus with Ariadne.
Yet, I repeat, he was bubbling over with a grim sort of humor in real life, like that which Shakespeare sprinkles over his tragedies. Behind the scenes he would mock and gibe at himself, had odd remarks to make about his face or his costume, and was alive with waggeries and witticisms. I once pulled aside his robes in Richelieu as he sat smoking between the acts, and he shrank back and screamed, “How dare you, sir?” in a shrill tone, exactly like a woman. The next moment he was the stately cardinal again.
I was very anxious that Booth should receive a social recognition. Thirty years ago actors had not overleaped the barriers which had existed for centuries, to anything like the extent we know at present, and I wanted him to meet people of distinction, to hold the position which Garrick once occupied in England; but he hardly shared my ambition for him. If people wanted him they had to seek him, and even then were not sure of getting him. Social attentions sometimes gratified, but quite as often bored him. But his genius was so positive and so attractive, that the most prominent people all over the country courted his society. I had the pleasure of putting up his name at the Century Club, where he was more than cordially welcomed. The wits, the scholars, artists, authors, all were glad to know the man who had given them so refined a pleasure. Bancroft, Bryant, Curtis, and their families, Sumner, Mrs. Ward Howe, men and women of the first social position, as well as cultivation, were his personal friends, even at that early day. But he seemed indifferent to his fame.
He had no trace of personal vanity. He said to me once he only cared for his good looks as the tools of his trade. Hundreds of women flung themselves 261 at him in those days; they sent him notes in verse and prose, flowers, presents of jewels, shawls, feathers, to wear on the stage; they asked for appointments; they invited him to their houses, they offered to go to his; but he cared nothing for any of them. Sometimes they amused, but more often disgusted him. More than once he saved some foolish child from what might have been disgrace, and sent her home to her family. And he never injured a pure woman in his life. Off the stage he had no care for his looks; even in his youth his dress was more than plain; he was positively indifferent to his appearance.
He always continued to have fits of sadness and silence; a feeling that evil was hanging over him, that he could not come to good. These moods would pass, but would return. Still, when he inclined to talk he was profoundly interesting. He had a wonderful fund of stories, and recollected the most minute and the most salient circumstances, showing the actor’s power of observation. He studied character incessantly; not deliberately, but because he could not help seeing peculiar traits of character or peculiar circumstances. He acted all his stories, comic or tragic, without meaning to do it, and often just as well off as on the stage. I used to get him to make the faces he did on the stage, to look like Richelieu in the “curse of Rome,” or Richard in “What do they in the North?” But it was only when he was in a very good humor that he would do this. Once or twice he painted his face to assume his father’s appearance.
But he hated to act off the stage, and even at rehearsal seldom raised his voice above the conversational tone, or struck an attitude. I often went to rehearsal with him and wondered at the calmness of his tones when he struck down Iago, or smothered Desdemona. One morning in Buffalo I missed him when we started, and followed him to the theatre; I entered at the stage door and went to the wings, looking for him. It was a minute or two before I recognized him, with a high hat and a cane, reciting passages from “Macbeth.” But that night he was more tremendous than ever. His first entrance in the play he made by leaping from the rocks, as he exclaimed, “So foul and fair a day I have not seen”; and it was the very Highland thane that came upon the scene—full of his future dignity and oppressed by the feeling of Fate that fills this tragedy as it does the plays of Euripides. That feeling, indeed, almost illustrates the depression that settled over his nature at intervals, and seemed a premonition of some awful future. It was appalling to witness, and must have been still more appalling to endure. Doubtless he inherited it from his father. It was like a veil that shrouded him from other mortals, and he walked behind it, apart. He strove to describe his emotions at such times to me, for he wanted me to know all he felt; but the effort was like those sad ones of his later days, when he attempted to utter words and gave only inarticulate sounds. I cannot portray him unless I make this sadness apparent; it was so strange and weird.
And yet this introspective, distant man, so old when he was young, so cold though gifted with every personal charm—was a warmly affectionate son, devoted to his mother, and generous to his family; he lived with his mother and sister for years, and provided for them after his marriage; he lent money not only to his brothers, but to hosts of friends, actors and others, for his profession brought him in large sums, and he gave away much in charity, especially to actors. His friendships, though steadfast, were not usually ardent or demonstrative. He who was gifted with such wonderful power to express the emotions of others was often unable or unwilling to give utterance to his own. When he was called out after the play, the man who had just enthralled an audience as Richard or Othello, or hurled the imprecations of Richelieu or Lear, stood modest and shrinking, only able to stammer a few words of thanks in his own person, on the very boards where he was most at home.
He was not a good hater; when he was injured he felt it keenly, and I am 262 not sure that he ever forgave a wrong, but the memory of it was not always keen, and I doubt if he ever revenged himself—he relented when it came to inflicting pain. In his business relations he more than once fell into foul hands, and he had himself little business faculty; but he was slow in making reprisals, even if opportunity offered. For he had a noble, gentle nature; I never knew him do a mean or vulgar thing. He was no backbiter; he refrained, even with me, from hostile criticism of other actors. I sometimes drew out opinions that were not favorable, but he never offered them, and always seemed to utter them unwillingly, as if he would not refuse to tell me what he thought, and yet was loath to speak severely of a brother artist.
No one ever charged him with desertion of a friend or backwardness in time of need; and I have known of sacrifices that he made for others, greater than most men are capable of. He submitted to much from some members of his family, because he deemed it his duty, or from affectionate pity, and endured even cruel wrongs rather than resent them publicly. He was most averse to bringing his private affairs before the world, and disliked to extend the publicity of the stage to his every-day life. His friendships in his youth were almost confined to members of his own profession. Joseph Jefferson, and John Sleeper Clarke, who married his sister, were always very close to him, and in later years, Barrett. In time, however, he had many associates among artists and cultivated men, who naturally sought his company, and some of these he regarded as personal friends.[1]
His three executors, Messrs. Benedict, Bispham, and McGonigle, were, I suppose, as intimate with him as any one in later years; he certainly showed them the most absolute confidence in his will, and for years had consulted them on the management of his affairs. Mr. McGonigle married the sister of his first wife.
I once visited with him the place where he was born. It was a farmhouse twenty-five or thirty miles from Baltimore. We drove out in a one-horse vehicle, and he was Phaëton. The house was partly furnished but unoccupied, and an old negro in an outbuilding gave us the keys. His father’s library remained, and a part of his stage wardrobe, and we spent hours ransacking them both, studying old play-bills, even English ones of his father, examining rare copies of Shakespeare, and trying on trappings of Shylock or Lear. I made him put on a wig and act the parts for a single auditor. He was very complaisant that day, or night rather, for we sat up till late into the morning, and then made beds out of Cæsar’s mantle and Macbeth’s robes. He picked out three volumes of Shakespeare which he had used in playing, full of his own stage directions written in, and variations of the text, and gave them to me as a memento of the visit, inscribing some lines from one of the sonnets. It was Verplanck’s illustrated edition, and some of the plates were marked: “Form this picture.” I remember afterward noticing that he made the picture on the stage.
Many a night in those days we sat together till morning, for he had the actor’s habit of turning night into day. Playing till nearly midnight, and supping still later, the excitement of the stage kept him awake afterward, and he never wanted to go to bed. He was never more animated in thought and look and gesture than after acting. Of course, he rose late, and during an engagement his only leisure hours were one or two in the afternoon; for in those early days he went regularly to rehearsal. That was before the era of long runs, and he played a range of parts in each engagement, changing them nearly every night. He sometimes slept after his early dinner, so as to be refreshed and ready for evening.
Then there were the painters and sculptors and photographers, always one or two in every town, who wanted to take him, either in a popular part, or “in his habit as he lived.” He never dined out while he was playing, except on Sundays, and a walk or a drive was almost his only exercise or amusement; there was not time for more; he had to reserve himself for the night. For he had to work when other men played; his work was their amusement. It was a life utterly unlike that of other men, and it is not strange that his character was unlike theirs. He was exposed to 263 the temptations of youth, and he had his peculiar faults, but no gross vices, and he did no harm or wrong to man or woman—ever, that I knew. Of how many can this be said?
In 1860 he married Miss Mary Devlin, a young actress, who retired from the stage as soon as she became engaged to him. She was a sweet gentle woman, of great natural refinement, and every way fit to be his wife. A year before he had told me he meant to marry, and I encouraged this intention. I thought he would be happier, that he needed the constant companionship and solace of a wife’s society, though I knew that marriage must, to a certain extent, disturb the intimacy which I valued and enjoyed so highly. No man could be so intimate with two people at once as he had been with me. They were married at the clergyman’s house on the afternoon of July 7. He and I went together to the simple ceremony; there were no other witnesses except his wife’s sister and her husband and John Wilkes Booth. After it was over, Wilkes threw his arms about Edwin’s neck and kissed him.
In a week Booth wrote to me and wanted me to join them at Niagara. They had a cottage on the Canada side, and there I spent two weeks of his honeymoon with my friend. He was most anxious to show me that his marriage had made no difference in his feeling toward me, and his wife was quite as anxious that I should perceive none. In the autumn Booth played in New York, and I was with him almost as much as ever. We sat up late into the night as of old, and Mrs. Booth was often so good as to leave us together. I had the pleasure of accompanying them to distinguished houses, for Mrs. Booth was much invited, as well as he, and bore herself with quiet grace and modest dignity, as “to the manner born.” We continued our studies, too. Mrs. Booth was as anxious as I for the artistic success of her husband; she and I went to the play together and discussed his performances. Their union was complete and their happiness unalloyed.
But the currents of our lives ran different ways. In 1861 I entered the army and Booth went to England. His success in London at this time was not marked; he could not obtain the theatre he wanted, and English feeling just then was hostile to Americans. He played only a short engagement, and it was not until the second or third week that he made any impression. Then his Richelieu created a sensation, but it was late in the season, and he only acted a few nights afterward. In December his only child, Edwina, was born at Fulham, England.
He returned to America early in 1862, and in September I was passing through New York and went to see them. I found the same dear friend I had known of old, with a sweet tender woman by his side, and a child of nine months playing on the floor. Mrs. Booth made me remark that the little one, creeping in its play, fell instinctively into the attitude of Richard III. in the terrible fight with Richmond; and the likeness was laughable. I left the same day for New Orleans, happy for this glimpse at their domestic happiness.
They took a house in Boston, and the next year, in February, 1863, Booth was playing in New York, having left his wife at home because of her delicate health. During a performance at the Winter Garden a despatch was handed him, summoning him to her side. He left at the close of the play, but before he could reach her the dearest thing on earth to him was gone forever. The shock almost unbalanced his mind. His wife had been all that a perfect wife could be to a man of his peculiar temperament and needs. She sustained him, encouraged him, soothed him when the sad moods came on, and exorcised the evil spirit absolutely. She inspired his work, and comforted him in weariness, trouble, or physical pain. He wrote me, at once, the saddest letter I ever received. He was crushed, and saw no hope, no reason for living. The black cloud that she had lifted was lowered again; not even his child at first could interest or distract him. But he turned to me in his bereavement, for I had known her, and I did what I could to comfort him; at least, I could grieve with him.
The young wife was buried at Mount Auburn, near Boston, at a spot which they had selected together. He built a tomb in which both were to lie; it was lined with brick, and when her remains were transferred, before the coffin was lowered Booth jumped into the grave as Hamlet did into Ophelia’s. He joined her there last June, after thirty years.
In May, 1863, I was seriously wounded, and it was his turn to solace me. I lay in hospital for many weeks, and he wrote me constantly. In July I was taken to New York, and arrived just before the riots of that year. I was carried to Booth’s house. He and his brother Wilkes bore me to Edwin’s bed, which he gave up for me, and there I was left alone with my distracted friend. I may not disclose all that he said in his grief, but, with his unusual nature, it can be imagined. He was inclined to think the spirit near him of her who had been so much to him in life, and I said nothing to disturb the impression. I remained at his house until it was possible to remove me to the country; both he and his brother dressed my wounds, and tended me with the greatest care.
I saw much of him during the months of my convalescence, and early in 1865, when I was again taken to New York after an attack of camp fever; Wilkes Booth was once more at his brother’s house. He was excessively handsome, even physically finer than Edwin, but less intellectual in his manliness. I never saw him on the stage, but under Edwin’s roof I thought him very captivating, though not so thoroughly distinguished as his greater brother.
Two months later came the terrible event which plunged the nation, and especially the Booth family, into such awful sorrow. Edwin was playing in Boston, but at once gave up his engagement and returned to his home in New York. Numbers of the most eminent people hastened to assure him of their sympathy and their belief in his loyalty. He had indeed been stanch for the Union, and the only vote he ever cast was for Lincoln in 1864. But he was overwhelmed by this fresh misfortune, this new cloud that had settled on his house. His brother Junius and his brother-in-law were thrown into prison in Washington, and he felt himself an object of suspicion. I had returned to the field, and was in Richmond when the news reached me. I wrote to him at once, but my letter was withheld. All letters to him for awhile were kept back, and I suppose especially any from Richmond. I could not leave my post immediately, and it was a month or more before I reached New York, where I went, of course, direct to him. The first shock was over, but the old gloom was greater than ever.
He told me he had seen nothing in his brother to excite suspicion, and I have always believed that the awful act was the result of a disturbed brain. It was so theatrical in plan and performance; the conspiracy, the dagger, the selection of a theatre, the brandishing of the weapon, the cry “Sic Semper Tyrannis” to the audience—all was exactly what a madman brought up in a theatre might have been expected to conceive; a man, too, of this peculiar family, the son of Junius Brutus Booth, used all his life to acting tragedies. He had not only nursed me tenderly, a soldier wounded for the cause he should have hated, but in all the exciting period of the riot he said no word that indicated sympathy with the South. He went out daily to inquire the news, and was indignant at the outrages he reported; he even assisted to shield my negro servant who remained hidden in the cellar for nearly a week. Two months before the end of the war he wished me well when I set out to rejoin Grant.
After a few months Booth returned to the stage, and was welcomed back with an enthusiasm which showed that not only his genius but his nobility of character, his elevation of thought, his refinement of manner had all been appreciated. In 1869 he remarried—this time a Miss McVicker, an actress of Chicago, whom I never saw. She left the stage upon her marriage. In the same year he opened Booth’s Theatre. His pecuniary success had been very brilliant, and he had long been ambitious to build and control a theatre 265 where the most elevating influences of the drama should be exemplified. It was a beautiful tribute to his art. Everything was done that taste and study and care and elaborate expenditure could accomplish, to produce the greatest plays in the most admirable manner; but Booth had no business talent, and some of those with whom he was brought into contact had a large share of this talent, and used it to injure or betray his interests. He lost largely, and finally was obliged to declare himself a bankrupt. He gave up all he had in the world, his personal and private property, his theatre, his library and theatrical wardrobe, and many treasures of his profession, and became once more a travelling star. His performances, however, proved more attractive than ever; he was soon able to repay all his creditors, and afterward remained a man of fortune.
Meanwhile the vicissitudes of life had drifted us far apart. I was in Europe officially for many years, but in 1880 had a leave of absence. During the month of June a public breakfast was offered Booth at Delmonico’s by many of the most eminent men in New York, and I then met him for the first time since 1867. After the breakfast I went to his rooms, and he put his arms around me and begged that we should be to each other all we had ever been. Each promised, and each kept his word.
But he started for England a few days afterward, and it was not till the next year that I returned there. Then I saw much of him. He played this time with great success, at Irving’s theatre. The great English actor gave him every facility; relinquished his house to him for a while, and treated him with a distinguished courtesy worthy of his own position as head of the British stage. Irving had been in the stock company that supported Booth during his first English engagement, but now they were equals, and played on alternate nights, and sometimes together, in Othello and Iago. Booth’s houses were crowded with the most cultivated and important people in England; and his acting, despite a certain national jealousy, was by many pronounced superior to that of the Englishman. Invitations came to him from aristocratic quarters, in which his daughter was included; but his wife was in miserable health and unable to go at all into the world, or even to receive any one but her own family. This marred the gratification at his success, and in 1881, after lingering in great suffering, both for herself and those about her, the second wife of Edwin Booth also died. I had returned from Europe and passed the night after her funeral in his rooms at New York. His mother and sister also passed away, and his daughter married, so that he was left, in a great degree, alone.
His profession, however, remained to him. It was about this time that he began those remarkable dramatic tours with Barrett which were more successful from a pecuniary point of view than any other of his enterprises. It is even said, by those competent to pronounce, that the financial results surpassed any known in the history of the stage. Everywhere he was recognized as the head of the American theatre. His acting was ripened and chastened by study and long experience, by the development of his own powers, and the opportunities he had enjoyed of comparison with his greatest foreign rivals. He was accepted as the equal in America of what Garrick had been in his palmiest days—the peer and companion of whatever was best in American society.
It is four or five years since he conceived the idea of founding the Players’ Club, and, having become a man of more than ordinary means, he was able to gratify this ambition. He bought and rebuilt a fine house in a desirable position in New York, and filled it with choice books and pictures and relics of the stage, and then invited men of distinction and culture to meet actors of character and ability on an equal footing. The club has been eminently successful, and for several years Booth, its founder and president, made it his home. He had a suite of rooms, modestly but tastefully furnished, and among his friends and books 266 and pictures passed the last days of his life. When he wrote the extracts from the Shakespearian sonnets in the volume he gave me thirty years ago, I think he felt some consciousness of the ban that the world then put upon his profession, but he could not have retained the feeling, for there was no ban applied to him. Exclusive English aristocrats invited him and his daughter, and visited them in return; and Edwin Booth voted to admit Grover Cleveland to the Century Club, and invited General Sherman to become a member of the Players’.
I was very much struck, on my return from Europe in 1881, with the dignity and composure which years of recognition had given to his bearing. The glowing beauty of his youth, of course, was gone, his features bore traces of his own sorrows and experiences, and besides were worn and hardened by those terrible passions of the stage which were for the time so real to him. I have indeed no doubt that it was the intense strain on brain and nerve which his acting demanded, and not any private grief or anxiety, that broke him down before his time.
Years, however, had enhanced his innate nobility. He was always reverent to religion, and had warm friends among the clergy of various denominations. A Catholic priest and the Protestant Bishop of New York were among the first to call after his paralysis was known. I never heard him speak disrespectfully of sacred themes or of good women. His character in later years took on a softer phase; his irritability was rarer, indeed it almost disappeared, while the range of his friendships was wider.
When he received a foreign actor who came to call on him, as they all did, or welcomed some distinguished visitor to his club, he did it with a calm dignity and gracious courtesy that was very natural and yet imposing, while his more intimate bearing when we were alone was inexpressibly confiding and affectionate, though more subdued than in the earlier days.
In his acting also there was something of the same inevitable change that time brings to all things and all men; but to me he always remained the most powerful and consummate tragedian I have ever seen. Some of the old force may have faded, but it flashed out at intervals in every performance with all its ancient brilliancy.
The last time that I saw him on the stage,
“Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,”
was also the last night that Barrett ever played. The piece was “Richelieu,” and it seemed to me that Booth excelled himself in the finish of the earlier scenes and in the tempest of passion at the climax. During this engagement I went behind the scenes as I had used to go a quarter of a century before, and found all the old fascination still, subdued and softened by his more chastened dignity. But he played only a few times after his friend Barrett was stricken, and then his own ailings increased.
After this I never met him out of his own rooms but once. I called just as he was about to try to walk, and he asked me to go with him. He had to be assisted to the door, and when he reached the street I offered him my arm. He took it and leaned heavily. He stumbled as he walked, and it took us half an hour to move around the block of buildings in which the club-house stands. Then he was tired, and wanted to go in, and I knew that my friend would not recover.
In his rooms at the Players’ Club I saw my last of him. For a year or two he seldom left them except to visit his daughter in town or country, or perhaps to accompany her to a play. But he spent many hours in her society and that of her husband and children—his greatest solace. I fortunately was near him during this period, and we often passed a morning talking of our early manhood or his later career.
But there was something inexpressibly painful in the spectacle of him, whose physical faculties had been so inextricably bound up with the intellectual, whose bodily gifts had been the incarnation of passion and romance and poetry, his corporal charm the fit 267 embodiment of a noble soul—to see him decay, his powers crumble and waste away; to see him decrepit, weary, worn, who had been alive with expression, captivating in bearing, majestic, terrible, tender, by turns. Only his eyes retained their marvellous beauty, like a lamp burning in a deserted temple, or the soul looking out through the windows of that body it was soon to leave.
THE DEATH MASK OF EDWIN BOOTH.
Farewell! beloved spirit! Thou hast given tens, nay hundreds of thousands pleasure by thy genius, expressed for them the subtlest and most delicate thoughts and sublimest conceptions of the greatest of poets, elevated their imaginations, refined their fancy, charmed their taste, subdued their moods, and soothed their weary hours; and never once, in all thy art, suggested an impure or vicious thought, never stimulated an evil desire, nor insinuated a wanton or vulgar feeling. Thou hast done much to elevate the profession thou hast adorned; hast assisted the needy, hast stretched out a hand to aid the worthy in arriving at thy own position, and introduced thy brethren to the company which sought and welcomed thee. Thou hast been a loving son, a reverent, filial admirer of him whose mantle fell upon thee, a faithful, devoted husband, a brother worthy of the name, a tender, bountiful father, a loyal, stanch, confiding friend. The world has been happier and better for thy passage across its stage.
BURGLARS THREE.
By James Harvey Smith
As a usual thing, when they cracked a crib, one of the three remained outside to warn with a whistle, or some other previously concerted signal, his companions inside. But on this occasion, when Jim Baxter opened the simple catch that fastened the woodshed door, and thence gained access to the interior of the house, Wilson Graham and Harry Montgomery followed softly after him. This breach of burglarious custom was probably due to the fact that the Braithwait mansion was in the suburbs, some distance from the road, and several hundred yards from the nearest house.
Once inside, Mr. Graham lighted the gas, and it was then the work of a very few minutes to open the sideboard and subtract therefrom the family silver and place it in a bag brought for that purpose. While this operation was taking place, Montgomery made a tour of the upper rooms.
“I don’t exactly like to trust Harry up-stairs,” remarked Baxter, in a surly tone, after he had securely tied the mouth of the bag. “He is too soft. Like as not he’ll go and git sentimental over a picture or somethin’, or maybe git a-thinkin’ of his mother, and leave half the ornyments.”
Graham, who had just opened a pearl inlaid secretaire, and was possessing himself of numerous valuable trinkets, laughed softly, as he replied:
“I don’t think so, Jim. Only yesterday I gave the boy a good talking to, and he promised to attend strictly to business in future. You must remember he is young, and, unless we give him a chance, how is he to learn? Of course, if there was a young girl in the house—but there isn’t,” he added quickly, observing the wrathful frown on his companion’s face. “I made certain that the only people who sleep in the house are Mr. Braithwait and the housekeeper, who is rather old and nearly deaf; the rest of the family are in Florida for their health. If Braithwait makes a disturbance I reckon Harry can settle him without any sentimental nonsense.”
“I’d settle him,” muttered Baxter, surlily.
“You’re a savage, Jim,” said Graham, reproachfully. “How often have I told you that there is no virtue in violence. Haven’t I convinced you that the easy way is the safe way?”
“Yah! Don’t give me no more of that!” said Baxter, contemptuously. “I ain’t no missionary.”
At this juncture, when the argument threatened to develop into a quarrel, peace was restored by the reappearance of the young burglar, carrying a considerable quantity of jewelry, loose and in boxes, while he softly whistled “M’Appari.”
“Not a bad haul,” observed Graham, turning over the plunder as it lay on the table. “Two watches?”
“They’re them little tickers what the girls carry,” said Baxter, scornfully. “We won’t get two dollars apiece for ’em.”
“Won’t we, though!” said Graham, smiling. “They are gold, and there is an inscription on each; that means a fancy reward, or I don’t know human feminine nature. Two brooches, a necklace—h’m—h’m—very good, indeed.”
“There was no money,” remarked Harry, adjusting his necktie before the mirror, and giving his small blonde mustache a curl.
“I expected as much,” commented Graham, storing away the trinkets in his pockets. “Braithwait has a hundred with him, I dare say, but it isn’t worth the risk. If we kill a man in the city it’s soon forgotten, but in the suburbs it creates a regular panic. The neighbors hire detectives and follow a man all over creation, and you can’t buy them off or compromise the matter—money is no object. That’s why I keep telling Jim—”
“Let up, will ye!” exclaimed Baxter, roughly. “I ain’t killin’ nobody, am I?”
“Certainly not; but I only say——”
“I AIN’T NO MISSIONARY!”
“Say nothin’! where’s the feed box?”
Mr. Graham groaned, and looked at his young accomplice in comical alarm.
“I knew how it would be! Jim, these luncheons will be the ruin of us all some night.”
“Can’t help it,” retorted Baxter, doggedly. “It’s a good four-mile walk from the city and as much back, and we hadn’t anything but a snack for supper. A man’s got to eat, and when I’m hungry——”
“Well, well,” said the other, with a gesture of impatience, “if it must be, it must. Harry, see to the wine, and we will find the substantials. Now, Jim, do be careful of the dishes, and don’t grunt and puff while you’re eating. It’s vulgar.”
Jim Baxter grunted and puffed at this, but made no other reply as he busied himself spreading the contents of the refrigerator on the dining-room table, while Harry from the sideboard produced a decanter of whiskey and three bottles of claret. There was a nice piece of cold ham, some tongue, cheese and pickles, bread and butter, anchovies and sardines, a bottle of olives, and the remains of an oyster pie.
“Quite a lay-out,” remarked Baxter, with a ravenous chuckle. “D’ye remember the house at Barleytown where there wasn’t nothin’ but graham crackers and winegar in the box?”
“I should say so,” exclaimed Graham, with a look of disgust.
“Some people are too mean to live,” returned Baxter, savagely. “Come, shove over that decanter, and let’s pitch in. Fingers, gents, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ but silver knives and forks in this house, unless I take ’em out of the bag, which I ain’t doin’. Here’s luck!”
“Excellent claret, Wilson,” said the young burglar, holding his glass up to the light.
“Genuine Medoc,” returned Graham, with the air of a connoisseur. “That’s the worst of this business; not one gentleman out of ten is a judge of wine. Now, the whiskey——”
“The whiskey’s all right,” interrupted Baxter, curtly. “All whiskey’s 270 good; some’s better’n others, but it’s all good. Blow claret!”
“No style about Jim,” said Harry, with a smile that was half a sneer.
“No, you bet there ain’t,” said Baxter, stolidly. “You oughter call me ‘Old Business,’ ’cause that’s what I am. Pass them pickles.”
It was a most interesting sight. At the head of the table sat Graham, a smooth-faced, well-fed man of forty, who might have passed for a prosperous banker, or a man living on an annuity; to his right reclined, rather than sat, young Montgomery, a spruce and slender fellow, with soft blue eyes, tremulous lips, and light hair neatly brushed; while opposite Graham sat Baxter, a coarse, shaggy, grimy man of uncertain age, with small, shifty eyes, a heavy beard, and a general air of brutal strength. Had it not been for the fact that each man wore his hat, and that the bag of stolen goods lay on one corner of the table, it might have been taken for a small stag party, Graham personating the host to perfection.
The resemblance was lost, however, a moment later. The door leading to the back stairway, directly behind Jim Baxter, opened and revealed a spare man with long blonde whiskers, wearing gold eye-glasses, and a flowered dressing-gown.
Graham was the first to see the intruder, and his exclamation of astonishment caused Baxter to turn his head. In an instant that worthy was on his feet, with a pistol in his hand. Graham was quicker, however, and before his companion could raise the weapon he seized his arm and pushed him aside.
“No violence, Jim,” he said, sternly.
“I warn’t goin’ to shoot,” growled Jim. “I was only goin’ to give him a crack on the head.”
“I won’t have it,” returned Graham, authoritatively. “Sit down.”
Baxter put up his pistol and sat down. Graham then turned to the spare gentleman, who had not moved from the doorway during this episode.
“Mr. Braithwait, I presume?”
“That is my name,” was the composed reply. “Burglars, I presume?”
“The presumption is correct. Will you take a seat?”
Mr. Braithwait sat down opposite young Montgomery, to whom he bowed gravely. There was then a moment of silence, broken by Graham, who had resumed his place at the head of the table.
“I am sorry,” said he, “you have made your appearance, as we can’t very well apologize for our intrusion.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Mr. Braithwait, smiling. “Yet I am rather pleased that I did come, since I always enjoy an unusual experience.”
“Glad you enjoy it,” muttered Baxter; but no one listened to him.
“I was aroused by the reflection of the gaslight in the upper hall,” explained Mr. Braithwait, “and I supposed that the housekeeper had left it burning—she has done so more than once. I came down to extinguish it. 271 I heard voices in this room, and I entered.”
“At the risk of your life,” observed Graham, with a significant glance at Baxter, who had resumed eating.
“I did not think of that,” said Mr. Braithwait, simply. “My life has been threatened so often—you know I am a railroad man—that I give little thought to the risk of an undertaking. Professionals, I suppose?”
He looked at Montgomery, who nodded nonchalantly and lighted a cigarette.
Mr. Braithwait coughed.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said, deprecatingly. “Apart from the looks, I can’t bear cigarette-smoke. There’s a box of very fine Conchas on the sideboard. Thank you”—to Graham—“if you will join me?—thank you again.”
Graham laughed with genuine enjoyment, yet without vulgarity.
“I like you,” he said, frankly, “and I am sorry that, in the line of business——” He waved his cigar at the bag.
“EXCELLENT CLARET,” SAID HARRY.
“Of course, yes, of course, I know that can’t be helped,” said Mr. Braithwait, smoking away easily, “and that’s another reason why I’m glad I came. I suppose you have in that bag some trinkets belonging to my wife and daughters that have a special value as mementos. I hear that you gentlemen are frequently forced to sell your plunder at a simply ruinous sacrifice, and it occurred to me that if we could come to some arrangement—you understand?”
“Perfectly,” answered Graham. “It can be done, and I will open negotiations at an early date. Provided, of course,” he added, severely, “that you play fair.”
“That is understood. As a business man I accept the situation. My loss is your gain.”
At this the youngest burglar broke silence for the first time.
“You are a philosopher,” he said, in a tone of admiration.
“What sensible man is not?” responded Mr. Braithwait, cheerfully. “I suppose it is capable of proof that the accumulated wisdom of the ancients amounts simply to the homely proverb: ‘What can’t be cured must be endured.’ My business is a sort of war, and I have my defeats as well as my victories. I must bear them both with equanimity.”
“So is ours,” said the youngest burglar. “As Horace says in his ‘Epistles’: ‘Cædimur, et totidem plagis consumimus hostem.’”
“Permit me,” returned Mr. Braithwait, “to reply with Catullus: ‘Nil mihi tam valde placeat, Rhamnusia virgo, quod temere invitis suscipiatur heris.’”
Montgomery flushed slightly, and Baxter growled an incoherent protest against the use of foreign languages.
“Of course, I do not claim that I enjoy being robbed,” continued Mr. Braithwait, “but I realize that it is not as bad as it might be. Last week you would have caught me with two thousand 272 in cash in the house, and last month you would have horribly scared my wife and daughters.”
“Not for worlds,” murmured Mr. Montgomery.
“Well, you might have done so—women have such a detestation of robbers, except when they are in jail. The pleasure of your visit—I hinted that I could extract pleasure from adversity—lies in the fact that it brings me in contact with a profession I have previously known only by hearsay. I suppose I may take it for granted you gentlemen are experts?”
“NO VIOLENCE, JIM!”
“We’ve been there before,” said Baxter, coarsely.
“If an experience of fourteen years is any guaranty, then I am an expert,” said Graham, with a certain air of pride in his tones. “Our friend there,” nodding at Baxter, “has, I believe, been in the profession since childhood; while Mr.”—indicating Montgomery with his cigar—“you’ll excuse my not mentioning names?—is a beginner. A skilled workman, I admit, but this is only his second year.”
“I don’t wonder that he”—and Mr. Braithwait glanced slightly at Baxter,—“remains in the business, but that you should follow the vocation for fourteen years surprises me greatly.”
“Indeed?” queried Graham, with perceptible stiffness. “Why?”
“Because you appear to be a sensible man, and I should not think the business would pay. What is your annual income as a burglar?”
“On an average, I should say three thousand a year.”
“And you are an expert! I receive six thousand a year, and I am only Assistant General Freight Agent, and have been but twelve years in the business. Then I may infer that these two gentlemen make much less than three thousand?”
“I’ve seen the week when I didn’t make hod-carrier’s wages,” growled Baxter, who had now finished eating, and was preparing to smoke a black wooden pipe.
“You’re not so sensible as I thought,” rejoined Mr. Braithwait, frankly. “I can easily imagine a man exposing himself to dreadful dangers and cruel privations when there is a great prize in view. An explorer like Stanley, a pioneer like Pike or Fremont, a conqueror like Cortez, or a revolutionist like Washington, could well brave hardship and peril when success meant wealth as well as the plaudits of their fellow men. The early settlers of this and every other country, the gold hunters of ’49, the pirates who ravaged the seas, all were actuated by the hope of a fortune at one swoop; but to risk prison, to say nothing of life itself, for a day laborer’s wages!——”
“But,” spoke up Montgomery, quickly, “there is fame, if not fortune.”
“Pardon me. In what way?”
“In the usual way. Who has not heard of Hickey, the man who cracked twenty banks before they tripped him up; Peters, the New England cracksman; Bronthers, the Chicago expert?”
“I hope,” said Mr. Braithwait, gently, “I won’t offend you when I say I never heard of those gentlemen.”
“Is it possible!”
“Honestly, I never did.”
“You have surely heard of Red Leary?”
“I can’t recall his name.”
“George Post? Louis Ludlum? Pete McCartney? Miles Ogle?”
“Don’t know them.”
“Perhaps,” sarcastically, “you don’t read the papers?”
“Yes, I do, and I have a good memory. I can say without boasting that I have on my tongue’s end all the professional, literary and artistic names in America, and many in Europe. In my library I have many biographies, but none of which a burglar is the theme, nor do I recall the name of a celebrated criminal, unless,” pleasantly, “he has been hanged.”
“Yet there are famous names in our profession,” persisted the young burglar, somewhat sullenly.
“Oh, yes,” admitted Mr. Braithwait, taking a small drink of claret. “Literature has preserved Claude Duval, Jack Sheppard, Dick Turpin—all hung—Fra Diavolo, who was shot, and even our own James and Younger boys; and I have heard vaguely of one Billy the Kid somewhere out West. In a general sense, literature and the drama are saturated with bandits, brigands and outlaws, sometimes comical, sometimes heroic, but you will excuse me if I maintain that you stand on a different footing. Those fellows always had a poetical backing; somebody or something had driven them to their illegal calling, but you can scarcely make a similar claim.”
“WHAT IS YOUR ANNUAL INCOME AS A BURGLAR?”
“I don’t know about that,” protested Baxter, doggedly. “Who’d give me a job?”
“Did you ever try?”
“No; nor I ain’t goin’ to!”
“As I supposed. Honest work is plentiful, therefore you are absolutely without excuse. No one has usurped your name and fortune, stolen your ancestral home or intended bride; neither have you been outlawed for your political or religious beliefs, or unjustly accused of crime.”
The big burglar looked extremely blank at this pointed address, and took a grumbling drink of whiskey. Mr. Graham promptly came to his companion’s relief.
“You have made out a prima facie case, as the lawyers say, but the fact remains that there is a fascination in the life we lead, and some romance. 274 There is mystery about it, for one thing, and danger for another. Then we certainly have the sympathy of a certain class of society, when we are prisoners.”
“Is not the sympathy to which you allude confined to murderers, especially those who kill their wives?”
“As a rule, yes,” admitted Graham; “but the people, who have sympathy for murderers, generally have such a superabundance that they can spare some for us. I have known burglars to receive six bouquets in a single day, and from real ladies, too.”
“I am afraid,” said Mr. Braithwait, with a smile, “that the sympathy extended with such small discretion has little market value. But let us pass that by and glance at the disagreeable side of your profession. For instance, this night you have walked from the city, the nearest point of which is three miles.”
“We come four,” growled Baxter.
“Well, four; and four back is eight. It could not have been a pleasant walk, as the night is cloudy and the roads are heavy from recent rains.”
“There warn’t no choice,” said Baxter, savagely. “We had to walk.”
“There it is,” said Mr. Braithwait, triumphantly, “you had to walk. Now, I don’t have to walk; I ride in the train or my carriage at any hour of the day or night. No honest man has to walk, if he has money—and, of course, you have.”
“The point,” admitted Mr. Graham, reluctantly, “is well taken.”
“I feel certain of it. Nor is this the only instance in which your pleasure is marred by fear. The very fame for which you strive is a constant bar to your enjoyment. If you take lodging at a hotel you are ejected; you may be refused admittance to any respectable theatre; in any place of entertainment, except the very lowest, you cannot make a new acquaintance for fear he may be a detective plotting your capture; you are compelled to eat, drink, and sleep among vile associates and vulgar surroundings; and all for a pitiful three thousand a year! By heaven! it is worth thirty!”
“You use strong language, sir,” exclaimed the youngest burglar, rising and pacing the floor in an agitated way.
“I do,” admitted the master of the house, “because my business sense is outraged by your stupidity.”
“Stupidity!” echoed Graham, sharply.
“That is the word,” returned Mr. Braithwait, sternly. “Your profession requires acuteness, courage, skill, caution, and endurance. Gentlemen, these are admirable traits, and with them you might be anything but burglars. The banking institutions, railways, private and civic corporations, are eager for such men; they pay them large wages and grant them great privileges. The governments, State and National, want such men, and are looking for them, while they are skulking through city alleys or walking miry roads at midnight. Gentlemen, with all your qualifications, you lack the one essential to success—common sense.”
“Permit me,” said Graham, leaning over the table and speaking with much force, “to call your attention to the fact that we are bright enough to keep society eternally on the defensive.”
“Granted,” said Mr. Braithwait.
“Small in numbers though we are, we necessitate the employment of a police force in every village, town, and city in the Union, to say nothing of special constables and private watchmen. We force every bank and corporation to sink thousands in costly safes, locks, and other safeguards, and no householder is ever free from apprehension on our account. We are one against many, so to speak, but we make the many tremble! Could we exercise this power without brains?”
“Ay! could we?” supplemented Montgomery, with flashing eyes.
“Granted again,” said Mr. Braithwait, cheerfully, “but quite foreign to the point at issue. Society is terrorized through its inertness, and when society enters on an active warfare you gentlemen cannot make a show of resistance. And even under our present policy of passive resistance there is but one thing that will save a criminal from the eventual clutch of the law, and that is—death.”
The youngest burglar turned white and Baxter cursed softly.
“You cannot, with all your brightness, commit a crime without leaving a trace,” went on Mr. Braithwait, impassively, “and every modern appliance is a stumbling-block in your path. The modern bank safe, equipped with time-locks, is impregnable; the electric light has made our streets as safe by night as day; and the telegraph has lengthened the arm of justice until it encircles the globe.”
“And yet,” retorted Graham, with a slight sneer, “you have been robbed.”
“And yet I have been robbed,” repeated Mr. Braithwait, calmly. “Without interfering sadly with my comfort and ease, I cannot make my house a bank or surround myself with an army of watchmen. And I don’t like dogs. So I have been robbed. Yet”—Mr. Braithwait looked Mr. Graham quietly in the eye—“yet I am not entirely defenceless.”
“Hello!” said Baxter, breathing hard. “Have you been up to somethin’?”
“You shall judge whether I have rightly accused you of lack of common sense. Before attacking this house, did you make yourself acquainted with the surroundings?”
“I did,” answered Graham, confidently.
“Do you know that I am a railroad man?”
“Certainly.”
“Did you notice a wire running through the woods at the rear of my house?”
“No!” cried Graham, violently.
“A strange oversight on your part. Very stupid. It is a telephone wire, and leads from my chamber above to my office in the city. Now for the application of my remarks. From the moment of your entrance I was aware of your movements, and instantly explained the situation to the night operator. He, of course, notified the police——”
“And while you kept us engaged in conversation—” cried Graham, advancing threateningly.
“The police were coming on a special train to my assistance,” said Mr. Braithwait, taking a second cigar.
“Damn you!” exclaimed Baxter, threateningly.
“Stop!” cried Graham, interposing. “We have no time for that. Let us run!”
“Don’t!” said the host, warningly. “The house is surrounded, and you will certainly be shot. Accept the situation, as I did. You gentlemen have been my guests this evening, and I have been highly entertained. May I hope that the pleasure has been mutual?”
Before anyone could answer, the door leading to the woodshed was thrown open, and four policemen appeared on the threshold. Montgomery sank helplessly into a chair. Baxter made a dash for the door, while Graham remained impassive, but all were alike handcuffed expeditiously.
“Sir,” said Graham, taking a cigar from the box, “our misfortune is directly due to the uncontrollable appetite of our companion, but none the less I congratulate you upon your ingenuity.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Braithwait. “Did I not tell you that you were stupid?”
Mr. Graham bowed.
“You have taught us a lesson,” he said gravely. “I think it is time to abandon the business.”
“Well, I’ll be——” Baxter gasped, and could say no more.
“We are disgraced!” exclaimed the youngest burglar, bitterly.
Mr. Braithwait waved his hand.
“I am sleepy,” he said, with a yawn. “Gentlemen, good-night; I will see you again—in court.”
