And, by the way, speaking of Mr. Ellsler and the elder Booth, I am reminded that I have in my possession a letter from the latter to the former. It is written in a rather cramped hand, that carries the address and the marks of the red wafers, as that was before the appearance of envelopes, and it informs Mr. Ellsler that he, "Junius Brutus Booth, will play a star engagement of one week for the sum of—" how many dollars? if it were not unguessable, I should insist upon your guessing, but that would not be fair, so here it is—"for the sum of three hundred dollars," and wants to know how many and what plays he is desired to do, that he may select his wardrobe.
Think of it—the mighty father of our Edwin asking but $300 for a week of such acting as he could do, which, if this bright, light-hearted boy was so much like him, must have been brilliant indeed.
One morning, going on the stage where a group were talking with John Wilkes, I heard him say: "No! no, no! there's but one Hamlet to my mind, that's my brother Edwin. You see, between ourselves, he is Hamlet, melancholy and all!"
That was an awful time when the dread news came to us. We were in Columbus. We had been horrified by the great crime at Washington. My room-mate and I had from our small earnings bought some black cotton, at a tripled price, as all the black material in the city was not sufficient to meet the demand, and as we tacked it about our one window, a man, passing, told us the assassin had been discovered, and that he was the actor Booth. Hattie laughed so she nearly swallowed the tack that, girl-like, she held between her lips, and I, after a laugh, told him it was a poor subject for a jest, and we went in. There was no store in Columbus then where playbooks were sold, and as Mr. Ellsler had a very large and complete stage library, he frequently lent his books to us, and we would hurriedly copy out our lines and return the book for his own use. On that occasion he was going to study his part first and then leave the play with us as he passed going home. We heard his knock; I was busy pressing a bit of stage finery. Hattie opened the door, and then I heard her exclaiming: "Why—why—what?" I turned quickly. Mr. Ellsler was coming slowly into the room. He is a very dark man, but he was perfectly livid then, his lips even were blanched to the whiteness of his cheeks. His eyes were dreadful, they were so glassy and seemed so unseeing. He was devoted to his children, and all I could think of as likely to bring such a look upon his face was disaster to one of them, and I cried, as I drew a chair to him, "What is it? Oh, what has happened to them?"
He sank down, he wiped his brow, he looked almost stupidly at me, then, very faintly, he said: "You—haven't—heard—anything?"
Like a flash Hattie's eyes and mine met; we thought of the supposed ill-timed jest of the stranger—my lips moved wordlessly. Hattie stammered: "A man, he lied though, said that Wilkes Booth—but he did lie—didn't he?" and in the same faint voice Mr. Ellsler answered, slowly: "No—no! he did not lie—it's too true!"
Down fell our heads and the waves of shame and sorrow seemed fairly to o'erwhelm us, and while our sobs filled the little room, Mr. Ellsler rose and laid two playbooks on the table. Then, while standing there, staring into space, I heard his far, faint voice, saying: "So great, so good a man destroyed, and by the hand of that unhappy boy! my God! my God!" He wiped his brow again and slowly left the house, apparently unconscious of our presence.
When we resumed our work—the theatre had closed because of the national calamity—many a painted cheek showed runnels made by bitter tears, and one old actress, with quivering lips, exclaimed: "One woe doth tread upon another's heel, so fast they follow!" but with no thought of quoting, and God knows the words expressed the situation perfectly.
Mrs. Ellsler, whom I never saw shed a tear for any sickness, sorrow, or trouble of her own, shed tears for the mad boy who had suddenly become the assassin of God's anointed—the great, the blameless Lincoln!
We crept about, quietly, everyone winced at the sound of the overture; it was as if one dead lay within the walls, one who belonged to us.