St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1886-07-05
WILKES BOOTHS BROTHER.
The Strange Story ola Tramp in Gin
cinnatf,
In Which He Claims Relationship
With the Booths.
Special TO the Globe.


police reporter, the other night made one of
/ those curious finds which his kind is given
to turning up every now and then. In
PEELED by the curiosity of an idle moment.
he went down into the tramp room" of
Hammond street station house, where scores
of vagabonds flock for a nights shelter,
some of them with such regularity
that they have come to regard
the place as their home. On
a bench in one corner lay an old man about
whose form chung an air that seemed
superior to his surroundings, and attracted
attention. The young man addressed him
lightly with, Hello, old boy, what's your
name?" as he had asked half dozen
tramps before him. The old man lifted his
ander Booth" ''Any relation to John
Wilkes Booth?" banteringly rejoined the
other. The old man glanced keenly at the
questioner, then he rose to seat, put his
feet down squarely on the floor IN front.
Strengthened his bent old frame, and said
quietly, looking straight into the young
mans eyes: Eyes; he was my brother"
The reporter dropped his bantering tone.
Here was either an item beyond his ex-
pectation or the vagary of liar or luna
tic. He sat down to get what he
might of the old mans story.
The latter was not very communica-
tive at the best, and when, his suspicious
being aroused, he found he was talking
TO A NEWSPAPER MAN,
he incontinently laid down again on his
bench, and, saying he was tired out, re-
fused to talk further. But he had said
enough to prompt further effort, and a
gradual unbending of the old mans re-
serve, brought about by assidious attempts
toward making his acquaintance at sundry
and divers times afterward, revealed at
least the outlin es of his story, which ran
about as follows: 81 was born slave in
Baltimore, where my mother was the slave
and the mistress of JRnius Brutus Booth,
the great actor, before ne was married. /
grew up and was his son. I grew up as a
slave in his family and all the neighbor-
hood knew l was my masters child. After
he was married and had other sons I was
the nurse or body servant of the boys.
Edwin Junius Booth and John Wilkes. L
was several years older than any Of them.
l was a half-grown boy when John Wilkes
was born, and 1 was a middle-aged
man when the war came, and
l was given my freedom and left
Baltimore" The old man spoke quietly,
but with assurance of his origin, and told
several little stories of the Booth family
and the childhood of the boys, of whom he
spoke in the most respectful terms, and for
whom he seemed to have the most pro-
found respect. He has always read every
thing he could find about them, and, though
not at all inclined to talk about his life and
his origin, once the career of Edwin
Booth is mentioned, he fairly glows with
enthusiastic admiration for the talents of
man he claims as brother. Of John
Wilkes Booth he says he was wiiful and
impetuous yet frank and generous-on the
whole the best Of the boys.
OF THE ASSASSINATION
of Lincoln and John Wilkes Booths plotting
for it he thankfully, he says, knows
nothing, as he had not seen Wilkes for
some time before that time Alexander
Booth is an octoroon, with only traces of
African blood perceptible in his proud,
clean-cut features, apparently at least
65 years old. His form is bent and
shrnnken with age and adversely. for
since he was emancipated he has seen only
hard times. His form is slight, and his
hands remarkably small. while his features
are almost grey in their outline, and his
resemblance to Edwin Booth is so clearly
marked that it is hard to resist convic-
ton that he tells the truth when he claims
to be brother. The old man drifted into
Cincinnati some months ago with other
fotsam and jetsam of his kind. For years
he had followed the calling of deck hand
on Mississippi river steamers and came here
from New Orleans. He earns scanty and
precarious living, picking up odd jobs of
carrying coal, sweeping walks and the like.
His idle time. of which he has plenty, for
the ambition to do more than enough to
keep soul and BODY together seems to have,
departed, and is spent mostly on the levee
with his pipe. He has no companions, for
he holds himself high above both the ne
groes and the white trash," as he con-
temptuously calls them. At night he
creeps up the hill and into the basement of
Hammond street station and curls himself
up to sleep on bench in what has been
known to the officers and habitues as ''Old
Alexis corner" Moving silently among
the busy scenes of great city he lives a
life of solitude wrapped in the memory of a
great name, to which he knows, though
unacknowledged by the world about him,
he has right.