The Irish standard., 1894-08-11
ing when he il dead save in the kindly
recollections of those Who witnessed his

/
recollections Of those Who witnessed his
performances. After his death they en-
shrine him in their hearts and speak q
him in words of love; but when those
hearts have ceased to beat, and tongues
can no longer inter loving phrases, the
glory Of the actor hes departed and he
becomes tradi ton.
The place which John Mccullough
won for himself in the affections Of his
admiring countrymen was as conspicu-
GUS as 1t was unique. Great.hearted
himself, he was naturally beloved in
great-hearted America. Nearly nine
years have passed since his noble spirit
freed itself from it's mortal tenament, but
time has only served to fan the fame of
love in the souls of those who knew him.
The career of John Mccullough, from
the time he was poor, friendless, unlet-
tered boy until he became one OF the
foremost tragedisns of the age, was of so
marvellous a character that it command
ed respect ard admiration. His hosts of
admirers are SO familiar with his great
achievements that no word of mine is
needed to refresh their memories. I
have been asked to write of the Swallowed
phase of this wonderful mans career; of
those dread days which led up to the
end.
John Mccullough was a player of
tragedies, but his own life eliminated in
tragedy which, though bloodless, was
more awful in it's character than any he
portrayed. A tragedy wherein human
body is sacrificed lie horrible spectacle
to contemplate. Poor Mccullough sac
rifce was still more CHASTITY, for his was
tragedy of the mind. Insanity claimed
him as it's victim, touching him at first
in 80 slight and almost playful fashion
that it could hardly be regarded serious
ly, but continuing in more assertive
manner to clutch the unfortunate actor
in it's spectral grasp, until finally his
sturdy intellect tottered and fell from it's
throne 1t was sight that compelled a
alton to shed tears Of sympathy; but to
| us whose fortune it was to be near this
great and good man, it was an event so
intensely pitiful that it will never be for
gotten. ....
Haworth's description of McCullough's
last public performance in McVicker's
Theatre, Chicago, Sept. %, 1884, is re-
plete with we'll moulded expressions and
drama ic touches. Here is portion Of
the sad happenings on that never .to-be'
forgotten night:
The "Governor" entered the theatre
quite late, looking strangely dazed. He
was dressed about 8:15 o'clock, and COM
| menced his final public performance.
The piece ran without blemish until
the second act, where the brothers met
in the arena, Speratacus recognizing
Phasarius. They embrace at certain
cue which Mccullough gave me. l
rushed to him and threw my arms about
his neck. To my amazement he did not
respond by word or action. looked up
to see what was the matter. The tears
were in his dear old eyes. He was trem-
bling like leaf from head to foot, and in
accents broken by his EN- otion, he clasped
me about the neck, and said: "For Gods
sake Joe, give mo the ine" I did so.
We finished the scene for which we were
accustomed toreceive five and six recalls;
on this occasion we were given only two.
The "Governor" turned to me as we came
off, and said: "They" (referring to the
audience) fare treating us gloriously TO-
night
not remember the speeches, and, to keep
the sceue up, spoke his lines and my
own. He looked at me in helpless sort
OF a way for some time, then said cloud
enough for the audience to hear" My boy
you are speaking my lines"
| In the same number of Donahoe's is O
sketch of Haworth's career by George
H. Brennan. The writer makes men.
ton of tho loving regard which McCul-
Tough felt for his brilliant young leading
man, and furnishes an illustratian OF his
sentiment by quoting the following letter,
which the star wrote to Haworth in re-
spouse to a communication asking his
advice concerning an offer from Dion
Boucicault to create the leading part in
''Robert Emmett"
My Dear Joe: I received your sweet
letter the other morning and thank you
for it. Never mind Mr.. Boucicsult's
offer for Robert Emmett" You must
write your epitaph on something higher
than that. We will write our names on
the immortal pages of Shakespeare. They
look better there and live q good deal
longer. Let me guide you up the dark,
steep path to glory. There are none
that can follow you. Yours always,
JOHN MCCULLoUG.
Longest River