The Washington times., 1895-05-19
EDWIN BOOTH.
A MEMORY.

existence we are able To adjust the diff
ferences of opinion accustomed by lifes
noisonle evolution.
Has man to await death to Obtain JUS
tice? If he be insignificant we can locate
him living, because he makes too little noise
to interrupt the task. But with a great
man it's another matter
Edwin Booth was great; born great. No
act of his gIowed with greatness, nor dill auy
act dim it, His life became rounded,
smoothed, polished, chaste, fla wIess; and
his memory is perpetual, for which he never
strove beyond honorable and mauly dis
charge OF duty =
Looking into tn efaca or his last Portrait,
/ remember the circumstances under which
il was made. MIR. Booth realized his days
were numbered when Ee stood before the
camera, calm, placid, serene; dear,
lovable man, patient, long suffering. His
heart brushed away the ashes OF youth s am
bitiOn, cleared the lrCarth as Al were, for
Death to come iii and sit.
The las portrait OF MI Booth was made in
Baltimore, his loyhood home where lie at
tended school. where he made earliest and
lifelong friends, where be began TO WOO
dainty Mary DcY!in, where he iaid his dead
to rest, where he came year after year Ikea
pilgrim, with shaking head and fearful eye,
mourning departed days.
On one of the last days of MIR. Booth S last
professional visit To his native city he was
walking up Charles street with his Doyhood
friend and schoomate, W. L. c. Harrison,
when the latter said:
Ned come across the street here and let
Cummins make picture OF yoururme?''
Without lifting eyes from the pavement
Mr.. Booth said in his deep, rich voice:
why, William, you We plenty o portraits
of mel But, if you wish it.
Then he gave sigh aud mounted the
stains TO the studio The picture las made.
IL fatigued him greatly he was So weak, SO
| feeble, SO exhausted
Later in the day Mr. Booth sent the follow
ing note to Mr.. Harrison:
Chase will hand you a box for yourself
aud family for this evening. / shall look
for you. Thine, Edwin
At another time he wrote his friend
Harrison:
81 hear old mau Jamson, who used to
| lead the orchestra at the Holiday Street
| Theaier is sick and destitute. Hunt him
| up, please, and il he is in need give him the
enclosed" The letter contained a check
| for 500.
In an another letter he writes
Don't take the trouble to meet me at
| the train Chase has everything arranged
| for my comfort. Come TO the hotel and
see me Sunday evening. want TO have
| a talk with you."
Another says:
Yes, I received the picture from Cum
mius, and Edwina has one hung on the
wall, together with hundred others of
| her dad
Again be writes:
Somebody in Baltimore is bothering me
| with begging letters. / send you one of
| them. See who the poor devil is, aud what
| ne wants"
These are but few Of hundreds OF little
| tokens, jotted upon scraps OF paper, folded
| with beut corners, and they are held by
friends as fibers of affection which ran
| through Mr. Booths life, aud sproutcd into
the lives of those he held dear. Mr..
Booths life was not OF words. Few they
| were, rare, quaint, odd phrases, borne in
ones mind as one wears a jewel, lovingly.
He was not eccentric, but quiet, tboug htfill,
dreamy bis mind unchanging inits rhythm,
his utterances rhyming sylianes 10 be
cherished. He did not trust nor love
quickly, but, pledged, he loved and trusted
| to the eud.
How unconscious his art? Unable TO ever
be other than his best, that best varied, for
he was emotional, and emotions are uneven.
Mr. Booth never acted badly, but he often
| rendered a role he had done Infinitely
better. Yet, he was so CONSCIENTIOUS in un-
eveuness who could fail to enjoy even the
lapses of his art.
What measureless charityi None so poor
he would not 90 reverence for loyalty OF
endeavor. If an actor did badly to Booth he
was worthy some praise for honesty
of intent. Never the Il am holier than
thoul" Never scorn nor slur.
Asked he for au old comIade? 1t was to
learu his circumstances; could lie serve him?
Spoke he of an old stage fellow? It was
with a remembrance OF something pleasant
concerning him.
There was about Mr. Booths face q web
of lines and a pail of SORROW. Yet, no
vague woes haunted his closing years.
His friends could not wholly understand
the solemn vIsage and the tEequent signs.
Even his dearly loved child kIWw not every
thing. But from the corridors of memory
voices were ever calling to him aud the
rustling of the chaplets of the tomb sung
in his dreams of approaching years. He
always heard a womaus sweet voice
whispering across tlr river, and he always
listened imently to the voice or his lost
Mary. A furrow came upon his brow each
year for her. And then, for the younger
brother. For the rash youth. SphinX-liEe
the grief Patiently he waited Tor public
sentiment to subside. How serenely silent
Father, mother, brothers, sisters, wife
all the branches faIlenI Nothing remained
but the twig grated of his own fIeshl
Though the world Numbered appreciation,
nothing filled the void, nothing stilled the
WALL
Auditors beheId MFR. Booth upon the stage,
encountered him on the street, lima gined
him austere and suIep. They saw not
the curtains of sorrow fallen behind him,
knew nothing of the emotions which moved
him, understood not the character of the
man, nor the impulses of the artist. He
went through life apart from the masses
| beheld, but unknown. He bad no dis
like to miugle with people; people did
not know how to approach him.
81 am just going out to the cemetery
| with Mears, " he wrote the last time he was
In his native city. Ever to the city of the
deadi mass of luxurious flowers, at
hours silent sitting above the sod back
to the busy city aud the brilliant play
house!
There were poetry and comedy in Mr..
Booth; no tragedy of his own devising de-
spite q lifetime's infliction of private
tragedies and long career of mimic enact
ment. Unto his chosen friends he opened
the shutters ofhssouI, where noble thoughts
were sunshine and gentle mirth swayed to
laughter with the ease of a lettering ZEPHYR
The clay is gonei Earth has recove red
her owni But bis wondrous soul, the soul
OF the immortal Edwin Booth, black bro wed
son of the South, with Gipsy- Je wish fac
| and eyes of polished darkness, will remain
forever memory
| Not mine
Not yours
| OURSi
/ WILLIAM ALBERT LEWIS.