for many years, leading a life of seclusion, which he passed in
meditation and study. His strong literary inclination now vented itself
in efforts which were in every way characteristic of the man. He wrote
numerous wild tales, the most of which he burned, but a few of which
found their way into the newspapers and magazines of the country. They
were full of a wild gloominess, and were told with a power which proved
that their author was no ordinary man. Few, however, dreamed that they
were the work of the pale recluse of Salem, for he led a life of such
strict seclusion that not even the members of his own family could tell
with certainty what he did. His days were passed in his chamber, and at
night he took long walks alone on the sea-shore or into the woods. He
shunned all society, and seemed to find companionship only in nature,
and in the creations of his fancy. Yet he was not a morose or unhappy
man. On the contrary, he seems to have been a very happy one, full of
generous and kindly feelings, and finding only a strange pleasure where
others would have found bitterness and cynicism. Like the melancholy
Jacques, he might have said of his pensive shyness, "It is a melancholy
of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many
objects; ... which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous
sadness."

In 1837 he collected his published tales, which, while they had charmed
a few cultivated readers, had scarcely been noticed by the masses, and
published them in a volume to which he gave the name of "Twice-Told
Tales." The book was well received by the public, but its circulation
was limited, although Mr. Longfellow warmly welcomed it in the "North
American Review," and pronounced it the "work of a man of genius and a
true poet." Still it was neglected by the masses, and Hawthorne says
himself that he was at that time "the most unknown author in America."
There was more truth in this assertion than lies on its face, for the
people who read the book supposed that the name of Nathaniel Hawthorne
was merely a pseudonyme, and declared that as Nathaniel was evidently
selected by the author because of the fondness of the old-time Puritans
for Scripture names, so Hawthorne was chosen by him as expressive of one
of the most beautiful features of the New England landscape. The merits
of the book were too genuine, however, for it to lack admirers, and the
small class which greeted its first appearance with delight gradually
increased, and finally the demand for the book became so great that in
1842 Hawthorne ventured to issue a second series of "Twice-Told Tales,"
the most of which had appeared in the "Democratic Review," then edited
by his friend O'Sullivan. Of these volumes, Mr. George William Curtis
says: "They are full of glancing wit, of tender satire, of exquisite
natural description, of subtle and strange analysis of human life,
darkly passionate and weird."

In 1838 George Bancroft was Collector of the Port of Boston, and, having
been deeply impressed with the genius displayed in the first volume of
"Twice-Told Tales," sought out Hawthorne and offered him a place in the
Boston Custom-House as weigher and gauger. Hawthorne accepted the
position, and at once entered upon his duties. Leaving his solitude and
the weird phantoms that had been his companions for so long, he passed
immediately into the busy bustle of the great New England port. It was a
new world to him, and one which interested him keenly. His duties kept
him constantly on the wharf, and threw him daily into contact with
captains and sailors from all parts of the world. He became a great
favorite with these, and they told him many a strange story of their
adventures and of the sights they had seen in distant lands, and these,
as they were listened to by him, took each a distinctive form in his
imagination. Not less interesting to him were the men among whom his
duties threw him. They were more to him than the ordinary beings that
thronged the streets of the great city, for they had been victorious in
many a battle with the mighty deep, and they had looked on the wondrous
sights of the far-off lands of the Old World. Queer people they were,
too, each a Captain Cuttle or a Dirk Hatteraick in himself, and many an
hour did the dreamy writer spend with them, apparently listening to
their rude stories, but really making keen studies of the men
themselves.

He discharged his duties faithfully in the Boston Custom-House,
performing each with an exactness thoroughly characteristic of him,
until 1841, when the accession of President Harrison to power obliged
him to withdraw to make way for a Whig.

From the Custom-house he went to live at Brook Farm as one of that
singular community of dreamers and enthusiasts which was to inaugurate a
new era of men and things in the world, but which came at last to a most
inglorious termination. He was thrown into intimate association here
with many who have since become prominent in our literary history, and
for some of them conceived a warm attachment. He took his share of the
farm labors, to which he was very partial, but remained at the community
less than a year, and then returned to Boston. In his "Blithedale
Romance" he has given us a picture of the life at Brook Farm, though he
denies having sketched his characters from his old associates at that
place.

In 1843 he married Miss Peabody, a member of a family distinguished for
their various achievements in the world of letters. Besides being an
artist of no mean pretensions, she was herself a writer of considerable
promise, though her writings had no other critics than her family and
most intimate friends. "Her husband shrank from seeing her name in the
reviews, and in this, as in all other things, his feelings were sacredly
respected by her." She was a lady of rare strength of character and
great beauty, and was in every respect a fitting wife for such a man.
The twenty-one years of their wedded life make up a period of unbroken
happiness to both. Hawthorne was very proud of his wife, and in his
quiet way never failed to show it. Their friends often remarked that
the wedded life of this happy pair seemed like one long courtship.

Hawthorne took his bride on his wedding-day to a new home. He had rented
the old parsonage adjoining the battle-field of Concord, from whose
windows the pastor of those heroic days had watched his congregation
fight the British in his yard. It was a gloomy and partially dilapidated
"Old Manse," and doubtless Hawthorne had chosen it because of its quaint
aspect. He has himself drawn the picture of it, and given us an
exquisite collection of "Mosses" from it. It lay back from the main
road, and was approached by an avenue of ancient black-ash trees, whose
deep shade added much to the quiet appearance of "the gray front of the
old parsonage." It was just the home for him, and here passed three of
the happiest years of his life. Here he wrote his "Mosses from an Old
Manse," and here his first child was born.

The life he led at Concord was very secluded. He avoided the society of
the village people, who sought in vain to penetrate his retirement and
satisfy their curiosity concerning him. But they were disappointed. He
lived on in his deep seclusion, happy in having his wife and child with
him, but caring for no other society. During the day he remained in his
study, which overlooked the old battle-field, or, passing down the lawn
at the back of the house to the river, spent the afternoon in rowing on
the pretty stream. At night he would take long walks, or row up the
river to the bridge by which the British crossed the stream, and enjoy
his favorite luxury--a bath. The village people were full of curiosity
to know something about him, for he was absolutely unknown to them; and
any one who understands what the curiosity of a New England villager is
can readily imagine the feelings with which the people of Concord
regarded their mysterious neighbor. They were never satisfied, however,
for Hawthorne shrank from prying eyes with indescribable horror. He kept
his ways, and compelled them to let him alone. He could easily avoid the
town in his walks or his rides upon the river, and he was rarely seen
passing through the streets unless compelled to do so by matters which
needed his attention in Concord.

Yet the "Old Manse" was not without its guests. Hawthorne was a man of
many friends, and these came often to see him. They were men after his
own heart, and among them were Emerson, Ellery, Channing, Thoreau,
Whittier, Longfellow, and George William Curtis. The last-named has left
us this pleasant picture of our author in the midst of his friends:

"During Hawthorne's first year's residence in Concord, I had driven up
with some friends to an esthetic tea at Mr. Emerson's. It was in the
winter, and a great wood-fire blazed upon the hospitable hearth. There
were various men and women of note assembled, and I, who listened
attentively to all the fine things that were said, was for some time
scarcely aware of a man who sat upon the edge of the circle, a little
withdrawn, his head slightly thrown forward upon his breast, and his
bright eyes clearly burning under his black brow. As I drifted down the
stream of talk, this person who sat silent as a shadow looked to me as
Webster might have looked had he been a poet--a kind of poetic Webster.
He rose and walked to the window, and stood quietly there for a long
time, watching the dead white landscape. No appeal was made to him,
nobody looked after him, the conversation flowed as steadily on as if
every one understood that his silence was to be respected. It was the
same thing at table. In vain the silent man imbibed esthetic tea.
Whatever fancies it inspired did not flower at his lips. But there was a
light in his eye which assured me that nothing was lost. So supreme was
his silence, that it presently engrossed me to the exclusion of every
thing else. There was brilliant discourse, but this silence was much
more poetic and fascinating. Fine things were said by the philosophers,
but much finer things were implied by the dumbness of this gentleman
with heavy brows and black hair. When presently he rose and went,
Emerson, with the 'slow, wise smile' that breaks over his face, like day
over the sky, said: 'Hawthorne rides well his horse of the night.'"
Later on, after he knew him better, Curtis added to this picture, "His
own sympathy was so broad and sure, that, although nothing had been said
for hours, his companion knew that not a thing had escaped his eye, nor
had a single pulse of beauty in the day, or scene, or society failed to
thrill his heart. In this way his silence was most social. Every thing
seemed to have been said."

At the close of the third year of his residence at Concord, Hawthorne
was obliged to give up the "Old Manse," as the owner was coming back to
occupy it. The Democrats had now come into power again under Mr. Polk,
and Mr. Bancroft was in the Cabinet. The Secretary, mindful of his
friend, procured him the post of Surveyor of the Port of Salem, and
Hawthorne went with his little family to live in his native town. The
Salem Custom-house was a sleepy sort of a place, and his duties were
merely nominal. He had an abundance of leisure time, and from that
leisure was born his masterpiece, "The Scarlet Letter"--the most
powerful romance which ever flowed from an American author's pen. It was
published in 1850, and in the preface to it the reader will find an
excellent description of the author's life in Salem. He held his
position in that place for three years, and then the election of General
Taylor obliged him to retire.

He withdrew to the Berkshire Hills, and took a house in the town of
Lenox. It was a little red cottage, and was situated on the shore of a
diminutive lake called the Stockbridge Bowl. He was now the most famous
novelist in America, and had thousands of admirers in the Old World. His
"Scarlet Letter" had won him fame, and had brought his earlier works
more prominently before the public than ever.

During his residence at Lenox, he wrote "The House of the Seven Gables,"
which was published in Boston in 1851. It was not less successful than
the "Scarlet Letter," though it was not so finished a piece of
workmanship.

Yet, though so famous, he was not freed from the trials incident to the
first years of an author's life. Mr. Tuckerman says of him at this time:
"He had the fortitude and pride, as well as the sensitiveness and
delicacy, of true and high genius. Not even his nearest country
neighbors knew aught of his meager larder or brave economies. He never
complained, even when editors were dilatory in their remuneration and
friends forgetful of their promises. When the poor author had the money,
he would buy a beefsteak for dinner; when he had not, he would make a
meal of chestnuts and potatoes. He had the self-control and the probity
to fulfill that essential condition of self-respect, alike for those who
subsist by brain work and those who inherit fortunes--he always lived
within his income; and it was only by a kind of pious fraud that a trio
of his oldest friends occasionally managed to pay his rent." His friend
and publisher, Mr. Ticknor, "received and invested the surplus earnings
of the absentee author when American Consul at Liverpool, and had
obtained from Hawthorne a promise on the eve of his departure for his
post, ... that he would send him all he could spare from his official
income, to be carefully nursed into a competence for his family. Never
was better advice given or wiser service performed by publisher to
author. The investments thus made became the means of comfort to the
returned writer in the maturity of his years and his fame."

In 1852 he returned to Concord and purchased a small house which had
once been the residence of the philosopher Alcott. Here he made his
permanent home and gathered about him his household treasures. In the
Presidential campaign of 1852, his friend Franklin Pierce was the
candidate of the Democracy, and Hawthorne wrote a short biography of him
which was used by the Democrats as a campaign document. It was a labor
of love, for the friendship that had been begun between these two men in
their college days had never been broken, and though naturally averse to
every thing that savored of politics, our author made this contribution
to the cause of his friend with all the heartiness of his nature. Pierce
was profoundly touched by this unexpected aid, for he knew how utterly
Hawthorne detested political strife, and when seated in the Presidential
chair he showed his appreciation of it by offering his friend the
consulship to Liverpool--one of the most lucrative offices within the
gift of the executive. Hawthorne broke up his home in Concord and sailed
for Liverpool in 1853, and remained there until 1857, when he resigned
his consulship and traveled on the continent with his family, residing
for some time in Italy for the benefit of his health. His European
residence had the effect of drawing him out of his shyness and reserve
to a certain extent, and during the closing years of his life he was
more social with the persons about him than he had ever been. After his
return he went back to Concord, where he enlarged and beautified his old
home, intending to remain there for the balance of his life. He wrote
the "Marble Faun" and "Our Old Home" just after his return from Europe.
The former was suggested by his residence in Italy, and the latter was
a collection of English sketches and reminiscences.

The war between the two sections of the country affected him very
deeply. It seemed to him a terrible tragedy, to which there could be no
end but utter ruin for the country. He sympathized strongly with the
cause of the Union, but at the same time his heart bled at the
sufferings of the people of the south. It was one long agony to him, and
only those who knew him intimately can understand how much he suffered
during this unhappy period.

Mr. Moncure D. Conway gives the following reminiscence of him about this
time: "I passed a night under the same roof with him at the house of Mr.
Fields, his publisher. He seemed much dejected. Mr. Fields had invited a
little company, but, after the first arrivals, Hawthorne made his escape
to his room, from which he did not emerge until the next morning at
breakfast time. He then came in with the amusing look of a naughty
child, and pleaded that he had become lost the night before in Defoe's
ghost stories until it was too late to make his appearance in the
company. He must, I should think, have been contemplating some
phantasmal production at that time, for I remember his asking me many
questions about the ghost-beliefs of the negroes, among whom I had
passed my early life."

Besides the works already mentioned, Hawthorne was the author of "True
Stories from History and Biography" and "The Wonder Book for Boys and
Girls," both published in 1851; "The Snow Image and Other Twice-Told
Tales," published in 1852; and "Tanglewood Tales," published in 1853,
all juveniles. At the time of his death he was engaged upon a novel
which was to have been published in the "Atlantic Monthly," but it was
left incomplete.

In the spring of 1864 his friend and publisher, Mr. W.D. Ticknor, of
Boston, seeing how feeble Hawthorne had become, asked him to accompany
him on an excursion, hoping that a rapid change of scene and cheerful
company would benefit him. They set out in April, and went direct to
Philadelphia. Upon arriving at the hotel, Mr. Ticknor was suddenly taken
very ill, and died on the 10th of April in his friend's arms. Hawthorne
was profoundly shocked by this melancholy occurrence, and it is said
that he never fully recovered from its effects upon him. His melancholy
seemed to deepen, and though his friends exerted themselves to cheer
him, he seemed to feel that his end was near. Ex-President Pierce,
hoping to rouse him from his sad thoughts, induced him to accompany him
on an excursion to the White Mountains. Upon reaching Plymouth, which
they took on their route, they stopped at the Pemigewasset House for the
night. Mr. Pierce was so full of anxiety concerning his friend, who had
been quieter and sadder than usual that day, that he went softly into
his room in the middle of the night to look after him. Hawthorne was
lying very still, and seemed to be sleeping sweetly. Mr. Pierce stole
softly away, fearing to disturb him. In the morning he went back to
rouse his friend, and found him lying lifeless in the position he had
noticed in the night. He had been dead some hours.

The announcement of Hawthorne's death caused a feeling of deep sadness
in all parts of the Union. His body was taken to Concord for burial, and
was accompanied to the grave by the best and most gifted of the land, to
each of whom he had endeared himself in life.




X.

ACTORS.




CHAPTER XXXV.

EDWIN BOOTH.


There are many persons who remember the elder Booth, the "Great Booth,"
as he was called, in his palmy days, when the bare announcement of his
name was sufficient to cram our old-fashioned theaters from pit to dome.
He was sublime in the stormy passions which he delineated, and never
failed to draw down from the gods of the gallery the uproarious yells
with which they testify their approval; even the more dignified
occupants of the boxes found themselves breaking into outbursts of
applause which they were powerless to restrain. He was a favorite with
all classes, and a deserved one, and the lovers of the drama looked
forward with genuine regret to the period when he should be no longer
with them. They felt that the glories of the stage would pass away with
him. It was in vain that they were told that he had sons destined to the
same profession. They shook their heads, and said it was impossible that
the mantle of the great tragedian should rest upon any of his sons, for
it was then, as now, a popular belief that great men never have great
children. How very much these good people were mistaken we will see in
the progress of this chapter.

One of these sons was destined in the course of time to eclipse the fame
won by his father, and to endear himself to the American people as a
more finished, if less stormy, actor. This was EDWIN BOOTH. He was born
on his father's farm near Baltimore, Maryland, In 1833, and after
receiving a good common-school education, began his training for the
stage. The elder Booth was quick to see that his boy had inherited his
genius, and he took great pains to develop the growing powers of the
lad, and to incline them toward those paths which his experience had
taught him were the surest roads to success. He took him with him on his
starring engagements, and kept him about him so constantly that the boy
may be said to have grown up on the stage from his infancy. He was
enthusiastically devoted to his father, and it was his delight to stand
at the wings and watch the great tragedian in his personations, and the
thunders of applause which proclaimed some fresh triumph were sweeter to
the boy, perhaps, than to the man.

In 1849, at the age of sixteen, he made his first appearance on the
stage as Tyrrell, in "Richard III.," and gave great satisfaction by his
rendition of the character. From this time he continued to appear at
various places with his father, and in 1851 won his first great success
in the city of New York. His father was playing an engagement at the
Chatham Theater at the time, and was announced for Richard III., which
was his masterpiece. When the hour for performance came, he was too ill
to appear. The manager was in despair, for the house was filled with a
large audience, who were impatient for the appearance of the humpbacked
king. In this emergency Edwin Booth offered to take his father's place,
and the manager, pleased with the novelty of the proposal, accepted it.
Young Booth was but eighteen years old, and had not even studied the
part, and it was a perilous thing to venture before an audience in a
role in which one of his name had won such great fame. But he was
confident of his own powers, and he had so often hung with delight upon
his father's rendition of the part, that he needed but a hasty reference
to the book to perfect him in the text. He won a decided triumph, and
the public promptly acknowledged that he gave promise of being an
unusually fine actor.

In 1852 Mr. Booth went to California, and engaged for the "utility
business." He spent two years in careful and patient study in the
humbler walks of his profession, learning its details, and doing much of
the drudgery essential to a thorough knowledge of his art. In 1854, he
went to Australia, and played a successful engagement there, stopping on
his way at several of the Pacific islands. On his return, he played an
engagement, with marked success, at the Sandwich Islands, and then went
back to California.

In 1857 he returned to New York, and, on the 4th of May, appeared at
Burton's Theater, in the character of Richard III. A writer who
witnessed his performance on that occasion thus speaks of him: "The
company was not strong in tragedy; the young actor came without
reputation; the season was late. But he conquered his place. His Richard
was intellectual, brilliant, rapid, handsome, picturesque, villainous.
But the villainy was servant to the ambition--not master of it, as a
coarse player makes it. The action was original; the dress was
perfect--the smirched gauntlets and flung-on mantle of the scheming,
busy duke, the splendid vestments of the anointed king, the glittering
armor of the monarch in the field. His clear beauty, his wonderful
voice--which he had not learned to use--his grace, his fine artistic
sense, made all triumphs seem possible to this young man. Evidently
there was great power in the new actor--power untrained, vigor ill
directed. But what was plainest to be seen, was the nervous, impulsive
temperament, which would leave him no rest save in achievement. He might
come back to us a robustious, periwig-pated fellow, the delight and
wonder of the galleries. He might come back the thorough artist, great
in repose as in action. But it was clear enough that what he was then in
Richard, in Richelieu, in Sir Edward Mortimer, he would never be again."

He followed this appearance by a general tour through the country, and
returned to New York in 1858, where he won fresh laurels. In 1860 he
reappeared at Burton's Theater, then called the Winter Garden, and added
Hamlet to his role. He had improved greatly during the time that had
elapsed since his last appearance at this theater, and had gained very
much in power and artistic finish. The most critical audiences in the
country received him with delight, crowded his houses, and hailed his
efforts with thunders of applause. This season silenced all the critics,
and placed him among the great actors of the American stage. He bore his
honors modestly, and though he was proud of the triumphs he had won,
they did not satisfy him. There were still greater successes to be
achieved before the highest honors of his profession could be his, and
it was upon these that his eye was fixed from the first. The applause
which greeted him in every city in which he appeared only served to
stimulate him to fresh exertions.

In the summer of 1861, he visited England, and played an engagement at
the Haymarket Theater in London, where he was favorably received by the
British playgoers. At the close of this engagement, he spent a year on
the continent, in travel and in the study of his profession. He also
made careful studies of the scenes of the great historic dramas of the
English stage, both in England and on the continent, and of the dresses
and other appointments needed for them. By thoroughly familiarizing
himself with these details, he has been able to produce his plays with
entire fidelity to history.

Returning once more to New York, he appeared at the Winter Garden, in
the winter of 1863-64, in a series of Shakespearean revivals. He played
Hamlet for over one hundred nights, and followed it during that season
and the next with "Merchant of Venice" and "Othello" (in the latter
playing the parts of Othello and Iago on alternate nights). During the
same seasons he appeared also in "Richelieu," "Ruy Blas," "The Fool's
Revenge," and "Don Cæsar de Bazan." These performances were extended
into the season of 1866-67, when they were suddenly cut short by the
total destruction of the Winter Garden Theater by fire on the night of
the 23d of March, 1867. In this fire Mr. Booth lost his entire wardrobe,
including many relics of his father, Kemble, and Mrs. Siddons.

The destruction of a theater has seldom drawn forth a more universal
expression of regret than that which poured in upon Mr. Booth from all
parts of the country. It was feared that the loss of his valuable
wardrobe would be irremediable, as indeed it was in a certain sense. All
over the Union a general wish was expressed that the great actor should
have a new theater in some of our large cities, and one which should be
worthy of his genius. Mr. Booth had chosen the city of New York for his
permanent home, and after the destruction of the Winter Garden Theater
began to arrange his plans for the erection of a new building of his
own, which he was resolved should be the most magnificent and the best
appointed theater in the world. The site chosen was the south-eastern
corner of the Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street in New York, and in
the summer of 1867 the work of clearing away the old buildings and
digging the foundations of the new theater was begun. It was carried
forward steadily, and the building was completed and opened to the
public in January, 1869.

It is in the Rennaissance style of architecture, and stands seventy feet
high from the sidewalk to the main cornice, crowning which is a Mansard
roof of twenty-four feet. "The theater proper fronts one hundred and
forty-nine feet on Twenty-third Street, and is divided into three parts,
so combined as to form an almost perfect whole, with arched entrances at
either extremity on the side, for the admission of the public, and on
the other for another entrance, and the use of the actors and those
employed in the house. On either side of these main entrances are broad
and lofty windows; and above them, forming a part of the second story,
are niches for statues, surrounded by coupled columns resting on finely
sculptured pedestals. The central or main niche is flanked on either
side by quaintly contrived blank windows; and between the columns, at
the depth of the recesses, are simple pilasters sustaining the elliptic
arches, which serve to top and span the niches, the latter to be
occupied by statues of the great creators and interpreters of the drama
in every age and country. The finest Concord granite, from the best
quarries in New Hampshire, is the material used in the entire façade, as
well as in the Sixth Avenue side.... The glittering granite mass,
exquisitely poised, adorned with rich and appropriate carving, statuary,
columns, pilasters, and arches, and capped by the springing French roof,
fringed with its shapely balustrades, offers an imposing and majestic
aspect, and forms one of the architectural jewels of the city."

In its internal arrangements the theater is in keeping with its external
magnificence. Entering through a sumptuous vestibule, the visitor passes
into the magnificent auditorium, which is in itself a rare piece of
decorative art. The seats are admirably arranged, each one commanding a
view of the stage. The floor is richly carpeted, and the seats are
luxuriously upholstered. Three elegant light galleries rise above the
parquet. The walls and ceiling are exquisitely frescoed, and ornamented
with bas reliefs in plaster. The proscenium is beautifully frescoed and
carved, and is adorned with busts of the elder Booth and the proprietor
of the theater; and in the sides before the curtain are arranged six
sumptuous private boxes. The curtain is a beautiful landscape. The
decoration of the house is not done in the rough scenic style so common
in the most of the theaters of the country, but is the perfection of
frescoe painting, and is capable of bearing the closest examination. The
stage is very large, and slopes gradually from the rear to the
footlights. The orchestra pen is sunk below the level of the stage, so
that the heads of the musicians do not cut off the view of the audience.
The dressing of the stage is novel. The side scenes or wings, instead of
being placed at right angles to the spectator as in most theaters, are
so arranged that the scene appears to extend to the right and left as
well as to the rear. In this way the spectator is saved the annoyance of
often looking through the wings, a defect which in most theaters
completely dispels the illusion of the play. The scenery here is not set
by hand, but is moved by machinery, and with such regularity and
precision that these changes have very much the effect of "dissolving
views." The scenes themselves are the works of highly educated artists,
and never degenerate into the rough daubs with which most playgoers are
familiar. The building is fire-proof, and is warmed and ventilated in a
peculiar manner. The great central chandelier and the lights around the
cornice of the auditorium are lighted by electricity.

The plays presented here are superbly put on the stage. The scenery is
strictly accurate when meant to represent some historic locality, and
is the finest to be found in America. Perhaps the grandest stage picture
ever given to an audience was the grave-yard scene in "Hamlet," which
"held the boards" for over one hundred nights last winter. The dresses,
equipments, and general "make up" of the actors are in keeping with the
scenery. Even the minutest detail is carefully attended to. Nothing is
so unimportant as to be overlooked in this establishment.

It is Mr. Booth's custom to open the season with engagements of other
distinguished actors, and to follow them himself about the beginning of
the winter, and to continue his performances until the approach of
spring, when he again gives way to others. When he is performing, it is
impossible to procure a seat after the rising of the curtain. Every
available place is filled, and thousands come from all parts of the
country to see him. Sometimes it is necessary to secure seats a week in
advance.

Mr. Booth is still a young man, being now thirty-seven years old. In
person he is over the medium height, and is well built. His hair is
black and is worn long, and his dark eyes are large and dreamy. His face
is that of a poet, strikingly handsome, with an expression of mingled
sweetness and sadness playing over it. He wears neither beard nor
moustache. He dresses simply and without ornament, and is grave and
retiring in his demeanor. He is exceedingly amiable in disposition, and
is the center of a large circle of devoted friends. He has been married
twice, and has one child, a daughter, by his first wife. He is a man of
irreproachable life, and in every thing a high-toned gentleman, and it
is the high character he bears not less than his genius that has enabled
him to do such honor to his profession. He is very wealthy, and is in a
fair way to become a millionaire.

As an actor Mr. Booth is without an equal. His impersonations are
marked by rare genius and by the most careful study. His Hamlet is
perhaps his most finished part, as his Richelieu is the most popular
with the masses. It has been said that his Hamlet is not Shakespeare's
Hamlet, and this may be true: but it is so exquisite, so perfect, that
whether it be the conception of Shakespeare or Edwin Booth, it is the
most powerful, the most life-like counterfeit of "the melancholy Dane"
ever seen on any stage, and leaves nothing to be desired. His
personation of the grim old cardinal, whose decrepit body is alone
sustained by his indomitable will, is masterly, and we see before us,
not Edwin Booth, the actor of to-day, but the crafty, unscrupulous,
witty, determined prime minister of France, who bends kings and princes
to his will. It is absolutely life-like, and to those who have seen the
portraits of the old cardinal in the museums of France, the accuracy
with which Booth has counterfeited the personal appearance of Richelieu
is positively startling. The plays are so superbly set upon the stage
that we lose sight of the little space they occupy, and seem to be
gazing upon a real world. His Richard has such a strong humanity in it,
that it more than half vindicates the humpbacked tyrant's memory, and
the death scene of this play, as given by Booth, is simply appalling.

It is in vain, however, that we select special characters or attempt
descriptions of them. No one can truly understand Edwin Booth's acting
without seeing it. He has studied his heroes so profoundly, analyzed
their characters so subtly, and entered so heartily into sympathy with
them, that he has, become able, by the aid of his wonderful genius, to
entirely discard his own personality, and assume theirs at will.

Mr. Booth has steadily risen in power and finish as an actor, for his
labors have been unceasing. Great as his triumphs have been, he does
not regard himself as freed from the necessity of study. His studies
have become more intelligent than in former years, but not the less
faithful. He has the true artist's aspiration after the rarest
perfection in his art, though to those of us without the charmed circle
it is difficult to see how he can excel his present excellence. Yet that
he does so we have undoubted proof, for we see him rising higher in the
admiration and esteem of the world every year, and each year we gather
fresh laurels to twine around his brows.

He has steadily educated his audiences, and has elevated the standard of
his art among his countrymen. He has shown them what fine acting really
is, and has taught them to enjoy it. He has kept them true to the
legitimate drama, and has done more than any other man to rescue the
American stage from the insignificance with which it was threatened. It
speaks volumes for him as an actor and a manager, that when New York
seemed wholly given up to ballet, burlesque, and opera bouffe, he was
able to make the almost forgotten masterpieces of Shakespeare the most
popular and most profitable dramatic ventures of the year.



[Illustration: JEFFERSON, AS RIP VAN WINKLE.]




CHAPTER XXXVI.

JOSEPH JEFFERSON.


The subject of this sketch is one of a race of actors. His
great-grandfather was a contemporary of some of the brightest ornaments
of the English stage, and was himself a famous actor and the intimate
friend of Garrick, Sam Foote, and Barr. He was a man of amiable and
winning disposition, and was strikingly handsome in person. He occupies
a prominent place in the history of the English stage, and is said to
have been, socially, one of the most brilliant men of his day. He died
in 1807. In 1795 his son came to America. Of him, Dunlap, in his
"History of the American Stage," says, referring to him, in February,
1797: "He was then a youth, but even then an artist. Of a small and
light figure, well formed, with a singular physiognomy, a nose perfectly
Grecian, and blue eyes full of laughter, he had the faculty of exciting
mirth to as great a degree by power of feature, although handsome, as
any ugly-featured low comedian ever seen." F.C. Wemyss has said of him
at a later day: "Mr. Joseph Jefferson was an actor formed in Nature's
merriest mood--a genuine son of Momus. There was a vein of rich humor
running through all he did, which forced you to laugh despite of
yourself. He discarded grimace as unworthy of him, although no actor
ever possessed a greater command over the muscles of his own face, or
the faces of his audience, compelling you to laugh or cry at his
pleasure. His excellent personation of old men acquired for him, before
he had reached the meridian of life, the title of 'Old Jefferson.' The
astonishment of strangers at seeing a good-looking young man pointed out
on the street as Old Jefferson, whom they had seen the night previous at
the theater tottering apparently on the verge of existence, was the
greatest compliment that could be paid to the talent of the actor. His
versatility was astonishing--light comedy, old men, pantomime, low
comedy, and occasionally juvenile tragedy. Educated in the very best
school for acquiring knowledge in his profession, ... Jefferson was an
adept in all the trickery of the stage, which, when it suited his
purpose, he could turn to excellent account.... In his social relations,
he was what a gentleman should be--a kind husband, an affectionate
father, a warm friend, and a truly honest man." The second Jefferson
enjoyed a brilliant career of thirty-six years in this country, and died
in 1832, during an engagement at the theater at Harrisburg, which was
then managed by his son. This son, named Joseph, after his father, was
born in Philadelphia in 1804, and died at the age of thirty-eight. He
was not so famous as an actor as his father or grandfather, but like
them passed his life on the stage. He had a decided talent for painting,
and was partially educated as an artist, but he never accomplished any
thing with his pencil. He was a man of most amiable disposition, and was
possessed of scores of warm and devoted friends; but he was a poor
business manager, and was always more or less involved in pecuniary
troubles. He married Mrs. Burke, the famous vocalist, and mother of
Burke, the comedian.

To this couple, in the city of Philadelphia, was born the JOSEPH
JEFFERSON of to-day, on the 20th of February, 1829.

This boy was literally brought up on the stage, as he made his first
appearance upon the boards in a combat scene at the Park Theater in New
York, when he was but three years old. He soon after went with his
parents to the West. Olive Logan says of him, at this period of his
life, "While they were both still children, he and my sister Eliza used
to sing little comic duets together on the stage of various western
towns."

He received as good a common-school education as the rapid manner in
which he was moved about from place to place would permit, and was
carefully trained in the profession of an actor, to which he was
destined by his parents, and to which he was drawn by the bent of his
genius. He appeared in public frequently during his boyhood, but his
first appearance as a man was at Chanfrau's National Theater, in 1849.
He met with fair success, and from that time devoted himself entirely
and carefully to his profession. He began at the bottom of the ladder of
fame, and gradually worked his way up to his present high position.
Playing engagements in various minor theaters of the United States, he
at length secured a position as low comedian at Niblo's Garden in New
York, where he won golden opinions from the critical audiences of the
metropolis. In 1857, he closed a most successful engagement as low
comedian at the theater in Richmond, Virginia, and with that engagement
ended his career as a stock actor. He had by careful and patient study
rendered himself capable of assuming the highest place in his
profession, and these studies, joined to his native genius, had made him
famous throughout the country as the best low comedian of the day.

Feeling that he had now a right to the honors of a "star" in his
profession, and urged by the public to assume the position to which his
genius entitled him, he began a series of engagements throughout the
Union, in which he more than fulfilled the expectations of his friends.
He was received with delight wherever he went, and at once became the
most popular of American comedians.

About a year or two later, he left the United States and made a voyage
to Australia, through which country he traveled, playing at the
principal towns. He was extremely successful. His genial, sunny
character won him hosts of friends among the people of that far-off
land, and his great genius as an actor made him as famous there as he
had been in his own country. Australia was then a sort of theatrical El
Dorado. The prices paid for admission to the theaters were very high,
and the sums offered to distinguished stars in order to attract them
thither were immense. Mr. Jefferson reaped a fair share of this golden
harvest, and at the close of his Australian engagements found himself
the possessor of a handsome sum. It was this which formed the basis of
his large fortune; for, unlike his father, he is a man of excellent
business capacity, and understands how to care for the rewards of his
labors, so that they shall be a certain protection to him in his old
age, and an assistance to those whom he shall leave behind him.

Returning to the United States, Mr. Jefferson appeared with increased
success in the leading cities of the Northern and Western States. His
principal success at this time was won in the character of Asa
Trenchard, in the play of "Our American Cousin." His personation of the
rough, eccentric, but true-hearted Yankee was regarded as one of the
finest pieces of acting ever witnessed on the American stage, and drew
crowded houses wherever he went. His range of characters included the
most refined comedy and the broadest farce, but each delineation bore
evidence of close and careful study, and was marked by great originality
and delicacy. There was in his performances a freshness, a
distinctiveness, and, above all, an entire freedom from any thing
coarse or offensive, which charmed his audiences from the first. One of
his critics has well said of him: "As Caleb Plummer he unites in another
way the full appreciation of mingled humor and pathos--the greatest
delicacy and affection with rags and homely speech. As Old Phil
Stapleton he is the patriarch of the village and the incarnation of
content. As Asa Trenchard he is the diamond in the rough, combining
shrewdness with simplicity, and elevating instead of degrading the
Yankee character. As Dr. Ollapod, and Dr. Pangloss, and Tobias Shortcut,
he has won laurels that would make him a comedian of the first rank. His
Bob Acres is a picture. There is almost as much to look at as in his Rip
Van Winkle. There is nearly the same amount of genius, art, experience,
and intelligence in its personation. Hazlitt says that the author has
overdone the part, and adds that 'it calls for a great effort of animal
spirits and a peculiar aptitude of genius to go through with it;' Mr.
Jefferson has so much of the latter that he can--and to a great extent
does--dispense with the former requisite. His quiet undercurrent of
humor subserves the same purpose in the _role_ of Bob Acres that it does
in other characters. It is full of points, so judiciously chosen, so
thoroughly apt, so naturally made and so characteristically preserved,
that the part with Jefferson is a great one. The man of the 'oath
referential, or sentimental swearing,' makes the entire scope of the
part an 'echo to the sense.' Even in so poor a farce as that of 'A
Regular Fix,' Mr. Jefferson makes the eccentricities of Hugh de Brass
immensely funny. The same style is preserved in every character, but
with an application that gives to each a separate being."