the whole solemn scene as with the splendour of heaven.1 Long after the burial ceremonies were completed, and the grave had been filled, the people lingered at the spot, and at length, forming themselves into a procession, they passed around it, and loving hands cast flowers upon it, until a heap of roses was all that could be seen.

Booth was almost the last of the actors who are interesting. He was unique. He stood apart. He pursued his natural course, without solicitude as to

1 Booth's pall was borne by Charles P. Daly, Horace Howard Furness, Joseph Jefferson, A. M. Palmer, William Bispham, T. B. Aldrich, and Eastman Johnson.

Aldrich followed the remains to Boston, and was present at the burial, and he sent the scene to me, in these tender and lovely words: —

PONKAPOG, MASS., June 12, 1893.

DEAR WILL: We reached Mount Auburn a few minutes before sunset. Just as Edwin was laid in the grave, among the fragrant pineboughs which lined it, and softened its cruelty, the sun went down. I never saw anything of such heart-breaking loveliness as this scene. There in the tender afterglow two or three hundred men and women stood silent, with bowed heads. A single bird, in a nest hidden somewhere near by, twittered from time to time. The soft June air, blowing across the upland, brought with it the scent of syringa blossoms from the slope below. Overhead and among the trees the twilight was gathering. "Good night, sweet Prince!" I said, under my breath, remembering your quotation. Then I thought of the years and years that had been made rich with his presence, and of the years that were to come,- for us not many, surely, and if there had not been a crowd of people, I would have buried my face in the greensward and wept, as men may not do, and women may. And thus we left him.

Some day, when I come to New York, we must get together in a corner at the Players, and talk about him, - his sorrows and his genius, and his gentle soul.

Ever affectionately,

TOM.

public opinion or private censure. He had no vanity, no envy, no pettiness. He cared much more to deserve approbation than to possess it. He held his rank by merit, and he never wished to hold it by any other means. He was never a manipulator of newspapers, nor a seeker after notoriety. He was himself—original, genuine, simple, sincere. He respected the conventions of others, but he was not conventional. He was considerate of those around him, and appreciative of their sympathy, and wishful for their welfare; but he was not dependent on them; he was sufficient unto himself. His resources were within his mind. He liked solitude, and he lived much alone-reading, musing, pondering upon his art, and, especially, thinking of that one other subject which interested him, religion. The charm of his nature was blended composure, gentleness, and distinction. He had the constant spirit of a believer, the grave impartiality of a philosopher, and the pensive, dream-like temperament of a poet. He thus diffused an influence of strength, grace, and peace. His mood, at times, became listless and apathetic, and he allowed everything to drift; but his conduct of life was neither feverish nor flurried. At all times he reacted upon his circumstances and his associates, as an influence that composes and exalts. The vitalising element of his art was the romantic, imaginative, spiritual element. With the paganism of this age, -its materialistic tendency, its keen, hard, voluptuous desire and purpose to get everything out of animal existence that sensuality can yield, — he had no fellowship. His earthly life constantly anticipated a heavenly life to come; and, therefore, alike in his personal conduct and his public

embodiments, there was an ever-present and cogent attribute of noble and ennobling exaltation. Upon the marge of that illimitable ocean of mystery which encircles this world he stood, in awe and wonder, reverently gazing on its depths. Into that great sea he has vanished. Out across those sombre waters he has gone his lonely way. Farewell! A long farewell! No soul ever endured more sweetly the burden of mortal trials, or made more bravely that dark voyage into the great unknown.

On one of those sad days, after Booth was stricken, and when he was waiting for death, I wrote these words, thinking of him, three thousand miles away, and knowing that we were never to meet again, this side the grave:

NOTE.

Be patient and be wise! The eyes of Death
Look on us with a smile: her soft caress,
That stills the anguish and that stops the breath,
Is Nature's ordination, meant to bless
Our mortal woes with peaceful nothingness.
Be not afraid! The Power that made the light
In your kind eyes, and set the stars on high,
And gave us love, meant not that all should die
Like a brief day-beam quenched in sudden night.
Think that to die is but to fall asleep

And wake refreshed where the new morning breaks,
And golden day her rosy vigour takes

From winds that fan eternity's far height,

And the white crests of God's perpetual deep.

The reader of this memoir is advised to read also for additional facts and thoughts bearing upon this subject, essays written by me, on JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH and EDWIN BOOTH, in my Shadows of the Stage, first and second series.