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 This book, In Memory of John McCullough, was 
 printed from type, at The De Vinne Press, and the 
 edition is strictly hmited to five hundred copies. No 
 more will be made. 
 
 W. W.
 
 IN MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 * 
 
 "Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace. 
 Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 
 While the stars bum, the moons increase. 
 And the great ages onward roll." 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 ^ 
 
 NEW-YORK 
 
 THE DE VINNE PRESS 
 
 1889
 
 TO 
 
 WILLIAM M. CONNER 
 
 IN LIFE AND IN DEATH THE 
 
 AFFECTIONATE AND DEVOTED 
 
 FRIEND OF 
 
 goftn a^cCuUouglft 
 
 THIS MEMORIAL OF THE LOVED 
 
 AND LAMENTED ACTOR IS 
 
 HEARTILY DEDICATED
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Life of McCullough . . . > C 9 
 
 >BY William Winter-? 
 Tribute to McCullough > (23 
 
 Funeral Oration by Henry Edwards 37 
 
 The McCullough Monument 47 
 
 Address by W. F. Johnson 52 
 
 Oration by Steele Mackaye 55 
 
 Elegy by William Winter 60 
 
 Subscribers to McCullough Monument 65
 
 A SKETCH OF THE 
 LIFE OF JOHN McCULLOUGH.* 
 
 • 
 By William Winter. 
 
 • 
 
 JOHN McCULLOUGH was born at Blakes, near 
 Coleraine, Londonderry, on the seacoast of Ire- 
 land, on November 14, 1832, — the year that is memo- 
 rable in this century for its association with the death of 
 great men. His parents were situated in humble cir- 
 cumstances and were poor. His father, James Mc- 
 Cullough, was a " small farmer." His mother, Mary, 
 died in 1844, leaving her son John, then a lad of twelve, 
 and three daughters, Jane, Mary, and Elizabeth. Their 
 father was unable to provide for these children, and 
 shortly after the mother's death they were obliged to 
 
 * See " Actors and Actresses of Great Britain and the United 
 States," edited by Brander Matthews and Laurence Hutton. Five 
 volumes. Published by Messrs. Cassell & Company, London 
 and New York.
 
 lO 
 
 3;oJ)n a^€u«oiigf)» 
 
 seek their fortune in America. In the spring of 1847 
 John and his sister Jane came to this country, and 
 having a cousin, named John McCuUough, in Phila- 
 delphia, they proceeded to that city, where, walking in 
 Front Street, young John saw the name of his relative 
 upon a sign, and entering the house claimed kindred 
 there and was acknowledged. This cousin was a chair- 
 maker, and in the business of chair-making John 
 McCullough was now employed. His father and the 
 sisters Mary and Elizabeth followed to America shortly 
 after this time. The father, an unsuccessful man, but 
 independent in spirit, worked all the rest of his life as 
 a farmer in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, seeming 
 to prefer an humble station, and declining to accept 
 aid, even from his son, in the days of prosperity which 
 eventually arrived. His death occurred at Moorestown, 
 Burlington county. New Jersey, in 1878. He is remem- 
 bered as a small, thin man, who spoke with a heavy 
 brogue. He did not maintain intimate relations with his 
 children. He was a faithful worker and an honest man, 
 but he had no ambition, and he was of a reticent 
 and inoperative character. These ancestral peculiari- 
 ties are to be noted for whatever they may happen 
 to signify. The sisters of John McCullough were 
 married in America. Elizabeth, his favorite sister, 
 became the wife of Mr. Thomas Young, and died at 
 Dunmore, Pennsylvania, in 1869. Mary became the 
 wife of Mr. James Smith, and died at Statington, in 
 the same State. Jane was married to Mr. John Wirth, 
 and is a resident of Dunmore. John McCullough,
 
 3[oftn 09cCu!lougl|» 
 
 II 
 
 shortly after he came to Philadelphia, made the 
 acquaintance of Miss Letitia McCIair, daughter of Mr. 
 Samuel McClair, of Germantown, and to her he was 
 married April 8, 1849. Two children were born of this 
 marriage — James McCullough, July 4, 1850, and 
 William F. Johnson McCullough, December 2, i860. 
 The latter died on February 25, i886. This second 
 son was named for a friend who knew McCullough 
 throughout the struggles of his early manhood, and 
 stood by him through all vicissitudes till the last of 
 " difference and decay." 
 
 When John McCullough, a youth of fifteen, came to 
 America he could read, but he could not write. He 
 had received no education, and he was in ignorance 
 of literature and art. Dying thirty-eight years later 
 (1885), he had become a man of large and varied 
 mental acquirements, a considerable scholar in the 
 dramatic profession, and the most conspicuous heroic 
 actor of his time on the American stage. Such a career, 
 beginning in obscure and ignorant penury and ending 
 in culture, honorable eminence, prosperity, and fame, 
 is extraordinary, and in dramatic annals it makes 
 John McCullough a memorable name. 
 
 No ancestor of his was ever upon the stage. Dra- 
 matic faculty, however, is one of the peculiar attributes 
 of the Irish race. In McCullough it was developed by 
 the accident of his meeting with a " stage-struck " 
 workman in the shop of the Philadelphia chair-maker. 
 This person, whose " spoutings " and whose general 
 vagaries had at first been suggestive of lunacy, made
 
 12 5[oftn !3r^€iinouglj» 
 
 him acquainted with the tragedy of " Richard the 
 Third " ; stimulated in him a taste for reading Shak- 
 spere ; acquainted him with the delights of rehearsal ; 
 introduced him to a theatrical society; and finally 
 took him to the theater itself The first dramatic per- 
 formance that he witnessed was, according to his 
 own recollection, a performance of Shiel's tragedy of 
 " The Apostate," in the old Arch-Street Theater, Phila- 
 delphia. From this time onward he read with avidity 
 every play that he could obtain, and, without the 
 distinct intention of becoming an actor, — probably 
 with no view whatever to the future, but only from 
 natural relish for this pursuit, — devoted his life and 
 thought to the study of acting. One of his first steps 
 toward the stage taken at this period was his affiliation 
 with " The Boothenian Dramatic Association," of 
 Philadelphia, a local club which held meetings and 
 gave performances in the fourth story of an abandoned 
 warehouse, once a sugar refinery, and of which the 
 principal spirit was Mr. Lemuel R. Shewell, in later years 
 an actor well known throughout the cities on the eastern 
 seaboard of America. McCuUough took lessons in 
 elocution from Mr. Lemuel White, a teacher of this 
 art; and at the house of this gentleman he became 
 acquainted with various friends from whom he received 
 not only sympathy but instruction, and through whose 
 kindly and judicious efforts he obtained substantially 
 all the education it was ever his lot to enjoy. His 
 experience at this time led him to branches of learning 
 apart from the stage. One of the books that he read
 
 gioijn a^cCuHougfj, 13 
 
 was " Chambers's Encyclopaedia of English Literature," 
 and in less than a month he had absorbed the whole of 
 it, becoming so familiar with its contents that he could 
 descant on the British authors as if he had been trained 
 for nothing else — so eager was his zeal for knowledge 
 and so retentive was the memory in which he stored it. 
 McCuUough's theatrical career, beginning in 1857 
 and ending in 1884, covered a period of twenty-seven 
 years. His first engagement was made at the Arch- 
 Street Theater, Philadelphia, under the management of 
 William Wheatley and John Drew, and his first appear- 
 ance there was made on August 15, 1857, as Thomas 
 in " The Belle's Stratagem." His rise in the dramatic 
 profession was gradual. In the early days of the 
 American stage it was more difficult to win position 
 than it is in these times of speculative theatrical 
 management, when all the arts of advertising are 
 pressed into the business of manufacturing fame. 
 Every step of the way had then to be made with toil- 
 some effort. There were many obstacles to be sur- 
 mounted and many hardships to be endured. The 
 histories of such actors as Cooper, Forrest, Booth, A. 
 A. Addams, E. L. Davenport, and Jefferson teach the 
 same lesson of persistent effort and of patience under 
 privation. McCuUough, in his quest of professional 
 recognition, had the usual trying experience; but 
 he was in earnest, and he proved the integrity of 
 his talents, the force of his character, and the sincerity 
 of his devotion by a steadfast adherence to that serv- 
 ice of the drama which was the purpose of his life. His
 
 14 Sol^n flr^€uftoiigi)» 
 
 novitiate at the Arch-Street Theater lasted until the 
 summer of i860, when E. L, Davenport, at that 
 time manager of the Howard Athenaeum, in Boston, 
 engaged him at that theater, where he remained for one 
 season — that of 1860-61. In the ensuing season he 
 was back again in Philadelphia, engaged at the Walnut- 
 Street Theater, under the management of Mrs. Garret- 
 son. Here he was when presently he attracted the 
 notice of Edwin Forrest, who chanced to be in need 
 of an actor to play the parts second to his own, and 
 who procured his release from Mrs. Garretson and 
 gave him an engagement for leading business. This 
 was " the tide which taken at the flood leads on to 
 fortune." McCullough's first appearance with Forrest 
 was made at Boston in October, 1 861, in the character 
 of Pythias. His line of parts now included Laertes., 
 Macduff, lago, Edgar, Richtnond, Icilhis, and Tittts. 
 He cooperated with Forrest also in those plays that 
 were the exclusive property of that tragedian — in 
 "Metamora," "The Gladiator," "Jack Cade," and 
 "The Broker of Bogota." In later times, when For- 
 rest revived " Coriolanus " (November, 1863, at Niblo's 
 Garden, New York), McCullough acted Cominius. 
 From the time of his engagement with Forrest he had 
 a clear field and he advanced in the open sunshine of 
 success. 
 
 An incident connected with his early life upon the 
 stage is mentioned as significant of his solid character 
 and inveterate purpose. He has more than once re- 
 ferred to it in the hearing of the present writer, as
 
 gtojn a^cCuUougt), 15 
 
 having had a marked influence upon his subsequent 
 fortunes. While yet a youth, at the Howard Athe- 
 naeum, he was suddenly summoned to play, at short 
 notice, an important and formidable part. Davenport, 
 then the star, had been taken ill, and could not appear. 
 The character was Robert Landry, in "The Dead 
 Heart," one of the longest parts in the modern roman- 
 'tic drama. McCuUough was directed at noon to be 
 in readiness to come on and read it at night. He 
 took the part home, committed the whole of it to mem- 
 ory within a few hours, and without previous explana- 
 tion to anybody in the theater he went on at night, 
 letter perfect, and played Robert Landry in such a way 
 as to make a hit. These facts came to the knowledge 
 of Forrest and aroused that interest in the young actor 
 which soon afterward took a practical form. 
 
 McCullough's professional hfe after he joined Edwin 
 Forrest was not more eventful than is usual with a 
 leading man in a theatrical stock company. He trav- 
 eled through the country season after season, playing 
 seconds to the more famous tragedian, and constantly 
 gaining in experience and popularity. At this time he 
 was much under the influence of the style of Forrest, 
 and indeed he habitually imitated the manner of his 
 leader. This was the weakness of many young actors 
 of that period, and perhaps it was not easily to be 
 avoided by an actor who lived and labored in constant 
 association with that strong and singular personality. 
 In after time, however, McCuUough entirely discarded 
 this fault; but he could at will give astonishing imita-
 
 i6 9io6n !3r9c€unoiigf)» 
 
 tions of Forrest's peculiarities, and this he sometimes 
 did, with humorous effect. In 1866 he accompanied 
 Forrest in a trip to California, where he was received 
 with uncommon favor, and where he found many 
 friends. Many of these friends were among the 
 wealthy citizens of San Francisco, and he had not 
 long been in that city before it was proposed by them 
 that he should remain there as the manager of the 
 California Theater, in partnership with his distinguished 
 contemporary Lawrence Barrett, This plan was sanc- 
 tioned by Forrest; the enterprise was carried into 
 effect, and McCullough remained on the Pacific coast 
 for eight successive seasons. The history of the Cali- 
 fornia Theater makes a brilliant chapter in his career. 
 Plays were mounted there with magnificence, the ripe 
 scholarship of Mr. Barrett proved a signal service, and 
 both Barrett and McCullough filled engagements of 
 uncommon profit. Their partnership lasted until No- 
 vember, 1870, when it was dissolved by the amicable 
 withdrawal of Mr. Barrett, and McCullough remained 
 alone in the management. It was in the Cahfomia 
 Theater that he first acted Virginius, and one by one 
 added to his repertory the other great parts to which 
 he had formerly played seconds under the leadership of 
 Forrest. He remained connected with the California 
 Theater until 1875, when, in the ruin of the banker 
 Ralston, he suffered a heavy loss which led to his 
 relinquishment of that institution. It never was his 
 ambition to be a theatrical manager. At the time he 
 lost his voice, in Boston (1876), he expressed to a friend,
 
 gjoljn ai^cCuHougf)* 17 
 
 in touching language, his grave apprehension of being 
 compelled to relinquish his career as an actor, and sink 
 to the level of theatrical management. 
 
 On May 4, 1874, McCullough made his first appear- 
 ance as a star actor in New York, coming forward as 
 Spartacus, in " The Gladiator." He acted at Booth's 
 Theater until May 30th. He was seen as Richelieu and 
 Hamlet, and he took part, as Philip Faulcotibridge, in a 
 revivalof" King John," which was effected on May 25th. 
 At the end of this engagement he returned to CaHfornia 
 to attend to the interests of his theater in San Fran- 
 cisco, but in the course of the summer he came back, 
 and when Mr. Boucicault's new play of " Belle Lamar " 
 was brought out at Booth's Theater, August 10, 
 1874, he acted in it as Colonel Bligh. This was under 
 the management of Messrs. Jarrett & Palmer. On 
 September 14th these managers produced an altered 
 version of Otvvay's tragedy of " Venice Preserved," 
 made by Mr. Boucicault, and in this McCullough acted 
 Pierre — a character that was always a favorite with 
 him. On the 19th he took a benefit and said farewell, 
 and he did not appear in New York again till April 2, 
 1877. The interval was passed in the fulfillment of 
 ambitious, laborious, and lucrative engagements in many 
 other cities. In the fall of 1874 he went on the West- 
 ern circuit and visited New Orleans, proceeding thence 
 to San Francisco in December and reappearing at the 
 California Theater, where in an engagement of four 
 weeks he drew $36,000. He remained in San Fran- 
 cisco till the autumn of 1875, when he once more came
 
 i8 gjoljn <Il?c€unoiig|). 
 
 North, and this time he met with extraordinarj' suc- 
 cess in Washington, where, on December 12th, at the 
 National Theater, a special demonstration was made 
 in his honor, and his performance of Virgifiiiis was 
 attended by the President of the United States and the 
 cabinet. At Christmas that year he was in New Or- 
 leans, acting at the Varieties Theater, under the man- 
 agement of Clifton W, Tayleure. In February, 1876, 
 he had great success in Boston, where the accident of 
 a sudden illness, which temporarily deprived him of his 
 voice, strongly attracted toward him the public sym- 
 pathy, and where, on February 9th, playing Virginius 
 for the first time in that city, he gained some of the 
 brightest laurels of his life. Later he played a round 
 of parts at Philadelphia, in the Arch-Street Theater. On 
 March 27, 1876, he reappeared at San Francisco 
 as Virginius, and was welcomed with enthusiasm. 
 This was the season of Edwin Booth's famous South- 
 ern tour, which, under Mr. John T. Ford's manage- 
 ment, lasted from January 3d to March 3d, and 
 thereafter was continued by Mr. Booth himself, who 
 first acted in Chicago and then went to San Fran- 
 cisco, where McCullough gave him a royal reception, 
 and, in order to augment his success, acted in con- 
 junction with him, playing such parts as De Mauprat 
 and Rich?)wnd. This is recorded as the most remu- 
 nerative dramatic engagement that ever was played 
 on the American stage. In January, 1877, McCul- 
 lough played a round of parts in Chicago, and in 
 February he appeared at the Boston Museum, where
 
 3i0{)n a^cCunoiigfj* 19 
 
 in two weeks he drew so largely that his share of profits 
 was $2800. The theater also received a large profit ; 
 and this was noted at the time as the most successful 
 engagement that had been filled in that house for 
 many years. On April 2d he came again to New 
 York, and it was now seen that he had made surprising 
 advancement in his art. He appeared at Booth's Thea- 
 ter as Virginius, and after seven performances of this 
 part, in an engagement lasting till April 27th, he per- 
 formed likewise Richelieu^ Richard III., Othello, lago, 
 Spaiiacus, Metamora, and King Lear. Mr. Frederick 
 Warde played seconds. Mme. Ponisi enacted Emilia. 
 Miss Maud Granger appeared as Virgitiia and Desde- 
 ftiona. Mr. Warde distinguished himself as Icilius. Mr. 
 J. H. Taylor presented Dentatus. For his benefit, on 
 April 27th, McCullough acted Othello, and at the close 
 of the performance a silver laurel wreath, the gift of 
 New York friends, was publicly presented to him on 
 the stage, and was received by him with a speech of 
 singular manliness and delicate taste. Tributes of this 
 kind, indeed, were frequent incidents of his career, for 
 no man ever had a larger circle of affectionate friends. 
 An occasion of this kind had happened earlier in 1877, 
 on March 13th, when at the Southern Hotel in St. 
 Louis many leading citizens of that place gave a 
 public banquet to honor him, and congratulations 
 flowed to him from every part of the land. On 
 February 9, 1878, he received the compliment of a 
 banquet from the Lotos Club of New York. On No- 
 vember 9, 1878, he was the honored guest of citizens
 
 20 giojit 9[^CuftOU0|), 
 
 of Washington, at a public banquet at Willard's Hotel, 
 at which General W. T. Sherman presided, and Mr. 
 James G. Blaine was the principal orator. 
 
 At the St. Louis festival the following inscriptions 
 were di.splayed upon the printed programme of exer- 
 cises : 
 
 September, 1873. 
 
 Untried and new we saw thy rising star 
 
 And hailed the brightness of its early rays ; 
 
 The light discerned, the promise from afar, 
 
 Greeting its glimmer through the morning haze. 
 
 January, 1875. 
 
 Brighter it grew as we beheld its rise. 
 
 Foretelling all the greatness that should be, 
 
 And watched its progress with our partial eyes, 
 Assured that it must rule the galaxy. 
 
 March, 1877. 
 
 Full-orbed and brilliant now thy glories shine, 
 Illuming all the Drama's wide expanse ; 
 
 Thou hast thy place secured — the zenith thine — 
 The whole world's space included in thy glance. 
 
 Messages of kindness, on this same occasion, reached 
 the actor from Edwin Adams, Lilian Adelaide Neil-
 
 5[oftn !tir9cCunou0lj, 
 
 21 
 
 son, Lawrence Barrett, William Winter, Edwin Booth, 
 and other cherished friends. The Knights of St. Pat- 
 rick sent a scroll, inscribed as follows : 
 
 St. Louis, March 13, 1877. — Salve et vale! The 
 Knights of St. Patrick to John McCullough, tragedian : 
 
 All hail to the Actor whose genius sublime 
 Interprets the Poet who wrote for all time ; 
 While Hamlet, Othello, and Lear, the discrowned. 
 Make the stage with the woes of the Drama resound, 
 The name of McCullough shall blend with the strain 
 And never shall history rend them in twain. 
 
 On October 12, 1877, performances for the benefit 
 of Edwin Adams, then on his death-bed, took place 
 at the Academy of Music in New York, and McCul- 
 "lough participated in them. A close friendship had 
 for many years subsisted between Adams and himself, 
 and indeed it would be difficult to imagine two human 
 beings more accordant in generosity of temperament 
 and gentleness of life. Adams died on October 28, 
 1877, and it was McCullough who selected the Shak- 
 sperian lines that are inscribed on his grave-stone at 
 Philadelphia — lines that are as expressive for the one 
 friend as for the other : 
 
 His life was gentle, and the elements 
 
 So mixed in him that Nature might stand up 
 
 And say to all the world, '* This was a man. "
 
 22 
 
 gjoijn !3t^4runoii0ij. 
 
 McCuUough took part also in the performance 
 for the benefit of John Brougham, which was given 
 in the Academy of Music, New York, on January 
 17, 1878, playing the Moor in the third act of 
 " Othello." On January 21st, that year, he performed 
 at the Park Theater, Brooklyn, and on February 7th he 
 came out at the Boston Theater as Coriolanus. His 
 third star engagement in New York began on April 
 22, 1878, at the Grand Opera House, and in its third 
 week he signalized the occasion by acting Lucius 
 Brutus in " The Fall of Tarquin," for the first time in 
 the capital. In the spring of this year his professional 
 affairs were placed under the direction of Mr. William 
 M. Conner, who proved to him an excellent manager 
 and a true friend. On March 13th he appeared 
 at Syracuse, giving seven successive performances 
 there, and receiving $500 for each performance. 
 The receipts for the one week were $4200. The 
 receipts on his benefit night, when he played Virgifiius, 
 were $1253. It used to please him to recall, as a con- 
 trast with this success and as a sign of growing popu- 
 larity, that when first he acted in Syracuse the house 
 contained only $128. In May he came again to the 
 Grand Opera House, and this time he acted a round 
 of parts, including Kmg Lear, Damo7i^ and Lucius 
 Brutus. On May 2 2d he appeared at the Boston 
 Theater, in association with Miss Mary Anderson, 
 acting Claude Melnotte to her Pauline; this perform- 
 ance being for a benefit. On May 24th he was seen at 
 Booth's Theater as Brutus in " Julius Caesar," a part
 
 3[ofjn a^cCuHoujErt). 23 
 
 in which his acting was beautiful, and which he played 
 on this occasion for the benefit Mr. F. B. Warde. He 
 took part in another benefit on June 3d, at Washington, 
 and on September 5th in still another, at the Fifth- 
 Avenue Theater, New York, where he acted Itigoniar 
 to Miss Anderson's Parihenia. This was to help the 
 plague-stricken people of the South, then suffering the 
 ravages of pestilence. His next important engage- 
 ment in New York began on December i6th at the 
 Grand Opera House, where he revived " Coriolanus." 
 On February 3, 1879, at the Boston Theater, he 
 effected a revival of the old play of " Pizarro," and 
 acted Rolla, performing this old-fashioned part with 
 great dignity in the declamatory portions and with 
 picturesque vigor and effective pathos in the closing 
 scene. During his stay at Boston he appeared as 
 Brutus^ Virginitis, Richard III., and Cardinal IVolsey. 
 From Boston he went to New Orleans. In the sum- 
 mer he rested for a while at Saratoga. In November 
 he acted at the National Theater in Washington, and 
 again had great success. When this year drew toward 
 a close he was roaming through the towns of New 
 England. At Christmas he was in Brooklyn, and he 
 there brought forward " The Honeymoon," and acted 
 Diike Aranza. Two performances of Spartacus given 
 there by him on Christmas Day cleared $4720. Such 
 facts serve to show the steady and sure increase of his 
 popularity. 
 
 During the season of 1879-80 McCullough was very 
 prosperous. Before it was half over he had cleared
 
 24 2[of)n ai^Culiougf), 
 
 upward of $20,000. During the first three months of 
 1880 he traveled on the Southern circuit, and went 
 into Texas, and subsequently he went as far West as 
 Omaha. On March 6th he received public honors at 
 Memphis, and he presented a standard to the Chicka- 
 saw Guards, of which military organization he was an 
 honorary member. On May 31st he acted at Wallack's 
 Theater, New York, for the benefit of Mr. W. R. 
 Floyd. On June 5th he sailed aboard the Briiafinic for 
 England — Mr. Sothern, Mr. Raymond, and Miss 
 Rose Coghlan being passengers by the same ship. 
 This was Sothern's final farewell to America. It was 
 on this trip that McCullough paid a visit to his 
 birthplace, where he was received with interest and 
 kindness. While in London he made arrangements 
 for acting there in the season of 188 1. He sailed from 
 Liverpool August 5th, and on arriving home he began 
 the new season, September 5th, at Utica. From No- 
 vember 15th to December nth he was acting at the 
 Fifth- Avenue Theater, New York. For his benefit, De- 
 cember loth, he played Lucius Brutus. There were 
 837 persons in the gallery alone, and the receipts that 
 night were $1637. In his speech before the curtain 
 McCullough said : " Whatever may become of me, 
 whether I rise or sink, it is a comfort to reflect that 
 the noble art of which I am an humble representative 
 will remain and flourish as long as human nature 
 exists." During the remainder of that season he was 
 in the West and South. The season ended on April 
 2, 1 88 1, and he had acted in thirty-four cities. On
 
 Slogn 3i?cCuHougS)» 25 
 
 April 4th he received the tribute of a public ban- 
 quet at Delmonico's, New York, at which a poem 
 was read by William Winter. [This poem will be 
 found in the present volume, at page ;^^.] In his 
 speech that night McCullough said : " If I succeed I 
 shall be grateful, but not unduly elated. If I fail, I 
 shall not be soured by disappointment. My hope is 
 that I may prove myself not altogether unworthy of 
 the great kindness that has been shown toward me in 
 America, and of the good-will and good opinion that 
 have been so touchingly expressed on this occasion." 
 On April 9th he sailed for England, and on April i8th he 
 appeared in London, at Drury-Lane Theater, as Vzr- 
 gijims. The engagement lasted till May 21st, and the 
 tragedian was seen in Virginiiis and Othello. His 
 social popularity in London was extraordinary, but 
 critical opinion divided on his acting. The " Tele- 
 graph " said : " A finer representative of Virginius the 
 character can never have had." In his farewell speech 
 McCullough said: "I came to you a stranger, and 
 now I feel as if I had known you for years. You have 
 taught me the significance and true meaning of British 
 fair-play." He returned to America in September and 
 began the season of 1881-82 at St. Paul, going over 
 much the same ground as before. On November 14, 
 1 88 1, he began an engagement of six v/eeks at the 
 Fifth- Avenue Theater as Virginius. "Ingomar" was 
 produced, with Miss Kate Forsythe as Virginia. On 
 November 29th he acted King Lear. On December 
 8th, for the benefit of the Foe Memorial, he played at
 
 26 5[oJ)n St^cCuHouglj, 
 
 the Union-Square Theater, New York, in one act of 
 "Richard III." On December 12th that year, at 
 the Fifth-Avenue Theater, New York, he brought out 
 " The Bondman," a tragic play by Mr. Lewis Wingfield, 
 on the subject of Jack Cade's rebeUion. The engage- 
 ment ended on December 31st, and then he went 
 on still another long tour of the South and West. On 
 May 31, 1882, he appeared at the Boston Theater, 
 in association with Miss Mary Anderson, acting in 
 "Ingomar," for a benefit. His regular season, of 
 1882-83, was opened at St. Paul, September 4th, and 
 he visited Chicago, St. Louis, and other Western cities, 
 and came to the Fifth- Avenue Theater, New York, on 
 November 13th, In the course of this engagement 
 he was seen as Master Walter, and as Hamlet, 
 and he closed it, on December 9th, with Damoti, 
 proceeding then, by way of Albany, into New Eng- 
 land, and going as far to the north-east as Portland. 
 On April 9, 1883, he made his reentrance in New 
 York at Niblo's Garden, and he there remained till 
 April 23d. That spring he began to show signs of 
 serious illness, and he was especially depressed and 
 miserable at Cincinnati during the Dramatic Festi- 
 val which was held there, April 29th to May 4th, and in 
 the course of which he enacted Shakspere's Brutus and 
 Othello, and Knowles's Master Walter. On May 7 th he 
 retired to the residence of his friend John Carson, at 
 Quincy, III, where he passed some time in a gallant but 
 hopeless struggle against the encroachments of disease. 
 At this time he appears to have suspected its true
 
 3|ol)n ar^cCuilougfj. 27 
 
 nature, and his suffering was great. He rallied, how- 
 ever, and on August 20, 1883, he entered on a new 
 professional season at Denver. At Christmas he was 
 acting in Philadelphia, and as the year closed he seemed 
 to be convalescent. Early in January, 1884, he was 
 acting in Boston, and on March 3d he appeared at the 
 Star Theater, New York. This was his last engage- 
 ment there. Three weeks of it were devoted to Vir- 
 ginius and Spartacus, and one week to Brutus, Othello, 
 Spartacus, Virginius, and Richard III. It ended on 
 March 29th, and McCullough ended his season on 
 April 5th at the Novelty Theater in WiUiamsburg. It 
 was evident then to those who saw him act that his 
 powers were broken. On the 29th of June he sailed 
 for Germany, seeking relief from his malady at the 
 springs of Carlsbad, but the expedition was fruitless. 
 He returned by way of England, passing a few days 
 in London. It was evident on his arrival home that 
 his mind had grown feeble, and that he was consider- 
 ably advanced upon the downward road to death. 
 He resumed his work, but he could not carry it 
 forward. The final collapse occurred at McVicker's 
 Theater, Chicago, on September 29, 1884, and he 
 retired forever from the stage. On June 27, 1885, 
 he was placed in a private lunatic asylum at Bloom- 
 ingdale, N. Y., where he remained till October 
 25th, when he was removed to his home in Phila- 
 delphia. He died there on November 8, 1885, 
 and he is buried in Mount Moriah Cemetery in 
 that city.
 
 28 9!o|)n flu^cCunougj). 
 
 The following is a list of the parts and plays that 
 were included in McCuUough's repertory : 
 
 PARTS. PLAYS. 
 
 Virginius Virginius. 
 
 Othello Othello. 
 
 Lucius Brutus The Fall of Tarquin. 
 
 Marcus Brutus Julius C^sar. 
 
 lago Othello. 
 
 Macbeth Macbeth. 
 
 King Lear King Lear. 
 
 Coriolanus Coriolanus. 
 
 Spartacus The Gladiator. 
 
 Benedick Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 Shylock Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Peiruchio Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 Faulconbridge KiNG John. 
 
 Richard III. Richard III. 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey Henry VIII. 
 
 ILamlet Hamlet. 
 
 Pierre Venice Preserved. 
 
 Richelieu Richelieu. 
 
 Jack Cade Jack Cade. 
 
 The Stranger The Stranger. 
 
 St. Pierre The Wife. 
 
 Damon Damon and Pythias. 
 
 Metamora Metamora. 
 
 Claude Melnotte The Lady of Lyons. 
 
 Duke Aranza The Honeymoon. 
 
 Ingomar Ingomar. 
 
 Rolla Pizarro. 
 
 Alfred Evelyn Money. 
 
 Master Walter The Hunchback. 
 
 Febro The Broker of Bogota,
 
 3|of)n a^CuHougf)* 29 
 
 In McCullough's personal character the qualities 
 which first attracted interest were modesty, simplicity, 
 and manliness. Animated by a distinct professional 
 purpose and always resolute in its pursuit, he pos- 
 sessed in an eminent degree the calmness of a man 
 who understands himself and the objects of his life 
 and who means to exercise a firm and wise control 
 over the inward resources of his nature and all out- 
 ward aids to his career. From first to last his de- 
 meanor toward the world was gentle and propitiatory. 
 He was aware of the deficiencies of his education. 
 He knew his own defects. But more than this, he 
 had a perfectly distinct perception of what is due to 
 others, together with a high and just sense of the 
 magnitude of the dramatic art, the difficulties to be 
 conquered in its pursuit, and the nature and value of 
 success in its service. A certain sweet humility was 
 natural to him. He never vaunted himself. He never 
 was unduly exalted. He took success, as he took 
 failure, with meekness. This was not an affecta- 
 tion, for he knew that his powers were uncommon, 
 and he was fully and gladly aware of the great tri- 
 umphs that he had achieved. But this strain of 
 modesty ran through his conduct because it was 
 inherent in his character. He knew what other 
 actors had done, and he knew that there were other 
 heights to be gained, higher than any that had been 
 reached by him. Allied to this quality, and perhaps 
 resultant upon it, there was in his character the attri- 
 bute of thoroughness. He did not wish merely to be
 
 30 gioftn flt^Ciinougf). 
 
 called a great actor; he wished to be a great actor; 
 and, acting under this desire and purpose, he studied 
 and labored at all times to make the utmost that could 
 be made of his faculties and occasions. He left noth- 
 ing to chance. He observed every detail. He con- 
 sidered and planned every step of his way. He always 
 knew what he wished to accomplish in dramatic art, 
 and he always had in his mind a distinct and practical 
 method by which to accomplish it. He was a direct 
 man in his art because a direct man in his nature. 
 Persons who saw him upon the stage, equally with 
 persons who were brought into contact with him in 
 real life, were invariably impressed with the truth of his 
 temperament. Experience of the world, indeed, had 
 taught him the necessity of being poHtic in the direc- 
 tion of his affairs. He was not a simpleton — he was 
 only simple. He did not " wear his heart upon his 
 sleeve for daws to peck at "; but he wore his heart in 
 his bosom, and it was an honest, tender, manly heart, 
 sympathetic with goodness, resentful of evil, charita- 
 ble and generous, faithful in its affection, and easily 
 moved to pity and to kindness. Such a nature offers 
 no complexities for analysis. It is rooted in elemental 
 principles of humanity and virtue. Such a man may 
 make errors, may commit faults, may reveal occasional 
 weakness, may be led astray by passion ; but he 
 remains essentially a lovable human being, and he 
 is readily and rightly understood. McCullough had 
 this fortune, and he had it for this reason. Wher- 
 ever he went he carried this charm of personal worth.
 
 5[o|)n a^tCulJougfj* 31 
 
 and he found instant sympathy and kindness. He 
 was naturally cheerful. His rugged health and 
 affluent physical strength harmonized with his tem- 
 perament and augmented its effect. His bearing and 
 movements had the composure that comes of power. 
 His smile was equally indicative of pleasure in life 
 and kindness toward others. He was an attractive 
 man to children, to all weak or helpless persons, to 
 all such natures as lack self-reliance and therefore turn 
 instinctively toward strength and sweetness. He had 
 a protective air. Safety and comfort seemed to enter 
 with him wherever he came. He was a sturdy, smil- 
 ing reality of beneficent goodness, and his presence 
 encouraged those who work and cheered those who 
 suffer. Whatever of policy he employed in the con- 
 duct of life was not craft; it was the prudence 
 which had been enforced upon him by the monitions 
 of experience; and perhaps had he used more of this 
 sort of policy, had he guarded and fostered his own 
 powers and interests and been less heedless and 
 lavish of resources which he seemed to regard as 
 herculean and inexhaustible, his end would not have 
 come so soon, nor in a way so lamentable, desolate, 
 and wretched. 
 
 McCullough's acting was essentially the flower of his 
 character, as thus denoted. He played many parts, 
 but the parts in which he was best — in which his na- 
 ture was liberated and his triumph supreme — were dis- 
 tinctively those which rest upon the basis of the genial 
 human heart and proceed in the realm of the affections.
 
 32 5oj)n St^cCuHougfj. 
 
 He displayed artistic resources, intellectual intention, 
 and sometimes a subtle professional skill in such 
 characters as Hamlet and Richelieu; but he never was 
 in sympathy with them, and he did not make them his 
 own. He was an heroic actor. He towered into 
 splendor in such situations as are provided by the clos- 
 ing scenes in Payne's " Brutus," the Forum scene in 
 " Virginius," the scaffold scene in " Damon and Py- 
 thias." He was the manly friend, to whom life and all 
 the possessions of the world are nothing when weighed 
 in the balance against fidelity to love. He was the 
 fond and tender father, whose great strength became 
 a sweet and yielding feebleness in the presence of his 
 gentle daughter. He was the simple, truthful, affec- 
 tionate, high-minded man, whose soul could exist only 
 in honor. To ideals of this kind he gave perfect ex- 
 pression, and for an essential nobleness and manliness 
 such as stimulate human hearts to a renewed devotion 
 to duty and a fervid allegiance to high ideals of char- 
 acter and conduct, he will be remembered as long as 
 anything is remembered in the history of the stage.
 
 A TRIBUTE TO 
 JOHN McCULLOUGH. 
 
 • 
 
 By William Winter. 
 
 • 
 
 READ AT A FEAST AT DELMONICO'S, NEW YORK, APRIL 4, 1881. 
 
 I. 
 
 LONG hushed is the harp that his glory had spoken, * 
 Long stilled is the heart that could summon its 
 strain ; 
 Now its chords are all silent, or tuneless, or broken. 
 What touch can awaken its music again ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Ah, the breeze in the green dells of Erin is blowing ! 
 
 If not her great bard yet her spirit can flame, 
 When proud where the waters of Shannon are flowing 
 
 Her groves and her temples re-echo his name. 
 
 * The allusion is to the great poet of McCuUough's native land, 
 Thomas Moore.
 
 34 3!o&n ai9f€uHou0{), 
 
 3- 
 
 Float softly o'er shamrocks, and bluebells, and roses, 
 Blend all their gay tints and their odors in one ; 
 
 And sweet as the zephyr in twilight that closes 
 Be the kiss of thy love on the brows of thy son ! 
 
 4- 
 
 Breathe tenderly o'er us, who cluster around him, 
 In this, his glad moment of triumph and pride : 
 
 Deep, deep in our souls are the ties that have bound 
 him, 
 And life will be lone with his presence denied. 
 
 5- 
 
 From the arms of the mother, in childhood a rover, 
 To exile he came, on the wanderer's shore : 
 
 To the arms of the mother, his trials all over. 
 
 And honored and laurelled, we yield him once more. 
 
 6. 
 
 Speak low of affection that longs to embrace him. 
 Speak loud of the fame that awaits him afar — 
 
 When homage shall hail him, and beauty shall grace 
 him. 
 And pomp hang her wreaths on the conqueror's car ! 
 
 7. 
 
 When the shadows of time at his touch fall asunder. 
 And heroes and demi-gods leap into light ; 
 
 When the accents of Brutus ring wild in the thunder. 
 And the white locks of Lear toss like sea-foam in night ;
 
 Sloljn ^t€\M0UQ^. 35 
 
 8. 
 
 When the grief of the Moor, Hke a tempest that dashes 
 On crags in mid-ocean, has died into rest ; 
 
 When the heart of Virginius breaks, o'er the ashes 
 Of her who was sweetest, and purest, and best ; 
 
 9- 
 
 How proudly, how gladly their praise will caress him ! 
 
 How brightly the jewels will blaze in his crown ! 
 How the white hands of honor will greet him and bless 
 him 
 
 With lilies and roses of perfect renown ! 
 
 lo. 
 
 Ah, grand is the flight of the eagle of morning, 
 While the dark world beneath him drifts into the deep ; 
 
 But cold as the snow-wreaths the mountains adorning 
 Is the light that illumines his desolate sweep. 
 
 II. 
 
 When the trumpets are blown and the standards are 
 streaming, 
 
 And the festal lamps beam on the royal array, 
 How oft will the heart of the monarch be dreaming 
 
 Of the home and the friends that are far, far away ! 
 
 12, 
 
 There 's a pulse in his breast that would always regret us — 
 It dances in laughter, it trembles in tears ; 
 
 With the world at his feet he would never forget us, 
 And our hearts would be true, through an aeon of 
 years !
 
 36 . 3[o|jn a^€unoiie!)» 
 
 13- 
 
 The cymbals may clash and the gay pennons glisten, 
 And the clangor of gladness ring jocund and free, 
 
 But, calm in the tumult, his spirit will listen 
 For our whisper of love floating over the sea : 
 
 14. 
 
 For the music of tones that were once so endearing 
 (Like a wind of the west o'er a prairie of flowers), 
 
 But that never again will resound in his hearing. 
 Except through the tremulous sadness of ours. 
 
 IS- 
 
 Ah, manly and tender, thy deeds are thy praises ! 
 
 Speed on in thy grandeur, all peerless and lone, 
 And greet, in old England, her hawthorns and daisies, - 
 
 A spirit as gentle and bright as their own ! 
 
 16. 
 
 Speed on, wheresoever God's angel may guide thee ! 
 
 No fancy can dream and no language can tell 
 What faith and what blessings walk ever beside thee, 
 
 Or the depth of our love as we bid thee Farewell.
 
 I 
 
 ORATION. 
 
 • 
 
 By Henry Edwards. 
 
 • 
 
 DELIVERED AT THE FUNERAL OF JOHN McCULLOUGH, 
 
 AT ST. GEORGE'S HALL, PHILADELPHIA, 
 
 NOVEMBER 12, 1885. 
 
 T has been well and wisely said by one of the great- 
 est of mankind, that 
 
 Death hath no tortures for a mind resolved, 
 It is as natural as to be bom. 
 
 But though the messages of the conqueror reach us 
 day by day ; though the touch of his hand falls hour 
 by hour upon some familiar form ; though the sym- 
 bols of his presence are ever before our gaze, — it is 
 only when we stand, as we do to-day, beside the in- 
 animate body of one we loved, and wander in thought 
 over the past years, strewn with gentle recollections 
 of the one who has gone before, that we can realize 
 the power of the destroyer, or appreciate the unerring
 
 38 3[o|)n Si^CuHougi^, 
 
 certainty of that stroke which must eventually be dealt 
 to all by the "reaper, whose name is Death." We 
 come together to-day to look our last upon the features 
 of a cherished friend, of a friend who had no enemy in 
 his life, and who goes to his last sleep blessed by the 
 prayers and the tears of thousands. We come to 
 offer our homage to his genius, to pay our earnest 
 tribute of respect to the worth and grandeur of his 
 character. We come to testify to the love we bore 
 him, to recall the memories of his many kindnesses, and 
 to bear him with tender hands and loving hearts, hearts 
 bowed down by the weight of an affectionate sorrow, 
 to his final worldly home. It has been thought well 
 that a few words might be said on this occasion by 
 one associated professionally with him, and though 
 there are many better fitted than myself to perform 
 this task, there are few who have had wider opportuni- 
 ties of knowing the intricacies of his nature, and of 
 observing the growth of his mind ; and surely none 
 who more valued and admired him for his unflinching 
 heroism, for the unstinted devotion which he displayed 
 toward his chosen calling, or for the unbounded and 
 unselfish generosity which marked his life. 
 
 Twenty years have nearly passed since, upon the 
 far-off shores of the Pacific, I first met John McCul- 
 lough. He was then just concluding, in San Francisco, 
 an engagement with his great preceptor and friend Ed- 
 win Forrest — an engagement doomed to be the last 
 they should ever play together. He had already made 
 for himself a name, being regarded as one of the young
 
 3[o||n a^cCulloiiglfj* 39 
 
 tragedians who had before him a bright and glowing 
 future, and the kind-hearted people among whom his 
 lot was then cast, holding their arms open to the aspir- 
 ing artist, took him to their hearts as their proteg^ and 
 friend, and induced him to make their city his home. 
 For nearly nine years he lived amongst them, and 
 though it is not my purpose to allude at length to his 
 career, as that has been already sketched in the fullest 
 manner by the journals throughout the length and 
 breadth of the land, I feel myself compelled to touch 
 briefly upon his management of the California Theater, 
 where, in conjunction with Lawrence Barrett, he inaug- 
 urated an era of theatrical representations second to 
 none which have been given in his time, and raised 
 the drama on the Pacific coast to a condition which it 
 had never before known, and which may fitly be called 
 its " Golden Age." If the names of the company which 
 he selected be written now, there will be found among 
 them those of most of the eminent actors and actresses 
 of to-day, who, graduating from that admirable school, 
 have since fought their way to the highest places of 
 their profession. It was toward the more legitimate 
 drama that our friend's tastes and inclinations always di- 
 rected him, and the productions of" Coriolanus," " Julius 
 Caesar," " Hamlet," " Cymbeline,"and others, were such 
 as have rarely been equaled upon the English-speak- 
 ing stage. He was the means, also, of drawing toward 
 a then little known region the more prominent actors 
 of the country, and displayed throughout his manage- 
 ment an enterprise and liberality as honorable as they
 
 40 5[o8n 09c€ullougj). 
 
 are rare. There is not an artist to-day who played in 
 the California Theater when it was under McCullough's 
 direction but will bear ample testimony to the almost 
 lavish generosity which characterized his mounting 
 of their plays, to the care with which all matters of 
 business outside of the theater walls were watched and 
 tended, to the great excellence of the supporting com- 
 pany, and, more than all, to the atmosphere of thoughtful 
 kindness which pervaded the place and made every 
 one who came within its influence experience the calm 
 comforts of a home. 
 
 I know well that it is somewhat the fashion to decry 
 actors as men of business, and in this regard our poor 
 friend has not escaped ; but the amount of thought 
 and skill required to work to perfection the machinery 
 of a theater needs to be great indeed, and to find a 
 man competent in every department is almost impos- 
 sible ; but in all that pertains to the absolute knowledge 
 of the stage and its own particular requirements John 
 McCullough was thoroughly at home, and had he not 
 been a great actor he would by the force of his love 
 for his profession have made an admirable manager. 
 It is true that he disliked the position, but that by no 
 means interfered with his capacity for filling it ; and 
 perhaps few men ever lived who possessed in so great 
 a degree the rare and valuable quality of smoothing 
 down differences, and of making the rough paths of 
 labor bright and pleasant for those who had to tread 
 them. By his own personal magnetism he drew not 
 only the warmest interest but the affection of his peo-
 
 5[o{)n a^cCunoiigfj* 41 
 
 pie toward him, and they felt that the success of their 
 leader was as dear to them as their own. A harsh word, 
 even among the many tempers and dispositions with 
 which he had to contend, seldom escaped his lips, 
 and if it were ever uttered it was regretted as soon as 
 said. No one ever approached him in a good cause 
 without finding an attentive and sympathetic listener, 
 and the instances are not few in which his own interest 
 was freely sacrificed for the benefit of others. Truly 
 may it be said of him that he had ever 
 
 A tear for pity, and a hand 
 Open as day for melting charity. 
 
 To every worthy purpose his professional services and 
 his theater were freely given, and the amounts yearly 
 bestowed in aiding misfortune and succoring distress 
 were such as to reduce sometimes to a very small sum 
 the profits of the season. But he seemed to hold his 
 position in trust for the good of his fellows, and to 
 experience to the very full that " it is more blessed to 
 give than to receive." 
 
 Another remarkable feature of his nature was his 
 uniform evenness of temper. Whether shadowed by 
 misfortune, tortured by sickness, or hampered by the 
 cares of a busy life, he had always the same gentle 
 smile, the same friendly grasp, the same warm and 
 welcoming words. No change of condition ever 
 affected his character, and whether as the struggling 
 man looking longingly, yet half despairingly, toward
 
 42 3[o{jn St^cCuUougfj. 
 
 the goal which he hoped one day to win, or the dis- 
 tinguished actor, worshiped by admiring crowds, the 
 end of his ambition attained, and the rewards which 
 attend successful endeavor strewn before his steps, he 
 was still the same genial friend, the same warm-hearted 
 companion, the same kind and friendly associate as of 
 old. Who is there amongst us that has had the privi- 
 lege of his friendship that has not known this of him ? 
 Who is there that will not bear witness to some single- 
 hearted, unselfish, generous deed, some kindly thought 
 that cannot be forgotten ? Throughout our long 
 companionship I can recall no mean or paltry act, no 
 shrinking from the duties of his life, no neglect or for- 
 getfulness of the friend who ever served or aided him ; 
 and on the other hand I do remember hundreds of 
 good deeds done by stealth, hundreds of noble actions 
 performed in silence, and made the purer and the 
 brighter because of the secrecy by which they were 
 surrounded. And, as it was remarked on a somewhat 
 similar occasion to this by one of the greatest orators 
 of America, " If every one to whom he did a loving 
 service were to carry a blossom to his grave he would 
 sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers." 
 
 Who does not recollect, too, the singular influence 
 of his sunny nature, the laugh that sparkled in his eye, 
 the fun that bubbled upon his lip, the merry tales that 
 sometimes " kept the table on a roar," or the joyous 
 humor with which he touched the eccentricities of his 
 comrades, or told characteristic anecdotes of those by 
 whom he had been surrounded ? No one more than
 
 3Io|)n ar^cCunoiigifj* 43 
 
 himself could appreciate the disadvantages of his early 
 life, and the honest industry by which he rose out of 
 the position in which fortune had placed him and 
 struggled to obtain the knowledge fitting him for that 
 to which he aspired is as worthy of admiration as of 
 praise. The fund of information which he had gath- 
 ered was wonderful in its range of subjects, and upon 
 all matters connected with his profession he spoke 
 with power and authority. Always a good listener, he 
 knew well when the right word should be said, and 
 when spoken, it was with clearness, force, and dignity. 
 He marked out a path for himself, and, heedless of 
 obstacles, he trod it to the end. He swept aside the 
 obstructions before him, and by the force of sheer 
 determination and energy he marched like a con- 
 queror to his throne. But he knew no petty jealousies, 
 and the leaves from his laurel crown were freely dis- 
 tributed among his younger and less eminent brethren, 
 whom he was ever ready to aid by his advice and ex- 
 perience, with whose struggles he sympathized, because 
 they resembled those of his own early days. And be- 
 yond this, so open-hearted and so singularly gener- 
 ous was his character that he excited no jealousy in 
 others, but every step on his upward path was regarded 
 with honest pride and rejoicing by his comrades, who 
 joyed in all that elevated him, and who loving him 
 with more than brothers' affection regarded his tri- 
 umphs as their own. No man ever collected around 
 him a greater host of friends than he did, and no man 
 will linger longer in the sweetest memories of their
 
 44 9Io|)n !3t9c€unouglj. 
 
 souls than John McCullough. The great concourse 
 assembled here to-day is a distinct evidence of the 
 estimation in which he was publicly held, and I speak 
 with certainty when I say that could he have chosen 
 the place in which he would prefer to " look his last 
 of earth and sky," it would have been this very city of 
 Philadelphia, a city which he always loved so well, and 
 in which he first began to mount the ladder of his 
 fame. It seems to have been in the very fitness of 
 things that after his years of toil and struggle, when 
 struck down in the strength of his manhood by the 
 disease which mastered him, he should be permitted 
 
 Here to return, and die at home at last. 
 
 And I may be allowed here to remark that his brilliant 
 friend and teacher, Edwin Forrest, and his beloved 
 companion, Edwin Adams, also died in this city, and 
 yielded up their breath on the same day of the week 
 as that which witnessed the departure of our friend. 
 But, alas! that such a man should so soon in the 
 pride of his career become but a memory, and that he 
 should have been called so early away, not only from 
 the stage which he adorned and elevated, but from 
 the wider stage of a life which had so much of prom- 
 ise and so rich a harvest of fame and fortune yet to be 
 reaped and gathered. " To our dim vision all seems 
 hard and strange," — the mysteries of this life of ours 
 are beyond our ken; but as we sometimes stand upon 
 the seashore, and look with longing eyes upon the seem-
 
 3[oJ)n 0^Cuilougf)» 45 
 
 ingly limitless waste, wondering at the nature of the 
 countries that lie beyond, so may we stand in the 
 presence of death, and, crossing by our inner self the 
 great dividing line between life and immortality, gaze 
 with speculative sight across the mysterious river, and 
 behold the forms of those who are " not lost but gone 
 before." 
 
 And in such moments of peaceful contemplation can 
 we not see our friend again before us, smiling on us 
 with a holy smile, and bidding us be comforted, giving 
 us the assurance that he is still near us, shedding a 
 peaceful influence about our hfe, and telling us that 
 " souls once united in the bonds of love can never be 
 dissevered, and the universe still held together by the 
 same great power must perish before this divine ordi- 
 nance can be broken." 
 
 He has left an example to imitate and follow — an 
 example of earnest energy and perseverance; an ex- 
 ample of a noble, generous, and manly character ; an 
 example of patience under difficulties rarely met with 
 in life, and an example of as honest and tender a soul 
 as ever blessed our earthly pilgrimage, and made us 
 thankful that such as he can come within the orbit of 
 our lives. Farewell, then, gentle friend, faithful com- 
 rade, loving brother, fare you well! We part from 
 you with sadness in our souls; but as through our tear- 
 filled eyes we look our last on your familiar features, 
 we bless the Father that He has shortened your suffer- 
 ings on earth, and we pray your happiness in your 
 eternal home, whither the youngest and bravest of us
 
 46 3|o{)n St^fCuHouglj. 
 
 soon shall follow you ! The flowers which adorn your 
 coffin are emblems of the purity of that affection which 
 will accompany you to your grave, which, unlike them, 
 can never fade, but in the long years to come will 
 " keep your memory green." And though we would 
 have kept you with us for a longer space, we murmur 
 not at a higher and wiser decree than any we can 
 utter, and with our souls swelling with love and tender- 
 ness for you, old friend, we will endeavor to comfort 
 your sorrowing one with the trusting thought that 
 "It is well." 
 
 The pall-bearers at McCullough's funeral were : William J. 
 Florence, John B. Carson, W. H. Thomson, William M. Conner, 
 William F. Johnson, Joseph Jefferson, M. W. Canning, William 
 Winter, Henry Edwards, J. W. Collier, and John A. Cockerill.
 
 r
 
 THE McCULLOUGH MONUMENT. 
 
 RECORD OF EXERCISES AT ITS DEDICATION, 
 NOVEMBER 27, 1888. 
 
 A SHORT time after the death of John McCul- 
 lough it was suggested by his friend WiUiam M. 
 Conner that a monument should be erected at his 
 grave : such a monument as might perpetuate his hon- 
 ored name, transmitting it to future times and indicating 
 to future generations the esteem in which he was held 
 by his contemporaries. The project was first men- 
 tioned by Mr. Conner in conversation with W. J. 
 Florence, the comedian, — another of McCuUough's 
 comrades, — and it was then communicated to Mr. John 
 Mackay, Mr. John B. Carson, Mr. W. H. Thomson, 
 Mr. Steele Mackaye, Mr, William Winter, and other 
 old friends of the actor, by all of whom it was eagerly 
 approved and supported. No formal appeal was 
 made to the public. Mr. Conner only authorized an 
 intimation, to persons whom it was thought would feel
 
 48 3[oljn <ir^c€unougt)» 
 
 an interest in the subject, that a plan had been formed 
 for accomphshing this commemorative tribute. The 
 idea met with cordial sympathy, and the practical 
 response of men who had stood near to the great 
 actor in life, and who ** knew him but to love him," 
 was immediate and substantial. Mr. Conner, — by 
 whom the essential labor for the accomplishment of 
 this project was from first to last performed with 
 devoted zeal and wise and kindly energy, — was soon 
 enabled to organize a committee and to insure the 
 choice of sculptor and design. The election fell 
 on Mr. WiUiam Clark Noble, of Newport, R. I., and 
 Mr. John Lackme, of Philadelphia, — the former a 
 young statuary of marked ability and of poetic enthu- 
 siasm for his subject, the latter an architect of skill, 
 experience, and recognized worth. Their designs were 
 approved; their work went forward with all suitable 
 celerity, and late in the summer of 1888 the granite 
 monument, with a massive and splendid bronze bust 
 of John McCuUough, was placed at the actor's grave, 
 in Mount Moriah Cemetery, near Philadelphia, The 
 formal dedication of it occurred on November 27, 1888. 
 The McCullough monument stands at the head of 
 the grave, over which the bust of the actor, in his 
 favorite character of Virginius, seems an image of per- 
 fect and noble repose, as calm and majestic as the day 
 that it greets at its coming. The main fabric of the 
 monument, imposed upon a commodious pedestal, is 
 a huge block of polished granite. On this are reared 
 four pillars, which support a stone canopy surmounted
 
 gjoijn a^cCunougfj. 49 
 
 by an urn. Beneath the canopy stands the bust, 
 which is of colossal size. The pillars are sculptured with 
 vines of ivy. The top of the urn is thirty-six feet from 
 the ground. On the east side of the main shaft 
 appear the sculptured masks of Tragedy and Comedy, 
 together with ideal faces of Roman actors. On the 
 north side are cut the expressive lines from " Julius 
 Caesar," 
 
 His life was gentle, and the elements 
 
 So mixed in him that Nature might stand up 
 
 And say to all the world, " This was a man." 
 
 On the south side may be read these lines, taken from 
 a poem by John G. Whittier, tributary to his Quaker 
 friend Joseph Sturge : 
 
 Tender as woman, manliness, and meekness 
 
 In him were so allied 
 That they who judged him by his strength or weakness 
 
 Saw but a single side. 
 
 On the west side the inscription makes this record : 
 
 erected to the memory of the 
 Eminent Tragedian, John McCullough, 
 
 BY HIS FRIENDS : 
 
 John W. Mackay, William J. Florence, 
 
 Mary Anderson, 
 William M. Conner, W. H. Thomson, 
 John B. Carson, W. F. Johnson, 
 
 AND OTHERS.
 
 50 g[oljn sr9c<^ufioug|j» 
 
 The scene at McCullough's grave when his monu- 
 ment was dedicated lacked no element of impressive 
 simplicity. The day was somber and chill. A sad, 
 gray sky brooded, as if in sorrow, over the still and 
 melancholy landscape — of withered lawn and leafless 
 trees, with, all around, the cold memorials of the dead. 
 It was one of those pensive, soundless days when 
 Nature seems to sympathize with the grief, the per- 
 plexities, the wistful anxiety of man. There was a 
 numerous company in the burial-ground — not only 
 residents of Philadelphia but friends from cities as re- 
 mote as Boston and Chicago. A special train from 
 New York had brought many of McCullough's old 
 comrades and many interested spectators. Among 
 these pilgrims of friendship were Rudolph Aronson, J. 
 H. Barnes, C. W. Brooke, Colonel W. Brown, Judge 
 Bregy, A. J. Bates, J. W. CoUier, W. M. Conner, 
 Mrs. Conner, Miss Mignon Conner, G. F. Coes, J. 
 Cunningham, John Courtney, George Davis, J. J. 
 Dougherty, Henry Enoch, F. H. Gould, E. G. Gil- 
 more, Laurence Hutton, Mrs. Rees Haskett, Rev. 
 Robert Hunter, Dr. W. F. Hartley, David Hayman, 
 Frederick Helm, Matthew Jackson, W. F. Johnson, 
 J. F. Kelly, John A. Lane, J. H. Lane, E. A. McFar- 
 land, James H. Meade, Frank Moran, Steele Mackaye, 
 Mr. and Mrs. James McCullough, Miss Letitia Mc- 
 CuUough, W. H. Maxwell, M. J. O'Brien, William 
 Ottman, Miss Clara Poole, J. B. Roberts, Locke Rich- 
 ardson, W. S. Rising, Richard Stockton, Miss Jenny 
 Saunderson, Henry Scheetz, Luke Schoolcraft, S. S.
 
 3|ofjn a^cCunmiglj, 51 
 
 Sandford, Eugene Tompkins, Alexander Taylor, Jr., 
 S. J. Todd, Barry Wall, B. Warburton, William Win- 
 ter, Joseph Wood, and Mrs. Jane Wirt. A delegation 
 was in attendance from the Philadelphia Lodge of the 
 Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks. The orator 
 of the day, Steele Mackaye, and the poet, William 
 Winter, came over from New York. A temporary 
 stage had been erected at the south-west corner of the 
 burial lot of McCullough and his family, and upon this 
 the officers and speakers of the occasion took their 
 places. Many ladies, including Mrs. Jane Wirt, of 
 Dunmore, Pa., the only surviving sister of the actor, 
 Miss Letitia McCullough, his granddaughter, Mrs. 
 Conner, and Mrs. Haskett, occupied seats at the foot 
 of the monument. Solemn music, by way of prelude, 
 and also at intervals during the exercises, was per- 
 formed by Simon Hassler's band, and at 2 o'clock p. m. 
 Mr. W. F. Johnson, as presiding officer, and as the 
 life-long friend of John McCullough, made the cere- 
 monial speech, and unveiled the bust of the loved and 
 lamented actor.
 
 INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS. 
 
 • 
 
 By William F. Johnson. 
 
 • 
 
 MY FRIENDS: There is an hour when we are 
 called upon to mourn the loss of one dear to us ; 
 there is an hour when grief is soothed and we feel that 
 our tears were not in vain. The consolation that Na- 
 ture brings is the compensation for our sorrow. We 
 are not here to-day to mourn, — for mourning cannot 
 give us back our friend, — but rather for exultation 
 that his memory lives with us, green with the remem- 
 brance of his great charity, his sweetness of tempera- 
 ment, and his glorious geniality. Heroes have had 
 their last resting-places marked with imperishable mar- 
 ble, in admiration of their power to slaughter men 
 and wreak misery upon their fellow-creatures ; poets 
 for the sweetness of their songs ; rulers for their excel- 
 lence in statecraft; but few are honored, as our dead 
 friend is to-day, for personal worth, unostentatious char- 
 ities, and a beneficent life.
 
 g[olSin sr^cCullouglj* 53 
 
 Every American citizen can unite in this loving 
 remembrance. The Ufe of our friend was the embodi- 
 ment of the possibiHties of our civihzation. A poor, 
 lone, penniless, and uneducated emigrant, from the 
 green isle that has given so much to the world, he 
 arose, by his genius and the capabilities of our institu- 
 tions, to be a man of culture and intellectual force, the 
 associate of judges and senators and the advanced in 
 culture of our land ; and when he passed away he left 
 a void, as the last and not the least of a long line of 
 delineators of the romantic and heroic characters of 
 poetry. 
 
 The story of his life has been told, but the loving 
 devotion of his friends can never be written. 
 
 His life was gentle, and the elements 
 
 So mixed in him that Nature might stand up 
 
 And say to all the world, " This was a man. " 
 
 So has it been carved upon this structure, that those 
 who are to come may know the esteem in which he 
 was held in life. He had his superficial faults. To 
 be more than human is not to be of humanity. But 
 in gentleness, sweetness of temper, self-abnegation, and 
 broad and open-hearted charity we may never know 
 his equal. 
 
 As a friend of his early life and of his mature years — 
 a friendship that was never broken by time nor dimmed 
 by absence — I have been asked to withdraw the cur- 
 tain that will reveal his effigy, placed here in enduring 
 bronze.
 
 54 9[ol)n sr^CuHougfj. 
 
 It is with affectionate remembrance of my friend 
 that I do this, and a trust that it will in future years be 
 considered not only the memorial of a great man, but 
 a lesson that the remembrance of good deeds, charity, 
 and affection endures forever. 
 
 It had been expected and purposed that Mr, Conner 
 should address the assembly at the grave of his friend, 
 but he was suffering with severe illness and unable to 
 speak. He acknowledged, however, with evident 
 emotion, an enthusiastic tribute of applause from the 
 spectators of this memorable ceremonial, and in this 
 manner he introduced the orator of the day.
 
 ORATION. 
 
 • 
 
 By Steele Mackaye. 
 
 • 
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: I regard this as 
 a moment to be greeted by us without other 
 tears than those bom of the deep content of gratified 
 love. While there is a profound solemnity about this 
 occasion, it nevertheless should have, for those here 
 present, no savor of sorrow or of pain. On the con- 
 trary, in the whole history of the profession which this 
 noble sleeper served, there has never occurred an 
 episode freighted with greater encouragement to his 
 co-workers than this which we enjoy here to-day, for it 
 demonstrates the lasting hold that true manhood can 
 obtain, through loyal service on the stage, upon the 
 affectionate remembrance of our race. 
 
 For the first time a monument has been raised, not 
 as a private ceremonial but as a public commemoration, 
 over the grave of an American actor. This monument 
 apart from the charm diffused by its intrinsic beauty, 
 performs three functions, invaluable to those interested 
 in honest art and right living : First, As a tribute to
 
 56 3[o!)n ai^CuIlougl), 
 
 an actor it asserts the worth and dignity of histrionic 
 endeavor. Secondly, It emphasizes the sterUng quaUty 
 of the man who rests beneath it. Thirdly, It cele- 
 brates the glorious and permanent force of hmnan 
 friendship. Never before in this country has a votary 
 of the theater received such a testimonial — declaring 
 the love that outlives death — as this statue just un- 
 veiled and this assemblage from widely separated 
 cities, of hearts that are strong in memory because they 
 were always firm in affection. 
 
 If we inquire into the causes of this unique occasion 
 we shall discern much to encourage our faith in that 
 human nature which cynics are so prone to despise. 
 When the band of faithful souls assembled here have 
 "passed through Nature to eternity," — into that freer 
 and deeper communion of spirit which awaits us beyond 
 the silence of the grave, — our children and children's 
 children will pause to gaze upon the massive manliness 
 of this heroic head, and to ask why he only of the 
 illustrious dead of his great art was selected to survive, 
 in bronze, the crumbling memories of the fellows of his 
 craft. Was it because he was greater or more skillful 
 in his art than those who passed before him to the 
 tomb? No! Few would care to press such a claim 
 for the man whose spirit gave life to the ashes in this 
 grave. Why, then, has he been singled out for this 
 distinction ? 
 
 Because he played his part with such simj^licity in 
 life, and such unpretentious patience in art, that 
 death, with all its dread omnipotence, could not de- 
 stroy the remembrance of his winsome and achieving
 
 giojjn a^cCuHoiigfi. 57 
 
 will. His story accentuates the beneficent possibilities 
 of the land of freedom, in which he proved that his rank 
 was due to naught but nature, endeavor, and personal 
 achievement. His origin was as lowly as the effort 
 of his life was lofty. Without the advantages of edu- 
 cation, wealth, and social position he won them all 
 through countless and trying vicissitudes ; won them 
 simply by the iron force of dauntless detennination 
 and the unflagging energy of an aspiring mind. 
 Through his unflinching firmness in the fight of life, 
 however, he bore within his breast an inexhaustible 
 spring of " the milk of human kindness." He pos- 
 sessed that dignity and graciousness of manner which 
 denotes a nature of the noblest rank. He won all 
 hearts, and the secret of his sway, among all classes, was 
 his unchanging truth and incorruptible integrity. He 
 was unfalteringly true — true to his friend, fair to his 
 foe, and faithful to the highest aims of his art. From 
 such a record no wonder such an expression of respect 
 as this should spring ! 
 
 And yet I have seen the oblique eye of envy cast 
 upon this grave; have heard McCullough's title to this 
 triumph questioned in the contemning tone that tells 
 the jealous heart. If any in the future should echo 
 the cavil of these petty minds, let them be reminded 
 how single and distinct John McCullough's stand was 
 toward his associates of the stage. While most of those 
 his day saw crowned with laurels — actors who, with- 
 out the glorifying glamor of the stage, would have 
 lived unnoticed and been buried in forgotten graves 
 — while, I say, the favored few of his profession held
 
 s8 gjojjn a^cCufiougf), 
 
 themselves haughtily aloof from social contact with the 
 comrades whose cooperation enabled them to win their 
 way, the unsullied manliness of this true gentleman 
 moved through the world untainted by envy, hauteur, 
 or self-conceit. He bore himself equally with defer- 
 ence and courtesy toward the poor and unrecognized 
 and with simple dignity toward the high-placed and 
 mighty of the world. He met all the brothers of his 
 guild, however humble the role that fate assigned, with 
 a heart sincere in sympathy, a head quick and willing 
 to advise, a hand strong and ready to assist. This is 
 the final reason for the erection of this monument : 
 because the stainless integrity and sensitive tenderness 
 of an unaffected man was blended with the undying 
 devotion of an unpretentious artist in the noble per- 
 sonality of John McCullough. 
 
 Friends, this moment is as weighty with worth as it 
 is rare in occurrence. We are not likely to know an- 
 other such as this in our generation. It becomes us, 
 therefore, to consider to whom our profession is most 
 indebted for this precious experience. The man who 
 in life was the guide, the trusted confidant, the stead- 
 fast friend, of John McCullough, — the friend who did 
 most of the practical work in assisting him to attain 
 success, — was equally energetic, faithful, and efficient 
 in service to this artist after he was dead. Though the 
 grave had hidden his hero from sight he still bore him 
 in mind. Friendship did not falter, devotion did not 
 relax; but with patient and tireless toil this loving 
 comrade refused to rest until the great actor whom he
 
 3[olSjn a^cCuilougf)* 59 
 
 had served when living had attained to even greater 
 singleness of honor in death than he had ever enjoyed 
 in life. That man to whom the Dramatic Profession 
 is in everlasting debt for the work completed here 
 to-day is the twin, in sterling manliness, of the beloved 
 spirit that once animated the dust beneath this bronze. 
 All honor then to him. If dear John McCuUough is 
 looking on and Ustening to the words I speak his soul 
 echoes mine when I say that intertwined with the 
 immortality of his own name is that of his loyal friend 
 William M. Conner. 
 
 On April 4, 1881, at a feast given in honor of 
 McCuUough, a poet (William Winter), whose friend- 
 ship he prized beyond expression, paid him the tribute 
 of a poem. The opening verse voices with strange 
 truth the sentiment of this hour here ; and therefore I 
 close by taking this flower from that gay garland to 
 lay now upon this bier : 
 
 Long hushed is the harp that his glory had spoken, 
 Long stilled is the heart that could summon its strain ; 
 
 Now its cords are all silent, or tuneless, or broken. 
 What touch can awaken its music again ! 
 
 At the close of Mr. Mackaye's oration a dirge was 
 played by Hassler's Band, and then William Winter 
 came forward and delivered the following elegy. The 
 poet was one of John McCuUough's most intimate 
 friends for many years, and his poem took naturally 
 the form of a friend's apostrophe to the silent image 
 of a departed comrade.
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 By William Winter. 
 
 FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE MONUMENT TO JOHN 
 MCCULLOUGH, IN MOUNT MORIAH CEMETERY, 
 PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER 28, if 
 
 HOW different now, old friend, the meeting ! 
 Thy form, thy face, thy look the same — 
 But where is now the kindly greeting, 
 
 The voice of cheer, the heart of flame ? 
 There, in thy grandeur, calm and splendid, — 
 
 God's peace on that imperial brow, — 
 Thou standest, grief and trouble ended, 
 And we are nothing to thee now, 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet once again the air is cloven 
 
 With joyous tumult of acclaim ; 
 Once more the golden wreaths are woven, 
 
 Of love and honor, for thy name ;
 
 3[0|)n a^cCuUouglj* 6i 
 
 And round thee here, with tender longing, 
 
 As oft they did in days of old, 
 The comrades of thy soul come thronging. 
 
 Who never knew thee stern or cold. 
 
 III. 
 
 Why waits, in frozen silence sleeping, 
 
 The smile that made our hearts rejoice ? 
 Why, dead to laughing and to weeping. 
 
 Is hushed the music of thy voice? 
 By what strange mood of reverie haunted 
 
 Art thou, the gentle, grown austere ? 
 And do we hve in dreams enchanted, 
 
 To know thee gone, yet think thee here ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah, fond pretense ! ah, sweet beguiling ! 
 
 Too well I know thy course is run. 
 There 's no more grief and no more smiling 
 
 For thee henceforth beneath the sun. 
 In manhood's noon thy summons found thee. 
 
 In glory's blaze, on fortune's height. 
 Trailed the black robe of doom around thee 
 
 And veiled thy radiant face in night. 
 
 • 
 
 V. 
 
 This but the shadow of a vision 
 Our mourning souls alone can see, 
 
 That pierce through death to realms elysian. 
 More hallowed now because of thee.
 
 62 gfojn a^cCuHoiisfj, 
 
 Yet, oh, what heart, with recollection 
 Of thy colossal trance of pain. 
 
 Were now so selfish in affection 
 
 To wish thee back from heaven again ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 There must be, in those boundless spaces 
 
 Where thy great spirit wanders free, 
 Abodes of bliss, enchanted places, 
 
 That only Love's white angels see ! 
 And sure, if heavenly kindness showered 
 
 On every sufferer 'neath the sun 
 Shows any human spirit dowered 
 
 With love angelic, thou wert one I 
 
 VII. 
 
 There 's no grand impulse, no revealing 
 
 In all the glorious world of art, 
 There's no sweet thought or noble feeling 
 
 That throbbed not in thy manly heart ! 
 There 's no strong flight of aspiration, 
 
 No reverent dream of realms divine. 
 No pulse, no thrill, no proud elation 
 
 Of god-like power that was not thine ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 So stand forever, joyless, painless. 
 Supreme alike o'er smiles and tears. 
 
 Thou true man's image, strong and stainless, 
 Unchanged through all the changing years  
 
 g[oljn 3r^c€u!loiigf), 63 
 
 While Fame's blue crystal o'er thee bending 
 With honor's gems shall blaze and burn, 
 
 And rose and lily, round thee blending, 
 Adorn and bless thy hallowed urn. 
 
 IX. 
 
 While summer days are long and lonely, 
 
 While autumn sunshine seems to weep, 
 While midnight hours are bleak, and only 
 
 The stars and clouds their vigils keep. 
 All gentle things that live shall moan thee. 
 
 All fond regrets forever wake ; 
 For earth is happier having known thee. 
 
 And heaven is sweeter for thy sake. 
 
 The Manhattan Quartette of the Actors Order of 
 Friendship, consisting of Mr. J. F. Davis, Mr. 
 Joseph Wood, Mr. W. H. Maxwell, and Mr. J. J. 
 Dougherty, closed the services, with several efforts of a 
 tender and pleasing vocalism, aptly expressive of sor- 
 row for the loss of a beloved comrade and sympathy 
 alike with the loneliness that deplores his absence and 
 the love that honors his memory. 
 
 On the day of these exercises the following record of 
 the event was made in one of the New York journals, 
 by the actor's friend, Colonel John A. Cockerill, 
 whose graceful and tender words may fitly close this 
 memorial : " To-day in a cemetery near Philadelphia 
 a monument will be formally dedicated to the memory
 
 64 Sfojn at^CuHougf)* 
 
 of John McCullough, the actor. The event recalls the 
 pathetic story of the poor boy who landed upon these 
 shores a stranger ; who lifted himself by earnest appli- 
 cation, sacrifice, and study to the very head of the dra- 
 matic profession, and who, ' cheated by fortune of fair 
 hours,' fell in the very prime of his manhood and the 
 fruition of his life-work. Honors such as came to few 
 men were his. He was of gentle spirit, his ambitions 
 were lofty, his heart was ever filled with high resolves, 
 and he loved humanity. There was no envy in his 
 soul. He loved his friends, and no man ever lived who 
 attached people to him as did John McCullough 
 Three years have passed since he was blotted from 
 existence, — a long time in this harsh world to cherish 
 a good man's memory, — and yet the tears which will 
 bedew the eyes of those who meet to-day to pay him 
 tribute will be as fresh as those which were shed beside 
 his bier. To have lived to write such tender tracings 
 upon the hearts of men was to have lived well," 
 
 g ^ ^— -g TB
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS 
 TO THE McCULLOUGH MONUMENT. 
 
 Mary Anderson. 
 John W. Mackay. 
 John B. Carson. 
 W. J. Florence. 
 W. H. Thomson. 
 W. F. Johnson. 
 William Winter. 
 Steele Mackaye. 
 J. B, Houston. 
 R. M. Taylor. 
 John A. Cockerill. 
 GiRARD B. Allen. 
 John W, Norton. 
 Stuart Robson. 
 Richard Stockton. 
 John A. Lane. 
 Charles W. Brooke. 
 Beggs & Rankin. 
 Henry Edwards.
 
 66 giotjn flt^fCuHougli). 
 
 J. W. Collier. 
 Anhausser Busch. 
 Jesse Brown. 
 Stillson Hutchins. 
 W. T. Sherman. 
 J. G. Blaine. 
 J. L. Toole. 
 Henry Irving. 
 Joseph Jefferson. 
 William M. Conner.
 
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