Now it is scarcely an exaggeration to say the sex was in love with John Booth, the name Wilkes being apparently unknown to his family and close friends. At depot restaurants those fiercely unwilling maiden-slammers of plates and shooters of coffee-cups made to him swift and gentle offerings of hot steaks, hot biscuits, hot coffee, crowding round him like doves about a grain basket, leaving other travellers to wait upon themselves or go without refreshment. At the hotels, maids had been known to enter his room and tear asunder the already made-up bed, that the "turn-over" might be broader by a thread or two, and both pillows slant at the perfectly correct angle. At the theatre, good heaven! as the sunflowers turn upon their stalks to follow the beloved sun, so old or young, our faces smiling, turned to him. Yes, old or young, for the little daughter of the manager, who played but the _Duke of York_ in "Richard III.," came to the theatre each day, each night of the engagement, arrayed in her best gowns, and turned on him fervid eyes that might well have served for _Juliet_. The manager's wife, whose sternly aggressive virtue no one could doubt or question, with the aid of art waved and fluffed her hair, and softened thus her too hard line of brow, and let her keen black eyes fill with friendly sparkles for us all--yet, 'twas because of him. And when the old woman made to threaten him with her finger, and he caught her lifted hand, and uncovering his bonnie head, stooped and kissed it, then came the wanton blood up in her cheek as she had been a girl again.
His letters then from flirtatious women, and, alas! girls, you may well believe were legion. A cloud used to gather upon his face at sight of them. I have of course no faintest idea that he lived the godly, righteous, and sober life that is enjoined upon us all, but I do remember with respect that this idolized man, when the letters were many and rehearsal already on, would carefully cut off every signature and utterly destroy them, then pile the unread letters up, and, I don't know what their final end was, but he remarked with knit brows, as he caught me watching him at his work one morning: "They," pointing to the pile of mutilated letters, "they are harmless now, little one; their sting lies in the tail!" and when a certain free and easy actor, laughingly picked up a very elegantly written note, and said: "I can read it, can't I, now the signature is gone?" He answered, shortly: "The woman's folly is no excuse for our knavery--lay the letter down, please!"