WITH BRUTUS IN ST. JO by Eugene Field: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
Two aging actors reflect on that night they earned fifty cents each to portray Roman soldiers in a small-town production of *Julius Caesar* in St.
The poem
Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West The one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best; Milt, being rich, was much too proud to run the thing alone, So he hired an "acting manager," a gruff old man named Krone-- A stern, commanding man with piercing eyes and flowing beard, And his voice assumed a thunderous tone when Jack and I appeared; He said that Julius Caesar had been billed a week or so, And would have to have some armies by the time he reached St. Jo! O happy days, when Tragedy still winged an upward flight, When actors wore tin helmets and cambric robes at night! O happy days, when sounded in the public's rapturous ears The creak of pasteboard armor and the clash of wooden spears! O happy times for Jack and me and that one other supe That then and there did constitute the noblest Roman's troop! With togas, battle axes, shields, we made a dazzling show, When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! We wheeled and filed and double-quicked wherever Brutus led, The folks applauding what we did as much as what he said; 'T was work, indeed; yet Jack and I were willing to allow 'T was easier following Brutus than following father's plough; And at each burst of cheering, our valor would increase-- We tramped a thousand miles that night, at fifty cents apiece! For love of Art--not lust for gold--consumed us years ago, When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! To-day, while walking in the Square, Jack Langrish says to me: "My friend, the drama nowadays ain't what it used to be! These farces and these comedies--how feebly they compare With that mantle of the tragic art which Forrest used to wear! My soul is warped with bitterness to think that you and I-- Co-heirs to immortality in seasons long gone by-- Now draw a paltry stipend from a Boston comic show, We, who were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!" And so we talked and so we mused upon the whims of Fate That had degraded Tragedy from its old, supreme estate; And duly, at the Morton bar, we stigmatized the age As sinfully subversive of the interests of the Stage! For Jack and I were actors in the halcyon, palmy days Long, long before the Hoyt school of farce became the craze; Yet, as I now recall it, it was twenty years ago That we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! We were by birth descended from a race of farmer kings Who had done eternal battle with grasshoppers and things; But the Kansas farms grew tedious--we pined for that delight We read of in the _Clipper_ in the barber's shop by night! We would be actors--Jack and I--and so we stole away From our native spot, Wathena, one dull September day, And started for Missouri--ah, little did we know We were going to train as soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! Our army numbered three in all--Marc Antony's was four; Our army hankered after fame, but Marc's was after gore! And when we reached Philippi, at the outset we were met With an inartistic gusto I can never quite forget. For Antony's overwhelming force of thumpers seemed to be Resolved to do "them Kansas jays"--and that meant Jack and me! My lips were sealed but that it seems quite proper you should know That Rome was nowhere in it at Philippi in St. Jo! I've known the slow-consuming grief and ostentatious pain Accruing from McKean Buchanan's melancholy Dane; Away out West I've witnessed Bandmann's peerless hardihood, With Arthur Cambridge have I wrought where walking was not good; In every phase of horror have I bravely borne my part, And even on my uppers have I proudly stood for Art! And, after all my suffering, it were not hard to show That I got my allopathic dose with Brutus at St. Jo! That army fell upon me in a most bewildering rage And scattered me and mine upon that histrionic stage; My toga rent, my helmet gone and smashed to smithereens, They picked me up and hove me through whole centuries of scenes! I sailed through Christian eras and mediæval gloom And fell from Arden forest into Juliet's painted tomb! Oh, yes, I travelled far and fast that night, and I can show The scars of honest wounds I got with Brutus in St. Jo! Ah me, old Davenport is gone, of fickle fame forgot, And Barrett sleeps forever in a much neglected spot; Fred Warde, the papers tell me, in far woolly western lands Still flaunts the banner of high Tragic Art at one-night stands; And Jack and I, in Charley Hoyt's Bostonian dramas wreak Our vengeance on creation at some eensty dolls per week. By which you see that public taste has fallen mighty low Since we fought as Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
Two aging actors reflect on that night they earned fifty cents each to portray Roman soldiers in a small-town production of *Julius Caesar* in St. Joseph, Missouri. The memory brings a mix of humor and a touch of sadness: they were farm boys chasing their dreams, faced off against a rival army of extras onstage, and now they find themselves performing in lowbrow comedy shows. This poem serves as Field's affectionate, playful tribute to the glory days of frontier Tragedy — and the disconnect between the dreams young men hold and the realities they ultimately face.
Line-by-line
Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West / The one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best;
O happy days, when Tragedy still winged an upward flight, / When actors wore tin helmets and cambric robes at night!
We wheeled and filed and double-quicked wherever Brutus led, / The folks applauding what we did as much as what he said;
To-day, while walking in the Square, Jack Langrish says to me: / "My friend, the drama nowadays ain't what it used to be!"
And so we talked and so we mused upon the whims of Fate / That had degraded Tragedy from its old, supreme estate;
We were by birth descended from a race of farmer kings / Who had done eternal battle with grasshoppers and things;
Our army numbered three in all--Marc Antony's was four; / Our army hankered after fame, but Marc's was after gore!
I've known the slow-consuming grief and ostentatious pain / Accruing from McKean Buchanan's melancholy Dane;
That army fell upon me in a most bewildering rage / And scattered me and mine upon that histrionic stage;
Ah me, old Davenport is gone, of fickle fame forgot, / And Barrett sleeps forever in a much neglected spot;
Tone & mood
The tone blends comedy with nostalgia—Field is chuckling at himself and his friend throughout, yet there's a genuine ache in that laughter. Imagine a man sharing a funny tale from his youth, frequently pausing because the story evokes a hint of sadness. The mock-heroic style—depicting fifty-cent extras as Roman legions and a backstage fight as the Battle of Philippi—drives the humor, but it never veers into outright parody since Field clearly had a deep affection for the theatre and its people. By the final stanza, the humor softens into a heartfelt tribute for those who have passed on.
Symbols & metaphors
- The tin helmet and cambric robe — These inexpensive costume pieces capture the essence of frontier theatre — they’re makeshift, underfunded, yet genuine. They’re cherished items, not sources of shame. Field uses them to convey that sincerity and effort hold more value than refinement.
- The fifty cents apiece — The pay is ridiculously low, yet Field continues to take pride in it. It marks the moment when the two farm boys became, even if just for a short time and at a low cost, professional theatre artists. That amount grounds all the lofty discussions about Art in a funny, down-to-earth reality.
- Brutus / Julius Caesar — Shakespeare's play explores loyalty, betrayal, and the downfall of great men, reflecting the poem's theme of the decline of something once noble (like tragic art or youthful ambition) into something diminished. Brutus embodies this loss, aligning well with the poem's mood.
- The plough — The farm and the plough symbolize the life the boys left behind. Whenever Field brings it up, he emphasizes that the theatre — even if it’s rough, low-budget, fifty-cent theatre — was still better than what they had before. This adds genuine depth to the nostalgia.
- The Morton bar — The bar where the two men now drink and vent represents their comfortable, middle-aged disappointment. It’s a place for talking about dreams instead of chasing them.
- The painted tomb / Arden forest / medieval scenery — When the speaker is thrown through the backstage scenery, he goes through painted depictions of different plays and past eras. It's a physical gag, but it also implies that the entire history of theatre is merely canvas and paint — stunning illusions that can be shattered in a heartbeat.
Historical context
Eugene Field penned this poem in the late 1880s or early 1890s, drawing on his own experiences as a young man on the frontier. St. Joseph, Missouri, was a vibrant cultural center in the post-Civil War West, where its opera houses showcased everything from touring Shakespeare productions to vaudeville and melodrama. The poem taps into a familiar American tradition of humorously reminiscing about the rugged frontier theatre scene, where Shakespeare was performed in mining towns and river cities by underpaid actors for lively, sometimes rowdy, crowds. Field mentions real people: Milton Tootle, a local merchant and civic supporter; Jack Langrish, a prominent frontier actor-manager; and tragedians like E.L. Davenport, Lawrence Barrett, and Fred Warde. The *New York Clipper* was the top theatrical trade paper of the time. Charles Hoyt's popular farces, which Field views as symbols of artistic decline, dominated the commercial theatre landscape in the 1880s and 90s. The poem also serves as a subtle elegy for the era of American tragic theatre, which was genuinely fading by the time Field wrote it.
FAQ
Yes, almost certainly. Field was a journalist and humorist who drew a lot from real life, and the poem includes many verifiable names—Milton Tootle, Jack Langrish, the town of Wathena, Kansas. The specific details (fifty cents each, three men in Brutus's army, getting thrown through the scenery) feel like actual memories, even if Field polished them for comedic effect.
Brutus is a key figure in Shakespeare's *Julius Caesar*—a Roman senator who becomes part of the conspiracy to kill Caesar and eventually commands an army at the Battle of Philippi, where he faces defeat and meets his end. Field sets his story against the backdrop of a touring production of this play. The title 'With Brutus in St. Jo' gives the speaker's role as a fifty-cent extra the same weight as that of a soldier under a respected general.
The main source of humor comes from the contrast between the lofty language Field employs and the small, rundown reality he's depicting. He refers to 'the noblest Roman's troop,' even though it's just three farm boys in tin helmets. He talks about being tossed through painted scenery as if it were a valiant military operation. This joke is consistently present, but it feels more affectionate than harsh.
They dreamed of becoming serious dramatic actors, following in the footsteps of legendary tragedians like Edwin Forrest and Lawrence Barrett. Instead, they found themselves performing in Charles Hoyt's popular farce comedies—commercial theatre that pays well but feels artistically beneath them. It’s ironic that they’re voicing these complaints at a bar, considering they spent their youth as fifty-cent extras.
'Supe' is a shorthand for 'supernumerary' — a term from the theatre referring to an extra, someone brought in to fill out crowd scenes or battle sequences without any speaking lines. This word was quite popular in 19th-century theatre. Field employs it with a sense of mock-heroic pride.
E.L. Davenport and Lawrence Barrett were among the most acclaimed American Shakespearean tragedians in the mid-to-late 19th century, with both having passed away by the early 1890s. Fred Warde was a younger tragedian who continued to tour the West with serious drama, even as audiences increasingly favored comedy. Field references them as symbols of a theatrical golden age that is fading or has already vanished.
Both, deliberately. Field notes that Davenport has been forgotten and Barrett lies in a neglected grave, which is genuinely sad. Then he shifts to the humorous image of himself and Jack earning meager wages in a Boston farce. The final line — 'public taste has fallen mighty low' — is a joke, but it's also a genuine complaint from a man who cherished a type of theatre that was fading away. Field embraces both feelings simultaneously without trying to reconcile them.
Field offers two reasons: life on the farm was dull, and they had been reading the *New York Clipper*—a theatrical trade paper—in the local barbershop, which sparked their interest. The grasshopper reference is tied to history: Kansas farms in the 1870s suffered from locust plagues that destroyed crops and livelihoods. Though acting may not have paid well, leaving for that pursuit made some practical sense in addition to its romantic allure.