_Why They Did Not Act My Mother’s Play, “Hippolytus.”—A Bundle of Old
Playbills.—Letters from Edwin and Mary Booth.—Mrs. Frances Ann
Kemble.—Statue of Horace Mann.—My Father Introduces Written
Examinations into the Public Schools, amid Angry Protests from the
Masters._
WE usually accepted the appearance of distinguished visitors at “Green
Peace” in a spirit of philosophic calm. Young people are little moved by
what does not directly concern them.
Great was our excitement and delight, however, when Edwin Booth called
on my mother. We did not then know how it happened that our house should
receive such a delightful visitation. The explanation, however, was very
simple. Our mother, who had already had a play presented on the stage,
was asked by Mr. Booth’s manager to write one for him. Hence he came to
see her, accompanied by his intimate friend with whom she also was
acquainted, Walter Brackett, the artist.
She was very liberal in allowing us to see visitors, but evidently it
was not desirable to permit school-girls of a tender and impressionable
age to make the acquaintance of a young and very handsome actor. The
visit took place in the room with the Gobelin carpet, thus enabling
Julia and Florence to get fleeting glimpses of the great man from the
adjoining conservatory. We never knew whether he heard us rustling about
among the plants, but it is highly probable that he did. It was
aggravating to get only furtive glimpses of him through the glass, yet
we had a fair opportunity to see the young actor.
He had not yet lost the bright color in his cheeks. His purple-black
hair was at that time short, curling close to his head. “Short,”
however, did not then mean close-cropped, as in the present day.
After the departure of the visitors I seized upon the chair in which
Edwin Booth had sat and marked the seat (underneath) with a “B,” worked
in silver thread. It will be guessed that we had already seen him upon
the stage and worshiped him from afar. There were young women bold and
foolish enough to write to this object of their adoration. He disliked
very much to be thus admired by silly and sentimental girls. Our
respectful homage was of a very different sort. We considered him a
species of superman, as may be judged from the incident of the chair.
When I branded the chair for eternal fame, I little dreamed that our
hero would revisit us, and that we should have a chance to speak to him,
if we dared, a year or two later. We were no longer obliged to lurk in
the conservatory, for Booth was now a benedict, and brought his lovely
wife to “Green Peace.”
When I first saw him on the stage this lady—then Miss Mary Devlin—took
the principal woman’s part. The play was “The Iron Chest,” a tale of
secret guilt. The mystery of a murder, the guilty man’s remorse and fear
of discovery, form a tragic theme which always interests the human mind.
The opening scene is dramatic. An old servant incautiously narrates to
the new private secretary the story of his master’s trial and acquittal.
In the midst of it they are interrupted by a voice calling from behind
the scenes, “Adam Winterton, Adam Winterton, come hither to me!” With
what telling effect the great actor pronounced these his first words in
the drama may be guessed by those who remember Edwin Booth. The sadness
in that wonderful voice struck the key-note of the tragedy. The end of
the play savors of melodrama. On the discovery of his guilt, Sir Edward
Mortimer falls upon the stage and dies to slow music, as his lady-love
rushes in and supports his head. I fancy the play would not be
tolerated, except by a Bowery audience, in these days, but with Booth in
the principal rôle it was a favorite in the middle of the nineteenth
century.
Mary Devlin became engaged to be married to him soon afterward, and left
the stage. This was a real loss to theater-goers, for the actresses who
succeeded her in the principal rôles were by no means so satisfactory.
It outraged our youthful ideals of fitness to have Mrs. E. L. Davenport
take such parts as Katharine in the “Taming of the Shrew,” or Ophelia.
She was middle-aged, thin and not beautiful. Hence, no matter how good
her acting, she did not please critical school-girls. Losing Mrs. Booth
from the stage brought us compensation, however, since we soon had the
pleasure of seeing both “the great B and the little B,” as my mother
playfully called them, in private life.
It should here be said that the latter had earned the lasting gratitude
of the great actor by her generous tribute of praise, bestowed at a
moment when he was hurt and discouraged by harsh criticism. Her poem,
“Hamlet at the Boston,” published in the _Atlantic Monthly_, was a word
spoken in season.
Mary Booth was an exquisite little woman, slender, graceful, with a
charm of manner more winning than that of beauty alone. She and my
mother soon became well acquainted, their pleasant friendship being cut
short by her untimely death, at the age of twenty-five.
Thus Edwin Booth is one of those whom I remember standing beneath
Byron’s helmet at “Green Peace.” His manners were perfectly simple and
natural. I suspect that he was a little shy in private life. He once
told us that when called before the curtain between the acts or after
the play he suffered from stage fright. I do not think this is
surprising. During the performance of the play the actor loses himself
in his part—he is no longer Edwin Booth, but Hamlet. When he is called
before the curtain, however, his position is a curious one. He is
wearing the trappings and the suits of woe of the Prince of Denmark; yet
he must bow, and perhaps make a speech, as Edwin Booth. If we had a
higher appreciation of dramatic values we should not call an actor
before the curtain. Where this is done, in the course of the play, it
breaks the continuity of the impression and summons us from our dream to
the prose of daily life.
Negotiations were now under way for the performance of my mother’s play,
“Hippolytus,” with a cast including Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman.
This was the drama which she had written for him some years before. Mr.
Booth and Miss Cushman agreed to take part in the play; the manager of
the Howard Athenæum, Mr. E. L. Davenport, agreed to put it on the stage.
Alas! his wife, the actress of whom I have already spoken, did not like
the part assigned to her; other reasons, more or less valid, were
brought forward by the manager, and the matter was dropped, to my
mother’s great disappointment. The question of its production was again
brought up, long after Edwin Booth’s death and toward the end of my
mother’s life. If she had lived a little longer she might have seen it
appreciatively given in Boston by Margaret Anglin and a good company.
Edwin Booth’s opinion of the play is given in the following letter:
BALTIMORE, _Aug. 26th, 1858_.
MY DEAR MADAM,—“Hippolytus” arrived safely a day or two since,
and I have read it once. Being troubled with a bilious attack, I
have not been able to give it a very careful reading, but am
satisfied, even from my hasty perusal of it, that I shall like
it infinitely. Mr. Barry promises to _get it up_ in superior
style, and, believe me, I shall use my best endeavors to do
justice, as far as the _acting_ goes, to the youthful hero; the
_make-up_ to accord with Phedra’s description I fear is beyond
my art. It needs very little, if any, curtailing or alteration,
but ’twere best to submit to Mr. Barry’s judgment, having a
better knowledge of such matters than myself.
I shall be in Boston in _Oct._ next, my engagement being for
three weeks. I shall have plenty of time to rehearse and assist
in _getting up_ the piece to the best advantage.
My best wishes for its success and your own prosperity, Madam, I
remain your servant,