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:

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,

As entertaining was always a delight to my mother, she gave several Booth parties. It is chronicled that at one of them he spent much of his time playing with little Maud, then some eight years old. Clearly he did not enjoy being lionized. I have already intimated that we older girls regarded him as a species of Olympian god. This attitude of silent homage must have been trying to a man of his good sense and modesty. Yet he doubtless was wise enough to make allowance for school-girls’ little harmless follies.

The most important of these Booth parties was given at No. 13 Chestnut Street, the house in Boston to which we removed in 1862. Every one wanted to come to it, all sorts of people, artistic, literary and fashionable, being anxious to meet Edwin Booth. The party was a great success, as my mother’s entertainments usually were. I remember that Mrs. Booth wore a high-necked silk dress of some delicate color. While we wore dÉcolletÉ dresses for dances, we did not in those days think it necessary to wear our shoulders bare on all evening occasions. At her throat was a brooch composed of a single large opal. Her sudden death, a few months later, recalled to us sadly the superstition about this stone which is supposed to portend the early death of the wearer.

Sister Julia went with my mother to the funeral at Mount Auburn. Edwin Booth was overwhelmed with grief by his wife’s sudden death. He was acting in New York at the time, and did not reach Boston until all was over. The sad news was not broken to him by the friends who came to meet him until he was in the carriage. On learning it his agony was so intense that they could with difficulty hold him.

I saw him that winter on the Brighton Road, then the gay resort of rapidly moving sleighs. Some hopeful friend had evidently thought the scene might divert him from his sorrow. A glance at his face and figure showed the utter futility of this hope. Such an image of sorrow I have never seen. His wonderfully expressive features mirrored the grief within as only such features can, while his long black hair seemed a fitting frame for the dark, melancholy face as he sat huddled together in the cutter, his head sunk upon his breast. I doubt whether he saw any one of that gay throng of people. He saw only one face, invisible to us, and a grave in Mount Auburn a few miles away.

Fortunately he had good friends and true to help him through this sad time. Among these were the two poets, R. H. Stoddard and Thomas W. Parsons. In my collection of Booth relics is a note from the former to my mother, written soon after the death of Mrs. Booth. Being very sympathetic by nature, she did not shrink from her friends in time of sorrow, but strove to comfort them. Mr. Stoddard writes that Booth will see her, adding, “I think you can do him good and I have told him so.”

Doctor Parsons’ lovely verses give a true picture of Mary Booth’s exquisite personality.

We saw a good deal of Doctor Parsons at this time. He was a man of the greatest refinement, absolutely free from self-assertion. He had, withal, a touch of genius. One day, on looking up from his work, he saw Edwin Booth standing before him. The poet could but say, “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” his friend answering in the same sportive strain.

Walking in the neighborhood of the old Revere House one day, I saw Edwin Booth and a friend driving in a buggy. He had doubtless been visiting the grave of his wife at Mount Auburn. To my surprise and pleasure, he recognized me by a grave bow. As he had seen us all a number of times, at the house of our parents, there was really nothing surprising in this. But, as I have said, we regarded him as a species of superman.

After Mrs. Booth’s death we saw less of the great actor, as she had been the gracious link that united us all. When he came to spend his summers at Newport, a score of years later, the old friendship was pleasantly renewed.

Wilkes Booth I saw several times on the stage in the characters of Richard the Third, Shylock and Charles Moore in Schiller’s play of the “Robbers.” He also was handsome, taller and heavier than his brother.

Edwin Booth was filling an engagement in Boston at the time of Lincoln’s assassination. We had tickets bought before the dreadful news came, for his matinÉe on the fatal Saturday of the President’s death. All places of amusement were of course closed at once. The blow, a stunning one to the whole country, brought to Edwin Booth the additional shock of his brother’s terrible deed. It was reported at the time that he had resolved to quit the stage forever. The actors of the day were much troubled that a member of their profession should have perpetrated such a crime. It was said, in their defense, that actors had seldom committed deeds of violence.

Although Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman never acted in “Hippolytus,” they did appear together in “Macbeth.” He mischievously remarked to us that he longed to say to Miss Cushman: “Why don’t you kill him? You’re a great deal bigger than I am.” He did not consider himself heavy enough for the part of Macbeth. Yet his rendering of it was very impressive. All the dreadful drama of the murder, the knocking at the outer gate, the banquet scene where the ghost of Banquo appears, were thrilling to witness.

Who, indeed, has rendered Shakespeare like Edwin Booth? Sir Henry Irving could not, in my opinion, be compared with him.

Hamlet was thought his best part—indeed, we said he was the gentle Prince of Denmark. The gravity of his disposition, “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,” his natural dignity and the grace of his movements, all recalled Hamlet. When my mother saw him at the funeral of his beloved wife she remembered how often she had beheld him, on the stage, follow Ophelia to the grave.

Shakespeare’s “Richard the Third” was another character in which we especially liked to see him. He was so handsome, so fascinating, that the scene with Lady Anne, where he wins her from the very bier of her murdered husband, did not seem unnatural. The scene in the tent he gave with tremendous power. After the ghosts of his victims have appeared to him, one after another, calling down defeat upon his head, he arouses himself from his uneasy slumber. Still half-asleep, and fighting his way with his sword, he staggers to the front of the stage, crying out, “Give me another horse; bind up my wounds!” Kneeling for a moment, his countenance still distorted, he cries out, “Have mercy, Jesu!” His movements as he blindly made his way forward, the awful expression of his face, with eyes rolled upward, made this scene more terrible in its way than that of his death on Bosworth Field.

Yet this revelation of the true soul of the hump-backed king lasted but a few moments. Soon he recovers and “Richard is himself again.” (This phrase must have been added by Colley Cibber, for it is not in Shakespeare.)

As “honest Iago,” the openness of his countenance somehow conveyed to the beholder that it was assumed. Only in the final scene did he allow the true villainy of the character to appear on his face. His Othello was beautiful and moving. As Cardinal Richelieu he was wonderful, portraying to the life the little, cunning, powerful, yet on the whole benevolent old man of Bulwer’s drama. With what telling effect he drew the magic circle and gave the curse of Rome!

I saw him as Shylock a number of times, the last time shortly before his retirement from the stage. This impersonation had gained greatly in power since the early days. The awful look of hatred that, during his talk with Tubal, he allowed for a moment to play over his face was a revelation. You caught a glimpse of the race hatred accumulated through centuries of oppression.

Once when I thoughtlessly spoke of the principles of Christianity to a Hebrew acquaintance, I was frightened to see something of the same terrible expression come over his face.

When Booth was a young man he often played in comedy. The rollicking mischief and fun of his Petruchio and Don CÆsar de Bazan we greatly enjoyed. He gave an abbreviated version of the “Taming of the Shrew” as companion piece to “The Iron Chest.”

His acting was of an intellectual and poetic type. It was said that those who saw Edwin Booth play Romeo to Mary Devlin’s Juliet were not likely to forget it. They were so young, so beautiful, so identified with their parts. I should not say that, ordinarily, he excelled in the lover’s rÔle. Charles Fechter, in spite of his very plain face and ugly figure, could enact the love scenes of Claude Melnotte in “The Lady of Lyons,” with a power that Edwin Booth lacked. Was it his natural reserve which made it distasteful and difficult for him to simulate love-making in public? I think it was. Like Hamlet, he had loved once and deeply. After that I fancy he took little interest in affairs of the heart. It is true, he married again, perhaps for companionship. His second wife did not long survive their marriage.

Tenderness of another kind he could well show forth. The scene in “King Lear,” where he brings in the dead Cordelia in his arms, hoping she is still alive, was an exquisite piece of acting.

Among my Booth relics is a bundle of playbills, the earliest dating back to November 6, 1858. This shows “Miss Mary Devlin” in the principal feminine rÔle, Lady Helen, in “The Iron Chest.” The prices are astounding. “Parquet, Balcony, and First Tier of Boxes, fifty cents; Family Circle, twenty-five cents; Amphitheater, fifteen cents. Children under twelve years of age, half price. Private Boxes, $6.00.”

A young friend to whom I lately showed this list exclaimed, “No wonder Booth was a hero to the public, when the prices were so low that every one could afford to go to see him!”

From the collection of Booth letters I have selected two from Mrs. Booth and one from Mr. Booth himself, which will be found of interest:

My dear Mrs. Howe,—I deeply regretted my absence from home yesterday when you called—but my disappointment was greatly soothed by soon after receiving your polite note of invitation to visit you on Sunday.

We will “tea” with you with infinite pleasure, at the hour you appoint—most happy, too, of another opportunity of meeting Miss Cushman, whose near departure makes her presence doubly dear.

With great esteem,

Yours very sincerely,

Mary Booth.

Wednesday, May 29th.

My dear Mrs. Howe,—I should only be too delighted to be “stared at” this evening at your little party, if I were not expressly forbidden by my doctor to go into any excitement; I have been so very feeble the past few days; so for once, dear friend, pleasure must yield to duty. We will go over, “the Great B” and myself, this week to see you. Please dance a “Redowa” for me and believe me your disappointed little friend,

Friday morn, June 28th.

The following letter shows Edwin Booth’s tender care for his little motherless daughter:

Dear Mrs. Howe,—To-morrow and Sunday night I am engaged—but think I shall remain at home on account of ill-health; to-morrow night I start for New York. I am sorry I have been unable to see you, but hope to have that pleasure before I leave the city.

Baby Booth is not with me—I feared the climate and at the last moment concluded not to bring her here. I hear from her every day. She has grown to be a most splendid child and worships her papa. I miss her very much.

My long winter’s work has completely unnerved me and it is as much as I can do to drag through my performances.

Pray present my compliments to the young ladies and to Dr. Howe and accept my thanks for your polite invitation.

Hoping soon to have an opportunity to call upon you, believe me,

Very truly,

Your servant,

Edwin Booth.

Among my early memories of “Green Peace” is a large daguerreotype of Charlotte Cushman. It was probably lost in one of the many movings of the Howe family.

When Miss Cushman’s furniture and personal effects were sold at Newport, many years after her death, a portrait of my mother and one of Elizabeth Barrett Browning were still hanging in her bedroom! A photograph of the great actress, taken about the time of the Civil War, I still possess.

My parents were early interested in Charlotte Cushman’s acting, as they were in that of Edwin Booth, at the beginning of his career. They invited guests to meet her at “Green Peace,” and asked their friends in other cities to extend to her social recognition.

In the summer of 1850 they were her fellow-passengers on the voyage to England. Sister Laura was then an infant. Seeing her gnaw her little fist, the actress exclaimed that babies were funny things, at the same time mimicking exactly the child’s action.

Like Sally Battle, Charlotte Cushman believed in the rigor of the game. She and my mother were engaged one day in a game of whist when a gentleman was rash enough to talk to the latter and to keep on talking. Charlotte Cushman bore it as long as she could, then turned to the offender and said, in her great, deep voice, “Remember, this is whist.” The hint was sufficient.

Another story we had from my mother was of a certain holiday performance when the theater was crowded. Miss Cushman was acting with her sister, the play being, as I think, “Romeo and Juliet.” In the midst of the tender love-making a small boy called out from the gallery, “Oh, my stummick!” The sister was nearly convulsed with laughter, when Charlotte gave her a shake and brought her to herself with the words, “Remember where you are.”

On another occasion, when Miss Cushman came bounding upon the stage as Meg Merrilies, she trod upon a needle, dropped there by some careless actress, and had to be helped from the stage in an agony of pain.

She had already grown quite gray when I first remember her, in the Civil War period. Such a wonderfully expressive face could not be called altogether homely, although her retreating mouth prevented it from being handsome. Her teeth were small and insignificant, while the blue of her eyes contrasted well with the gray hair. She was built on a generous scale, her figure tall and commanding. As Queen Katherine in “Henry the Eighth” she was at her best. One of her great points was in the trial scene. When the insignificant Cardinal Campeius addressed her she turned to Wolsey, with splendid gesture, looking every inch a queen, as she gave with noble emphasis the lines, “My lord cardinal, to you I speak.”

In 1915–16 I again saw this play, after an interval of fifty years, with Sir Beerbohm Tree as the cardinal. Anne Boleyn was graceful and charming, making one understand as never before how Henry was won from Katharine. Bluff King Hal was extremely well portrayed. Cardinal Wolsey was magnificent in his vivid scarlet raiment, the costumes and scenery all beautiful. The whole was a feast of color for the eye. But the one great figure that had dominated the performance of early years I sadly missed. The actress who played Queen Katharine did not even attempt to make Charlotte Cushman’s great point in the trial scene. In the last sad scene Miss Cushman vividly portrayed for us the discarded queen, sick and suffering unto death.

I saw her also in “London Assurance,” when she took the part of Lady Gay Spanker. She was gay and rollicking enough, although her gray hair seemed a little incongruous in the part of a young woman. It was out of keeping also in “Fazio,” where she took the rÔle of Bianca.

Charlotte Cushman possessed wigs, for these were sold, with the rest of her theatrical wardrobe, one being still in curl papers! When I saw her on the stage, however, she appeared with her own gray hair.

It will be remembered that she had intended to go on the operatic stage, but, owing to the loss of her singing-voice, was obliged to give this up. The mishap may have been a blessing in disguise. For the perfect development of Miss Cushman’s great dramatic talent the legitimate stage was the best agent.

I had the pleasure of hearing her sing, on the occasion of a visit to Lawton’s Valley. It was a wonderful performance. It was not like any other singing, but rather a species of chanting or weird crooning, in which she gave us the simple and moving story of “Mary, go and call the cattle home, across the sands o’ Dee.” The deep tones of her voice intensified the effect.

My mother also was accustomed to sing this pathetic ballad, to a tune of her own composition. With her high, clear voice the effect was very different from that produced by Charlotte Cushman; yet she, too, made her hearers feel the deep pathos of the ballad.

In the Newport days of which I speak we often saw Miss Cushman and her intimate friend, Emma Stebbins, the sculptress. The latter modeled the bronze statue of Horace Mann which stands in front of the State House in Boston, opposite that of Daniel Webster.

I do not think this proximity to the former idol of the Massachusetts Whigs was much relished by them. But my father had a way of putting through what he undertook. As an intimate friend and co-worker with Horace Mann, he was chairman of the committee for the erection of the memorial. I fancy it was he who gave the commission to Miss Stebbins and arranged for the contribution of their pennies by the school-children of Boston. Doubtless he persuaded those in power that Mann’s splendid services to the cause of education deserved this recognition from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. In the twentieth century my father’s views—he was usually some fifty years ahead of his time—have come to prevail.

It is sad to remember that Charlotte Cushman’s last years were clouded by an incurable disease—cancer. She made a splendid fight against it, keeping on with her work almost to the end of her life. She would not give it up until she had made a handsome provision for those near and dear to her.

I remember with pleasure a visit to Fanny Kemble—Mrs. Frances Anne Kemble, to give her her full name. My father took me as a little girl to see her at the Tremont House, where she received us very graciously and kindly. I also heard her read one of Shakespeare’s plays. This she did without any help of scenery or special costume. We saw only a middle-aged, rather stout lady, dressed quietly in black and seated at a table. Although there was much to admire in her character, she possessed a stormy temper. It was said that she once insisted so vehemently on having her washing brought to her without delay that the tub containing the wet garments in the suds was finally set down before her!

In these early days she did not admire the acting of Edwin Booth. At one of his performances she was seen “sniffing,” as the story went, her countenance showing her lack of approbation. He was already a favorite with the public, but certain friends of Mrs. Kemble followed her opinion. Vehement were the arguments which we as enthusiastic admirers of Booth had with the Kembelites among our young friends.