Part 7

We owned for a time another donkey—Billy—who possessed a most unamiable disposition. He was not our friend and companion like José, and we did not ride on his back. He formed part of a donkey tandem which we drove at Newport, our uncle Sam having given us a delightful pony-carriage and harness. When we went abroad in this little conveyance a dreadful danger lurked by the wayside, for the Andersons’ donkey lived in a field bordering on the road over which we were obliged to pass. Like the evil spirit in the story of the _Three Goats Brausewind_, he accosted us in a very rude way. José and Billy were evidently moved by the appeal of their fellow-donkey, and we were greatly troubled in mind. For a tandem, as every one knows, is a most difficult team to drive, even when undisturbed by asinine conversation.

My father trained us all to ride first with a leading-rein, afterward alone. By his side we rode many miles about the country. With Cora, our pretty but imperfectly broken colt, I had some terrifying moments. We were in the habit of going out tête-à-tête, she and I, and all would go well until we met an ice-wagon, or crossed a certain railroad bridge. Then she would shy and run, but fortunately I did not fall off.

Lorenzo Papanti, his dancing-classes and his hall, were among the institutions of old Boston. It was said that this accomplished veteran had instructed three generations of Bostonians in the art of dancing. He was by no means young when I first remember him, although his dark wig doubtless made him look older than he really was; his blue-gray eyes would have appeared less fishlike, his complexion less red and mottled, had he appeared before us without this adornment. For a man with a bald head to teach dancing might, it is true, seem incongruous. He was always in evening dress, dignified and graceful in his movements, as became one of his profession. Age had no power to wither him. He bore a strong resemblance to William Warren, the noted actor. When I saw portraits of the latter on cigar-boxes labeled “Boston’s favorite,” I supposed they were likenesses of Papanti.

In these days of division of labor it seems wonderful to remember that he had no assistant. He taught us to dance, playing at the same time on his fiddle. He kept us in good order, routing the truants out of the dressing-rooms if we stayed there too long to play and talk. He had the Italian genius for governing, inherited, doubtless, from the ancient Romans.

When Mr. Papanti sounded a preliminary flourish on his fiddle and asked us to take partners for the quadrille or the lancers, the boys did not rush joyously forward, as might have been expected. Our master was often obliged to lead them out in a long, reluctant line, dragging back as much as they dared. With some twenty or thirty boys in tow, he would approach the girls, who were not very encouraging. It was pleasanter to dance with your girl friends than with strange boys who had little to say. A certain Master J—— once ejaculated, “My stars!” in talking to his partner. We considered this very bad form. There were one or two little boys of greater conversational powers whom we admired.

Mr. Papanti duly instructed the elect of the class in the gavotte. It was a proud moment when you were chosen to take part in this. The “shawl” dance was even more select. The single couple—a brother and sister—who danced this had reached the height of human ambition at Papanti’s.

The hall had a delightful spring floor, the like of which I have never beheld. It yielded beneath your feet like a live thing!

When we were children dancing was one of our home pleasures. Our mother, who had an endless store of operatic airs in her memory, would sit down at the grand piano at the children’s hour. As her nimble fingers struck the keys away we all went, each doing a _pas seul_ of some sort.

To sister Julia belongs the credit of inventing the “frog” minuet. This is only suitable for very young children. You go down on your hands and knees, then you lift first the right arm and knee, after that the left, all in time to the music. The movement is rather slow.

My mother’s passionate fondness for music and love of dancing in her youth have been mentioned elsewhere. Small wonder that these dramatic airs, as she played them, stirred the little daughter to whom dancing was the natural mode of expression. My performances were no doubt admired by the family much more than they deserved. As we were still lingering in a certain degree of Puritanism, the invention of fancy dances was then rare.

Among those which I “originated” were dances for the four seasons, and the dagger dance—usually performed with a silver fruit-knife—of Lady Macbeth. Intimate friends of the family were allowed to witness these. Alas! I once cast the dagger from me with so noble a passion that it narrowly missed one of the guests. After that greater reserve was necessary.

Our mother was quick to recognize and to praise any little manifestation of talent or originality on our part. She did not look with an entirely favorable eye upon our competitors. Thus neither she nor I wholly approved of the performance of a little girl who danced the cachucha, with castanets, at a party in Providence. In the daytime the child was not as pretty as by gaslight. I suspect that she was freckled. However, she did not again cross my orbit.

In West Roxbury lived another young girl who danced, Miss Emily Russell, a daughter of Mr. George Russell. Her performances were more ambitious than mine, being conducted on the footboard of a bedstead. Friends were invited to see these, one lady appearing in diamonds and a corn-colored barège. The costume aroused some criticism. I have already intimated that in old Boston it was necessary to dress with discretion.

My father taught us to skate first with one foot, thereby avoiding some tumbles. There was a great revival of skating shortly before the Civil War. Jamaica Pond was in high favor, the cars going there being jammed with people. Father revived his skating, as did many older people, a certain general arousing unfavorable comment by appearing on double runners—_i.e._, skates with two blades.

To me the exercise was even more delightful than riding on horseback. I still dream of flying along on skates in the most wonderful manner.

IX

EDWIN BOOTH AND CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN

_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,

EDWIN BOOTH.

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.”