Part 8

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,

MARY BOOTH.

_Friday morn, June 28th._

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

_Friday_.

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.

X

LAWTON’S VALLEY, OUR SUMMER HOME

_The Beautiful Valley.—The Crawford Children.—“Yellers’ Day.”—“Vaucluse” and the Hazards.—The Midshipmen Visit Us.—Dances on Board the Frigate “Constitution.”—Parties in the Valley.—George Bancroft.—A Party at His House.—Rev. Charles T. Brooks._

THE lovely island of Rhode Island is indented with a number of ravines on either shore. The most beautiful of these is Lawton’s Valley—a deep cut between the hills, running a mile into the land, from the waters of Narragansett Bay. The entrance into the valley is so masked with trees, the descent into it is so steep, that it lies securely hidden from the world above. You suddenly find yourself in a wooded gorge, the trees rising high above it on either side, and a brook running along the base of the cliff, leaping over waterfalls as it goes down to the sea. When my father bought the place, a grist-mill with a great terrifying wooden wheel stood at the head of the largest waterfall. My father, to whom gardening was a delight, greatly improved the appearance of the valley.

The mill was converted into a school-house containing also one or two chambers for the bestowal of masculine guests, when the house was full to over-flowing. There is a family legend that brother Harry, when a lad, once slept upon the grand piano, no other place being available! We were sometimes obliged to arise in the night and give up our rooms to make way for relatives arriving unexpectedly.

Some sudden emergency brought our especially beloved Aunt Annie Mailliard and her family to us in this way—for Lawton’s Valley is six miles from the post and telegraph offices. Telegrams then cost three dollars to deliver, and frightened us badly!

Aunt Annie was the very soul of hospitality, and did her full share of it by entertaining us all delightfully at her home in Bordentown, New Jersey.

Uncle Sam once occupied the mill-chamber and reported in the morning that the perpetual tap of the hydraulic ram sounded like a constant knocking at the door, causing him to murmur in his sleep, “Come in! Come in!” We could not do without the ram, however, as it supplied the house with water. It was sad when an eel got into the pipe, or some other accident stopped the water-supply. The pump, whence we obtained our drinking-water, was of a pattern calculated to drive one to the wine-cup. You turned the handle round and round furiously, and after a long time a refreshing stream appeared, borne in some mysterious way on two endless parallel chains. Then, if you went on pumping like mad, you could fill the pail. But if you stopped for one single second a horrible gurgling sound informed you that the water had retreated to the bottom of the well! Then you had to begin all over again the treadmill task of bringing it up! It was supposed to be remarkably fresh and pure when it appeared—for evidently it had not lingered in any pipe, as no pipe existed.

Sometimes food was hung down the well, country fashion, to keep cool. It was a sad day when the leg of mutton dropped in, since herculean efforts were required to bring it up. It was naturally mutton which made this unlucky descent, for at that time the local butcher kept little else. Sometimes my father had beef sent down by freight from Boston—only to have it seized by the agents of Kinsley’s express and carried to their office. This delayed the meat in transit and obliged us to pay express charges without express benefit. For this company did not deliver goods at Lawton’s Valley, nor did we desire to have them do so. Hence much friction between Kinsley’s express and my father.

Rhode Island mutton and lamb are, or were, very good. One day an old friend of my mother’s drove out from Newport and was invited to stay to midday dinner.

The feelings of the hostess can be imagined when the guest oracularly observed, “My grandfather Gray could never eat lamb, and I never can!”

Fortunately there was a little chicken to help out the situation. The words of Grandfather Gray became a byword in our family. Our house was not in the valley itself but stood half-way down the slope of a hill, being thus protected from the wind that blows constantly over the island. Mr. C——, who sold the place to my father, was the victim of the drink habit. Finding him lying prostrate on the ground, much the worse for liquor, father poured away the contents of the jug standing near, and led away the man’s horse, so that he would be obliged to sober up before starting to get a fresh supply of rum.

Some Lowestoft ware marked with the family initials and some good old furniture, which we bought, showed that the family had seen better days.

The inhabitants of the island, with some notable exceptions have suffered from an insular habit of intermarriage. This has, we will hope, lessened with the invasion of Rhode Island by outlanders, bringing prosperity with them. Not long ago, however, when a man or woman married “off the island,” it was mentioned with a certain regret, as being not quite the thing to do. The methods of cultivating the soil were surprisingly primitive. It was very much run down, the principal fertilizer being deceased fish. Car-loads of menhaden were scattered broadcast over the fields, and left there to rot. Oh, how they smelled to heaven! We did not cultivate our land after this fashion, but, alas! our neighbors did! Fortunately, menhaden became valuable for other purposes and their use as a fertilizer was abandoned.

As Rhode Island was founded by excellent but visionary people, refugees from the stern, logical rule of the Puritans, its laws are peculiar. On a Fourth of July in the ’Sixties, I inquired for brandy at an apothecary shop in Newport.

“I’m sorry I can’t let you have any, but the laws of the state forbid the sale of liquor to females,” said the salesman. My mortification may be imagined! On my explaining that the brandy was wanted, not for “reveling,” but for covering preserves, he kindly sold me some alcohol, declaring it to be “just as good” for my purpose.

Shortly afterward, my purse disappeared, and by the advice of friends I had the loss proclaimed by the town crier—a quaint old figure with his long beard and prehistoric hat. He alternately rang an immense bell and “cried” the lost article. His fee was a modest one, but I never recovered the purse. Was he recommended to me as a joke?

Summers at Lawton’s Valley were always delightful, but we especially enjoyed them when Aunt Louisa Crawford brought her children to stay at a neighboring farm-house. Marion Crawford, the novelist, was about two years old when they first came. With his three elder sisters, Annie, Jennie, and Mimoli, we had many merry times. Wading in the valley brook was a favorite pastime. As the stones were very slippery, we frequently fell down, and then appeared at the valley home a dripping crowd of little girls. As the farm where the Crawfords lived was some little distance away, our mother felt it to be her duty to provide raiment for her nieces as well as for her own children. She found these double drafts upon our wardrobe rather trying. Annie, the eldest daughter, was full of talent. We were inseparable companions and had a studio where we painted dolls and sets of jewelry—all on paper.

When she grew older she painted lovely designs in flowers. She also published anonymously at least one volume of stories which possessed merit. She had quite as much talent as her brother Marion, but lacked his power of application. Her Prussian Junker husband, Baron von Rabe, considered any literary activities as _infra dig._ for his wife. My aunt had the unspeakable sorrow of losing her second daughter, Jennie, when the latter was a young and lovely girl of nineteen. Mimoli, the third daughter, became the wife of Hugh Fraser, of the English diplomatic service. She is well known as a writer and is a woman of much personal charm. One of her sons and one of Marion Crawford’s have been killed in the present war.

According to family tradition I may claim the honor of inventing “Yellers’ Day.” The observance of the day flourished in full vigor only during our sojourn at Lawton’s Valley. We were accustomed to celebrate it on top of the hill behind the house, whence we had a view of Narragansett Bay. Our elders did not join us, but wisely permitted our activities. Hence “Yellers’ Day,” having no flavor of forbidden fruit, fell gradually into innocuous desuetude. The celebration described in the following letter has a melancholy interest as being in all probability the last of its kind.

_August 3, 1860._

DEAR PAPA,—Wednesday we had some young ladies to spend the day and had a jolly time. At sunset we all went up on the rocks to yell, for it was the 1st of August, “Yellers’ Day.” We made a terrible noise and finally Mamma came to the door and said she thought “St. Yeller was satisfied.” We had a very nice tea, and in the evening, after looking at the moon, danced till we were fairly worn out. The evening was wound up by Mr. Turner’s (the brother of one of the young ladies, who came out about 6½) knocking one-half of the gate off its hinges, which accident gave us an opportunity of hopping onto the carriage steps and renewing our vows of eternal friendship besides a great deal of hugging and kissing.

Thomas Crawford, our uncle by marriage, came to the valley during one of these summers. He was one of the foremost American sculptors of his day, having designed some of the bronze doors at the Capitol, also the statue of Liberty that crowns the dome of the building. This is familiar to all Americans, since it has been reproduced on our five-dollar bills.

Uncle Crawford had worked beyond his strength and complained, that summer, of trouble in one of his eyes. I remember an excursion to the shores of the Bay, when Albert Sumner, the donor of our donkey, Uncle Crawford and my father were of the party. The gentlemen amused themselves with throwing sticks or stones into the water. This trivial scene impressed itself upon my memory because of the tragic death, not long afterward, of two of the actors in it. Albert Sumner, his wife and daughter were at this time planning a trip to Europe. Mr. Summer was a stout man, and some one jokingly remarked that fat people make good swimmers. This speech was sadly recalled to our minds when the steamer in which they sailed, the _Lyonnaise_, went to the bottom with all on board.

No particulars of their fate were known. It was said that in cases of shipwreck the law considered that the man would live longer than the woman, being stronger physically. Hence he and his heirs would inherit property. I notice that the law always has some very wise reason for favoring the man rather than the woman. The heirs of Albert Sumner and his daughter could thus have laid claim to such share of Mrs. Sumner’s property as he would have inherited, as the supposititious survivor. Charles Sumner and his family were not the sort of people to take advantage of any such legal quibble. Mrs. Albert Sumner was a woman of means and left heirs by a former husband, who very properly inherited her fortune.

Uncle Crawford also crossed the ocean, leaving his wife and children in America. The slight trouble in his eye grew gradually worse. In the midst of a winter of unprecedented severity Aunt Louisa started to rejoin him. Boston Harbor, whence all Cunard steamers then sailed, was frozen solid. It was necessary to postpone the start until a patch could be cut for the ship through the solid ice. In those days nothing was supposed to prevent the sailing of a Cunarder, but Jack Frost did delay it this once.

Mr. Crawford’s illness proved to come from a cancer behind the eye. He died after a long period of suffering.

Aunt Louisa, a woman of a most affectionate and sympathetic nature, was much worn with the long nursing and overcome with deep sorrow. She returned to America, dressed in mourning so deep that her sisters thought it excessive and unwholesome. It was said that her widow’s crape veil reached the ground, being double up to the eyes, and that her back never recovered from the bad effects of sustaining this load of mourning. A photograph of her taken at this time was marked “The over-solemn look.”

And yet, after a suitable interval of time, she married again, as the inconsolable usually do. Instead of smiling at the fickleness of the human mind, we should remember that for persons of a highly sympathetic nature the loneliness caused by the loss of a beloved helpmeet is almost insupportable. They must, for their own happiness, find another mate. The woman who can live alone, after the loss of her husband, is made of sterner stuff.

Lawton’s Valley is on the west side of the island of Aquidneck. On the east side lived Mr. Thomas R. Hazard—“Shepherd Tom,” as he was familiarly called—in the historic mansion of “Vaucluse,” the finest example of Colonial architecture north of Virginia. The grounds were worthy of the house. They were adorned with a labyrinth of box surrounding a sun-dial, and with a number of summer-houses scattered through groves of trees.

Mr. Hazard was a remarkable but eccentric person. He had a genuine love for his fellow-man and a hatred of tyranny and oppression. He did great service in securing better treatment for the insane in Rhode Island, as Dorothea Dix and my father did in Massachusetts.

After the death of his beautiful wife he became much absorbed in spiritualism. When we first made his acquaintance he was a widower with a delightful family of four daughters and one little boy.

The eldest, Fannie, kept house for her father, while a governess instructed the children. Mr. Hazard was the very soul of hospitality. Relations, young and old, made “Vaucluse” their headquarters for long stays during the summer, while friends also paid copious visits.

“Vaucluse” was liable to sudden inroads of aunts bringing their six children, even though there were already visitors in the house. The hospitality of those days was not confined to the South. My mother once jestingly said to our nearest neighbor that she kept a boarding-house.