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.