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.