Among his new friends were Sam and Billy Arnold, sons of a Baltimore confectioner, and Jesse Wharton, whose father was a college professor. Jesse grew especially close to Booth, and often came home to Bel Air with him on holidays. Asia described Jesse as “a rarely endowed youth both physically and mentally.” He seemed to have everything going for him.36
Cadets sometimes engaged in pursuits that would have horrified the elder Booth. A schoolmate later recalled their school breaks, when “it was our delight to spend our Wednesday and Saturday afternoon holidays in cooking chickens, eggs, and such things as a schoolboy could procure by ‘ways that are dark.’ We had cooking utensils, and a gun hooked from the armory of the school, and each of us had a five-barrel Colt’s revolver, with which we killed rabbits and birds that were very abundant in the surrounding woods. We became very expert with the pistol, and either of us could kill a rabbit running, and about once in three times a partridge flying.” 37
Writers would someday use this anecdote to argue that Booth had always been a sadistic killer. But the anonymous source of this story, who admits to the same behavior, saw nothing cruel in Booth’s conduct. In the nineteenth century, almost all boys hunted small animals. It was a normal part of growing up, and the best way to associate themselves with the power and status of grown men. In fact, Booth’s friends remembered him as a happy, normal boy, and his teachers kept in touch years after he had left their care.38
THE CALIFORNIA TRIP had gone reasonably well for Junius. His sons June and Edwin had toured with him, and critics were more than kind. But a few months in the rough-hewn West were enough, and leaving his sons behind, Junius set out alone for the East. He never made it home. After a brief engagement in New Orleans, he boarded the steamer J. S. Chenoweth, bound for Cincinnati. He became ill and died before the ship reached Louisville. 39
MARY ANN RENTED OUT the Exeter Street house and moved back to The Farm and their new home, Tudor Hall. Rosalie and Asia went along, but the boys remained in school until the end of the term. June and Edwin were still in California, and neither had any intention of returning home. There were no men to plant the crops, chop the wood, or protect the property. To make matters worse, Gifford, the architect, surprised Mary Ann with a bill for finishing Tudor Hall. It was her understanding that Junius had paid for the work in advance, but Gifford assured her that that was not the case. He threatened to sue, and ultimately the matter was settled in Mary Ann’s favor. The architect, unable to collect, lost his own house to creditors. In a rage, he rode up to Bel Air and tore the tin roof off the Booths’ new home.40
Hearing of his mother’s difficulties, John Wilkes resolved to come home and assume his duties as the man of the house. The hardships were often overwhelming, but he found country life exhilarating. He loved to spend his time galloping on his favorite horse, named Cola di Rienzi for a tribune who had tried to restore popular government to the Roman Empire. To his sister, John was “a singular combination of gravity and joy.” She was almost puzzled by her brother’s cheerfulness. “Don’t let us be sad,” he told her. “Life is so short—and the world is so beautiful. Just to breathe is delicious.”41
His disposition never failed to amaze. His sunny self-assurance comes through in his letters to Billy O’Laughlen. They are full of all the boyish interests: nature, hunting, drinking—and, of course, girls. The young ladies got more than their share of attention. “I have my eye on three girls out here,” he once wrote. “I hope I’ll get enough!” With a dash of bravado, he tells of knocking a man down for calling his sister a liar. The sheriff put the man off the property, and Booth was bound over to keep the peace.42
His only extravagances were his books—texts from school; a large volume of Shakespeare; Greek and Roman histories; Plutarch’s Lives and Morals; and the works of Scott and Bulwer-Lytton. While he loved the small, but impossibly thick, Captain Marryatt novels, his real love was poetry. Whittier, Longfellow, Willis, Byron, and Poe occupied much of his leisure hours, such as they were. Books must have been vitally important to all the Booths. They were a favorite gift for birthdays and Christmas, and many inscribed copies still exist. From these we have a fair sense of the thoughts and ideas they absorbed.43
Extra hands came on board to work the land, but their presence brought out a new impulse in John Wilkes. A military education had instilled in him the notion of rank—something his father and grandfather abhorred. Richard and Junius thought nothing of sharing a meal with servants of any color, but when those “sons of the soil” came to John’s table, he could hardly keep himself in the room. Though he made excuses, nobody was fooled. His aloofness made the Booths unpopular among working-class whites in Harford County. They would get their revenge in the stories they told later.44
The issue of slavery drew a new dividing line in politics, and with members in both North and South, neither the Democrats nor the Whigs could plant themselves firmly on one side or the other. Voters came to feel that their parties no longer answered their concerns, and politicians scrambled to carve out new constituencies. Out of the confusion came a new party, formed for the express purpose of stopping the spread of slavery. They called themselves Republicans, and Senator William H. Seward, of “higher law” fame, proposed to make himself their standard-bearer. If Seward’s arithmetic was correct, this new party could gather enough anti-slavery votes to capture a national election without even running in the South. All the Republicans had to do was keep the issue of slavery alive.
Maryland voters wanted none of that. Life on the “fault line” made slavery an especially volatile subject for them, and they reacted to developments by looking for something else to focus on. They found it in the nativist movement. Immigration was surging to its highest levels in history, and with each wave of new arrivals came a resurgence of fear that “outsiders” would somehow threaten the American way of life. Since many of these immigrants were Catholics, fear of “papists” was added to the mix. An alliance was formed against the Pope and against all foreign influence. Its members first met in secret and were told to disavow all knowledge of their organization. But the Know-Nothings, as they were called, soon came into the open, and they made a quick success. Within a few years they controlled several state and city governments.45
More than anyone else, Marylanders developed a special contempt for those who curried favor with Catholics and immigrants. Senator William H. Seward was such a man. In Maryland, Seward was seen as an opportunist, eager to polarize the country just to throw more people out of the “undecided” ranks and into his own camp. The more prominent Seward became in national politics, the more he was hated in the Old Line State.46
It was in this atmosphere that John Wilkes Booth showed his first signs of political awareness. He and Asia attended Know-Nothing rallies, where they listened with rapt attention as Henry Winter Davis and others counseled resistance to the foreign threat. As later developments would prove, their interests were more social than political. After all, Asia herself became a Catholic. And, of course, their parents were immigrants.47
SIX
“HE WANTED TO BE LOVED OF THE SOUTHERN PEOPLE”
ONE DAY IN MID-AUGUST 1855, JOHN WILKES BOOTH RODE up to Tudor Hall looking jubilant. He had just made his first professional stage appearance and was flushed with excitement. Without telling anyone, he had signed up with Henry C. Jarrett to act at the Charles Street Theatre in Baltimore. John Sleeper, in the stock company there, had recommended Booth, and Jarrett cast him as Richmond in a popular adaptation of Richard III.1
John’s dreams of glory were fueled by letters from his brother June, who was doing well in San Francisco, and from Edwin, who had been touring in Australia with Laura Keene and falsely claimed to have made a fortune there.2 His friends were all going into the business: Sam Knapp, Theodore Hamilton, and George L. Stout had already started their careers. And Sleeper, who had changed his name to John Sleeper Clarke, was firmly established as a comedian in Baltimore.
John’s first
performance was a big step, but hardly an auspicious beginning. He did not actually perform all of Richard III—just the battle scene. Moreover, the Charles Street Theatre was not Baltimore’s finest playhouse. It kept no consistent stock company, and rarely featured exceptional talent. It was the last week of a slow summer season, and manager Jarrett was doing little more than keeping the place open. Jarrett seemed to be using his theater to audition new actors for the Baltimore Museum, which he also ran, one block away.3
Mary Ann was not happy. She thought her son had been rushed into the business by Clarke, who was eager to cash in on the Booth name. In fact, the Baltimore Sun’s announcement made it obvious:
MR. J. S. CLARKE’S FAREWELL BENEFIT!
MR. J. W. BOOTH, (SON OF THE LAMENTED
JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH,) WILL MAKE HIS FIRST
APPEARANCE ON ANY STAGE, IN THE CHARACTER
OF RICHMOND, IN RICHRD III.[sic]4
As Asia recalled, John Wilkes’s ambitions were fairly modest. “He could never hope to be as great as Father, [and] he never wanted to rival Edwin, but he wanted to be loved of the Southern people above all things. He would work to make himself essentially a Southern actor.” If Booth really had such an idea, the notion faded quickly. Professional experience would broaden his goals and interests.
Booth knew that his apprentice years would be rough and sometimes embarrassing. He dared not stain his family name with the inevitable mistakes of a neophyte. And he also realized his name would bring extra pressure and scrutiny. A pseudonym would help him avoid that. So, all things considered, he decided to cut his teeth under a different name. He would begin his career as “J. B. Wilkes.”
IN 1856, EDWIN RETURNED to Maryland after a five-year absence. He had accompanied a troupe to California, Australia, and the Sandwich Islands, and the trip enabled him to sharpen his acting skills outside the critical gaze of Eastern audiences. Not everyone appreciated his progress. Laura Keene, the star of the company, considered the tour a financial failure, and she blamed Edwin’s “bad acting” for that. She was furious at Edwin for sending notices of their travels to a friend back in the States, including the information that Miss Keene and her husband/manager, John Lutz, were not really married—at least not to each other. She was actually the wife of one Henry Wellington Taylor, a convicted felon who had gone off to Australia some years before. In fact, she had organized the tour there with the specific intention of asking Taylor for a divorce, but she had been unable to find him. The truth of the matter would return to haunt her, and she never forgave the little snitch who let out her secret. 5
IN THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION of 1856, Maryland was the only state to support the Know-Nothing candidate, former president Millard Fillmore. Democrat James Buchanan won handily, and second place went to John C. Frémont, the first Republican ever to enter a presidential race. Frémont got only 281 votes in Maryland, out of almost 87,000 cast. Republicans were hated in the Old Line State.
In the summer of 1857, John Wilkes Booth placed an ad in Bel Air’s newspaper, the Southern Aegis:
FOR RENT—The splendid and well known residence of the late J. B. Booth, in Harford County, about three miles from Bel Air on the road leading to Churchville. This place will be rented to a good tenant if immediate application be made. There is 180 acres of land, 80 of which is arable. Address. JOHN BOOTH Baltimore, Md.6
Booth had taken a job at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia. The pay was barely adequate, but at eight dollars a week, it was twice as much as some of the others were getting. Mary Ann, Rosalie, and Asia would follow him to the Quaker City. Joseph would come along, too, at least for a while.
Philadelphia had a rich dramatic history. It was home to Edwin Forrest and Charlotte Cushman and to a host of up-and-coming new talents. As Booth began his work at the Arch, he struck up a friendship with John McCullough, a fellow neophyte from the so-called Boothenian Dramatic Society, the largest of the city’s theatrical clubs. A native of Blakes, Londonderry, McCullough was five years older than Booth. A man of little education, he had emigrated to Philadelphia in 1849 to escape the famine in his native land. He was working in a chair factory when a fellow worker gave him a book of Shakespeare’s plays. McCullough was hooked, and joined the Boothenians right away. When manager Wheatley offered him four dollars a week for the smallest of roles, he accepted without hesitation, giving up a job that paid more than twice that much.7
In those days, most theaters were still run as “stock houses,” employing a full roster of actors who worked in a given “line of business.” Each line corresponded to a certain character stereotype, and if every actor knew the standard roles in his line, any number of plays could be performed on short notice. The choicest roles went to the leading lady and leading man. Speaking parts were spread among several other “lines”: the supporting man or woman; old man or woman; first, second, and third walking gentleman; singing chambermaid; and “heavy,” or villain. As a utility actor, McCullough fell into the lowest classification, while Booth, as third walking gentleman, was one step higher. Though neither did anything of great importance, they learned together and rehearsed a full range of plays in the popular repertoire.
Twentieth-century writers would claim that Booth never achieved much success as an actor, and they blame his supposed lack of training for that. But in fact, Booth followed the standard path for all actors of his day: private study, apprenticeship, and stock experience. Formal training did not yet exist, and the best one could hope for was a bit of coaching and advice from seasoned professionals. Booth had three of them living right at home. Nor did John Wilkes neglect his voice, as most historians believe. Vocal technique was almost certainly the subject of many a discussion at the Arch. His friend McCullough consulted with the prominent elocutionist Lemuel White, and it is perfectly reasonable to assume he passed White’s advice along to his fellow neophytes.8
Booth seems to have preserved some measure of anonymity at the Arch, though insiders surely knew who he was. It probably helped that he was billed as “Mr. Wilks,” when there happened to be a stage family of that name working in the city. But years later, reporter George Alfred Townsend recorded some unflattering memories of Booth’s acting at this time. Townsend told of an embarrassing incident during the play Lucretia Borgia, in which Booth was supposed to introduce himself by saying, “Madam, I am Petruchio Pandolfo.” He forgot the line, and stumbled through it. “Madam, I am Pandolfio Pet—Pedolfio Pat—Pantuchio Ped—Dammit! What am I?” Everyone, including Booth himself, had a good laugh. But the following night he was supposed to play Dawson in The Gamester, and this time the audience turned on him. Chuckles and hisses threw him off his stride. Seized with stage fright, Booth could not remember his lines, and stage manager William Fredericks had to excuse him for the rest of the night. His embarrassment was made worse by the presence of a young lady he had invited to watch the performance.9
Townsend would later claim that this Arch Street apprenticeship was a disaster. Booth, he said, was “stumbling and worthless.” He lacked the drive and initiative necessary to learn his lines. He was judged to be careless and indifferent, and nobody in the company regarded him as a man of promise. Though Fredericks complained, he could do nothing about him, and in Townsend’s view, Booth never did become a good actor. This is a matter of some importance, because it bolsters the common argument that this bitter Philadelphia experience turned John Wilkes Booth against the North and created the “professional despair” that led him to assassinate the president. Like all of Townsend’s works, it was part history, part moral lecture. In fact, there is really no evidence that Booth did poorly there.10
Chances are that Townsend placed too much faith in a seven-year-old memory. Booth’s character in Lucretia Borgia was Ascanio Petrucci, not Petruchio Pandolfo. And he appeared in The Gamester the night before that, not the night after. But supposing Townsend was right, then how did Booth manage to salvage his career? Certainly, a poor reputation did not follow him for long. Ca
reless, stumbling actors do not enjoy a continuing success on the boards, nor do they escape the resentment and criticism of their fellow actors. Yet his Arch Street colleagues had no public complaints. Audiences loved him. Managers were delighted to engage him for as long as he would stay. Critics and actors alike regarded him as a gifted actor, and nobody seems to have grumbled about the irony of his success. Though Booth was supposedly loath to play in Philadelphia again, neither his correspondence nor backstage gossip bears this allegation out.11
FAMILY SKELETONS WOULD NOT STAY BURIED. The death of Adelaide Booth in March 1858 revived the story of her abandonment by Junius. Newspapers dredged up the whole affair in detail, as they would occasionally do again over the years. Later accounts claimed that Adelaide died in poverty and squalor, which may not be true. Soon after his mother’s death, Richard Junius Booth purchased three rental properties in Baltimore. He owned six in all, and the timing of his last purchase suggests an inheritance, and a substantial one. Nevertheless, the story of Adelaide’s suffering would follow all the Booths to their own graves and beyond.12
THE SEASON CAME TO A CLOSE ON JUNE 19. Of 153 plays staged that year, John Wilkes Booth had performed in 83. The themes of these plays may be of some interest in light of Booth’s place in history. Many were historical plays highlighting the struggle against tyranny and oppression. Jack Cade and Wallace, the Hero of Scotland, for example, focused on the leaders of popular movements. Hamlet, Pizarro, Brutus, and Venice Preserved presented the just killing or overthrow of a ruler. A few plays went even further, glorifying assassination as a triumph of freedom over oppression. This had always been one of the great themes of political melodrama. Richard III, William Tell, and Julius Caesar were the most famous examples in their day, and all were to have a fatal significance in 1865.13
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