. . . there is no reason in the world why the negro is not entitled to all the natural rights enumerated in the Declaration of Independence, the right of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
. . . in the right to eat the bread, without leave of anybody else, which his own hand earns, he is my equal and the equal of Judge Douglas, and the equal of every living man.
The debates continue. Douglas has long been known as the Little Giant because he is short, but forceful. Lincoln is now called the Giant-Killer.
More and more people are urging him to declare his candidacy.
In 1859, the likeliest choice for the top of the Republican ticket is William Henry Seward, former governor and also senator of New York. Seward appears to want the presidency desperately. “He will die if he doesn’t get it,” friends say. But he’s considered an extremist on the issue of slavery and any attempt to alleviate those fears alienates the abolitionists. It’s a hard needle to thread.
The second major contender is Edward Bates, a lawyer and politician from Missouri. On the subject of slavery, Bates is conservative. He was once a Know-Nothing, which counts against him, and he has a sort of schoolmarmish air that no one likes. His base of support is solid, but unexcited.
“No man knows, when that presidential grub gets to gnawing at him, just how deep in it will get until he has tried it,” Lincoln says.
* * *
—
The Dred Scott decision is now generally agreed to be the worst Supreme Court ruling in all of American history though not for lack of competition.
* * *
xiii
As 1859 begins, Edwin is touring. Rosalie and Asia are still in Baltimore, with Asia’s wedding day approaching. Joe is preparing for medical school. John has moved to Richmond, Virginia. He sends Edwin a letter, full of his usual apologies for being such a slow and dismal writer. He finds spelling a particular challenge.
Things are going well for him, he writes. He’s getting decent parts. Richmond society is very much to his taste. But something about the climate doesn’t agree with him. He’s been ill ever since his arrival and the medication he’s on makes him too dull-witted to learn his lines.
Plus, his identity is not the secret he would like it to be. “I sometimes hear the name of Booth called out from the gallery,” he writes.
* * *
—
The American theater world at this time operates primarily on the star system. Edwin is a star. He travels from city to city, performing with one company and then another. Like his father, he’ll arrive for an engagement, perform in seven different plays over a two-week period, and then move on.
The company does not travel. They provide the sets, the staging, and the rest of the cast. This is where John is. He’s called a ute, a utility player who can take on whatever part is required. The plays are familiar to all. One day of rehearsal to manage the blocking is usually all that’s needed once the star arrives. The sets are no more than serviceable. A rustic cabin one night becomes a ship’s interior the next.
Staples include The Marble Heart, A New Way to Pay Old Debts, The Last of the Mohicans, and Richelieu. These performances are augmented before and after with dances that show the women’s legs, tableaux, and short farces. Not-art that looks like not-art.
Meanwhile, off in New York, Laura Keene—the same Laura Keene who once took Edwin to Australia—is shaking things up. She’s managing her own theater now, an unusual thing for a woman. At the suggestion of Joseph Jefferson, Mary Devlin’s guardian, she produces a play called The Sea of Ice. The Sea of Ice is an extravaganza. It lasts three and a half hours and demands some difficult staging. A family is stranded by mutineers on an ice floe and the audience must see the floe break apart before their eyes. The Keene company performs The Sea of Ice night after night to packed houses from early November through Christmas.
Her next endeavor, also urged by Jefferson, is even more popular. In 1858, she purchases Our American Cousin from its author, Tom Taylor. She reworks it considerably and it remains a work in progress even as it’s being performed. Bits of physical comedy are added nightly, lines ad-libbed and altered. The relatively minor role of Lord Dundreary expands to the point of madness and suddenly everyone is buying Dundreary scarves, shirts, and collars, speaking in Dundrearyisms (the nonsensical mashing together of two aphorisms as in too many chefs gather no moss). By the time Keene’s play settles into its final form, it’s a phenomenon. Our American Cousin runs for an almost unheard-of one hundred and fifty nights.
This is advantageous for the theater. Keene is making massive amounts of money, much of which she spends improving the sets and costumes. Her productions become gorgeous.
But it’s ominous for the company. Before these long runs, players were unconcerned if the night’s show had no role for them as tomorrow night’s surely would. Now months might go by in which half of the company never sets foot onstage. There’s little point in keeping them, none in paying them.
For one hundred and fifty nights, Jefferson plays Asa Trenchard, the leading man. When Our American Cousin is finally followed by A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Jefferson plays Bottom. This latter role doesn’t suit him. And Keene has begun to find working with him difficult.
So Jefferson leaves her company and goes to the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia. Unbeknownst to her, he takes her version of Our American Cousin with him. When Keene learns that the Arch Street company is performing her play, note by note, gesture by gesture, she sues for copyright infringement. At issue—does the performance of a play constitute its publication? Can a person own the words? Can a person own the way the words are said? These questions will occupy the court for the next nine years.
With none of that settled, Sleeper Clarke brings the play from Philadelphia to Richmond, where he takes the part of Asa Trenchard and John plays the buffoonish Lord Dundreary. Sleeper tells Asia, who tells Edwin, that he introduced himself to the company as John’s newest brother. This expression of familial affection pleases Edwin even though it’s a month premature. It doesn’t please John. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, as Lord Dundreary would say.
* * *
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