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diff --git a/old/61470-0.txt b/old/61470-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 19ff759..0000000 --- a/old/61470-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17984 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Life of Edwin Forrest, the American -Tragedian. Volume 2 (of 2), by William Rounseville Alger - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: Life of Edwin Forrest, the American Tragedian. Volume 2 (of 2) - -Author: William Rounseville Alger - -Release Date: February 22, 2020 [EBook #61470] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDWIN FORREST *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, David Edwards, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from images made available by the -HathiTrust Digital Library.) - - - - - - -[Illustration: - - ÆT 65 -] - - - - - LIFE - OF - EDWIN FORREST, - THE AMERICAN TRAGEDIAN. - - - BY - - WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER. - - - “All the world’s a stage, - And all the men and women merely players.” - - - VOLUME II. - - - PHILADELPHIA: - J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. - 1877. - - - - - Copyright, 1877, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. -NEWSPAPER ESTIMATES.—ELEMENTS OF THE DRAMATIC ART, AND ITS TRUE STANDARD - OF CRITICISM. - - -The newspaper in some countries has been a crime and in others a luxury. -In all civilized countries it has now become a necessity. With us it is -a duty. It is often corrupted and degraded into a nuisance. It ought to -be cleansed and exalted into a pure benefaction, a circulating medium of -intelligence and good will alone. Certainly it is far from being that at -the present time. It is true that our newspapers are an invaluable and -indispensable protection against all other tyrannies and social abuses; -and their fierce vanity, self-interest, and hostile watchfulness of one -another keep their common arrogance and encroachments pretty well in -check. If they were of one mind and interest we should be helplessly in -their power. From the great evils which so seriously alloy the immense -benefits of the press, Forrest suffered much in the latter half of his -life. The abuse he met irritated his temper, and left a chronic -resentment in his mind. Two specimens of this abuse will show something -of the nettling wrongs he encountered. - -A Philadelphia newspaper stigmatized him in the most offensive terms as -a drunkard. Now it was a moral glory of Forrest that, despite the -temptations to which his professional career exposed him, he was never -intoxicated in his life. The newspaper in question, threatened with a -libel suit, withdrew its words with an abject apology,—a poor -satisfaction for the pain and injury it had inflicted. - -The other instance was on occasion of the driving of Macready from the -stage of the Astor Place Opera House. A New York newspaper, in language -of studied insolence, called Forrest the instigator and author of the -outrage. “Mr. Forrest succeeded last night in doing what even his bad -acting and unmanly conduct never did before: he inflicted a thorough and -lasting disgrace upon the American character.” “To revenge himself on -Mr. Macready he packed the house and paid rowdies for driving decent -people away.” “With his peculiar tastes he will probably enjoy the -infamy and deem it a triumph.” Forrest, instead of cowhiding the writer -of this atrocious slander,—as some men of his high-spirited nature would -have done,—sent a letter, through his legal friend Theodore Sedgwick, -demanding immediate retraction and apology. The editor assented to the -request, confessing that he had spoken with no knowledge of facts to -justify him! - -From the time of his first appearance on the stage, Forrest was a -careful reader of the criticisms on his performances. He generally read -them, too, with a just mind, discriminating the valuable from the -worthless, quick to adopt a useful hint, indignant or contemptuous -towards unfairness and imbecility. There were three classes of persons -whose comments on his performances gave him pleasure and instruction. He -paid earnest attention to their remarks, and was always generous in -expressing his sense of indebtedness to them. - -The first class consisted of those who had a personal friendship for -him, combined with a strong taste for the drama, and who studied and -criticised his efforts in a sympathetic spirit for the purpose of -encouraging him and aiding him to improve. Such men as Duane and -Chandler and Swift in Philadelphia, Dawson in Cincinnati, Holley at -Louisville, Canonge in New Orleans, Leggett and Lawson in New York, and -Oakes in Boston, gave him the full benefit of their varied knowledge of -human nature, literary art, and dramatic expression. Their censure was -unhesitating, their questionings frank, their praise unstinted. Among -these friendly critics the name of James Hunter, of Albany, one of the -editors of “The Daily Advertiser,” in the important period of young -Forrest’s engagement there, deserves to be remembered. He was one of the -best critics of that day. He used to sit close to the stage and watch -the actor with the keenest scrutiny, not allowing the smallest -particular to escape his notice. Then at the end of the play he would in -a private interview submit to his protégé the results of his -observation, carefully pointing out every fault and indicating the -remedy. He lived to see the favorite, who profited so well from his -instructions, reach the proudest pitch of success and fame. When Mr. -Hunter died, Forrest interrupted an engagement he was filling in a -distant city in order to attend the funeral, and followed the remains of -his old benefactor to the tomb as one of the chief mourners. - -The second class of commenters on the playing of Forrest from whose -judgments he received satisfaction and help was composed of that portion -of the writers of dramatic criticism for the press who were -comparatively competent to the task they undertook. They were men who -were neither his friends nor his foes, but impartial judges, who knew -what they were writing about and who recorded their honest thoughts in -an honorable spirit and a good style. Among the many thousands of -articles written on the acting of Forrest during the fifty years of his -career there are hundreds written in excellent style, revealing -competent knowledge, insight, and sympathy, and marked by an -unexceptionable moral tone. They suggest doubts, administer blame, and -express admiration, not from caprice or prejudice, but from principle, -and with lights and shades varying in accordance with the facts of the -case and the truth of the subject. These articles have an interest and a -value in the highest degree creditable to their authors, and they go far -to redeem the dramatic criticism of our national press from the severe -condemnation justly provoked by the greater portion of it. Did space -allow, it would be a pleasure to cite full specimens of this better -class of dramatic critiques from the collected portfolios left behind -him by the departed actor. Enough that he profoundly appreciated them, -and that in various directions they did good service in their day. - -The third class whose words concerning his performances Forrest gladly -heeded were men who simply gave truthful reports of the impressions made -on themselves, not professing to sit in judgment or to dogmatize, but -honestly declaring what they felt and what they thought. Free from -prejudices and perversities, fair average representatives of human -nature in its ordinary degrees of power and culture, their experiences -under his impersonations, ingenuously expressed, were always interesting -and instructive, throwing light on many secrets of cause and effect, on -many points of conventional falsity and of natural sincerity, in -histrionic portrayals. Often while the newspaper writer who pretends to -know the most about the dramatic art is so full of conceit and biases -that his verdict on any particular representation has neither weight nor -justice, the instincts of the bright-minded and warm-hearted boy or -girl, the native intelligence and sympathy of the unsophisticated man or -woman, whose soul is all open to the living truth of things, are almost -infallible. Nobody knew this better than our tragedian, or was readier -to act on it. - -The light and joy he drew from these three sets of critics found a heavy -counterpoise in the unjust estimates, perverse, exaggerated, malignant, -or absurd, of which he was constantly made the subject by five classes -of censors. The first were his personal enemies. Among the meaner fry of -men who came in contact with him, a multitude hated him from jealousy -and envy, from resentment of his independent and uncompromising ways, -his refusal to grant them his intimacy or to serve their purposes. They -sought to gratify their animosity by backbiting at his reputation, and -especially by trying to destroy his professional rank. Year after year -they made the columns of many a newspaper groan and reek under the load -of their abuse, ranging from envenomed invective to grotesque ridicule. -For example, a jocose foe said, in parody of the great Moslem -proclamation, “There is but one Bowery, and Hellitisplit is its profit.” -And a serious foe said, “Mr. Forrest is an injury to the stage. He is a -false leader, an oppression, a bad model, and a corrupter of the popular -taste.” A great part of the hostile criticism he suffered may be traced -to bitter personal enmity, which had but slight regard to truth or -fairness in its attacks on him, whether as man or as player. - -The next class of assailants of Forrest in his professional repute were -not his personal enemies, but were the tools of the various cliques, -cabals, or social castes who had an antipathy for him and for the party -to which he belonged. The English interest was especially active and -bitter against him after his quarrel with Macready. Some of these -writers were wilfully corrupt in their attitude and consciously false in -their written estimates. They expressed neither their own feelings nor -their own convictions, but merely the passion and policy of their -employers. For example, at the time of the death of the tragedian a -well-known editor confessed to a friend that some twenty years -previously, when he was a reporter, his employer sent him to the theatre -to see Forrest play, and with explicit directions to write the severest -condemnation he could of the actor. He went accordingly, and made notes -for a savage satirical article, although at the moment of his making -these notes the tears were streaming down his cheeks, so sincere and so -powerful was the representation which he was, against his conscience, -preparing to abuse. Much dishonorable work of this kind has been done, -and still is done, by men disgracefully connected with the press. - -Another set of critics who assailed the acting of Forrest were those -whose tastes were repelled by his realistic method and robust energy. He -was too vehemently genuine, his art not far enough removed from material -reality, to suit their fancy. They demanded a style more graceful, -delicate, and free. Under the impulse of their resentful prejudices they -overlooked his great merits, depreciated everything he did, angrily -denied him his just rank, magnified every fault beyond measure, and -maliciously caricatured him. A volume might be filled with articles -purely of this description, proceeding from writers whose want of native -manliness unfitted them for appreciating the magnificent manliness of -his impersonations, and whose offended fastidiousness expressed itself -in terms which were an offence to justice. - -The fourth class of abusers of Forrest were men who had an instinctive -repugnance for the imposing grandeur of the types of character he -represented, for the self-sufficing, autocratic power and stateliness of -his impersonations. Mean and envious spirits dislike to look up to those -higher and stronger than themselves. Those who either never had any -romance and reverence or have been disenchanted, feel an especial enmity -or incompetent contempt for every one whose character and bearing appeal -to those qualities. This disinclination to admire, this wish to look on -equals or inferiors alone, is the special vice of a democracy. -Demagogues, whether in politics or in letters, are men of torpid -imaginations and dry hearts,—slow to worship, quick to sneer. The style -of man enacted by Forrest, full of an imperial personality, overswaying -all who come near, massive in will, ponderous in movement, volcanic in -passion, majestic in poise, was hateful to the cynical critic the petty -proportions of whose soul were revealed and rebuked in its presence. He -seized the weapon of ridicule to revenge himself on the actor whose -grander portrayals angered him instead of aweing or shaming or -delighting him. There seems to be among us in America a growing dislike -for the contemplation on the stage of the grandest heroism and power, -and an increasing fondness for seeing specimens of commonplace or -inferiority promotive of amusement. Already in his life Forrest was a -sufferer by this degradation of popular taste, and were he now to appear -in our theatres he would feel it still more. - -The fifth and largest class of writers who assumed to criticise the -acting of Forrest was made up of persons professionally connected with -the press, whose blundering or extravagant estimates arose rather from -their ignorance and utter incompetency for the task they undertook than -from a spirit of antipathy or partisanship. The censures and laudations -in these notices were the cause of an immense amount of varied -mortification, amusement, vexation, and anger, as they came under his -eyes. No small portion of the criticisms in the American newspapers on -actors, singers, lecturers, and other public characters have been -written, and still continue to be written, by uneducated and -inexperienced young men scarcely out of their teens, serving an -apprenticeship in the art and trade of journalism. With low aims and -views, slight literary culture, superficial knowledge of life, a vile -contempt for sentiment, a cynical estimate of human nature, equally -ready to extol and to denounce for pay, these writers are the nuisance -and the scandal of their craft. Were their articles accompanied by their -names they would be destitute of weight or mischief; but, published with -apparent editorial sanction, they often assume a pernicious importance. - -The art of a people expresses the character and aspiration of a people -and reacts to develop them. To sit in judgment on it is a high and -sacred office, for which none but the most intelligent, refined, and -honorable are fit. The praise and blame given to artists play on the -living sensibilities of that most sensitive class whose careers are a -vital index of the moral state of the community. Yet this momentous -office is frequently entrusted to beardless youths, whose chief -experience is in dissipation, and who unblushingly sell their pens to -the highest bidder. A severe article exposing this abuse appeared in the -“Round Table” in 1864, written by the editor, and entitled “Dramatic -Critics in New York.” Forrest put it in one of his scrap-books with the -endorsement, “How true this is!” Mr. Sedley said, “What dramatic -criticism in New York has been the public well know. Its low, egotistic, -unfair, malicious character, its blind partialities and undying hates, -its brazen ignorance and insulting familiarity, have given it wide -notoriety and brought upon it equally wide contempt.” - -There is no art which more needs to be criticised than that of criticism -itself, because there is none which requires in its votary such varied -knowledge and cultivation, and such integrity of mind and purity of -motive; because, furthermore, no other art is exposed to such subtle -temptations of prejudice and vanity. The critic, in assuming to be a -judge, is no exception to other writers. Like them he reveals and -betrays himself in what he writes. In dissecting others he lays his own -soul bare. In consciously judging them he pronounces unconscious -judgment on himself,—in the tenderness or the insensibility, the -generosity and candor or the meanness and spite, the knowledge and -beauty or the ignorance and foulness, which he expresses. The pen of a -base, vindictive critic is a stiletto, a fang, or an anal gland. The pen -of a competent and genial critic is the wand of an intellectual Midas -turning everything it touches to gold. For such a critic has the true -standard of judgment in his knowledge, and, whatever the merit or -demerit of the work he estimates, as he points out its conformity with -that standard or its departure from it his lucid illustration is always -full of instruction and help. - -But the great majority of those journalists who presume to print their -estimates of histrionic performances are profoundly ignorant of the -elements of the dramatic art. Thus, having no knowledge of the real -standard of judgment by which all impersonations should be tested, they -cannot fairly criticise the artists who appear before them for a -verdict. Instead of criticising or even justly describing them they -victimize them. They use them as the stalking-horses of their own -presumption or caprice, prejudice or interest. Unable to write with -intelligent candor on the subject which they profess to treat, they -employ it only as a text whereon to append whatever they think they can -make effective in displaying their own abilities or amusing their -readers. The unfittedness of such critics for their task is sufficiently -proved by the chief attributes of their writing, namely, prejudice, -absurd extravagance, reckless caprice, ridiculous assumption of -superiority, violent efforts to lug in every irrelevant matter which -they can in any way associate with the topic to enhance the effect they -wish to produce regardless of justice or propriety. - -A few specimens of these various kinds of criticism will be found full -of curious interest and suggestiveness, while they will illustrate -something of what the proud and sensitive nature of Forrest had to -undergo at the hands of his admirers and his contemners. - -One enthusiastic worshipper, in the year 1826, overflowed in the -following style: “In the Iron Chest, on Thursday evening last, Mr. -Forrest established a name and a fame which, should he die to-morrow, -would give him a niche in the temple of renown to endure uncrumbled in -the decay of ages!” Another one wrote thus: “In his Richard, Macbeth, -Lear, and Othello, Mr. Forrest displays abilities and accomplishments -which, for power and finish, we do not believe have ever been at all -approached by any other actor that ever stepped upon the stage. The -range of his delicate and varied by-play and the terrific energy of his -explosions of naked passion leave the very greatest of his predecessors -far in the rear and deep in the shade!” Such slopping eulogy defeats its -own purpose. For want of discrimination its exaggerations are unmeaning -and powerless. To be thus bedaubed and plastered with praise mortifies -the actor, and injures him with the judicious, though springing from a -generous sensibility and most kindly meant. This style of praise, -however, is quite exceptional. The general run of critics have -altogether too much knowingness and vanity for it. Their cue is to -depreciate and detract, to satirize and belittle, so as either directly -or indirectly to imply the superiority of their own knowledge and taste. -Your ordinary critic is nothing if not superior to the artist he assumes -to estimate. The publicity and admiration enjoyed by the performer seem -to taunt the critic with his own obscurity and neglect, and he seeks an -ignoble gratification in denying the merit of what he really envies. -This base animus of the baser members of a properly high and useful -literary guild betrays itself in many ways. For example, one of this -sort, sneering at the idea of applauding the genius of an actor, -characterized dramatists as “the class of men who administer in the most -humiliating of all forms to the amusement of a large and mixed -assembly.” It needs no more than his own words to place Pecksniff before -us in full life. - -Through the whole dramatic life of Forrest one class of his assailants -were found accusing him of tameness and dulness, while another class -blamed him for extravagant energy and frenzied earnestness. Both classes -spoke from personal bias or capricious whim, instead of judging by a -fixed standard of truth and discerning where reserve and quietness were -appropriate and where explosive vehemence was natural. One critic, in -1831, says, “He wants passion and force. He has no sincerity of feeling, -no spontaneous and climacteric force. He often counterfeits well,—for -the stage,—but nature is not there.” At the same time the critic -attached to another journal wrote, “Mr. Forrest’s greatest fault is lack -of self-control and repose. His feelings are so intense and mighty that -they break through all bounds. With added years, no doubt, he will grow -more reserved and artistic.” Thirty years later the same blunt -contradiction, the same blind caprice or prejudice, are found in the two -extracts that follow: - -“For nearly three months the heavy tragedian has weighed like an incubus -on the public, which now, that the oppression of this theatrical -nightmare is removed, breathes freely. We part with Mr. Forrest without -regret; he has taken his leave, and, as that slight acquaintance of his, -William Shakspeare, remarks, he could ‘take nothing we would more -willingly part withal.’ Those only who, like ourselves, have constantly -attended his performances, have a true knowledge of their tedium and -dulness. The occasional visitor may bear with Mr. Forrest for a night or -two, but we are really nauseated. The stupid, solemn, melancholy -evenings we have passed in watching his stupid, solemn, and melancholy -personations will always be remembered with disgust. Nothing but a sense -of duty compelled us to submit to this ineffable bore.” - -“Mr. Forrest belongs to the robustious school of tragedy,—that class who -‘split the ears of the groundlings,’—and his eminent example has ruined -the American stage. He is a dramatic tornado, and plucks up the author’s -words by the roots and hurls them at the heads of the audience. He -mistakes rant for earnestness, frenzy for vigor. The modulations of his -voice are unnatural, and his pauses painful. A man in a furious passion -does not measure his words like a pedagogue declaiming before his -school, but speaks rapidly and fiercely, without taking time to hiss -like a locomotive blowing off steam. Mr. Forrest was not so in his -prime; and he has probably borrowed the habit from some antiquated actor -who has been afflicted with asthma.” - -There is no candid criticism in such effusions of obvious prepossession -and satire. They show no reference to a fixed standard, no sincere -devotion to the interests of truth and art; but a desire to awaken -laughter, a purpose to make the player appear ridiculous and the writer -appear witty. The same may be said of the following examples, wherein -amusing or malignant ridicule takes the place of fair and intelligent -judgment. Such writers care not what their victims suffer, or what -justice suffers, so long as they can succeed in gaining attention and -raising a laugh. They feel with the English critic who excoriated Payne -for his Macbeth, “No matter if the labor we delight in physics Payne, it -_pays_ us.” - -First. “Mr. Forrest’s personation of the Broker of Bogota is feeble and -uninteresting. Contrasted with his _Othello_, it has the advantage which -the Stupid has over the Outrageous. _Febro_ may be compared to one of -those intolerable bores who prose and prose, with sublime contempt of -all that is interesting, for hours. _Othello_ is like one of those -social torments who destroy your peace of mind with incessant and -furious attacks. The bore is the negative of Good; his opposite is the -affirmative of Evil.” - -Second. “We can account for the popularity which Forrest enjoys as the -greatest master of the Epigastric School of Acting on no other -hypothesis than that of the innate depravity of human taste. Like the -vicious propensity in mankind to chew tobacco and drink whisky, the -majority of men have a depraved appetite for this false and outrageous -caricature of human nature which Mr. Forrest calls acting. Our -strictures apply in a lesser degree to the stage delineations of all -tragedians. They are all false, and Forrest is only a little more so. -His particular excellence seems to lie in his extraordinary power of -pumping up rage from his epigastrium, and expectorating it upon his -audience, through the interstices of his set teeth. Other tragedians -equal him in their facial contortions, and in the power of converting -their chests into an immense bellows violently worked. His great rival, -McKean Buchanan, excels Mr. Forrest in this department of high art, but -fails in the epigastric power. Mr. Forrest may well claim to stand at -the head of the Epigastric School. He does not underestimate the value -of epilepsy in delineation, and ‘chaws,’ tears, rends, and foams at the -mouth quite as artistically as the best of his rivals; but he especially -cultivates his epigastrium. We do not want Mr. Forrest to die soon. But -when he _does_ pass away, we have a physiological and anatomical -curiosity which we would be pleased to have gratified at the expense of -a _post mortem_ on the great tragedian. We have a grave suspicion that, -deep down in his stomach, beneath the liver and other less important -viscera, he has concealed additional vocal apparatus, by means of which -he is enabled to produce those diabolical _tremolo_ sounds which have so -often thrilled and chilled his auditors. But in our opinion, with its -two great exponents, Edwin Forrest and McKean Buchanan, the Epigastric -and Epileptic School of Acting will pass away.” - -Third. “We thought to have dropped Mr. Edwin Forrest as a subject of -newspaper remark; but several of his friends, or persons who think -themselves such, are very anxious that we should do him justice, as an -actor, though that is just what they ought to fear for him. We will take -his performance as Richard. In this part, in the first place, his gait -is very bad, awkward, and ungraceful. Richard may, possibly, have halted -a little, but he did not roll like a sailor just ashore from a three -years’ cruise. A king does not walk so. Then, his features are totally -devoid of expression; he can contort, but he can throw neither meaning -nor feeling into them. When he attempts to look love, anger, hate, or -fear, he resembles one of the ghouls and afrites in Harper’s new -illustrated edition of the Arabian Nights. He wins Lady Anne with a -smile that would frighten a fiend, and that varies not a single line -from that with which he evinces his satisfaction at the prospect of -gaining the crown, and his contempt for the weakness of his enemies. A -more outrageous and hideous contortion still expresses his rage at -Buckingham’s importunity, and at the reproaches of his mother. When he -awakes in the tent-scene, he keeps his jaws at their utmost possible -distension for about two minutes, and presents no bad emblem of an -anaconda about to engorge a buffalo; one might fling in a pound of -butter without greasing a tooth. At the same time, his whole frame -writhes and shakes like a frog subjected to the action of a galvanic -battery. We have seen folks frightened and convulsed before now, but we -never saw one of them retain his senses in a convulsion. We like a deep, -manly, powerful voice; but we dislike to hear it strained to the screech -of a damned soul in hell-torment, like Mr. Forrest’s when he calls on -his drums to strike up and his men to charge. Often he displays his -tremendous physical energies where there is not the least occasion for -them, and as often does he repress them where they are needed. For -instance, Richard ought to work himself into a passion before he slays -King Henry. Mr. Forrest kills him as coolly and as quietly as a butcher -sticks a pig or knocks down a calf, and he repulses Buckingham with the -voice and action of a raving maniac. But Mr. Forrest is not to blame for -his face, which is as nature moulded it, neither because he has but -three notes to his voice, nor because the only inflections he is capable -of are their exaltation and depression. But he need not aggravate the -slight deformity of Richard more than Shakspeare did, who greatly -exaggerated it himself. Nor do we blame him for raving, ranting, -roaring, and bellowing to houses who never applaud him but when he -commits some gross outrage upon good taste and propriety. He adapts his -goods to his market, and he does wisely.” - -As a contrast and offset to the foregoing specimens of self-display -disguised as criticism of another, it is but fair to cite a few extracts -from different writers who had really something appropriate to say on -the subject they were treating, and who said it with exemplary -directness and impartiality: - -“As a reader Mr. Forrest has, in our opinion, few equals. Believing him -to be the most overrated actor on the stage, we are yet not blind to his -merit, but are glad to speak of the least of his excellences, and only -wish they were more numerous. Let us take his inherent faults for -granted, and consider his reading at the best. Does he fail in the first -essential,—intelligibility? On the contrary, he enunciates a thought -with such clearness that the meaning cannot be mistaken. Does he fail to -give the rhythm and the rhetoric of verse? On the contrary, verse in his -utterance retains its melody and music, and the high-sounding eloquence -of words its majesty. He subtly marks the changes of reflection, and -keeps the leading idea emphatic and distinct. There stands the _thought_ -at least, no matter if the _feeling_ is a thousand miles away. He has -carved the statue correctly, though he wants the power of the ancient -sculptor to give the cold marble life. This he cannot do by ‘emphasizing -every word,’ in the unnatural way of which our correspondent accuses -him. Analyze one of his well-read sentences, and mark how the strong -word and the strong sound fall together; then listen to most of the -actors that surround him, and notice with what amusing vehemence they -shout their ‘ands’ and ‘ifs’ and ‘buts.’ They begin every sentence with -a stentorian cry that dwindles into an exhausted whisper.” - -“As regards Forrest, we are often amused to hear people, who have vainly -refused for years to recognize his great histrionic abilities, wonder -how it is that he invariably attracts crowded houses whenever he -performs. We do not know any actor of his rank who has been so -scurrilously abused and to so little purpose. The most elaborate -pretences at criticism are always poured out on his devoted head, and if -the power of the press could have written a man down he surely would -have been long since; for he has few special champions among -acknowledged critics, a fact which shows how deep is the feeling against -him among particular classes. We must candidly confess to have never -been biased by profound admiration of Forrest’s acting, and yet we must -also admit that after having calmly, patiently, and attentively watched -some entire performances of his, we were convinced that he really -possessed far greater powers of mind than any of the critics ever had -given him credit for. His style is apt to be uneven, and men of his -mould of intellect cannot always enact the same parts with the same good -taste. But of his superb elocution,—of the noble idea of latent force -and suppressed passion which his whole manner embodies,—of the -perfection of manly dignity and physical development which have never -had a better representative on the stage than in his person,—of the -marvellous voice, so musical in its sound, and so happily adjusted in -its modulations to increase the expression of a sentence,—there ought, -in our judgment, to be no abatement of that admiration so long and so -justly accorded to him. If all the critics in the country were with one -voice to deny the existence of these things, their fiat would be -powerless against the evidence of men’s senses. We admit that he has no -subtlety of intellect, no finely-drawn perceptions of delicate shades of -human character. What he does is the result of the action of a very -strong mind, capable of being directed in a particular channel with -resistless energy; but this is the very class of minds out of which have -arisen some of the greatest men in the world’s annals. When Forrest -performs an engagement people go to see him who know all his defects, -but they go because it is the only acting of the highest class they have -the opportunity of seeing, and it is so far above the rivalry of such -actors as have been here during the last decade as to admit of no -comparison.” - -“It is said when Canova was finishing a choice marble that his friends -were very anxious to see the work on exhibition, but the great artist -restrained their impatience, and proposed to gratify their desire at the -end of a given term. At the expiration of the time, his friends -assembled eagerly, and, in tones of disappointment, exclaimed, ‘What -have you been doing? You have been idle; you have done nothing to your -piece.’ To which he replied, ‘On the contrary, my chisel has been -exceedingly busy; I have subdued this muscle, I have brought out this -feature, enlivened this expression, polished my marble.’ ‘Oh, but,’ said -they, ‘these are mere trifles!’ ‘They may be,’ he said, ‘but trifles -make up the sum of perfection.’ The Virginius of Mr. Forrest revived -this anecdote of Canova, as well as remembrances of his early -performances. The difference in the two cases, however, is that it is -not the artist now, but his friends that see the perfection. Virginius -has long been identified with Mr. Forrest’s fame; but, great as the -lustre may be which his surpassing self-possession, noble and balanced -bearing, rich, copious, and manly elocution, and deft, minute, and -relative action have heretofore thrown upon this character, it has now -been still more varied and beautified by the mellow tints that shadow -and relieve the local splendor of salient features. It is indeed a -masterpiece of acting and the ‘top of admiration.’ It is difficult to -perceive any point of improvement that could give it more truth, in its -lifelike resemblance, as a copy of fiction; and we are sure, after the -ribaldry which of late years has degraded the boards, that there is not -a single lover of the drama who saw this enactment who does not feel -grateful to Mr. Edwin Forrest for his manly reassertion of the dignity -of the stage.” - -“We are disposed to admit the greatest liberty possible to the -theatrical critic employed upon the daily press, but we cannot help -alluding to the disgracefully savage bitterness of the writer in one of -our weekly contemporaries as equally damaging to his employer’s -reputation and his own. Mr. Forrest has now passed that period of his -life in which he might have been injured by the malevolence of the -individual. In the mass, criticism bows before his assured superiority, -and it is simply a petty spite which dares persistently to deny his -claims to genius of the highest order. He is no longer a man respecting -whose position in the history of the American stage there can be any -dispute. He stands completely alone. We are induced this week to make -this remark from having freshly seen him in ‘_Othello_’ and ‘_Macbeth_.’ -Can any observer who remembers his interpretation of the first of these -characters, some twenty years since, or his rendering of the last one, -but four years ago, and is disposed to examine them fairly, with -reference to his present reading and acting of either part, deny this? -If he does so, we can but feel that he is alike ungifted with the talent -to recognize and the honesty to admit the wide difference which exists -between them. His ‘_Othello_’ is now a most coherent and perfect whole. -Where is the artist who can infuse a more perfect and thorough spirit of -love than he does in that scene where he meets _Desdemona_ again in -Cyprus, after having quitted her in Venice? Where is the one who grows -under the heat of _Iago’s_ viperous tongue into a more sublimely savage -delineation of jealousy than he does in the subsequent acts? Is not his - - ‘I love thee, Cassio, - But never more be officer of mine,’ - -one of the most perfect bits of natural feeling that has ever been -uttered upon the stage? Friendship, anger, pity, and justice are all -struggling within him, and shape the sorrow of the words that strip his -lieutenant of the office which he considers him no longer worthy to -retain. It may be observed that in alluding to these points we have not -marked any of those more obvious beauties which have for many years been -acknowledged in his representation of this character. These are settled -excellencies in the estimation of all who love the tragic stage. Certain -lines have been stereotyped to us by the genius of those who have -embodied this greatest of Shaksperian characters; but for those who will -reverently observe his impersonation, there are hitherto hidden points -developed by Forrest which justify us in laughing at those whose -resolute hatred of the artist blinds them to his excellence, and to the -wonderful finish in the histrionic portraits which he offers them. We -have good artists amongst us, but we certainly have none who can for a -moment be fairly compared with him; and therefore is it that we say the -man who constantly undervalues him simply marks himself as notoriously -incapable of balancing the critical scales.” - -The next extract is taken from a long article by the well-known scholar -and author, Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie: - -“We once heard a great author say, ‘Scurrility is the shadow of Fame, -and as often precedes as follows it.’ That author was Bulwer, and his -remark has the weight of an aphorism. With respect to Mr. Edwin Forrest, -it is singular that he has been assailed in his native town by -scurrility at an advanced period of his brilliant career, and at a time -when his powers have ripened into something very close to perfection. - -“Unless the actuating principle of the writer be a merely malignant -dislike of the man, it seems almost impossible to us that any critic, -possessed of the ordinary intelligence current among the more -respectable members of the fraternity, can refuse or be so morally blind -as not to see the wide difference existing between the Forrest of the -present time and the Forrest who was admitted by the public to be the -greatest American actor some twenty years ago. At that time he was -wonderful,—wonderful by his intensity, his dashing power, his superb -manhood, his fine voice, and his noble presence. This made him a great -artist. He might have many faults, but these were obliterated from the -mind of the spectator by his many and dazzling merits, which were even -the more striking from the comparative blemishes with which they were -mingled. - -“The artistic career of Edwin Forrest has now, however, made a great -stride in advance. He has polished, refined, and completed his style. It -was said of Garrick, who was several years older than Forrest when he -retired from the stage, that in his latter seasons he acted better than -ever, and the fact that he never, even when a master in the art, ceased -to be a student, explained the cause. The same may be said, and even -with more truth, of Edwin Forrest. There is no living actor half so -studious as himself. His mind, always under thorough self-cultivation, -has matured in later years, and the effects are apparent. He is so near -perfection as an actor that it is impossible to be so attracted by his -excellencies now as we might have been when contrast made them more -palpable. - -“Fully to appreciate the various power of Mr. Forrest cannot be done by -examining him in any single character. We have therefore waited until -his engagement is nearly completed, and have carefully studied him in -eleven different characters,—_Richelieu_, _Damon_, _Richard III._, -_Hamlet_, _Othello_, _Virginius_, _Macbeth_, _Lucius Junius Brutus_, -_Febro_, _Jack Cade_, and _Lear_. Of these, perhaps, his _Lear_, his -_Othello_, his _Macbeth_, his _Richelieu_, and his _Damon_ are the -greatest; but there is comparatively so little difference in excellence -between his _Hamlet_ and his _Othello_, his _Virginius_ and his _Damon_, -that he might reasonably except to us for noting that difference, which, -after all, is in some measure the result of a purely physical variation -in the bodily means at his disposal for each special embodiment. - -“The almost even excellence, in so many of his great parts, to which -Edwin Forrest has attained, contains in itself a strong assertion of his -right not only to the first place in the histrionic annals of the last -few years, but registers a positive claim to the highest position, as an -artist, in all histrionic history to which the slightest degree of faith -can be attached. To be at the same time a great _Hamlet_ and a great -_Othello_, even granting a difference in the excellence of the two -parts, argues that the actor possesses to a larger extent than common -that intellectual adaptability without which it would be impossible for -him to represent two such widely different men. Slightly deranged, a -philosophic dreamer, without the capability of sustained action, -energetic only by immediate impulse, the Danish Prince differs widely -from the passionate, powerful, one-purposed, and sublimely simple nature -of the Moor. In grasping these two opposite characters as completely as -Edwin Forrest has done, he has displayed an intellectual strength of the -highest order, approaching very nearly to that subtlety of intelligence -which is but rarely coupled with genius, but which, when coupled with -it, makes it a genius of the highest order. - -“This subtlety of intelligence he develops in his wonderful rendering of -_Richard_, as widely opposed a character to both or either of the others -as could well be presented to us. For the physical nature of _Richard_ -he has preferred Horace Walpole’s ‘Historic Doubts’ to Shakspeare’s -delineation of the man, but in portraying him intellectually Edwin -Forrest has simply depended on himself. He paints _Richard_ with strong -and vigorous execution, as a crafty and cruel hypocrite, with a -positively unequalled subtlety of touch, rendering his hypocrisy frank -and pleasant to the outside observer and coloring it with a comedy of -which he offers no example in _Othello_ and but a vague suspicion in -_Hamlet_. His love-scene with _Lady Anne_ is a marvellous piece of -acting, which excerpts from the character as a worthy pendant to the mad -scene in _Lear_. It was probably much more easily, although more -recently, perfected by him than the latter, inasmuch as the last named -was the result of careful and minute study, while the former is simply -an effort of pure cultured genius which is as positively real as stage -simulation ever can be. But this difference in character of the three -extends even to those points in which _Richard_ touches upon the two -others. _Richard_ is a man of strong passion as well as _Othello_. He is -a philosopher as well as _Hamlet_. But passion is suppressed in -_Richard_ under the vest of his craft. It is addressed to other objects -than _Othello_ yearns for. It is bold and crafty. _Othello_ is brave and -honest. This is wonderfully discriminated by Mr. Forrest. The philosophy -of _Hamlet_ is reflective and uncertain, colored by study and lunacy. -That of _Richard_ is worldly and practical, subjected by him to his -immediate ambition. Here Mr. Forrest, as an artist, is truly admirable. -In _Hamlet_ his philosophy is impulsively given to the audience. In -_Richard_ it is reasoned out and calculated with. - -“Let us look at _Macbeth_, reaching, as _Richard_ does, at the Crown. -Most of our modern actors vary the two but little in their manner, -without following the line of difference made between them by the great -dramatist. This difference was in the intellectual strength of their -natures. _Richard_ is the tool of nobody. _Macbeth_ is but a plaster in -the fingers of his wife. How exquisitely does Mr. Forrest mark out the -two natures! You trace _Macbeth’s_ indecision of purpose in his very -manner. His entrance in the first scene is characterized by it. The -breaking off from his friends,—his return to himself when addressed by -them,—his interjectional reveries,—his uncertainty of action, are all as -they are given to us by Shakspeare, but scarcely such as we might have -expected a man of Mr. Forrest’s physical temperament to embody. In -_Richard_ the ambition is positive. He does not reason of the acts which -he commits. Hence here the artist’s actions are positive. When he -commits or orders one of these deeds which tend to secure his desires or -objects, it is done at once. The positive decision of the man is -translated by the actor, whether it be in the passionate command or the -sneering jest, by the calculated impulse of the man.” - -Here is a part of an elaborate attack written by a relentless enemy and -persecutor, quite remarkable for the untempered way in which it mixes -truth and misrepresentation, justice and wrong: - -“Mr. Forrest is now an actor who depends almost entirely on his voice as -a medium of expression. He throws all his force into his reading; -elocution is intended to compensate for everything,—for facial -expression, for suitable action, for muscular vigor, and often, indeed, -for true feeling and appreciation. By his impressive reading he -frequently gains applause when in reality he deserves condemnation. -There are whole scenes in his _Lear_ unredeemed by one spark of feeling, -the poverty of which he attempts to hide under a superficial gloss of -elocutionary charlatanism. His fine voice aids him in this attempt; for -that he has a noble voice, of great power,—whose tones are often -commanding, and sometimes would be tender if they were inspired by any -sincere feeling,—no one who has heard him can doubt. Take away this -voice and Mr. Forrest is a nonentity, for _he cannot act_, and his face -has no variety of expression. We know that, instead of using this fine -element of success well, he has abused it; for his mannerisms of tone -are perpetual, and disfigure every lengthy passage he reads. His voice -has too great a burden to bear. - -“This is one reason why he is so very monotonous. Another and a deeper -reason is that the man himself is nothing but a monotone. No man on the -stage has a more strongly marked individuality than Mr. Forrest; once -seen, he cannot be easily forgotten, nor can his performances ever be -confused in memory with those of others. Yet this individuality is a -prison-house to him; he cannot escape from it. He is forced, in spite of -himself, to play every character in exactly the same way. He develops -_Spartacus_ by the identical methods he employs in _Hamlet_; his _Lear_ -and his _Claude Melnotte_ are made impressive, not by different styles. -He has but one style. He is Edwin Forrest in everything; and, worse than -this, he seems to care nothing for the best character he plays in -comparison with his own success. Egotism is a marked peculiarity of his -acting; he seems to say to the audience, not, ‘How fine is this -character! how great was the author!’ but ever, ‘How finely _I_ play it! -am I not the greatest actor you ever saw?’ - -“Of course this strong personality is sometimes to Mr. Forrest an -advantage. There are _rôles_ which are adapted to his powers,—such as -_Virginius_, _Damon_, and _Spartacus_. These he plays well because they -do not require of him the transcendent power of genius,—the imagination -which enables a man to penetrate the motives of a being foreign to -himself, and to re-create in his own living nature the beauty and the -passion of a dream. These he plays well because he finds in them -something of himself. And even in Shaksperian characters, which are -alien to his nature, he occasionally meets a passage which he _can_ -feel, and which he therefore expresses; and these moments of -earnestness, occurring suddenly in the midst of long scenes of -artificiality and dulness, are like flashes of lightning in a black -midnight: while they last they are bright, but when they are gone they -make the darkness deeper.” - -The two brief notices that succeed appeared at the same time and in the -same city in two opposed newspapers. The contrast is amusing, and it is -easy to see how little impartial critical judgment went to the -composition of either of them, as well as how bewildering they must have -been to the reader who was seeking from the judgment of the press to -form a dispassionate opinion on the merits of the actor: - -“Having within the present year closely criticised Edwin Forrest’s -performances during a long engagement, we do not intend to bore our -readers with repetitions of what we have said. Mr. Forrest will go -through his programme like a machine, and like most machines it may be -discovered that his powers have suffered somewhat by wear and tear. He -has long since passed the point of improvement. Fully settled in his own -conceit that his personations are the most wonderful that the world ever -saw, his only care will be to heighten defects which he considers -beauties, and to dwell with increased tenderness upon each fault. There -are some mothers who give their hearts to their puny, deformed, and bad- -tempered children, to the neglect of others who are handsome, gentle, -and intelligent. Mr. Forrest is an admirer of this policy. He slights -his better qualities in acting, and dandles his absurdities with more -than just parental fondness. His faults are inveterate; his beauties -daily grow homely. It would be supererogation to expose at length those -vices and stage tricks which have already been freely cauterized.” - -“During the week Mr. Forrest has been performing the characters of -_Richelieu_, _Damon_, _Richard_, and _Hamlet_. At each representation -the invariable compliment of a crowded house has been paid him. With the -advance of every year this actor seems to grow greater. The -intellectuality of his acting becomes more and more apparent. The -experience of years is now devoted to his art; a lifetime is -concentrated upon the development of his transcendent genius. Mr. -Forrest has shaped the colossal block of crude genius into wonderful -statues of natural and lovely proportions. No intelligent praise can be -extravagant which extols the exceeding beauty of the conceptions of this -wonderful artist. We can scarcely think of Mr. Forrest’s fame as -otherwise than increasing. It throws around his name a luminous halo, -whose brightness and extent the progress of years will only intensify -and enlarge.” - -One more specimen will suffice. It is from the pen of an anonymous -English critic: - -“If Forrest is not in a paroxysm, he is a mere wicker idol; huge to the -eye, but _full of emptiness_,—a gigantic vacuum. His distortions of -character are monstrous; the athletic, muscular vigor of his Lear is a -positive libel upon consistency and truth. Spartacus was made for him, -and he for Spartacus; the athlete is everlastingly present in all his -personations. His ravings in Othello, in Macbeth, and in Richard the -Third are orgasms of vigorous commonplace. - -“When Mr. Forrest represents terror, his knees shake, his hands vibrate, -his chest heaves, his throat swells, and his muscles project as if he -were under the influence of a galvanic battery or his whole frame put in -motion by a machine. He always appears anxious to show the toughness of -his sinews, the cast-iron capabilities of his body, and the prodigious -muscularity of his legs, which really haunt the spectator’s eyes like -huge, grim-looking spectres, appearing too monstrous for realities, as -they certainly are for the dignified grace of tragedy. He delights to -represent physical agony with the most revolting exaggerations. When he -dies, he likes that the audience should hear the rattles in his throat, -and will, no doubt, some day have a bladder of pig’s blood concealed -under his doublet, that, when stabbed, the tragic crimson may stream -upon the stage, and thus give him the opportunity of representing death, -in the words of his admirers, _to the life_. - -“Perhaps no stronger test of Mr. Forrest’s want of intellectual power as -an actor can be given than his slow, drawling, whining mode of -delivering the speech to the senate, in the play of Othello. No -schoolboy could do it worse, and though in the more energetic scenes -there is a certain mechanical skill and seeming reality of passion, yet -the charm which this might be calculated to produce is lost by the -closeness of resemblance to a well-remembered original. It is almost -frightfully vigorous, and though there are some touches of true energy, -this is much too boisterous, coarse, and unrelieved by those delicate -inflections which so eloquently express true feeling to obtain for it -that meed of praise only due to the efforts of original genius. There is -much art and much skill in Mr. Forrest’s acting; but its grand defect is -the general absence of truth.” - -The medley of praise and abuse, the hodge-podge of incongruous opinions, -seen in the foregoing illustrations of newspaper criticism, arose far -less from any contradiction of excellences and faults in the acting of -Forrest than from the prejudices and ignorance of the writers. A large -proportion of those writers were obstinately prepossessed or corruptly -interested, and few of them had any distinct appreciation of the -constituent elements of the dramatic art. Destitute of the true standard -of criticism, the final canon of authority, their judgments were at the -mercy of impulse and chance influences. - -But Forrest was no solitary, though he was an extreme, sufferer in this -respect. The greatest of his predecessors, all the most gifted and -famous actors and actresses, have had to undergo the same pitiless -ordeal. Those concerning whose illustrious pre-eminence there can be no -question whatever have borne the same shower of detraction, insult, and -ridicule, the same pelting of cynical badinage. The restless vanity, -presumptuous conceit, and _blasé_ omniscience of the common order of -critics have spared none of the conspicuous dramatic artists. And if any -one infer from the abuse and depreciation rained on Forrest that he must -have been guilty of the worst faults, he may draw the like conclusion -from the like premises in relation to every celebrated name in the -history of the stage. - -The bigoted opposition and belittling estimates met by Talma in his bold -and resolute effort to displace the conventional inanity and stilted -bombast of the French stage with truth and nature are a matter of -notorious record. Some of his sapient critics thought they were -administering a caustic censure when they uttered the unwitting -compliment, extorted by their surprise at his severe costume and grand -attitudes, “Why, he looks exactly like a Roman statue just stepped out -of the antique.” The biographers of Garrick give abundant evidence of -the misrepresentation, ridicule, and manifold censure with which his -enemies and rivals and their venal tools pursued and vexed him. He even -stooped to buy them off, and sometimes counteracted their malice with -his own anonymous pen. Horace Walpole wrote, “I have seen the acting of -Garrick, and can say that I see nothing wonderful in it.” His small -stature, his starts and pauses, were, in especial, maliciously -animadverted on. Mossop was sneered at as “a distiller of syllables,” -Macklin for the prominent “lines, or rather cordage, of his face,” and -Quin for the “mechanic regularity and swollen pomp of his declamation.” -George Steevens wrote a bitter satire, utterly unjust and unprovoked, on -Mrs. Siddons. She and her brother, John Philip Kemble, were stigmatized -as icebergs and pompous pretenders, and were repeatedly hissed and -insulted on the stage. Before her marriage, while Siddons was playing at -the Haymarket, a critic, trying to put her down, wrote to Hayley, the -manager, “Miss Kemble, though patronized by a number of clamorous -friends, will prove only a piece of beautiful imbecility.” In 1807 a -leading London newspaper said of George Frederick Cooke, “His delivery -of Lear is just what it is in Richard: in its subdued passages, little -and mean; in its more prominent efforts, rugged, rumbling, and staccato, -resembling rather a watchman’s rattle than any other object in art or -nature.” - -William Robson, in his “Old Play-Goer,” says of Edmund Kean, “His person -and carriage are mean and contemptible, his judgment poor, his pathos -weak, his passion extravagant and unnatural;” and then sums up his -estimate of the immortal histrionist in these remarkable words: “He is -nothing but a little vixenish black girl in short petticoats!” On the -first appearance of Kean in Philadelphia some critics there, who were -great admirers of Cooke, called him “a quack, a mountebank, a vulgar -impostor.” William B. Wood said of Kean, when he had just finished a -rehearsal and gone out, “He is a mere mummer.” Joseph Jefferson, great- -grandfather of the Joseph Jefferson of Rip Van Winkle fame,—a beautiful -and noble old man, afterwards characterized by Forrest in loving memory -as “one of the purest men that ever lived, sad, sweet, lofty, -thoughtful, generous,”—overheard the remark, and replied, with a quiet -indignation in his tone, “Ah, Wood, you would give all the riches you -ever dreamed of amassing in this world to be another just such a -mummer.” The “London Spectator,” in 1836, said, “Bunn in his drowning -desperation catches at any straw. He has just put forward Booth, the -shadow and foil of Kean in bygone days. Booth’s Richard seems to have -been a wretched failure.” At the same time another English journal used -the following expressive language, in which the writer evidently does -justice to himself whatever he endeavors to do to the actors he names: -“Since the retirement of Young and the death of Kean, the very name of -tragedy has passed away from us. We have had to submit to the -presumptuous and uninspired feelings of Mr. Bell-wether Kemble, or to -the melodramatic jerks and pumpings of Mr. Macready.” - -An American critic wrote thus of the Nancy Sykes of Charlotte Cushman: -“Miss Cushman’s performance is of the Anatomical Museum style. Her -effects are thrilling and vulgar. Her poses are awkward, and her -pictures unfinished and coarse in outline. She has an unpleasantly pre- -raphaelite death scene, and is dragged off, stiff and stark, when all -the characters express their internal satisfaction at the circumstance -by smiling, shaking hands, and joining in a feeble chorus. The secret of -her attraction is vigor. The masses like vigor. If they can have a -little art with it, very well. But vigor they must have.” Of late it has -been the fashion to extol Miss Cushman as the queenly mistress of all -the dignities and refinements of the dramatic profession; but the -foregoing notice is exactly of a piece with the treatment visited upon -Forrest for many years by the vulgar coteries of criticism, whose aim -was not justice and usefulness but effect upon the prejudiced and the -careless. Even the quiet and gentlemanly Edwin Booth has been as -unsparingly assailed as he has been lavishly praised. An insidious -article on him, entitled “The Machine-Actor,” called him a “self-acting -dramatic machine warranted;” and while admitting, with great generosity, -that “he was not wholly destitute of dramatic ability,” attributed his -success and reputation chiefly to extraneous conditions, in especial the -shrewdness of “his managing agent, who judiciously prepared his houses -for him, and pecuniarily and personally appreciated the power of the -press and conciliated the critics.” The two following notices of Mr. -Booth’s Melnotte—the first obviously by a critic who had, the second by -one who had not, been “conciliated”—are quite as absurd in their -contradiction as those so often composed on Forrest: - -“On Monday evening last we enjoyed the first opportunity of seeing Mr. -Edwin Booth in the character of _Claude Melnotte_, in the ‘Lady of -Lyons.’ Our impressions of Mr. Booth in the part may be briefly summed -up in saying that he is one of the very best _Claudes_ we have ever -seen,—scholarly, sustained, and forcibly reticent at all points,—not so -youthful in his make-up as to suggest the enthusiastic boy of Bulwer’s -drama, but in all other regards the very ideal of the character. His -marvellously melodious voice sounds to peculiar advantage in the rich -prose-poetry of the more sentimental passages, and in the passages of -sterner interest the latent strength of the tragedian comes nobly into -play. Booth’s _Claude_ is an unqualified success, and its first -rendering was witnessed by an audience brilliant in number and -intelligence and markedly enthusiastic in their reception of the best -points.” - -“Mr. Booth’s _Claude Melnotte_ was a failure. It was neither serious nor -sentimental, comic nor tragic. The best that can be said of it is that -it came near being an effective burlesque. When he first came on to the -stage, I almost thought it was his intention to make it so. His carriage -and general make-up were those of one of Teniers’ Dutch boors, even to -the extent of yellow hair combed straight down the forehead and clipped -square across from temple to temple. His action consisted mainly in a -series of shrugs. I don’t remember a natural movement of body or -expression of countenance, from the beginning of the piece to the end; -nor a natural tone of voice.” - -Still later we have seen different representatives of the press, both in -America and in England, alternately describing the wonderful Othello of -Salvini as “the electrifying impersonation of a demi-god” and as “an -exhibition of disgusting brutality.” - -The class of examples of which these are a few specimens show how little -worthy the ordinary newspaper dramatic criticism is to be considered -authoritative. No branch of journalism, allowing for notable individual -exceptions, is more incompetent or more corrupt, because no other set of -writers have so difficult a task or are so beset by vicious influences. -Their vanity, prejudice, and interest worked upon, their sympathies -appealed to by the artist and his friends, their antipathies by his -rivals and foes, harassed and hurried with work, moved by promises of -money and patronage, no wonder they often turn from the exactions of -conscientious labor and study to something so much easier. The -unsophisticated portion of the public, who are too much influenced by -what they read in the papers, and who fancy that applause is a good -proof of merit and censure a sure evidence of fault, ought to know how -full of fraud and injustice the world of histrionic ambition and -criticism is, and to learn to give little weight to verdicts not -ascertained to come from competent and honest judges. The husband of -Madame Linguet, a favorite actress at the Italian Theatre in Paris, -hired a party to hiss every other actress, but to applaud her to the -echo. A ludicrous mistake let out the secret. Linguet told his men one -night to hiss the first actress who appeared and applaud the second. The -play was changed, and in the substituted piece Madame Linguet came -forward first, and was overpowered with hisses. Sir John Hill asked Peg -Woffington if she had seen in the paper his praise of her performance -the previous evening in the part of Calista. She thanked him for his -kindness, but added that the play was changed and she had acted the -character of Lady Townley. In a New York paper, in 1863, this notice -appeared: “Mr. Forrest repeated, by special request, his great character -of Spartacus last evening, before one of the most brilliant and -enthusiastic audiences of the season. His acting was grand throughout, -and at the end of the last act he received a perfect ovation from the -audience.” Appended to this, in his own handwriting, pasted in one of -his scrap-books, were found these words: “Mr. Forrest on the night above -referred to was in Philadelphia, and did not act at all, having been -called home by the death of his sister.” - -After going over the mass of ignorant, capricious, and contradictory -criticism bestowed on Forrest,—criticism destitute of fundamental -principles or ultimate insight,—the reader may well feel at a loss to -know how he is to regulate his judgment upon the subject and form a just -estimate of the actor and his performances. The critics, instead of -aiding, bewilder him, because themselves appear to be wildly adrift. To -work our way through the chaos it is necessary for us to understand -distinctly what the dramatic art is in its nature and object, and what -are the materials and methods with which it aims to accomplish its -purpose. The answers to these inquiries will clear away confusion, lay -bare the elements of the art, and put us in possession of those laws of -expression which constitute the only final standard for justly -criticising the efforts of the player. - -Considered in its full scope, the drama is _the practical science of -human nature exemplified in the revelation of its varieties of character -and conduct_. It aims to uncover and illustrate man in the secret -springs of his action and suffering and destiny, by representing the -whole range and diversity of his experience in living evolution. The -drama is the reflection of human life in the idealizing mirror of art. -In what does this reflection consist? In the correct exhibition of the -different modes of behavior that belong to the different types of -humanity in the various exigencies of their fortunes. The critic, -therefore, in order to be able to say whether histrionic performances -are true or false, consistent or inconsistent, noble or base, refined or -vulgar, artistically elaborated and complete or absurdly exaggerated and -defective, must understand the contents of human nature in all its -grades of development, and know how the representatives of those grades -naturally deport themselves under given conditions of inward -consciousness and of exterior situation. That is to say, a man to be -thoroughly equipped for the task of dramatic criticism must have -mastered these three provinces of knowledge; first, the characters of -men in their vast variety; second, the modes of manifestation whereby -those characters reveal their inward states through outward signs; -third, the manner in which those characters and those modes of -manifestation are affected by changes of consciousness or of situation, -how they are modified by the reflex play of their own experience. - -Every man has three types of character, in all of which he must be -studied before he can be adequately represented. First he has his -inherited constitutional or temperamental character, his fixed native -character, in which the collective experience and qualities of his -progenitors are consolidated, stamped, and transmitted. Next he has his -peculiar fugitive or passional character, which is the modification of -his stable average character under the influence of exciting impulses, -temporary exaltations of instinct or sentiment. And then he has his -acquired habitual character, gradually formed in him by the moulding -power of his occupation and associations, as expressed in the familiar -proverb, “Habit is a second nature.” The first type reveals his -ancestral or organic rank, what he is in the fatal line of his -parentage. The second shows his moral or personal rank, what he has -become through his own experience and discipline, self-indulgence and -self-denial. The third betrays his social rank, what he has been made by -his employment and caste. The original estimate or value assigned to the -man by nature is indicated in his constitutional form, the geometrical -proportions and dynamic furnishing of his organs, his physical and -mental make-up. The estimate he puts on himself, in himself and in his -relations with others, his egotistical value, is seen in the transitive -modifications of his form by movements made under the stimulus of -passions. The conventional estimate or social value awarded him is -suggested through the permanent modifications wrought in his organs and -bearing by his customary actions and relations with his fellows. Thus -the triple type of character possessed by every man is to be studied by -means of an analysis of the forms of his organs in repose and of his -movements in passion or habit. - -The classes of constitutional character are as numerous as the human -temperaments which mark the great vernacular distinctions of our nature -according to the preponderant development of some portion of the -organism. There is the osseous temperament, in which the bones and -ligaments are most developed; the lymphatic temperament, in which the -adipose and mucous membrane preponderate; the sanguine temperament, in -which the heart and arteries give the chief emphasis; the melancholic -temperament, in which the liver and the veins oversway; the executive -temperament, in which the capillaries and the nerves take the lead; the -mental temperament, in which the brain is enthroned; the visceral -temperament, in which the vital appetites reign; the spiritual -temperament, in which there is a fine harmony of the whole. The -enumeration might be greatly varied and extended, but this is enough for -our purpose. Each head of the classification denotes a distinct style of -character, distinguished by definite modes of manifesting itself, the -principal sign of every character, the key-note from which all its -expressions are modulated, being the quality and rate of movement or the -_nervous rhythm_ of the organism in which it is embodied. - -Besides the vernacular classes of character ranged under their leading -temperaments, there are almost innumerable dialect varieties arising -from these, as modified both by the steady influence of chronic -conditions of life, historic, national, local, or clique, and by fitful -and eccentric individual combinations of faculty and impulse. For -instance, how many types of barbarian character there are,—such as the -garrulous, laughing, sensual Negro, the taciturn, solemn, abstinent -Indian, the fat and frigid Esquimaux, the Hottentot, the Patagonian, the -New Zealander,—all differing widely in stature, feature, gesture, -disposition, costume, creed, speech, while agreeing in the fundamentals -of a common nature. Among civilized nations the diversity of characters -is still greater. It would require an almost endless recital of -particulars to describe the differences of the Chinaman, the Japanese, -the Egyptian, the Persian, the Arab, the Hindu, the Italian, the -Spaniard, the German, the Russian, the Frenchman, the Englishman, the -American. And then what a maze of attributes, each one at the same time -clear in its sharpness or its profundity, qualify and discriminate the -various orders, castes, and groups of society!—the Brahmin, the Sudra, -the king, the slave, the soldier, the doctor, the lawyer, the priest, -the teacher, the shop-keeper, the porter, the detective, the legislator, -the hangman, the scientist, and the philosopher. Every professional -pursuit, social position, mechanical employment, physical culture, -spiritual belief or aptitude, has its peculiar badge of dress, look, -posture, motion, in which it reveals its secrets; and the pettifogger or -the jurisconsult, the prophet or the necromancer, the Quaker and the -Shaker, the Calvinist and the Catholic, the tailor, the gymnast, the -gambler, the bully, the hero, the poet, and the saint, stand unveiled -before us. How the habitual life reveals itself in the bearing is -clearly seen in the sailor when he leaves his tossing ship for the solid -shore. His sensation of the strange firmness of the earth makes him -tread in a sort of heavy-light way,—half wagoner, half dancing-master. -There is always this appearance of lightness of foot and heavy upper -works in a sailor, his shoulders rolling, his feet touching and going. - -To know how consistently to construct an ideal character of any one of -these kinds, at any given height or depth in the historic gamut of -humanity, and to be able to embody and enact it with the harmonious -truth of nature, is the task of the consummate actor. And to be -qualified to catalogue all these attributes of human being and -manifestation with accuracy, recognizing every fitness, detecting every -incongruity, is the business of the dramatic critic. Who of our ordinary -newspaper writers is competent to the work? Yet the youngest and crudest -of them never hesitates to pronounce a snap judgment on the most -renowned tragedians as if his magisterial “we” were the very ipse dixit -of Pythagoras! - -Still further, the task of the actor and of the critic is made yet more -complicated and difficult by the varied modifications of all the classes -of character indicated above under the influence of specific passion. -The great dramatic passions, which may be subdivided into many more, are -love, hatred, joy, grief, jealousy, wonder, pity, scorn, anger, and -fear. To obtain a fine perception and a ready and exact command of the -relations of the apparatus of expression to all these passions in their -different degrees as manifesting different styles of character, to know -for each phase of excitement or depression the precise adjustment of the -limbs, chest, and head, of intense or slackened muscles, of compressed -or reposeful lips, of dilated or contracted nostrils, of pensive or -glaring or fiery or supplicating eyes, of deprecating or threatening -mien, of firm or vacillating posture, is an accomplishment as rare as it -is arduous. All this is capable of reduction by study and practice to an -exact science, and then of development into a perfect art. For every -passion has its natural law of expression, and all these laws are -related and consistent in an honest and earnest character, incoherent -only in a discordant or hypocritical character. There is an art to find -the mind’s construction in the face. The spirit shines and speaks in the -flesh. And a learned eye looks quite through the seemings of men to -their genuine being and states. This is indeed the very business of the -dramatic art,—to read the truths of human nature through all its -attempted disguises, and expose them for instruction. How minute the -detail, how keen the perception, how subtle and alert the power of -adaptation requisite for this, may be illustrated by a single example. -Suppose a criminal character is to be played. He may be of a timid, -suspicious, furtive type, or careless, jovial, and rollicking, or brazen -and defiant, or sullen and gloomy, yet be a criminal in all. He may be -portrayed in the stage of excitement under the interest of plot and -pursuit, or in success and triumph, or in defeat and wrath, or in the -shame and terror of detection, or in final remorse and despair. There is -scarcely any end to the possibilities of variety, yet verisimilitude -must be kept up and nature not violated. - -But we have as yet hardly hinted at the richness of the elements of the -dramatic art and the scope of the knowledge and skill necessary for -applying them. The aim of the dramatic art being the revelation of the -characters and experiences of men, the question arises, By what means is -this revelation effected? The inner states of man are revealed through -outer signs. Every distinct set of outer signs through which inner -states are made known constitutes a dramatic language. Now, there are no -less than nine of these sets of signs or dramatic languages of human -nature. - -The first language is forms. When we look on an eagle, a mouse, a horse, -a tiger, a worm, a turtle, an alligator, a rattlesnake, their very forms -reveal their natures and dispositions and habits. In their shapes and -proportions we read their history. So with man. His generic nature, his -specific inheritance, his individual peculiarities are signalized in his -form and physiognomy with an accuracy and particularity proportioned to -the interpreting power of the spectator. The truth is all there for the -competent gazer. The actor modifies his form and features by artifice -and will to correspond with what should be the form of the person whose -character he impersonates. And _costume_, with its varieties of outline -and color, constitutes a secondary province artificially added to the -natural language of form. - -The second language is attitudes. Attitudes are living modifications of -shape, or the fluencies of form. There are, for example, nine elementary -attitudes of the feet, of the hands, of the toes, of the head, which may -be combined in an exhaustless series. Every one of these attitudes has -its natural meaning and value. All emotions strong enough to pronounce -themselves find expression in appropriate attitudes or significant -changes of the form in itself and in its relations to others. He who has -the key for interpreting the reactions of human nature on the agencies -that affect it, easily reads in the outer signs of attitude the inner -states of defiance, doubt, exaltation, prostration, nonchalance, -respect, fear, misery, or supplication, and so on. - -The third language is automatic movements, which are unconscious escapes -of character, unpurposed motions through which the states of the mover -are betrayed, sometimes with surprising clearness and force. For -instance, how often impatience, vexation, or restrained anger, breaks -out in a nervous tapping of the foot or the finger! What can be more -legible than the fidgety manner of one in embarrassment? And the degree -and kind of the embarrassment, together with the personal grade and -social position and culture of the subject, will be revealed in the -peculiar nature of the fidgeting. There is a whole class of these -automatic movements, such as trembling, nodding, shaking the head, -biting the lips, lolling the tongue, the shiver of the flesh, the quiver -of the mouth or eyelids, the shudder of the bones, and they compose a -rich primordial language of revelation, perfectly intelligible and -common to universal humanity. - -The fourth language is gestures. This is the language so marvellously -flexible, copious, and powerful among many barbarous peoples. It was -carried to such a pitch of perfection by the mimes of ancient Rome, that -Roscius and Cicero had a contest to decide which could express a given -idea in the most clear and varied manner, the actor by gestures, or the -orator by words. Gestures are a purposed system of bodily motions, both -spontaneous and deliberate, intended as preparatory, auxiliary, or -substitutional for the expressions by speech. There is hardly any state -of consciousness which cannot be revealed more vividly by pantomime than -is possible in mere verbal terms. As fixed attitudes are inflected form, -and automatic movements inflected attitude, so pantomimic gestures are -systematically inflected motion. The wealth of meaning and power in -gesticulation depends on the richness, freedom, and harmony of the -character and organism. The beauty or deformity, nobleness or baseness, -of its pictures are determined by the zones of the body from which the -gestures start, the direction and elevation at which they terminate, -their rate of moving, and the nature and proportions of the figures, -segments of which their lines and curves describe. Music has no clearer -rhythm, melody, and harmony to the ear than inflected gesture has to the -eye. The first law of gesture is, that it follows the look or the eye, -and precedes the sound or the voice. The second law is, that its -velocity is precisely proportional to the mass moved. The third and -profoundest law, first formulated by Delsarte, is that efferent or -outward lines of movement reveal the sensitive life or vital nature of -the man; that afferent or inward lines reveal the percipient and -reflective life or mental nature; and that immanent or curved lines, -blended of the other two, reveal the affectional life or moral nature. - -The fifth language is what is called facial expression. It consists of -muscular contractions and relaxations, dilatations and diminutions, the -fixing or the flitting of nervous lights and shades over the organism. -Its changes are not motions of masses of the body, but visible -modifications of parts of its periphery, as in smiles, frowns, tears. -The girding up or letting down of the sinews, the tightening or -loosening or horripilating creep of the skin, changes of color, as in -paleness and blushing, and all the innumerable alterations of look and -meaning in the brows, the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the chin, come -under this head. The delicacy, power, and comprehensiveness of this -language are inexhaustible. So numerous and infinitely adjustable, for -instance, are the nerves of the mouth, that Swedenborg asserts that no -spoken language is necessary for the illuminated, every state of the -soul being instantly understood from the modulation of the lips alone. - -The sixth language is inarticulate noises, the first undigested -rudiments of the voice. All our organic and emotional states, when they -are keen enough to seek expression, and we are under no restraint, -distinguish and reveal themselves in crude noises, each one the -appropriate effect of a corresponding cause. We breathe aloud, whistle, -gasp, sigh, choke, whimper, sob, groan, grunt, sneeze, snore, snort, -sip, hiss, smack, sniff, gulp, gurgle, gag, wheeze, cough, hawk, spit, -hiccup, and give the death-rattle. These and kindred noises take us back -to the rawest elemental experiences, and express them to universal -apprehension in the most unmistakable manner. The states of the organism -in its various sensations, the forms its affected parts assume under -different stimuli, are as dies which strike the sounds then made into -audible coins or medals revelatory of their faces. This is the broadest -and vulgarest language of unrefined vernacular man. The lower the style -of acting the larger part this will play in it. From the representation -of high characters it is more and more strained out and sublimated away, -the other languages quite superseding it. - -The seventh language is inflected tones, vocalized and modulated breath. -The mere tones of the sounding apparatus of the voice, in the variety of -their quality, pitch, and cadence, reveal the emotional nature of man -through the whole range of his feelings, both in kind and degree. The -moan of pain, the howl of anguish, the yell of rage, the shriek of -despair, the wail of sorrow, the ringing laugh of joy, the ecstatic and -smothering murmur of love, the penetrative tremor of pathos, the solemn -monotone of sublimity, and the dissolving whisper of wonder and -adoration,—these are some of the great family of inflected sounds in -which the emotions of the human heart are reflected and echoed to the -recognition of the sympathetic auditor. - -The eighth language is articulated words, the final medium of the -intellect. Vocal sounds articulated in verbal forms are the pure vehicle -of the thoughts of the head, and the inflected tones with which they are -expressed convey the accompanying comments of the heart upon those -thoughts. What a man thinks goes out on his articulate words, but what -he feels is taught in the purity or harshness of the tones, the pitch, -rate, emphasis, direction and length of slide with which the words are -enunciated. The word reveals the intellectual state; the tone, the -sensitive state; the inflection, the moral state. The character of a man -is nowhere so concentratedly revealed as in his voice. In its clang- -tints all the colors and shades of his being are mingled and symbolized. -But it requires a commensurate wisdom, sensibility, trained skill and -impartiality to interpret what it implies. Yet one fact remains sure: -give a man a completely developed and freed voice, and there is nothing -in his experience which he cannot suggest by it. Nothing can be clearer -or more impressive than the revelation of characters by the voice: the -stutter and splutter of the frightened dolt, the mincing lisp of the -fop, the broad and hearty blast of the strong and good-natured boor, the -clarion note of the leader, the syrupy and sickening sweetness of the -goody, the nasal and mechanical whine of the pious hypocrite, the muddy -and raucous vocality of vice and disease, the crystal clarity and -precision of honest health and refinement. Cooke spoke with two voices, -one harsh and severe, one mild and caressing. His greatest effects were -produced by a rapid transition from one of these to the other. He used -the first to convince or to command, the second to soothe or to betray. - -Actions speak louder than words; and the ninth language is deeds, the -completest single expression of the whole man. The thoughts, affections, -designs, expose and execute themselves in rounded revelation and -fulfilment in a deed. When a hungry man sits down to a banquet and -satisfies his appetite, when one knocks down his angered opponent or -opens the window and calls a policeman, when one gives his friend the -title-deed of an estate, everything is clear, there is no need of -explanatory comment. The sowing of a seed, the building of a house, the -painting of a picture, the writing of a book or letter, any intentional -act, is in its substance and form the most solid manifestation of its -performer. In truth, the deeds of every man, in their material and moral -physiognomy, betray what he has been, demonstrate what he is, and -prophesy what he will become. They are a language in which his purposes -materialize themselves and set up mirrors of his history. Deeds are, -above all, the special dramatic language, because the dramatic art seeks -to unveil human nature by a representation of it not in description, but -in living action. - -These nine languages, or sets of outer signs for revealing inner states, -are all sustained and pervaded by a system of invisible motions or -molecular vibrations in the brain and the other nerve-centres. The -consensus of these hidden motions, in connection at the subjective pole -with the essence of our personality, at the objective pole with other -personalities and all the forces of the kosmos, presides over our bodily -and spiritual evolution; and all that outwardly appears of our character -and experience is but a partial manifestation of its working. From the -differing nature, extent, and combination of these occult vibrations in -the secret nerve-centres originate the characteristic peculiarities of -individuals. It may not be said that all the substances and forms of -life and consciousness _consist in_ modes of motion, but undoubtedly -every vital or conscious state of embodied man is _accompanied by_ -appropriate kinds and rates of organic undulations or pulses of force, -and is revealed through these if revealed at all. The forms and measures -of these molecular vibrations in the nerve-centres and fibres,—whether -they are rectilinear, spherical, circular, elliptical, or spiral,—the -width of their gamut, with the slowness and swiftness of the beats in -their extremes,—and the complexity and harmony of their co-operation,— -determine the quality and scale of the man. The signals of these -concealed things exhibited through the nine languages of his organism -mysteriously hint the kinds and degrees of his power, and announce the -scope and rank of his being. This is the real secret of what is vulgarly -called animal magnetism. One person communicates his vibrations to -another, either by direct contact, or through ideal signs intuitively -recognized and which discharge their contents in the apprehending soul, -just as a musical string takes up the vibrations of another one in tune -with it. He whose organism is richest in differentiated centres and most -perfect in their co-ordinated action, having the exactest equilibrium in -rest and the freest play in exercise, having the amplest supply of force -at command and the most consummate grace or economy in expending it, is -naturally the king of all other men. He is closest to nature and God, -fullest of a reconciled self-possession and surrender to the universal. -He is indeed a divine magnetic battery. The beauty and grandeur of his -bearing bewitch and dominate those who look on him, because suggestive -of the subtlety and power of the modes of motion vibrating within him. -The unlimited automatic intelligence associated with these interior -motions can impart its messages not only through the confessed languages -enumerated above, but also, as it seems, immediately, thus enveloping -our whole race with an unbroken mental atmosphere alive and electric -with intercommunication. - -The variety of human characters, in their secret selfhood and in their -social play,—the variety of languages through which they express -themselves and their states, all based on that infinitely fine system of -molecular motions in the nerve-centres where the individual and the -universal meet and blend and react in volitional or reflex -manifestation,—the variety of modes and degrees in which characters are -modified under the influence of passion within or society and custom -without,—the variety of changes in the adaptation of expression to -character, perpetually altering with the altering situations,—such are -the elements of the dramatic art. What cannot be said can be sung; what -cannot be sung can be looked; what cannot be looked can be gesticulated; -what cannot be gesticulated can be danced; what cannot be danced can be -sat or stood,—and be understood. The knowledge of these elements -properly formulated and systematized composes the true standard of -dramatic criticism. - -It is obvious enough how few of the actors and critics of the day -possess this knowledge. Without it the player has to depend on -intuition, inspiration, instinct, happy or unhappy luck, laborious -guess-work, and servile imitation. He has not the safe guidance of -fundamental principles. Without it the critic is at the mercy of every -bias and caprice. Now, one of the greatest causes of error and injustice -in acting and in the criticism of acting is the difficulty of -determining exactly how a given character in given circumstances will -deport and deliver himself. With what specific combinations of the nine -dramatic languages of human nature, in what relative prominence or -subtlety, used with what degrees of reserve or explosiveness, will he -reveal his inner states through outer signs? Here the differences and -the chances for truthful skill are innumerable; for every particular in -expression will be modified by every particular in the character of the -person represented. What is perfectly natural and within limits for one -would be false or extravagant for another. The taciturnity of an iron -pride, the demonstrativeness of a restless vanity, the abundance of -unpurposed movements and unvocalized sounds characteristic of -boorishness and vulgarity, the careful repression of automatic language -by the man of finished culture, are illustrations. - -And then the degree of harmony in the different modes of expression by -which a given person reveals himself is a point of profound delicacy for -actor and critic. In a type of ideal perfection every signal of thought -or feeling, of being or purpose, will denote precisely what it is -intended to denote and nothing else, and all the simultaneous signals -will agree with one another. But real characters, so far as they fall -short of perfection, are inconsistent in their expressions, continually -indefinite, superfluous or defective, often flatly contradictory. -Multitudes of characters are so undeveloped or so ill developed that -they fall into attitudes without fitness or direct significance, employ -gestures vaguely or unmeaningly, and are so insincere or little in -earnest that their postures, looks, motions, and voices carry opposite -meanings and thus belie one another. It requires no superficial art to -be able instantly to detect every incongruity of this sort, to assign it -to its just cause, and to decide whether the fault arises from conscious -falsity in the character or from some incompetency of the physical -organism to reflect the states of its spiritual occupant. For instance, -in sarcastic speech the meaning of the tone contradicts the meaning of -the words. The articulation is of the head, but the tone is of the -heart. So when the voice is ever so soft and wheedling, if the language -of the eyes and the fingers is ferocious, he is a fool who trusts the -voice. In like manner the revelations in form and attitude are deeper -and more massive than those of gesture. But in order that all the -expressions of the soul through the body should be marked by truth and -agreement, it is necessary that the soul should be completely sincere -and unembarrassed and that the body should be completely free and -flexible to reflect its passing states. No character furnishes these -conditions perfectly, and therefore every character will betray more or -less inconsistency in its manifestations. Still, every pronounced -character has a general unity of design and coloring in its type which -must be kept prevailingly in view. - -The one thing to be demanded of every actor is that he shall conceive -his part with distinctness and represent it coherently. No actor can be -considered meritorious who has not a full and vivid conception of his -rôle and does not present a consistent living picture of it. But, this -essential condition met, there may be much truth and great merit in many -different conceptions and renderings of the same rôle. Then the degree -of intellectuality, nobleness, beauty, and charm, or of raw passion and -material power, in any stated performance is a fair subject for critical -discussion, and will depend on the quality of the actor. But the critic -should be as large and generous as God and nature in his standard, and -not set up a factitious limit of puling feebleness and refuse to pardon -anything that goes beyond it. He must remember that a great deal ought -to be pardoned to honest and genuine genius when it electrifyingly -exhibits to the crowd of tame and commonplace natures a character whose -scale of power is incomparably grander than their own. It is ever one of -the most imposing and benign elements in the mission of the stage to -show to average men, through magnificent examples of depth of passion, -force of will, strength of muscle, compass of voice, and organic play of -revelation, how much wider than they had known is the gamut of humanity, -how much more intense and exquisite its love, how much more blasting its -wrath, more awful its sorrow, more hideous its crime and revenge, more -godlike its saintliness and heroism. - -It is not to be pretended that Forrest had ever made the systematic -analysis of the dramatic art sketched above. But when it was submitted -to him he instantly appreciated it with enthusiasm; for he was -experimentally familiar with all the rudiments of it. He was all his -life an earnest student of human nature, in literature, in social -intercourse, in his own consciousness, and in the critical practice of -his profession. In fixing his rank as an actor the only question is how -far he had the ability to represent in action what he unquestionably had -the ability to appreciate in conception. While some of his admirers have -eulogized him as the greatest tragedian that ever lived, some of his -detractors have denounced him as one of the worst. The truth, of course, -lies between these extremes. His excellences were of the most -distinguished kind, but the limitations of his excellence were obvious -to the judicious and sometimes repulsive to the fastidious. - -To be the complete and incomparable actor which the partisans of Forrest -claim him to have been requires some conditions plainly wanting in him. -The perfect player must have a detached, imaginative, mercurial, yet -impassioned mind, free from chronic biases and prejudices, lodged in a -rich, symmetrical body as full of elastic grace as of commanding power. -The spirit must be freely attuned to the whole range of humanity, and -the articulations and muscles of the frame so liberated and co-operative -as to furnish an instrument obviously responsive to all the play of -thought and emotion. Now, Forrest, after his early manhood, under the -rigorous athletic training he gave himself, was a ponderous Hercules, -magnificent indeed, but incapable of the more airy and delicate -qualities, the fascination of free grace and spontaneous variety. He -lacked the lightning-like suppleness of Garrick and of Kean. His rugged -and imposing physique, handsome and serviceable as it was, wanted the -varying flexibility of the diviner forms of beauty, and so put rigid -limitations on him. The same was true mentally; for while his intellect -was keen, clear, broad, and vigorous, and his heart warm and faithful, -and his passion deep and intense, yet his seated antipathies were as -strong as his artistic sympathies, and shut him up in scorn and -hostility from whole classes of character. Both physically and -spiritually he was moulded in the fixed ways of the general type of -characters which his own predominant qualities caused him to affect. -These were grand characters, glorious in attributes, sublime in -manifestation, but in spite of all his art many of their traits were in -common, and there was something of monotony in the histrionic cortége, -electrifying as their scale of heroism and strength was. Could he but -have mastered in tragedy the spirituelle and free as he did the sombre -and tenacious, he had been perfect. - -The same defect here admitted for his form and mind, it must be -confessed applied to his facial expression, gesture, and voice. As in -attitude he could express with immense energy everything slow and -tremendous in purpose or swift and resistless in execution, while the -more subtile and fleeting moods were baffled of a vent, so in look and -motion and tone he could give most vivid and sustained revelation to all -the great cardinal emotions of the human breast, the elemental -characteristics of our nature, but could not so well expose the more -elusive sentiments and delicate activities. As in his tone and limbs so -in his face and voice, the heavy style of gymnastic culture had fixed -itself in certain rigid moulds or lines, which could not break up in -endless forms accordant with endless moods, melting into one another, -all underlaid by that living unity which it is the end of a true -æsthetic gymnastic to produce. On occasion of his first professional -visit to London an English journal well said,— - -“Mr. Forrest is in person most remarkable for symmetrical but somewhat -Herculean proportions. He might take the Farnese club and stand a -perfect model to painter or sculptor. His neck is also as a pillar of -strength, and his head is finely set on. His features are marked, but by -no means of a classic caste, nor are they well suited for histrionic -effect. Abundantly indicative of energy, they have not breadth of -character, or beauty, or variety of expression. Under strong excitement -they cut or contrast into sharp angularities, which cannot harmonize -with the grand in passion.” - -Even the marvellous voice of Forrest—celebrated as it was for power, -tenderness, and manly sincerity—was prevailingly too dark or too -crashing. He articulated a certain range of thoughts and intoned a -certain range of feelings with superb correctness and force. Still, his -voice wanted a clarity and a bolted solidity corresponding with its -sombreness and its smashing violence. That is to say, while it -wonderfully expressed the ordinary contents of understanding and -passion, it relatively failed in delivering the contents of -intellectualized imagination and sentiment. His voice was astonishing in -volume of power, tearing fury of articulation, long-drawn cadences of -solemnity and affectional sweetness, but it was deficient in light -graceful play, brilliancy, concentrated and echoing sonority. For the -absolute perfection often claimed in its behalf its crashing gutturality -needed supplementing with that Italian quality of transparent, round, -elastic, ringing precision which delivers the words on the silent air -like crystal balls on black velvet. - -The everlasting refrain in the cry of the weak or snarling critics of -Forrest was that he overdid everything,—striding, screeching, howling, -tearing passions to tatters, disregarding the sacred bounds of -propriety. That there was an apparent modicum of justice in this charge -must be admitted. And yet when all the truth is seen the admission makes -but a very small abatement from his merit. There is a comparatively raw -elemental language of human nature, such as is seen in the sneer, the -growl, the hiss, the grinding of the teeth, muscular contortion, which -is progressively restrained, sifted out and left behind with the advance -of polished dignity and refinement. In his impersonations Forrest -unquestionably retained more of this than is tolerated by the standard -of courtly fashion. His democratic soul despised courtly fashion and -paid its homage only at the shrine of native universal manhood. But, on -the other hand, it is unquestionable that these vigorous expressions -were perfectly in accordance with truth and nature as represented in men -of such exceptional strength and intensity as he and the types of -character he best loved to portray. He gave extraordinarily vigorous -expression to an extraordinarily wide gamut of passion because he -sincerely felt it, and thus nature informed his art with it. He did not -in cold blood overstep truth for effect, but he earnestly set forth the -truth as he conceived and felt it. With the mould and furnishing given -by his physique and soul for the great rôles he essayed, efforts were -easy and moderate which pale and feeble spindlings might well find -extravagant or shocking. The fault clearly is more theirs than his. -Power, sincerity, earnestness, are always respectable except to the -envious. His total career is proof enough how profound and conscientious -and popularly effective his sincerity, earnestness, and power were. But -he must needs run the scathing gauntlet which all bold originality has -to run. It is the same in all the arts. Nine-tenths of the current -criticism is worthless and contemptible, because ignorant or corrupt. -Beethoven was ridiculed as a madman and a bungler, Rossini sneered at as -a shallow trickster, Bellini, Donizetti, and Verdi denounced as -impostors, and Wagner systematically scouted as an insufferable -charlatan. As Lewes says, “The effort to create a new form is -deprecated, and a patient hearing denied. Repeat the old forms, and the -critics denounce the want of originality. Present new forms, and the -critics, deprived of their standards, denounce the heresy. It remains -with the public to discover real genius in the artist, and it does so by -its genuine response to his work.” - -In reply to the accusation of overdoing a character by excessive force -of demonstration, Forrest might fairly have asked his critics, Overdone -for whom? For Boythorn or for Skimpole? For Coriolanus or for Launcelot -Gobbo? For Spartacus or for a dry-goods clerk? The precision with which -he conceived each of his leading characters, the patience with which he -elaborated all its elements into a consistent unity, the thoroughness -with which he assimilated it into his soul and identified himself with -it, and the unfaltering coherency and bold relief with which he enacted -it, carefully observing every condition of perspective and light and -shade and relative emphasis, placed his chief rôles among the most -complete specimens of the dramatic art in their way. And they forced -from his own generation the almost universal acknowledgment of his -solitary pre-eminence on the American stage. An anonymous writer justly -said of him in 1855, “An actor of the most positive qualities, decisive -in discrimination, pronounced in every attitude and phase, his -embodiments have sharp and stern definition. Therefore they challenge -with double force the most searching criticism, and invite while they -defy the sneers of less bold and more artificial schools. His -delineations are not mere cartoons, where the faults, like the virtues, -are elusive and shadowy. They are pictures finished with unmistakable -color, sharp expression of form, and a single, unerring meaning. Their -simplicity is such that if not grand they would be shallow commonplace: -just as it is but a step from Doric majesty to unrelieved and squat -ugliness. A modern school of actors is perplexing itself to get rid of -demonstration on the stage, to avoid scrupulously what is called ‘a -scene,’ to express passion by silent and gentlemanly bitterness, to -reduce all emotion to bloodless and suppressed propriety. Love is to be -made a morbid gnawing; anger clipped as close as hypocrisy; jealousy -corrode, but never bubble; joy be trim and well behaved; and madness -violent only at rare intervals. Not of such stuff as this are made the -Virginius, the Lear, the Metamora, and the Hamlet of Forrest. It is not -in his nature to polish passion until, like a sentence too much refined, -it loses all that is striking and natural. His anger is not conveyed off -like electricity by invisible agents. His moods are construed in his -audience by instinct, not by analysis. The moment he touches an -emotional key a major chord is struck that rings out clear and piercing -and brings back an echo equally distinct.” - -The “London Times” said of the Metamora of Forrest, “It is a most -accurate delineation of Indian character. There is the awkward bluntness -that even approaches the comic and raises a laugh when it defies; and -there is, rising from behind this, the awful sense of right that makes -the Indian respected as a wronged man. The dull deportment which -petrifies the figurative language that flows lazily from the lips, and -the hurricane of passion that rages beneath it, are the two elements of -the character, and the manner in which they are combined by Mr. Forrest -renders his Metamora a most remarkable performance.” In contrast with -the foregoing fairness of statement the following specimen of base and -insolent ridicule is a literary curiosity: - -“The _Metamora_ of Mr. Forrest is as much like a gorilla as an Indian, -and in fact more like a dignified monkey than a man. It has not the face -of a man, nor the voice nor the gait of a man. Du Chaillu’s description -of the gorilla would apply equally well to Forrest’s _Metamora_. We are -told by that celebrated traveller that upon the approach of an enemy -this ferocious baboon, standing upright on his hind legs, his eyes -dilated, his teeth gritting and grinding, gives vent to divers snorts -and grunts, and then, beating his breast fiercely with his hands till it -sounds like a muffled drum, utters a loud roar. What a singular -coincidence! The similarity need scarcely be pointed out. Substitute the -words ‘great tragedian’ for ‘ferocious baboon,’ omit the word ‘hind,’ -and you have as accurate a description of Mr. Forrest in _Metamora_ as -any reasonable man could wish. The snorting, gritting, and especially -the beating of the breast and roaring, are so familiar to us, that we -could almost imagine that the tragedian and the traveller have met.” - -One more example of the kind of “criticism” too common in the American -press will suffice: - -“Can any man or woman who has paid a dollar to see Mr. Forrest in any of -his great characters recall any evidence in real life to substantiate -his assertions that such bellowing is natural? Did anybody ever see -anybody that looked as Mr. Forrest looks when he pretends to be -representing the passions of rage, hate, remorse? If Mr. Forrest ‘holds -the mirror up to nature,’ he first carefully scrawls over the face -certain hideous etchings, with only a small portion of surface here and -there left open for reflection. His Othello is a creature to be kicked, -instead of feared or loved, if met with in actual life. Is it credible -that any one was ever actually moved or interested in witnessing one of -this actor’s tedious and absurd performances?” - -Ample reply to these brutal inquiries is afforded by the rapt silence, -the copious tears, and the all-shaking plaudits of the unprecedented -crowds, drawn for so long a series of years in every part of the country -by the magnetic impersonations which have secured him the first -illustrious place in the history of his country’s stage. But two or -three individual anecdotes possess interest enough to warrant their -preservation here. - -While he was enacting the part of Iago to the Othello of Edmund Kean in -Albany one night, a stalwart canal-boatman was seated in the pit, so -near the stage that he rested his elbow on it close to the footlights. -Iago, in the scene where he had wrought so fearfully on the jealousy of -the Moor, crossed the stage near the boatman, and, as he passed, the man -looked savagely at him and hissed through his teeth while grinding them -together, “You damned lying scoundrel, I would like to get hold of you -after this show is over and wring your infernal neck!” When they met in -the dressing-room, Kean generously said to Forrest, “Young man, if my -acting to-night had received as high a compliment as that brawny fellow -in the pit bestowed on yours I should feel very proud. You made the -mimic show real to him, and I will tell you your acting merited the -criticism.” - -Mr. Rees recalls among his interesting reminiscences an incident of -which he was a witness in New Orleans. Forrest was delivering the curse -in Lear with his wonted fierce and overwhelming vehemence. Mr. Rees -heard a strange sound proceeding from some one beside him, and, turning, -found, to his alarm, an elderly gentleman with his eyes fixed, his mouth -open, and a deathly paleness overspreading his face. Seizing him by the -shoulders and giving him a sudden jerk, he caused a reaction of the -blood. The gentleman gasped, heaved a deep sigh, and gazed around like -one awaking from a troubled sleep. The awful curse so awfully uttered, -which had taken away his breath, seemed still ringing in his ears. “One -moment more and I should have been a dead man,” he said. And, looking -towards the vacant stage, he asked, “Is that terrible old man gone?” - -Hazlitt tells the traditional story that once when Garrick was acting -Lear the crown of straw which he wore was discomposed or fell off, which -happening to any common actor would have caused a burst of laughter; but -with him not the slightest notice was taken of the accident, but the -attention of the audience remained riveted. The same thing actually -befell Forrest, and gave the most astonishing proof of his absorbed -earnestness and magnetizing power. It was in the old Broadway Theatre, -near Anthony Street. He was performing Lear, with Barry, Davidge, -Conway, Whiting, Madame Ponisi, Mrs. Abbott, and other favorites in the -cast. In the last scene of the second act, when depicting the frenzy of -the aged monarch, whose brain, maddened by injuries, was reeling on its -throne, in the excitement of the moment Forrest tore the wig of whitened -hair from his head and hurled it some twenty feet towards the -footlights. The wig thus removed, there was revealed to the audience a -head of glossy raven locks, forming a singular contrast to the hoary -beard still fastened by a white cord to the actor’s chin. Not the least -embarrassment resulted either to actor or to spectators. Amidst the vast -assembly not a titter was heard, scarce a smile discerned. Enchained, -entranced by the power of the player, two thousand breathless spectators -gazed with bedimmed eyes on the mimic scene. Nor made he any pause or -hesitation. Still did that superb voice, so rich and grand in melody and -compass, speak forth in anguish and wrath the indignant denunciation of -the outraged king and father, making every heart tremble with his tones. -One of the actors on the stage at the time, in describing the event more -than twenty years afterwards, said that as he recalled the effect -produced by Forrest in that scene on the house, and on the players about -him, it seemed something superhuman. - -In the tragedy of Cleopatra, by Marmontel, an asp had been made so -natural that it seemed alive. As it approached the queen its eyes -sparkled like fire, and it began to hiss. At the close of the scene one -asked a critic who sat by him how he liked the play. He replied, “I am -of the same opinion as the asp.” This is the case with the average sort -of critic, whose commonplace inferiority of soul seeks to revenge -itself, whose vanity or complacency seeks to exalt itself, by a -demeaning estimate of every artist of whom he writes. But, fortunately, -there are numerous instances of a nobler style, men equally just and -generous, who in all their judgments hold individual prejudices in -abeyance, and, actuated solely by public spirit and love of truth and of -art, follow the guidance not of whim or interest, but of general -principles, as exemplified in the great fixed types of character and -modified in their dialect variations. One writer of this kind has -admirably said,— - -“Every actor has some particular excellence, which stamps his style in -everything he does. This in Forrest is the ever visible manliness of -spirit, and love of equality and liberty, which place his Damon, -Spartacus, Brutus, and all characters of a like nature so far above the -reach of other actors. He is always the _true man_, casting defiance in -the face of tyranny; his hand always open to the grasp of a friend, -resolute, generous, and faithful. This spirit is something which every -true heart, be its owner rich or poor, learned or unlearned, will always -acknowledge and worship as the noblest attribute of man; and here is the -real secret of Forrest’s success. The unlettered cannot but admire him -for this feature, while to those who can appreciate artistic finish and -detail, his acting must be an inexhaustible source of pleasure. After he -has gone the stage will feel his worth. Who has not wept over the last -act of Brutus? Who has not felt his ‘seated heart knock at his ribs’ -while listening to the tragedian’s astonishing delivery in the third act -of Damon and Pythias? Who that has ever heard him exclaim in the last -act of the Gladiator, ‘There are no gods in heaven!’ can accuse him of -being coarse or vulgar? Indeed, it may be said of his acting in many -characters (as a Shaksperian commentator has said of Lear), ‘The genius -of antiquity bows before it, and moderns gaze upon it with awe.’” - -The strong proclivity of professional artists to jealousy is as -proverbial as the tendency of the critic to attack and belittle. Forrest -suffered much from both. His imperious independence, not less than his -great success, provoked it, and he was maligned, spattered, and -backbitten sufficiently from the stage as well as from the office. If in -this respect he was an exception, it was merely in degree. The mortified -and envious actors of Drury Lane discussing Kean in the greenroom, one -of them sneeringly remarked, “They say he is a good harlequin.” “Yes,” -retorted honest Jack Bannister, “an extraordinary one; for he has leaped -over all your heads.” But the other side of this view was also true, and -Forrest numbered his most enthusiastic admirers in the dramatic -profession itself in all its ranks. They paid him many tributes from -first to last, on which he justly set the highest value. For when the -player is intelligent and candid, his special experience makes him the -most competent critic of a player. The extent to which the peculiar -style of Forrest took effect in producing imitators, conscious and -unconscious,—who often, it is true, unhappily, copied his least -praiseworthy points,—was a vast and unquestionable testimonial to his -original power. And in here leaving the subject of criticism, it is -enough, passing over the recorded praises of his genius by many leading -American actors, to set down the deliberate estimate of James E. -Murdock, himself a player of uncommon merit, as well as a man of refined -scholarly culture. Some one had made a degrading allusion to Forrest, -when Murdock replied, “Never had I been able to find a fitting -illustration of the massive and powerful acting of Forrest until, on a -visit to Rome some years ago, I stood before the mighty works of Michael -Angelo,—his Last Judgment, his gigantic Moses. Call it exaggerated if -you will. But there it is, beautiful in symmetry, impressive in -proportions, sublime in majesty. Such was Edwin Forrest when -representing the chosen characters of Shakspeare.” The illustration was -as exact as the spirit that prompted it was generous. It indicates -precisely the central attribute of the subject. For the powerful and -reposeful port, the elemental poise and swing of the colossal figures of -Angelo, reveal just what the histrionic pose and bearing of Forrest -revealed, namely, the preponderance in him of the universal over the -individual, the working of the forces of nature rather than the -straining of his will. This is what makes a personality memorable, for -it is contagious on others, and so invisibly descends the ages. - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - PERSONAL AND DOMESTIC LIFE.—FONTHILL CASTLE.—JEALOUSY.—DIVORCE.— - LAWSUITS.—TRAGEDIES OF LOVE IN HUMAN LIFE AND IN THE DRAMATIC ART. - - -Forrest was now in his forty-fourth year, as magnificent a specimen of -manhood perhaps as there was on the continent. His strength, vitality, -fulness of functional power, and confronting fearlessness of soul before -the course of nature and the faces of men, were so complete as to give -him a chronic sense of complacency and luxury in the mere feeling of -existence endowed with so much ability to do whatever he wished to do. - -Despite a few annoying drawbacks his cup of outward prosperity too was -full. It is true his fancy had been somewhat disenchanted and his temper -embittered by experiences of meanness, ingratitude, and worthlessness, -the envy and rancor of rivals, the shallowness and malignity of the -multitude, and especially by a lasting soreness created in his heart -from his late English trip and its unhappy sequel. It is also true that -this evil influence had been negatively increased by the loss of the -wise and benign restraint and inspiration given him during their lives -by the devoted friendship of Leggett and the guardian love of his -mother. Still, he had an earnest, democratic sympathy with the masses of -men and a deep pride in their admiration. His popularity was unbounded. -His rank in his art was acknowledged on the part of his professional -brethren by his election as the first President of the Dramatic Fund -Association, a society to whose exchequer he contributed the proceeds of -an annual benefit for many years. He had fought his way with strenuous -vigor through many hardships of orphanage, poverty, defective education, -and a fearful furnace of temptations. And his reputation in every -respect was without stain or shadow. This was certified by all sorts of -public testimonials, the offers of political office and honor, the -studied eulogies of the most cultivated and eloquent civilians, the -smiling favors of the loveliest women in the land, the shouts of the -crowd, and the golden filling of his coffers. His large earnings were -invested with rare sagacity, his sound financial judgment and skill -always enabling him to reap a good harvest wherever he tilled his -fortune. He was at this time already worth two or three hundred thousand -dollars. And this, in an age of Mammon, is a pledge to society of high -deserts and a hostage for good behavior. - -But above all he was signally blessed in his married life, the point in -a character like his by far the most central and vital of all. The first -ten years of his state of wedlock had indeed been happy beyond the -ordinary portion of mortals. It was a well-mated match, he a noble -statue of strength, she a melting picture of beauty, mutually proud and -fond of each other, his native honesty and imperious will met by her -polished refinement and conciliatory sweetness. Beyond all doubt he -deeply and passionately loved her. And well he might, for his nature was -one greatly endowed in all points for impassioned love, and she was in -person, disposition, and accomplishments equally adapted to awaken it. -“She was perfection,” said one, in allusion to her bridal landing in -America; “the most beautiful vision I ever saw.” After the death of -Forrest she herself said, “The first ten years of our married life were -a season of contentment and happiness, scarcely ruffled by so much as a -summer flaw; then bickering began, followed by deeper misunderstanding, -and the fatal result drew on, which I have always deplored.” Yet even in -these halcyon years, too short and too few, there was one thing wanting -to finished household felicity. This one want was children, the eternal -charm of the passing ages of humanity. Of the four pathetic creatures -born to them, but one lived, and that only for a few months. Abandoning -the hope of heirs to his name and fortune, and foreseeing that his -estate was destined to be a large one, Forrest, with the long -anticipation characteristic of a reflective mind, bethought him what -disposal he had best make of his acquisitions when he should be forced -to relinquish them in death. He settled upon a purpose combining -elements of romance, beneficence, and imposing permanence, which showed -him possessed of qualities above the vulgar average of men. - -He bought an extensive tract of land on the banks of the Hudson, about -sixteen miles from New York, on a site commanding one of the most -enchanting prospects in the world. Here he proposed to erect a building -to be called Fonthill Castle, somewhat after the fashion of the old -ruined structures on the banks of the Rhine, whose beauty should gratify -his taste, whose conveniences should secure his household comfort, whose -historic and poetic suggestiveness should please his countrymen passing -up and down the river, and whose final object should be an enduring -memorial of his love for his profession and of his compassion for its -less fortunate members. The building of a house is an epoch of great -interest in the lives of many men. This was especially so in the life of -Forrest. In a chiselled orifice of the corner-stone of Fonthill Castle -he placed specimens of the American coinage, a copy of Shakspeare, and -the following paper,—marred only by its betrayal of that prejudice -against foreigners which was so unworthy of his own nature and of his -nationality: - - “In building this house, I am impelled by no vain desire to occupy a - grand mansion for the gratification of self-love; but my object is - to build a desirable, spacious, and comfortable abode for myself and - my wife, to serve us during our natural lives, and at our death to - endow the building with a sufficient yearly income, so that a - certain number of decayed or superannuated actors and actresses of - American birth (_all foreigners to be strictly excluded_) may - inhabit the mansion and enjoy the grounds thereunto belonging, so - long as they live; and at the death of any one of the actors or - actresses inhabiting the premises, his or her place to be supplied - by another from the theatrical profession, who, from age or - infirmity, may be found unable to obtain a livelihood upon the - stage. The rules and regulations by which this institution is to be - governed will, at some future day, be framed by - - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -To this charity he meant to devote his whole property forever. As the -estate grew in value an American Dramatic School was to be added to it, -lectures delivered, practical training imparted, and native histrionic -authors encouraged. It was estimated that in fifty years the rich acres -surrounding the Castle would be a part of New York, and that the rise of -value would make the bequest at last one of the noblest known in any -age. - -Fonthill Castle was built of gray silicious granite of extraordinary -hardness and fine grain, hammer-dressed and pointed with gray cement. -The building consists of six octagon towers clumped together, the -battlements of some notched with embrasures, the others capped with -corniced coping. The highest tower rises about seventy feet from the -base, the centre tower, the main tower, the library tower, the drawing- -room tower, and the dining-room tower being of proportioned heights. The -basement contains the kitchen, cellar, and store-rooms. On the next -floor are the parlor, banquet-hall, study, boudoir, and library. The -centre tower comprises a hall or rotunda, and above this a picture- -gallery lighted from the dome. The upper rooms are divided into chambers -for guests and apartments for servants. The staircase tower has a spiral -staircase of granite inserted in a solid brick column, rising from the -basement to the top of the tower, with landings on each floor leading to -the chief apartments. The architectural design was understood to be -chiefly the work of Mrs. Forrest, with modifications by him. It combined -the Norman and Gothic styles, softened in detail so as to embrace some -of the luxuries of modern improvements. For instance, the drawing-room -and banqueting-room are lighted with deep, square, bay-windows, while -those of the upper chambers and of the boudoir are of the Gothic order. -In other portions of the edifice are to be seen the rounded windows of -the Norman period, with their solid stone mullions dividing the -compartments again into pointed Gothic. Loop-holes and buttresses give -the structure the military air of a fortified castle. There are two -entrances, one on the water side, one on the land side. From the summit -of the staircase tower one sees up the river as far as Sing Sing and -down to Staten Island. On the opposite shore frowns the wall of the -Palisades. On the north lie Yonkers, Hastings, Nyack, the lovely inlet -of Tappan Zee, and the cottages of Piermont, glistening like white -shells on the distant beach. - -During the progress of the building Forrest had improvised a rude -residence on the grounds, which he constantly visited, growing ever more -deeply attached to the place and to his enterprise. In this romantic -spot, one Fourth of July, he gathered his neighbors and friends, to the -number of some two or three hundreds, and held a celebration,—reading -the Declaration of Independence and delivering an oration, followed by -the distributing of refreshments under waving flags and amidst booming -guns. It was a brilliant and joyous affair,—a sort of initial, and, as -it proved, farewell, dedication of the scene with commingled friendly -and patriotic associations. For in its opening stages of suspicion and -distress the domestic tragedy had already begun which was destined to -make the enchantments of Fonthill so painful to him that he would -withdraw from it forever, sell it to a Catholic sisterhood for a -conventual school, and take up his final abode in the city of his birth. - -In the spring of 1848 Forrest was fulfilling a professional engagement -in Cincinnati, and his wife was with him. One day, on entering his room -at the hotel unexpectedly, he saw Mrs. Forrest standing between the -knees of George W. Jamieson, an actor of low moral character, whose -hands were upon her person. Jamieson at once left the room. Forrest was -greatly excited, but the protestations of his wife soothed his angry -suspicion, and he overlooked the affair as a mere matter of -indiscreetness of manners. Still, the incident was not wholly forgotten. -And some months later, after their return home, certain trifling -circumstances came under his observation which again made him feel -uneasy. On opening a drawer in which his wife kept her papers, he found, -addressed to her, the following letter, worn and rumpled, and in the -handwriting of this Jamieson: - -“And now, sweetest Consuelo, our brief dream is over; and such a dream! -Have we not known real bliss? Have we not realized what poets love to -set up as an ideal state, giving full license to their imagination, -scarcely believing in its reality? Have we not experienced the truth -that ecstasy is not a fiction? I have; and, as I will not permit myself -to doubt you, am certain you have. And oh! what an additional delight to -think,—no, to know, that I have made some hours happy to you! Yes, and -that remembrance of me may lighten the heavy time of many an hour to -come. Yes, our little dream of great account is over; reality stares us -in the face. Let us peruse its features. Look with me and read as I do, -and you will find our dream is ‘not all a dream.’ Can reality take from -us, when she separates and exiles us from each other,—can she divide our -souls, our spirits? Can slander’s tongue or rumor’s trumpet summon us to -a parley with ourselves, where, to doubt each other, we should hold a -council? _No! no!_ a doubt of thee can no more find harbor in my brain -than the opened rose shall cease to be the hum-bird’s harbor. And as my -heart and soul are in your possession, examine them, and you will find -no text from which to discourse a doubt of _me_. But you have told me -(and oh! what music did your words create upon my grateful ear) that you -would _not doubt me_. With these considerations, dearest, our -separation, though painful, will not be unendurable; and if a sombre -hour should intrude itself upon you, banish it by knowing there is one -who is whispering to himself, Consuelo. - -“There is another potent reason why you should be happy,—that is, having -been the means of another’s happiness; for I _am_ happy, and, with you -to remember and the blissful anticipation of seeing you again, shall -remain so. I wish I could tell you my happiness. I cannot. No words have -been yet invented that could convey an idea of the depth of that -passion, composed of pride, admiration, awe, gratitude, veneration, and -love, without being earthy, that I feel for you. - -“Be happy, dearest; write to me and tell me you are happy. Think of the -time when we shall meet again; believe that I shall do my utmost to be -worthy of your love; and now God bless you a thousand times, my own, my -heart’s altar. - -“I would say more, but must stow away my shreds and tinsel patches. Ugh! -how hideous they look after thinking of you! - - “Adieu! adieu! and when thou’rt gone, - My joy shall be made up alone - Of calling back, with fancy’s charm, - Those halcyon hours when in my arm - Clasped Consuelo. - - “Adieu! adieu! be thine each joy - That earth can yield without alloy, - Shall be the earnest constant prayer - Of him who in his heart shall wear - But Consuelo. - - “Adieu! adieu! when next we meet, - Will not all sadness then retreat, - And yield the conquered time to bliss, - And seal the triumph with a kiss? - Say, Consuelo.” - -On reading this missive, as might well be supposed, Forrest was struck -to the heart with surprise, grief, and rage. To one of his ample -experience of the world it seemed to leave no doubt of an utter lapse -from the marriage-vow on the part of its recipient. He was heard rapidly -pacing the floor of his library until long after midnight, when his wife -arrived from a party and a violent scene of accusation and denial -occurred. He wrote an oath, couched in the most stringent and solemn -terms, which she signed, swearing that she was innocent of any criminal -infringement of her marital obligations. He was quieted, but not -satisfied. On questioning the servants as to the scenes and course of -conduct in his house during his absences, and employing such other -methods of inquiry as did not involve publicity, he learned a variety of -facts which confirmed his fear and resulted in a fixed belief that his -wife had been unfaithful to him. Many a jealous husband has entertained -a similar belief on insufficient and on erroneous grounds. He, too, may -have done so. All that justice requires to be affirmed here is the -assertion that he was himself firmly convinced, whether on adequate or -inadequate evidence, that he had been grossly wronged, and he acted on -that conviction in good faith. The pretence that he had tired of his -marriage, longed to be free, and devised false charges in order to -compass his purpose, is a pure slander, without truth or reason. And as -to the theory of the distinguished counsel against him, namely, that he -found himself by the building of Fonthill Castle involved in a financial -ruin that would disgrace him and change its name to Forrest’s Folly, and -so, as the easiest way out, he deliberately “determined to have a -quarrel with his wife for some private cause not to be explained, and -then to assign the breaking up of his family as the reason for -relinquishing his rural residence,”—it is not only the flimsiest of -fancies, but a perfect absurdity in face of the facts, and an infamous -outrage on the helpless memory of the dead. Could a woman of the mind, -spirit, position, and with the friends of Mrs. Forrest be expected -meekly to submit to such a fiendish sacrifice? How does such a thought -seem in the light of the first letters of the parties in the -controversy? The supposition, too, is inconceivably contradictory to the -character of Forrest, who, however rough, violent, or furious he may -sometimes have been, was not a man of cruel injustice or selfish -malignity, was never a sneaking liar and hypocrite. Furthermore, no -financial difficulty existed; since the fortune of Forrest at that time -was about three hundred thousand dollars, and his direct earnings from -his professional labor some thirty thousand a year. Fonthiil cost him -all told less than a hundred thousand, and on separating from his wife, -in addition to carrying the load of Fonthiil for six years longer, the -residence which he purchased and occupied in Philadelphia was worth -nearly as much more, and, besides paying out over two hundred thousand -dollars in his divorce lawsuits, his wealth was steadily swelling all -the time. - -After the intense personal hostility and indomitable professional zeal -and persistency with which Charles O’Conor pushed the cause of his fair -client, in eight years securing five repetitions of judgment, heaping up -the expenses for the defendant, as he says, “with the peculiar effect of -compound interest,” he should not have penned so unfounded and terrible -an accusation. The man who could sacrifice the honor and happiness of -his wife with the motive and in the manner O’Conor attributes to Forrest -must be the most loathsome of scoundrels. But in the very paper in which -the great illustrious lawyer presents this theory he says, “Mr. Forrest -possessed great talents, and, unless his conduct in that controversy be -made a subject of censure, he has no blemish on his name.” The innocence -of Mrs. Forrest is publicly accredited, and is not here impugned. But -history abundantly shows that her husband’s affirmation of her guilt -does not prove him to have been a wilful monster. His suspicion was -naturally aroused, and, though it may have been mistaken, naturally -culminated, under the circumstances accompanying its course, in an -assured conviction of its justice. - -In his proud, sensitive, and tenacious mind, recoiling with all its -fibres from the fancied wrong and shame, the poison of the Consuelo -letter worked like a deadly drug, burning and mining all within. By day -or by night he could not forget it. The full experience of jealousy, as -so many poor wretches in every age have felt it, gnawed and tore him. He -who had so often enacted the passion now had to suffer it in its dire -reality. For more than a year he kept his dark secret in silence, not -saying a word even to his dearest friends, secluding himself much of the -time, brooding morbidly over his pent-up misery. Now he learned to probe -in their deepest significance the words of his great Master,— - - “But oh, what damned minutes tells he o’er - Who dotes yet doubts, suspects yet strongly loves!” - -The evidence of the love he had for his wife and of the agony his -jealousy caused him is abundant. His letters to her are tender and -effusive. Such extracts as these are a specimen of them: “I am quite -tired of this wandering, and every hour I wish myself again with you. -God bless you, my dearest Kate, and believe me wholly yours.” “This is a -warm, bright, beautiful day, and I am sitting at an open window in the -Eutaw House; and while I write there is above me a clear, blue, -cloudless sky,—just such a day as I yearn to have with you at Fonthill.” -“I saw Mr. Mackay to-day. He spoke of you in terms of unmitigated -praise, and said you were every way worthy of my most devoted affection. -Of course he made conquest of my whole heart. I do love to hear you -praised, and value it most highly when, as in the present instance, it -is the spontaneous offering of the candid and the good.” “Your two -letters have been received, and I thank you, my dearest Kate, for your -kind attentions in writing to me so often. Indeed, your messages are -always welcome.” “I seem quite lonely without you, and even in this -short absence have often wished you were here. But the three weeks -_will_ pass away, and then we shall see each other again.” Many -witnesses in the trial testified to the happy domestic life of the -couple, their devoted attentions and confiding tenderness up to the time -of their dissension. And that the change which then occurred was as -secretly painful as it was publicly marked is beyond doubt. He appeared -no longer on the stage, but shunned society, even shrank from his -friends, wore a gloomy and absorbed air, and brooded in solitude. The -following verses—as unjust as they are severe, for jealousy is always -more or less insane, a morbid fixture displacing the freedom of the -mind—reflecting his feelings were found after his death, in his -handwriting, copied into one of his scrap-books at the date of the -divorce trial: - - Away from my heart, for thy spirit is vain - As the meanest of insects that flutter in air; - I have broken the bonds of our union in twain, - For the spots of deceit and of falsehood are there. - - The woman who still in the day-dawn of youth - Can hold out her hand to the kisses of all, - Whose tongue is polluted by guile and untruth, - Doth justify man when he breaks from her thrall. - - But think not I hate thee; my heart is too high - To prey on the spoil of so abject a foe; - I deem thee unworthy a curse or a sigh, - For pity too base, and for vengeance too low. - - Then away, unregretted, unhonored thy name, - In my moments of scorn recollected alone,— - Soon others shall wake to behold thee the same - As I have beheld thee, and thou shalt be known. - -When at last he spoke reservedly on the subject to his confidential -friend, he said he had begun life a very poor boy, had struggled hard to -reach a pinnacle, and it now seemed severe to be struck down from all -his happiness by one individual, and that one the woman whom he had -loved the most of all on earth. And when the listener to whom he spoke -replied with praises of the physical and spiritual beauty of Mrs. -Forrest, he exclaimed, “She now looks ugly to me: her face is black and -hideous.” This friend, Lawson, wrote these words at the time: “I am -persuaded that both parties are still warmly attached to one another. -He, judging by his looks, has suffered deeply, and has grown ten years -older during the last few months. She is not less affected.” - -At length a natural but unfortunate incident carried their alienation to -the point of a violent and final rupture. In indignant reply to some -cutting remarks on her sister, Mrs. Forrest inconsiderately said to her -husband, “It is a lie!” If there was one point on which he had always -been proudly scrupulous, as every friend would testify, it was that of -being a man of the uttermost straightforward veracity, whatever might -betide. The words, “It is a lie!” fell into his irascible blood like -drops of molten iron. He restrained himself, and said, “If a man had -said that to me he should die. I cannot live with a woman who says it.” -From that moment separation was inevitable and irrevocable. - -A little later they agreed to part, mutually pledging themselves not to -allow the cause to be made known. Before leaving his house she asked him -to give her a copy of the works of Shakspeare as a memento of him. He -did so, writing in it, “Mrs. Edwin Forrest, from Edwin Forrest,” a sad -alteration from the inscription uniformly made in the books he had -before presented to her, “From her lover and husband, Edwin Forrest.” -Taking her in a carriage, with a large portrait of himself at the most -glorious height of his physical life, he accompanied her to the house of -her generous friends, Parke and Fanny Godwin, whose steadfast fidelity -had caused them to offer her an asylum in this trying hour. Parting from -each other silently at that hospitable door, the gulf of pain between -them was henceforth without a bridge. Slow months passed on, various -causes of irritation still at work, when the following letter, which -explains itself, was written: - - “I am compelled to address you, by reports and rumors that reach me - from every side, and which a due respect for my own character - compels me not to disregard. You cannot forget that before we parted - you obtained from me a solemn pledge that I would say nothing of the - guilty cause; the guilt alone on your part, not on mine, which led - to our separation; you cannot forget that, at the same time, you - also pledged yourself to a like silence, a silence that I supposed - you would be glad to have preserved; but I understand from various - sources, and in ways that cannot deceive me, that you have - repeatedly disregarded that promise, and are constantly assigning - false reasons for our separation, and making statements in regard to - it intended and calculated to exonerate yourself and to throw the - whole blame on me, and necessarily to alienate from me the respect - and attachment of the friends I have left to me. Is this a fitting - return for the kindness I have ever shown you? Is this your - gratitude to one who, though aware of your guilt and most deeply - wronged, has endeavored to shield you from the scorn and contempt of - the world? The evidence of your guilt, you know, is in my - possession; I took that evidence from among your papers, and I have - your own acknowledgment by whom it was written, and that the - infamous letter was addressed to you. You know, as well as I do, - that the cause of my leaving you was the conviction of your - infidelity. I have said enough to make the object of this letter - apparent; I am content that the past shall remain in silence, but I - do not intend, nor will I permit, that either you, or any one - connected with you, shall ascribe our separation to my misconduct. - - “I desire you, therefore, to let me know at once, whether you have - by your own assertions, or by sanctioning those of others, - endeavored to throw the blame of our miserable position on me. My - future conduct will depend on your reply. - - “Once yours, - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -To this the writer received immediate response: - - “I hasten to answer the letter Mr. Stevens has just left with me, - with the utmost alacrity, as it affords me, at least, the melancholy - satisfaction of correcting misstatements, and of assuring you that - the various rumors and reports which have reached you are false. - - “You say that you have been told that I am ‘constantly assigning - false reasons for our separation, and making statements in regard to - it intended and calculated to exonerate myself and throw the whole - blame on you;’ this I beg most distinctly to state is utterly - untrue. - - “I have, when asked the cause of our sad differences, invariably - replied that was a matter only known to ourselves, and which would - never be explained, and I neither acknowledge the right of the - world, nor our most intimate friends, to question our conduct in - this affair. - - “You say, ‘I desire you, therefore, to let me know at once, whether - you have by your own assertions, or by sanctioning those of others, - endeavored to throw the blame of our miserable position on me.’ I - most solemnly assert that I have never done so, directly or - indirectly, nor has any one connected with me ever made such - assertions with my knowledge, nor have I ever permitted any one to - speak of you in my presence with censure or disrespect. I am glad - you have enabled me to reply directly to yourself concerning this, - as it must be evident to you that we are both in a position to be - misrepresented to each other; but I cannot help adding that the tone - of your letter wounds me deeply: a few months ago you would not have - written thus. But in this neither do I blame you, but those who have - for their own motives poisoned your mind against me; this is surely - an unnecessary addition to my sufferings, but while I suffer I feel - the strong conviction that some day, perhaps one so distant that it - may no longer be possible for us to meet on this earth, your own - naturally noble and just mind will do me justice, and that you will - believe in the affection which, for twelve years, has never swerved - from you. I cannot, nor would I, subscribe myself other than, - - “Yours now and ever, - “CATHARINE N. FORREST.” - -The above letter was succeeded five days later by another: - - “In replying to the letter I received from you on Monday last, I - confined myself to an answer to the questions you therein ask me; - for inasmuch as you said you were content that the past should - remain in silence, and as I was myself unwilling to revive any - subject of dispute between us, I passed over the harsh and new - accusations contained in your letter; but on reading and weighing it - carefully, as I have done since, I fear that my silence would be - construed into an implied assent to those accusations. After your - repeated assurances to me prior to our separation, and to others - since then, of your conviction that there had been nothing criminal - on my part, I am pained that you should have been persuaded to use - such language to me. You know as well as I do that there has been - nothing in my conduct to justify those gross and unexpected charges, - and I cannot think why you should now seem to consider a foolish and - anonymous letter as an evidence of guilt, never before having - thought so, unless you have ulterior views, and seek to found some - grounds on this for divorce. If this be your object, it could be - more easily, not to say more generously, obtained. I repeatedly told - you that if a divorce would make you happy, I was willing to go out - of this State with you to obtain it, and that at any future time my - promise to this effect would hold good. You said such was not your - wish, and that we needed no court of law to decide our future - position for us. From the time you proposed our separation, I used - no remonstrance, save to implore you to weigh the matter seriously, - and be sure, before you decided, that such a step would make you - happy; you said it would, and to conduce as much as lay in my power - to that happiness, was my only aim and employment until the day you - took me from my home. Of my own desolate and prospectless future I - scarcely dared to think or speak to you, but once you said that if - any one dared to cast an imputation on me, not consistent with - honor, I should call on you to defend me. That you should, - therefore, now write and speak as you do, I can only impute to your - yielding to the suggestions of those who, under the garb of - friendship, are daring to interfere between us; but it is not in - their power to know whether your happiness will be insured by - endeavoring to work my utter ruin. I cannot believe it, and implore - you, Edwin, for God’s sake, to trust to your own better judgment; - and, as I am certain that your heart will tell you I could not seek - to injure you, so likewise I am sure your future will not be - brighter if you succeed in crushing me more completely, in casting - disgrace upon one who has known no higher pride than the right of - calling herself your wife. - - “CATHARINE N. FORREST.” - -To this Forrest replied thus: - - “I answer your letter dated the 29th and received by me on the 31st - ult., solely to prevent my silence being misunderstood. Mr. Godwin - has told me that the tardy reply to the most material part of mine - of the 24th was sent by his advice. I should indeed think from its - whole tone and character that it was written under instructions. I - do not desire to use harsh epithets or severe language to you; it - can do no good. But you compel me to say that all the important - parts of yours are utterly untrue. It is utterly untrue that the - accusations I now bring against you are ‘new.’ It is utterly untrue - that since the discovery of that infamous letter, which you - callously call ‘foolish,’ I have ever, in any way, expressed my - belief of your freedom from guilt. I could not have done so, and you - know that I have not done it. But I cannot carry on a correspondence - of this kind; I have no desire to injure or to crush you; the fatal - wrong has been done to me, and I only wish to put a final - termination to a state of things which has destroyed my peace of - mind, and which is wearing out my life. - - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -The next step in the tragedy was the filing of an application for -divorce by Forrest in Philadelphia, instantly counterchecked by a -similar application on the part of Mrs. Forrest in New York. He was led -to his suit because, in his own words, “unwilling to submit to calumnies -industriously circulated by my enemies that I had unmanfully wronged an -innocent woman, the only choice open to me was either to assert my -rectitude before the tribunals of my country or endure throughout life a -weight of reproach which I trust my entire life proves undeserved.” Her -obvious motive in the counter-suit was the instinctive impulse and the -deliberate determination to protect herself from remediless disgrace and -utter social ostracism. No woman with her spirit, and with the host of -friends which she had in the most honored walk of the community, could -willingly accept the fearful penalty of letting such a case go by -default, whether she were innocent or guilty. To those who held her -innocent, as the best people did, her attitude appealed to every -chivalrous sentiment of admiration and sympathy; but to him who believed -her guilty, as her husband did, it presented every motive to aggravate -anger and resentment. The inevitable consequences resulted, and a -prolonged struggle ensued, which was a desperate fight for moral -existence. The miserable details need not be specified. As the combat -thickened, the deeper grew the passions on each side, and the more -damaging the charges and alleged disclosures. The hostile championship -likewise became intenser and wider. The trial, with the incrimination of -adultery and the recrimination of the same offence, began in December, -1851, and reached through six weeks. No trial of the kind in this -country had ever awakened so eager and extended an interest. The -evidence and arguments were minutely reproduced in the press, sold by -wholesale in every corner of the land, and devoured by unnumbered -thousands with every sort of scandalous gossip and comment. The -completed report of the trial fills two enormous volumes of more than -twelve hundred pages each. The lady gained much for her cause by her -strict propriety of language, her elegant deportment, the unequalled -ability and passionate zeal of her counsel, and the exalted character of -her large circle of influential and unfaltering friends. The man lost as -much for his cause by the partisan prejudices against him, by the -imprudences of his more reckless friends, and especially by the -repelling violence and coarseness of expression and demeanor to which in -his exasperated state he was too often tempted. Abundant examples have -already been furnished in these pages of his scholarly taste, -intellectual dignity, moral refinement and strength. Justice to the -truth requires the frank admission that there was also in him a rude and -harsh element, a streak of uncivilized bluntness or barbaric honesty of -impulse, shocking to people of conventional politeness. These people did -him injustice by chiefly seeing this cruder feature in his character, -for it was quite a subordinate part of his genuine nature. But it is -only fair to give specimens of the level to which it not unfrequently -sank him in social appearance. In his eyes observance of external -seemings was nothing in comparison with sincerity to internal realities. -After his separation, but before his divorce, meeting his wife in the -street, she said he kept her there walking up and down for over two -hours in a pouring rain, hearing and replying to him, neither of them -having an umbrella. At this same period watching one night to see who -entered or left his house, in which his wife was still residing, though -alone, a man named Raymond came out. The following intelligible dialogue -immediately took place, as sworn to in court by Raymond himself. “Why -are you sneaking away like a guilty man?” “Edwin Forrest, you have -waylaid me by night with a bludgeon. You want a pretence for attacking -me, and I shall not give it you.” “Bludgeon! I don’t want a bludgeon to -kill you. Damn you, I can choke you to death with my hands. But you are -not the man I am after now. If I catch that damned villain I’ll rip his -liver out. I’ll cut his damned throat at the door. You may go this time, -damn you. But I have marked you, all of you, and I’ll have vengeance.” -This style of speech, as laughable as it is repulsive, and which really -marked not at all the extent but merely the limitation of his culture, -greatly injured him, alloying alike his worth, his peace, and his -success. In one instance alone, however, did his violence of temper -carry him beyond discourteous and furious speech to illegal action. -Meeting in Central Park Mr. N. P. Willis, whom he regarded as one of the -chief fomenters of his domestic trouble, he inflicted severe personal -chastisement on him. The sufferer prosecuted his assailant, and secured -a verdict with damages of one dollar. Forrest brought a suit against -Willis for libel, and gained a verdict with five hundred dollars -damages. - -In the divorce case a somewhat unexpected judgment was decreed against -Forrest, acquitting his wife and condemning him to pay costs and three -thousand dollars a year for alimony. He appealed, and was defeated, with -an added thousand dollars a year alimony. Five times he appealed, -carrying his case from court to court, and every time was baffled and -thrown. And it actually was not until 1868, after eighteen years of -unrelenting litigation,—years filled with irritation, acrimony, and -every species of annoyance, settling in many instances into a lodged -hatred,—that he finally abandoned further resistance and paid over the -full award. Sixty-four thousand dollars came to Mrs. Forrest, of which -sum the various expenses swallowed fifty-nine thousand, leaving the -pittance of five thousand,—an edifying example of the beauty of legal -controversies. - -The writer is unwilling in any way to enter between the now long and -forever separated disputants or to go behind the rendering of the court. -The defendant is dead, and only requires for justice’s sake the -assertion that he believed himself to have been wronged, and that he -acted on that belief with the unforgivingness belonging to him. The -plaintiff has suffered fearfully enough for any imprudence or error, was -believed by her intimate and most honored friends to be innocent, was -vindicated by a jury after a most searching trial, and is now living in -modest and blameless retirement. She has a right to the benefit of her -acquittal, and shall be left unassailed to that unseen Tribunal which -alone is as just and merciful as it is infallible. - -The verdict of the jury was hailed with acclamations by one party, with -amazement and derision by the other. Rumors and charges of perjury, -fraud, and corruption were rife, and many a character suffered badly, -while the end left the contestants pretty much where the beginning found -them, with the exception of the bad passion, costs, and anguish that lay -between. They had been hoisted into a public pillory in the face of the -whole country, subjected to all kinds of odious remarks, the very -sanctities of their being defiled and profaned by the miscellaneous -gawking and commenting of the prurient crowd. Besides all this long -strain on his feelings and huge drain on his purse, Forrest had the -angry grief of seeing large numbers of his most cherished friends fall -away from him to the side of his antagonist, never to be spoken to -again. And then he had the mortification of defeat amidst the cheers and -jeers of his foes, who combined to honor the victorious lawyer to whom -at every step he owed his repulses with a brilliant banquet and a -service of plate, including a massive silver pitcher bearing the -inscription, “From God the conquering champion cometh!” He was just the -kind of man to feel these things most keenly. No wonder the unsuccessful -warfare and its shameful close stung his pride, envenomed his -resentment, darkened his life, and left on him rather a permanent wound -than a scar. But, sure of the rightfulness of his cause, his self- -respect and his faith in ultimate justice for the iniquity he felt had -been done him enabled him to bear up with defiant fortitude. And he was -far from being unsustained without, numerous as were the familiar -associates who deserted him. Whenever he appeared in public the same -enthusiastic multitudes as of old greeted him with an even wilder -admiration. Many a voice and pen were lifted to defend and applaud him, -while many attacked him. The tributes in the newspapers more than -equalled the denunciations. Two examples in verse will show the estimate -of him and his cause formed by close acquaintances: - - - TO EDWIN FORREST. - - Thou noble and unflinching one, - Who stoodst the test so firm and true; - Doubt not, though clouds may hide the sun, - The eye of truth shall pierce them through. - - Heed not the sneer and heartless mirth - Of those whose black hearts cannot know - The sterling honesty and worth - Of him at whom they aim the blow. - - Thy peace is wrecked—thy heart is riven— - By her so late thy joy and pride, - And thou a homeless wanderer driven - Upon the world’s tumultuous tide. - - Yet doubt not, for amid the throng - There’s many a heart beats warm and high - For him who cannot brook a wrong, - Whose noble soul disdains a lie. - - Then hail, Columbia’s gifted son, - Pride of our glorious Drama, hail! - Thou deeply wronged and injured one, - Let not thy hope or courage fail. - - Though perjury seek thy name to blight, - And venomed tongues with envy rail, - The truth, in all its lustre bright, - ’Gainst heartless fops shall yet prevail. - - M. C. - - TO EDWIN FORREST. - - May I, in this gay masquerade of thought, - When crowds will seek thee, - With gay devices curiously wrought, - And love-words greet thee, - Bestow the offering of an earnest soul, - Though it be vain - As to Niagara’s eternal roll - The drops of summer rain! - - A thought of thee dwells ever in my heart - And haunts my brain, - And tears unbidden to mine eyelids start - Whene’er I hear thy name. - Yet ’tis no love-thought,—no impassioned dream - Of wild unrest - Quickening my pulses when with earnest beam - Thine eyes upon me rest. - - But something deeper, holier far than this,— - A mournful thought - Of all the sorrow and the loneliness - With which thy life is fraught,— - Of thy great, noble heart, so rudely torn - From the deep trust of years,— - Of the proud laurels which thy brow has worn, - Dim with the rust of tears; - - Of wrongs and treachery in the princely home - Thy genius earned; - Thy hearth made desolate, thy pathway lone, - Thy heart’s deep worship spurned; - Thy manly prayer for justice coldly met - With mocking jeers, - The seal of exile on thy forehead set - For all thy coming years. - - Most deeply injured! yet unshaken still - Amid the storm, - Thy soul leans calmly on its own high will - And waits the coming morn. - And all pure hearts are with thee, and beat high - To know at last - The world will scan thee with unbiassed eye, - Revoking all the past. - - CELIA. - -A fortnight after the close of the trial, Forrest began a new engagement -at the Broadway Theatre. - -One of the leading journals of the day said, “The return of Mr. Forrest -to the stage, from which he has been so long self-exiled, will form the -most interesting feature in the dramatic season. There have been many, -though we have not been of the number, who have thought he would never -reappear on the boards after the unwarrantable treatment he received at -the hands of the maliciously and ignorantly prejudiced. Mr. Forrest, -however, has justly relied upon the spirit of fair play which -characterizes the American people. Let all men be fairly judged before -they are condemned, and especially those who, like him, have long and -manfully withstood such a ‘downright violence and storm of fortune’ as -would have overwhelmed most men, and whose careers have added to the -lustre of their country’s history. We believe that he will never have -cause to say, like Wolsey,— - - ‘I shall fall - Like a bright exhalation in the evening, - And no man see me more!’ - -but that he who has so long - - ‘Trod the ways of glory, - And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, - Will find a way, out of his wreck, to rise in.’ - -“All men have their faults, and envy makes those of the great as -prominent as possible. - - ‘Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues - We write in water.’ - -“Much to their ignominy, the assailants of Forrest have never given him -credit for those high-minded and disinterested acts of generosity which -those who know him best can never recall without admiration, and which, -when his history is written, will leave little comfort to his maligners, -professional or otherwise. We wish for him a delighted welcome back to -the stage, and a complete deliverance from the toils in which his -enemies have sought to destroy him.” - -The house was packed to its extremest capacity, and hundreds clamored in -the streets. An inscription was hung across the parquet, “This is the -people’s verdict!” As he entered on his ever favorite roll of Damon, the -audience rose en masse, and greeted him with waving hats, handkerchiefs, -and scarfs, and long, deafening plaudits, which shook the building from -dome to foundation. In matchless solidity of port he stood before the -frenzied tempest of humanity, and bowed his acknowledgments slowly, as -when Zeus nods and all Olympus shakes. A shower of bouquets entwined -with small American flags fell at his feet. He addressed the assembly -thus, constantly interrupted with cheers: - -“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,—After the unparalleled verdict which you have -rendered me here to-night, you will not doubt that I consider this the -proudest moment of my life. And yet it is a moment not unmingled with -sadness. Instinctively I ask myself the question, Why is this vast -assemblage here to-night, composed as it is of the intelligent, the -high-minded, the right-minded, and last, though not least, the beautiful -of the Empire City? Is it because a favorite actor appears in a favorite -character? No, the actor and the performances are as familiar to you as -household words. Why, then, this unusual ferment? It is because you have -come to express your irrepressible sympathy for one whom you know to be -a deeply-injured man. Nay, more, you are here with a higher and a holier -purpose,—to vindicate the principle of even-handed justice. I do not -propose to examine the proceedings of the late unhappy trial; those -proceedings are now before you, and before the world, and you can judge -as rightly of them as I can. I have no desire to instruct you in the -verdict you shall render. The issue of that trial will yet be before the -court, and I shall patiently await the judgment of that court, be it -what it may. In the mean while I submit my cause to you; my cause, did I -say?—no, not ‘my’ cause alone, but yours, the cause of every man in this -community, the cause of every human being, the cause of every honest -wife, the cause of every virtuous woman, the cause of every one who -cherishes a home and the pure spirit which should abide there. Ladies -and gentlemen, I submit my cause to a tribunal uncorrupt and -incorruptible; I submit it to the sober second-thought of the people. A -little while since, and I thought my pathway of life was filled with -thorns; you have this night strewed it with roses (looking at the -bouquets at his feet). Their perfume is gratifying to the senses, and I -am grateful for your beautiful and fragrant offering.” - -The success of the entire engagement was unprecedentedly brilliant. -Called before the curtain at the close of the final performance, he -said,— - -“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,—This is the sixty-ninth night of an engagement -which, take it all in all, has, I believe, no parallel in the history of -the stage. It is without parallel in its duration, it is without -parallel in the amount of its labors, and it is without parallel in its -success. For sixty-nine almost successive nights, in despite of a season -more inclement than any I ever remember, the tide of popular favor has -flowed, like the Pontic Sea, without feeling a retiring ebb. For sixty- -nine nights I have been called, by your acclamations, to the spot where -I now stand to receive the generous plaudits of your hands, and I may -say hands with hearts in them. No popular assembly, in my opinion, -utters the public voice with more freedom and with more truth than the -assembly usually convened within the walls of a theatre. If this be so, -I have reason to be greatly proud of the demonstration which for twelve -successive weeks has greeted me here. Such a demonstration any man ought -to be proud of. Such a demonstration eloquently vindicates the thought -of the great poet: - - ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity, - Which, like the toad, though ugly and venomous, - Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.’ - -Such a demonstration speaks more eloquently to the heart than any words. -Such a demonstration contains in it an unmistakable moral. Such a -demonstration vindicates me more than a thousand verdicts, for it -springs from those who make and unmake judges.” - -But despite the flattering applause of the multitude, added to the -support of his own conscience, and notwithstanding his abounding health -and strength and enhancing riches, from the date of his separation and -desire for divorce the dominant tone of the life of Forrest was changed. -His demeanor had a more forbidding aspect, his disposition a sterner -tinge, his faith in human nature less genial expansion, his joy in -existence less spontaneous exuberance. The circle of his friends was -greatly contracted, a certain irritable soreness was fixed in his -sensibility, he shrank more strongly than ever from miscellaneous -society, and seemed to be more asserting or protecting himself cloaked -in an appearance of reserve and gloom. In fact, the excitement and -suffering he had gone through in connection with his domestic -unhappiness gave his whole nature a fearful wrench, and deposited some -permanent settlings of acridity and suspicion. The world of human life -never again wore to him the smiling aspect it had so often worn before. -His sense of justice had been wounded, his heart cut, his confidence -thrown back, and his rebelling will was constrained to resist and to -defy. - -And why all this strife and pain? Why all this bitter unyielding -opposition and writhing agony under what was and is and will be? -Wherefore not quietly accept the inevitable with magnanimous gentleness -and wisdom, and, without anger or fuss or regret, conform his conduct to -the best conditions for serenity of soul and wholesomeness of heart, in -contentment with self and charity for all? Why not rather have -suppressed wrath, avoided dispute, foregone retaliation, parted in peace -if part they must, and, each uncomplained of and uninterfered with by -the other, passed freely on in the strangely-checkered pathways of the -world, to test the good of life and the mystery of death and the -everlasting divineness of Providence? How much more auspicious such a -course would have been than to be so convulsed with tormenting passions -and strike to and fro in furious contention! Yes, why did they not -either forgive and forget and renew their loving covenant, or else -silently divide in kindness and liberty without one hostile deed or -thought? Thus they would have consulted their truest dignity and -interest. But, alas! in these infinitely delicate, inflammable, and -explosive affairs of sentiment, dignity and interest are usually -trampled contemptuously under foot by passion. - -Every one acts and reacts in accordance with his style and grade of -character, his degrees of loyalty or enslavement to the different -standards of action prevailing around him. A man held fast in a certain -low or mediocre stage of spiritual evolution will naturally conduct -himself in any trying emergency in a very different manner from one who -has reached a transcendent height of emancipation, spontaneity, and -nobleness. And there were two clear reasons why Forrest, in this most -critical passage of his life, did not behave purely in the best and -grandest way, but with a mixture of the vulgar method and the better -one. First, he had not attained that degree of self-detachment which -would make it possible for him to act under exciting circumstances -calmly in the light of universal principles. He could not disentangle -the prejudiced fibres of his consciousness from the personality long and -closely associated with his own so as to treat her with impartiality and -wisdom, regarding her as an independent personality rather than as a -merged part of his own. He must still continue related to her by -personal passion of some kind, when one passion died an opposite one -springing up in its place. And, secondly, he could not in this matter -free himself, although in many other matters he did remarkably free -himself, from the tyranny of what is called public opinion. He had in -this instance an extreme sensitiveness as to what would be thought of -him and said of him in case his conduct openly deviated much from the -average social usage. Thus his personal passions, mixed up in his -imagination with every reference to the woman he had adored but now -abominated, incapacitated him from acting consistently throughout with -disinterested delicacy and forbearance, though these qualities were not -wanting in the earlier stages of the difficulty before he had become so -far inflamed and committed. - -Speculation is often easy and practice hard. One may lightly hold as a -theory that which when brought home in private experience gives a -terrible shock and is repelled with horror and loathing. Both Forrest -and his wife had reflected much on what is now attracting so much -attention under the title of the Social question. They both entertained -bold, enlightened views on the subject, as clearly appears from a -remarkable letter written from Chicago, in 1848, by Mrs. Forrest in -reply to one from James Lawson. A comprehensive extract, followed by a -few suggestions on the general lessons of the subject, particularly as -connected with the dramatic art, shall close this unwelcome yet -indispensable chapter of the biography. - -“It is impossible, my dear friend, that the wonderful change which has -taken place in men’s minds within the last ten years can have escaped -the notice of so acute an observer as you are; and if you have read the -works which the great men of Europe have given us within that time, you -have found they all tend to illustrate the great principle of progress, -and to show at the same time that for man to attain the high position -for which he is by nature fitted, woman must keep pace with him. Man -cannot be free if woman be a slave. You say, ‘The rights of woman, -whether as maid or wife, and all those notions, I utterly abhor.’ I do -not quite understand what you here mean by the rights of woman. You -cannot mean that she has none. The poorest and most abject thing of -earth has some rights. But if you mean the right to outrage the laws of -nature, by running out of her own sphere and seeking to place herself in -a position for which she is unfitted, then I perfectly agree with you. -At the same time, woman has as high a mission to perform in this world -as man has; and he never can hold his place in the ranks of progression -and improvement who seeks to degrade woman to a mere domestic animal. -Nature intended her for his companion, and him for hers; and without the -respect which places her socially and intellectually on the same -platform, his love for her personally is an insult. - -“Again, you say, ‘A man loves her as much for her very dependence on him -as for her beauty or loveliness.’ (Intellect snugly put out of the -question.) This remark from you astonished me so much that I submitted -the question at once to Forrest, who instantly agreed with me that for -once our good friend was decidedly wrong. (Pardon the heresy, I only say -for once.) What! do you value the love of a woman who only clings to you -because she cannot do without your support? Why, this is what in nursery -days we used to call ‘cupboard love,’ and value accordingly. Depend upon -it, as a general rule, there would be fewer family jars if each were -pecuniarily independent of the other. With regard to mutual confidence, -I perfectly agree with you that it should exist; but for this there must -be mutual sympathy; the relative position of man and wife must be that -of companions,—not mastery on one side and dependence on the other. -Again, you say, ‘A wife, if she blame her husband for seeking after new -fancies, should examine her own heart, and see if she find not in some -measure justification for him.’ Truly, my dear friend, I think so too -(when we do agree, our unanimity is wonderful); and if after that self- -examination she finds the fault is hers, she should amend it; but if she -finds on reflection that her whole course has been one of devotion and -affection for him, she must even let matters take their course, and rest -assured, if he be a man of appreciative mind, his affection for her will -return. This is rather a degrading position; but a true woman has pride -in self-sacrifice. In any case, I do not think a woman should blame a -man for indulging in fancies. I think we discussed this once before, and -that I then said, as I do now, that he is to blame when these fancies -are degrading, or for an unworthy object; the last words I mean not to -apply morally, but intellectually. A sensible woman, who loves her -husband in the true spirit of love, without selfishness, desires to see -him happy, and rejoices in his elevation. She would grieve that he -should give the world cause to talk, or in any way risk the loss of that -respect due to both himself and her; but she would infinitely rather -that he should indulge ‘new fancies’ (I quote you) than lead an unhappy -life of self-denial and unrest, feeling each day the weight of his -chains become more irksome, making him in fact a living lie. This is -what society demands of us. In our present state we cannot openly brave -its laws; but it is a despotism which cannot exist forever; and in the -mean time those whose minds soar above common prejudice can, if such be -united, do much to make their present state endurable. It is a fearful -thing to think of the numbers who, after a brief acquaintance, during -which they can form no estimate of each other’s characters, swear -solemnly to love each other while they ‘on this earth do dwell.’ Men and -women boldly make this vow, as though they could by the magic of these -few words enchain forever every feeling and passion of their nature. It -is absurd. No man can do so; and society, as though it had made a -compact with the devil to make man commit more sins than his nature -would otherwise prompt, says, ‘Now you are fairly in the trap, seek to -get out, and we cast you off forever,—you and your helpless children.’ -Man never was made to endure even such a yoke as unwise governments have -sought to lay on him; how much more galling, then, must be that which -seeks to bind the noblest feelings and affections of his nature, and -makes him— - - ‘So, with one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe, - The dreariest and the longest journey go.’ - -“That there is any necessity to insure, by any means, a woman’s -happiness, is a proposition you do not seem to have entertained while -writing your letter of May 24th; but perhaps we are supposed to be happy -under all circumstances.” - -There is for man and woman on this earth one supreme happiness, one -contenting fulfilment of destiny, whether there are more or not. It is a -pure, calm, holy, and impassioned love, joining them in one life, -filling both soul and body with a peaceful and rapturous harmony, -glorifying the scenery of nature by its reflection, making the current -of daily experience a stream of prophetic bliss, revealing to them -authentic glimpses of God in each other, and opening eternity to their -faith with mystic suggestions of worlds bygone and worlds to come, lives -already led and forgotten and lives yet to be welcomed. This is the one -absolute blessing, without whose appeasing and sufficing seal the human -creature pines for he knows not what, and dies unsatisfied, no matter -how much else is granted him. Any one to whom this divine fortune falls, -and whose conscience, instead of wearing it proudly as a crown of glory -in the sight of God, shrinks with it guiltily before the sight of men, -is a contemptible coward, unworthy of the boon, and sure to forfeit it. -As the most original thinker, the boldest diver into the mysteries of -our nature, America has produced, expresses it,— - - “The sense of the world is short, - Long and various the report, - To love and be beloved. - Men and gods have not outlearned it, - And how oft soe’er they’ve turned it, - ’Tis not to be improved.” - -Thousands, enslaved by the conventional, distracted by the external, -absorbed in the trivial, may be ignorant of the incomparable importance -of the truth here expressed, care nothing about it, and give themselves -up to selfish ambitions and contemptible materialities. This must be so, -since the blind cannot see; and even the seeing eye sees in an object -only what it brings the means of seeing; and the marvellous heights and -depths of experience are fatally locked from the inexperienced. -Nevertheless, the truth above affirmed survives its overlooking by the -unworthy, and every man and woman gifted with profound insight and -sensibility knows it and feels it beyond everything else. The great -multitudes of society also have at least dim glimpses of it, strange -presentiments of it, blind intuitions awakening a strong and incessant -curiosity in that direction. This is the secret cause of the universal -interest felt in the subject of love and in every instance of its -transcendent experience or exemplification. One of the most central -functions of art—whether written romance, painting, sculpture, music, or -the drama—is directly or indirectly to celebrate this truth by giving it -concentrated and relieved expression, and thus inciting the -contemplators to aspire after their own highest bliss. To those whose -emotions are rich and quick enough to interpret them, what are the -finest songs of the composers but sighings for the fulfilment of -affection, or raptures in its fruition, or wailings over its loss? With -what unrivalled power Rubens, in his fearful pictures of love and war, -has uncovered to the competent spectator the horrible tragedy all -through history of the intimate association of lust and murder, -libidinous passion and death! And pre-eminently the stage, in all its -forms,—tragic, comic, and operatic,—has ever found, and always will -find, its most fascinating employment and crowning mission in the open -display—published to those who have the keys to read it, veiled from all -who have not—of the varied bewitchments, evasions, agonies, and -ecstasies of the passion of love between the sexes. That is the most -effective actor or actress whose gamut of emotional being and -experience, real and ideal, is greatest, and whose training gives -completest command of the apparatus of expression, making the organism a -living series of revelations, setting before the audience in visible -play, in the most precise and intense manner, the working of love, in -all its kinds and degrees, through the language of its occult signals. -The competent actor shows to the competent gazer the exact rank and -quality of the love actuating him by the adjustment of his behavior to -it,—every look and tone, every changing rate and quality in the rhythm -of his motions, every part of his body which leads or dominates in his -bearing, whether head, shoulder, chest, elbow, hand, abdomen, hip, knee, -or foot, having its determinate significance. Thus people are taught to -discern grades of character through styles of manners, inspired to -admire the noble and loathe the base at the same time that they are -deepened in their own desires for the divine prizes of beauty and joy. - -The most wholesome and triumphant art of the stage has always taught in -its personifying revelation that the highest blessedness of human life -is the perfect attunement of the natures of man and woman in a perfect -love around which nature thrills and over which God smiles. No diviner -lesson ever has been or ever will be taught on this earth. All other -fruitions here are but preliminaries to this, all sacrifices penances -for its failure, all diseases and crimes the fruit of its violation. - -In contrast with this glorious proper fulfilment of affection, wherever -we look on the history of our race we find six great chronic tragedies -which dramatic art has portrayed perhaps even more fully than it has the -positive triumph itself. - -First, is the tragedy of the indifferent heart which neither receives -nor gives nor possesses love. Thin and sour natures, frivolous, dry, -cynical, or hard and arrogant,—the enchanted charms and mysteries of -nature and humanity have no existence for them. They sit aloof and -sneer, or plot and struggle and get money and win office, or eat and -drink and joke and sleep and perish,—the amazing horrors and the -entrancing delights of experience equally sealed books to them. They may -attain incidental trifles, but, with their poor, shrivelled, loveless -hearts, not attaining that for which man most was made, to the sorrowing -gaze of nobler natures their earthly lot is a tragedy. - -Secondly, is the pathetic tragedy of being loved without the power to -return it. Coquetry, which has strewn its way everywhere with ravaged -and trampled prizes, reverses this, and without sympathy or principle -seeks to elicit and attract affection merely to pamper vanity and -gratify an obscene love of power; and this too is a tragedy, but one of -a fiendish import. The other is a sad and painful experience, yet with -something of an angelic touch in it. It seems to hint at a great -dislocation somewhere in the past of our race, causing this plaintive -discord of conjoined but jarring souls, whose incongruous rhythms can -never blend though in juxtaposition, like an ill-matched span whose -paces will not coincide but still hobble and interfere. To be the -recipient of a great absorbing love which one is absolutely unable to -reciprocate is to any one of generous sympathies a keen sorrow. -Sometimes too it is a sharp and wearing annoyance. And yet it is not -infrequent, both out of wedlock and in it. There are limits alike of -adaptation and of misadaptation to awaken love; and we can never have -any more love than we awaken or give any more than is awakened in us. -There are fatalities in these relations wholly beyond the reach of the -will. When two persons are married whose characters, culture, and -fitnesses place them on such different levels that they can meet only by -a laborious ascent on one side or a distasteful descent on the other, -where the ideal life of one is constantly hurt and baffled and flung in -on itself from every attempt at genial fellowship, any high degree of -love is hopeless. The conjunction is a yoke, not a partnership. Respect, -gratitude, pity, service, almost every quality except love, may be -earned. But love comes, if it come at all, spontaneously, in answer to -the native signals which evoke it. In vain do we strive to love one not -suited to us nor fitted for us; and a sensitive spirit forced to receive -the affectionate manifestations of such a one is often sorely tried when -seemingly bound to appear blessed. - -The same considerations apply with double weight and poignancy to the -third and larger class of tragedies of affection, namely, those who love -where they are not acceptable and cannot win a return. Piteous indeed is -the lot, touching the sight, of one humbly offering his worship, -patiently continuing every tender care and service at a shrine which, -despite every effort to change or disguise its insuperable repugnance, -must still feel repugnant. And then, furthermore, there is the anguish -of the homage welcomed at first and toyed with, but soon betrayed and -cast away. The pangs of jilted love are proverbial, and the experience -is one of the commonest as it is one of the cruellest in the world. -Broken hearts, blasted lives, early deaths, terrible struggles of -injured pride and sacred sentiment to conceal themselves and hold -bravely up, caused by failures to secure the hand of the one devotedly -beloved but idly entreated, are much more numerous than is imagined by -the superficial humdrum world. They are in reality so numerous that if -they were all known everybody not familiar with the poetic side and -shyer recesses of human nature would be astonished. This forms a heavy -item in the big statistics of human woe. - -The examples contained under the head of the fourth tragedy are the -experiences of those who are full of rich affections but find no -congenial person on whom to bestow them or from whom to obtain a return. -Accordingly, their real passions find only ideal vents in fervent -longings and dreams, in music, prayer, and faith, or embodiment in -industry and beneficence. Their unfulfilled affection thus either -fortifies their being with the culture and good works it prompts, or -opens an imaginative world into which they exhale away in romantic -desires. A noble woman whose rare wealth and effusiveness of soul had -not been happily bestowed, once said, with a sigh, to Thackeray, when -they had been conversing of the extremes in the character of the great -Swift, “I would gladly have suffered his brutality to have had his -tenderness.” The remark pierces us with a keen and wide pain expanding -to brood in pity over the vast tragedy of humanity pining unsatisfied in -every age. Yes, exhalations of sinless and ardent desire, yearnings of -beautiful and baffled passion, are wasted in the air, sufficient, if -they were legitimately appropriated, to make the whole world a heaven. -Ah, let us trust that they are not wasted after all, but that they enter -into the air to make it warmer and sweeter for the breathing of the -happier generations to come, when the earth shall be purely peopled with -children begotten by pairs all whose rhythms correspond, and who love -the individuality of self in one another not less because they love the -universality of God in one another more. - -The fifth tragedy in the history of human affection consists of the -instances of those who have been blessed with an adequate love rounded -and fulfilled on both sides, but who have ceased to possess it longer, -except in its results. They have in some cases outgrown and wearied of -their objects, in others been outgrown and wearied of, in others still -been parted by death. These examples likewise are tragic each in its -way, but less melancholy on the whole than the others. These have had -fruition, have, once at least, lived. The memory is divine. If they are -worthy, it enriches and sanctifies their characters, and, in its -treasures of influence, remains to be transferred from its exclusive -concentration on one and freely poured forth on humanity, nature, and -God. It then prepares its possessor for that immortal future of which it -is itself an upholding prophecy. And so every deep and tender nature -must feel with the poet that it is better to have loved and lost than -never to have loved at all. - -But the sixth tragedy of love is the most lacerating and merciless of -the whole, and that is the tragedy of jealousy. This dire passion played -the most ravaging part in the domestic life of Forrest, and his -enactment of it in the rôle of Othello held the highest rank in his -professional career. It has also exercised a most extensive and awful -sway in the entire history of the human race up to this moment. The -relative place and function of the dramatic and lyric stage cannot be -appreciated without a full appreciation of this hydra passion, the -green-eyed monster that makes the meat it feeds on. - -Even of its victims few clearly understand the ingredients and essence -of jealousy. In the catalogue of the passions it is the impurest, the -insanest, and the most murderous. Every composition whose elements blend -in harmony is pure. Earth is pure and honey is pure, but a mixture of -earth and honey is impure. So in moral subjects. Loyalty is pure, being -consonantly composed of reverence and obedience; conscious disloyalty is -impure, being inconsonantly composed of a perception of rightful -authority and rebellious resistance to it. Now, no other passion is -composed of such an intense and incongruous combination of intense -opposites as jealousy. In it love and hate, esteem and scorn, trust and -suspicion, hope and fear, joy and pain, swiftly alternate or -discordantly mix and conflict. It is these meeting shocks of -contradictory polarities repulsing or penetrating one another in the -soul, rending and exploding in every direction in the consciousness of -its victim, that make jealousy the maddest and most slaughterous because -it is the most violently impure passion known to man. In every one of -its forms, when strong enough, it is a begetter of murders, has been -ever since the devil first peered on Adam and Eve embracing in Paradise, -and will be until it is abolished by slowly-advancing disinterestedness. -It is an appalling fact that the murders of wives by jealous husbands -are tenfold greater in number than any other single class of murders. -When we add to these the husbands murdered by their wives, and the -despatched paramours on both sides, the wild and deadly raging of -jealousy may be recognized in something of its frightful fury. - -The cause of the greater prevalence of murder between the married is not -far to seek. It is the weariness of an over-close and continual -intimacy, with the wearing and goading irritations it engenders. It is -the tyrannical assertion of the possession of one by the other as -something owned and to be governed. This provokes the rebellious and -revengeful instincts of a personality aching to be free; and the -aggravated and ruminating desire is finally so nourished and stung as to -burst into frenzied performance. And those ill-starred couples one of -whose members violently destroys the life of the other are insignificant -in number when compared with those who are slowly and stealthily -murdered without the explicit consciousness of either party, by the -gnawing shock and fret of discordant nerves, the steady grinding out of -the very springs and sockets of the faculties by repressive contempt and -hate and fear. A proud, sensitive woman may go into the presence of her -husband an angel, and leave it a fiend, her _amour-propre_ having been -wounded in its sacredest part and filled with irrepressible resentment. -Persons of genius, of absorbing devotion to an aim, are either more -unhappy in wedlock or else more exquisitely blessed and blessing than -others. They live largely in an ideal realm, on a ticklish level of -self-respect, a height of consciousness vital to them. Socrates, Cicero, -Dante, Milton, Chateaubriand, Byron, Bulwer, Kean, Talma, Thackeray, -Dickens, are examples. A collision jars the statue off its pedestal. A -tone of contempt or a look of indifference cuts like a dagger, tears the -spiritual tissues of selfhood,—and the invisible blood of the soul -follows, draining faith, love, life itself, away. The one vast secret of -pleasing and living happily with high sensitive natures is sympathetic -and deferential attention. Where this is not given, and there is sorrow -and chafing, an intercourse which is ever a slow moral murder, and often -inflamed into a swift physical murder, that liberty of divorce should be -granted for which the chaste and noble Milton so long ago made his plea. -Society should cease to say, Whom man has joined together let not God -put asunder! - -Having seen what the constituent elements of jealousy are, it now -remains to probe its essence. What is jealousy in its substance and -action? It is the appropriation of one person by another as a piece of -property, and a spontaneous resentment and resistance to any assertion -of its personality on its own part. The jealous man virtually says, “She -belongs to me and not to herself. If she dares to alienate herself from -me or give anything to anybody besides me, I will kill her.” The jealous -woman says, “He is mine, and if he leaves me or smiles on another I will -stab him and poison her.” This is the fell passion in its fiercest -extreme of selfishness. - -Viewed in another light it is less dreadful, though just as narrow and -selfish. The lover has assimilated the beloved as a portion of his own -being. His life seems bound up in her and dependent on her. Her -withdrawal is a loss so impoverishing to his imagination that it -threatens death. He feels that the dissolution of their unity will tear -him asunder. Then jealousy is his instinct of self-preservation, rising -in grief, pain and anger to repel or revenge an attack on the dearest -part of his life. Still, in this form as in the previous it implies the -subdual and suppression of one personality by another, and is the sure -signal of a crude character and an imperfect development. The rich, -generous nature, detached from himself, full of free affection, living -directly on objects according to their worth, ready to react on every -action according to its intrinsic claim, is not jealous. Liberty and -magnanimity at home and abroad are the marks of the fully-ripened man. -He knows his own personal sovereignty and abundant resources as a child -of God and an heir of the universe, and frankly allows the equal -personal sovereignty of each of his fellow-creatures. He claims and -grants no imposition of will or slavish subserviency, but seeks only -spontaneous companionship in affection. Mechanical conformity and -hypocrisy can be compelled. Love, veiled in its divinity, comes and goes -as it lists, and is everywhere the most authentic envoy of the Creator. -Jealousy is mental slavery, spiritual poverty, the ravenous cry of -affectional starvation, the blind, fallacious, desperate, murderous -struggle of a frightened and famishing selfhood. - -The conduct dictated by such a passion must be of the worst kind. It -begins with a mean espionage and ends with a maniacal violence. Its -relentless cruelty compels its objects to have recourse to the most -unprincipled methods to avert its suspicion and avoid its wrath, sinking -self-respect and honorable frankness in hypocrisy and fraud. Why is the -word or even the oath of any man or woman in regard to a question of -chastity or fidelity to the marriage vow almost universally considered -perfectly worthless? It is because the penalties of dereliction on the -part of woman are so intolerable, so much worse than death, that to -secure escape from them the social conscience justifies means which the -social code condemns. Accordingly, we see the highest personages, the -greatest dignitaries and popular favorites, go into court and openly -perjure themselves, while society cries bravo! The woman is so fearfully -imperilled that for her rescue the fashionable standard of honor -sustains deliberate perjury, the debauching of religious conscience on -the very shrine of public authority. - -This wicked social exculpation of the male and immolation of the female -is a lingering accompaniment of the historic evolution of man, the -survival in human civilization of the selfish instincts which in the -lower ranks of the animal kingdom cause the stronger to drive away the -weaker and monopolize the weakest. Among the most potent and fearless -beasts the male, seeing any other male sportively inclined, is seized -with a frenzy to kill him and appropriate the object. Animal man has the -same instinct, and it has smeared the entire course of history with -broad trails of blood and victimized womanhood by the double weapons of -force and fear. The spectacle of the harem of one man with a thousand -imprisoned women guarded by eunuchs tells the whole story. But surely -when human beings, no longer remaining mere instinctive animals, become -free personalities, lords of thought and sentiment, each with a separate -individual responsibility distinctly conscious and immortal, they should -govern themselves by spontaneous choice from within and not be coerced -by an artificial terror applied from without. - -The method in history of giving the strongest males possession of the -females is no doubt the mode in which nature selects and exalts her -breeds. But as society refines it will be seen that the strength of -brute instinct, the strength of position, the strength of money, the -strength of every artificial advantage, should be put aside in favor of -the diviner strength of genius, goodness, beauty, moral and physical -completeness of harmony. Freedom would secure this as compulsion -prevents it. Man is destined to outgrow the destructive monopolizing -passion of jealousy native to his animality. This is shown by his -capacity for chivalry, which is a self-abnegating identification of his -personality with the personalities of others, not merely freeing them -from his will, but aiding them to secure their own happiness in their -own way. - -The effort to suppress free choice by the use of terror has been tried -terribly enough and long enough. It has always proved an utter failure, -viewed on any large scale. Has the awful penalty affixed to any -deviation from the prescribed legal method of sexual relations wholly -prevented such deviation? It has often led to concealment and -duplicity,—two lives carried on at once, a life of demure conformity in -public, a life of passionate fulfilment in secret. The well-understood -sacrifice of truth to appearance has ever served to inflame the mistrust -and swell the vengeance of the jealous. The only real remedy will be -found in perfect truth, frankness, and justice. In regard to the -personal autonomy of the affections, woman should be raised to the same -status and be tried by the same code as man. That code should not be as -now the legacy of the brutish and despotic past, but the achievement of -a scientific morality, those laws of universal order which express the -will of the Creator, the collective harmony of Nature. Since the unions -of the sexes are of all grades and qualities, all degrees of impurity -and beastliness or of purity and sacredness, the parties to them cannot -be justly judged by a single rigid rule of external technicality, and -ought not to be sealed with one unvarying approval of respectable or -branded with one monotonous stigma of illicit. They should be judged by -the varying facts in the case as they are in the sight of God; and when -those facts are not known in their true merits there is no competency or -right to judge the man or the woman at all. The present judgments of -society unquestionably ought in many cases to be reversed. For example, -it is to be said that the women who consort with men they loathe, and -against their will breed children infected with ferocious passions and -diseased tendencies, no matter how regularly they are married or how -proud their social position, should be condemned or rescued. Also it is -to be said that persons filled with a true and divine love, whether -sanctioned or unsanctioned by conventional usages, claim to be left to -the inherent moral reactions of their acts, and to the unprejudiced -judgments of the competent. This central truth, compromise whom it may, -and encompassed with delicacies and with difficulties as it may be, is -to be firmly maintained, although Pecksniff and Grundy shriek at it -until the whole continent quivers. - -The distinction of love and freedom from lust and license is obvious, -and the unleashing of the latter in the disguise of the former cannot be -too vehemently deprecated. But that a man or a woman may cherish in the -wedded state an impure and detestable passion, or outside of it know a -heavenly one, is a truth which can be denied only by a character of -odious vulgarity. The rank and worth of a love are to be estimated by -its moral and religious quality in the sight of God and its natural -influence on character. To estimate it otherwise, as is usually done, is -to violate morality and religion with conventionality, and in place of -nature, sincerity and truth install arbitrary artifice, hypocrisy and -falsehood. The grand desiderata in all relationships of affection are, -first, the observance of open truth and honor, second, the recognition -of their varying grades of intrinsic nobleness and charm or intrinsic -foulness and criminality, and the treatment of the parties to them -accordingly. Meanwhile, the frank and clear discussion of the subject is -imperatively needed. The double system hitherto in vogue of at once -enforcing ignorance and stimulating prurience by banishing the subject -from confessed attention and study into the two regions of -shamefacedness and obscenity has wrought immeasurable evil. For the -sexual passion, morbidly excited by nearly all the influences of -society, and then mercilessly repressed by public opinion, has a morbid -development which breaks out in those monstrous forms of vice which are -the open sores of civilization. Take away the inflaming lures of mystery -and denial—shed the clear, cold light of scientific knowledge on the -facts of the case and the principles properly regulative of conduct—and -the passion will gradually become moderate and wholesome. Science has -brought region after region of human life under the light and guidance -of its benign methods. The region of the personal affections in society -and the procreation of posterity, being most obstinately held by -passions and prejudices, longest resists the application of impartial, -fearless study to the usages imposed by traditional authority. The -consistent doing of this will be one of the greatest steps ever taken. -It will break the historic superstition that the conjunction of a pair -married in seeming by a priest is necessarily holier than that of a pair -married in reality by God, destroy the stupid prejudice which makes in -the affectional relations of the sexes only the one discrimination that -they are in or out of wedlock, and remove the cruel social ban which -renders it impossible for straightforward sincerity of affection and -honesty of speech to escape the dishonor which double-facedness of -passion and duplicity of word and deed so easily shoulder aside. And -when this is done, much will have been done to inaugurate the better era -for which the expectation of mankind waits. - -The principal reason why the married so frequently experience satiety -and weariness, and the consequent sting of a foreign hunger provocative -of the wandering which gives occasion for jealousy, is that in their -long and close familiarity the partners come to feel that they have seen -all through and all around each other, have exhausted each other of all -fresh charm, piquancy, and interest. The genuine remedy for this, the -only really adequate and enduring remedy, is the recognition in each -other of the infinite mystery of all conscious being, a free personality -on endless probation and destined for immortal adventures. Then each -will be to the other—what every human being intrinsically is—a -concentrated epitome of the Kosmos and an explicit revelation of God. -There is no revelation of the free conscious God except in the free -conscious creature, and in every such being there is one. Let a pair be -worthy to see and feel this truth, and there can be no exhaustion of -their mutual interest, because before their reverential observation -there can be no end to the surprises of the infinite in the finite. Then -the sweetness, the wonder, the varying lure of love will never wither -and die into indifference, nor roil and perturb into jealousy and -madness. - -No doubt to many these views will seem a transcendental romance, a -delusive dream. Not every one has the nature finely touched to fine -issues capable of living in the ether of these ideal heights. But there -_are_ on the earth holy and entranced souls who live there. It is -obvious enough how absurdly inapplicable all this class of -considerations must be to the basest kinds of persons, those who, like -brutes, wallow in styes of sensuality, or, like devils, surrender -themselves to the tyranny of the lowest passions. Such must needs be -relegated to an inferior standard. Those whose consciences are coarser -and lower than the code of society may most properly be held in -subjection by its laws. But those whose consciences are purer and higher -than the current social code, the nobler natures who sincerely aspire to -the fulfilment of their destiny as children of God, should be a law unto -themselves. They will not be tyrants over or spies upon one another. -Full of self-respect and mutual respect, owning the indefeasible -sovereignty of each personality in the offices of its individual being, -they will pass and repass shrouded in transparent royalty, exacting no -subjection, making no inquiries. - -And now this long and central chapter in the life of Forrest, with the -essential lessons it has for others, may be ended by a brief statement -of the moral scale of degrees in the conduct of different men under the -provoking conditions of jealousy. - -One man detects the woman to whom he is legally united, but whom he -hates and loathes, in criminal relations with another. He takes an axe, -chops them in pieces, then sets the house on fire, and, cutting his own -throat, falls into the flames. In other cases his insane fury satiates -itself with a single victim, the man or the woman, as caprice dictates. -This is crazy ferocity, making its subject first a maniac, then a tiger, -then a devil. Has not humanity by its smothered approval too long kept -the diabolical horror of this style of behavior recrudescent? - -Another mournful and shocking form of this tragedy there is. And it is a -form repeated far more frequently in its essential features than ever -comes to the open light of day. A man of a sombre, vivid, and proud -nature, possessed with a passion so absorbing that it sways his being -with tidal power, awakens to the fact that the love he thought all his -own has wandered elsewhere. His heart stands still and his brain reels. -His love is too true and deep to change. To injure her is as impossible -as to restrain himself. He says not a word, makes not a sign, but his -sad, dark purpose is fixed. He leaves directions that no questions be -asked, no public notice taken of him or of his fate further than the -most modest funeral, and that a plain stone be reared over him with the -single word, _Infelicissimus_. Then a pistol-ball in his heart closes -the throbbing of an agony too great to be borne. The suicide is the -pathetic slave of his passion. Surely for such there must be a sequel in -some choicer world, where the tangled plot will be cleared up and the -soul not be thus helplessly self-entangled. - -In the third case, a husband, receiving proof of the infidelity of his -honored and trusted wife, in a furious revulsion of scorn and -detestation thrusts her into the street, proclaims her offence -everywhere, and seeks release and redress in a public court. This is one -form of the average of social feeling and conduct in such a case. It is -the common spirit of revenge cloaked in justice. It may not be thought -base, but it cannot be called noble. - -In still another example the jealous man is now enraged and now -distressed with conflicting impulses to revenge and to pardon. First he -storms and threatens, then he weeps and entreats; now, he strides up and -down, tearing his hair, crying and sobbing; and now he rushes out and -confides his misery, begging for sympathy and counsel. And whether he -condones or dismisses the offender depends on her own policy. This -course, ruled by no principle, is a mess of incoherent impulse, raw and -childish, a manner of proceeding of which, although it is so common, any -grown-up and well-conditioned man should be ashamed. - -In the next instance we see the man, on learning his misfortune in -losing the exclusive affection of her whom alone he has loved, staggered -by the blow, smitten to the heart with grief, flung upon himself in -recoiling anguish. But, to shield her from disgrace, and to avoid shame -to himself and scandal to the public, he keeps the secret sacredly; -ending, however, all marriage intimacy, their lives henceforth a mere -contiguity of ice and gloom until death. This is another expression of -the average level of men and style of social feeling, not lower, not -much higher, than might be expected. - -A greatly superior example, finer and braver, comparatively rare, -perhaps, yet with a larger list of performers than many would suppose, -is where the fault is frankly confessed and freely forgiven, just as -other faults are, or the deed justified and accepted on the ground of an -integral affection and an approving conscience willing with courageous -openness to take every consequence. There is valor, dignity, -consistency, force of character in this. It is impossible for persons of -low animal instincts or where there is treachery and lying. - -But the highest degree of chivalry under such circumstances is that -exemplified by the man who, cleansed from the foul and cruel usages of -the past, freed from the taints of the tyrannical masculine selfhood, -does what man has so rarely done, but what multitudes of women have -often done. He shows a love so pure and exalted that it subordinates his -selfhood and blends his happiness in that of the beloved object. For her -well-being he is willing to stand aside and yield up every claim. Is -such generosity beyond the limit of human nature? It may be beyond the -limit of _historic_ human nature, trailing the penalties of the past. It -is not beyond the limit of _prophetic_ human nature, carrying the -purposes of God. - -No doubt some barrier at present is necessary; and society has a right -to give the law, from insight, but not from despotism. Monogamic union -is the true relation, and its vow should not be broken by either party. -But if it _is_ broken the social penalty should be the same for man as -for woman. In such case the parties should either condone or separate -without furious controversy or personal revenge. Truth and fitness -should be set above conventionality and prejudice, and frankness remove -hypocrisy. Such alone is the teaching of this chapter, which invokes the -pure, steady light of science to shine on the facts of sex, cleanse -foulness out, and bring the code of society into unison with the code of -God. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. -PROFESSIONAL CHARACTER.—RELATIONS WITH OTHER PLAYERS.—THE FUTURE OF THE - DRAMA. - - -One of the most striking traits in the character of Forrest was a -profound respect for his profession and a scrupulous observance of the -duties it imposed. His conscientiousness in studying his parts, in being -punctual in rehearsal and at performance, in holding all considerations -of convenience or pleasure sternly subordinate to the conditions for the -best fulfilment of his rôle, were worthy of exact imitation. Before -beginning a season he went into training, carefully regulating his -habits in diet and in hours of exercise and sleep; and during an -engagement he always exerted a good deal of self-denial in the nursing -and husbanding of his powers. He strove also to improve in his -renderings not only by an earnest, direct study of the part, and by a -careful attention to critical suggestions from every quarter, but -likewise by keeping his faculties alert during his own performances to -catch every hint of inspiration from nature or accident, to seize on the -causes of each failure or success, and to utilize the experience for the -future. - -These same habits of punctuality and critical self-observation belonged -to Mrs. Siddons, and were one of the secrets of her astonishing rise, -just as they were of that of Forrest. The first time that Mrs. Siddons -played the part of Lady Macbeth, she says, “So little did I know of my -part when it came night that my shame and confusion cured me, for the -remainder of my life, of procrastinating my business.” After this first -performance of Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Siddons recalled in her dressing-room -what she had done, and practised various improvements. Trying to get the -right look and tone for the words, “Here’s the smell of the blood -still,” she did it so naturally that her maid exclaimed, “Dear me, -ma’am, how hysterical you are! I vow, ma’am, it’s not blood, but rose- -paint and water!” - -Perhaps the just sense which Forrest had of the dignity of his -profession, and likewise his sense of manly behavior, will be shown most -forcibly by an anecdote. An old schoolmate of his, who had become a -clergyman, met him one day and asked the favor of a ticket to his -performance of Lear that evening, but added that he wished his seat to -be in a private box where he could see without being seen. “No, sir,” -was the reply with which the player rebuked the preacher; “when I look -at my audience I should feel ashamed to see there one who is ashamed to -be seen. Permit me to say, sir, that our acquaintance ends here.” Had he -remembered the lines of Richard Perkins to the old dramatic author -Thomas Heywood, their quotation would have been apt and pungent: - - “Still when I come to plays, I love to sit, - That all may see me, in a public place, - Even in the stage’s front, and not to get - Into a nook and hoodwink there my face. - This is the difference: Some would have me deem - Them what they are not: I am what I seem!” - -In no element or domain of his life was Forrest more misunderstood and -belied than in regard to his general and particular relations with the -other members of his profession. Justice to his memory requires that the -truth be shown; and, besides, the subject has a strong interest. - -The exercise of the dramatic faculty by itself is productive of -tenderness, largeness, flexibility, and generosity of mind and heart. It -is based on a rich, free intelligence and sensibility, and serves -directly to quicken and invigorate the imagination and the sympathies. -In fact, so far as its offices are fulfilled it delivers one from the -hard, narrow limits of his own selfhood, familiarizes him with the -conception and feeling of other grades and styles of character, conduct, -and experience, through his passing assumptions of their parts and -identification with their varieties develops the whole range of his -nature, and makes him, while sensitive to differences, tolerant of them -and full of charity. The true moral genius of the drama, supremely -exemplified in Shakspeare, is the same genial gentleness and forbearing -magnanimity towards every form of humanity as is shown by the God whose -earth sustains and sky overarches and rain and sun and harvest visit and -bless alike the coward and the hero, the saint and the scoundrel. For -the moral essence of the drama consists in the recognition and -appreciation of character and manners, not in asserting the will of self -nor in assailing the wills of others. But there is a sharp contradiction -between this natural tendency of the dramatic art by itself and the -ordinary influence exerted by the professional practice of the art as a -means of gaining celebrity and a livelihood. If the former would develop -a generous emulation to see who can best reproduce in sympathetic -imagination every height and depth of human nature and life, the latter -instinctively stimulates a hostile rivalry to see who can secure the -best parts and win the most pay and praise. Thus the members of the -histrionic profession are drawn to one another in kindly sentiment by -the intrinsic qualities of their art, but thrown into a hostile relation -by those accidental conditions of their trade which make them selfish -competitors for precedence. The breadth of the intrinsic tendency of the -art is seen in the unparalleled mutual interest and kindness of actors -and actresses, as a class standing by one another in all times of -adversity with a generosity no other class exhibits; the aggravating -power of the accidental influence of the profession is exposed in the -notorious jealousy and irritability of these hunters after popularity. -Accordingly, among the votaries of the stage a great many friendships -are fostered and a great many rankling animosities are bred. - -Forrest had all his life too profound an interest in his art, too -exalted an estimate of the mission of the stage, too dignified and just -a mind, too deep and ready a sympathy, to be capable of the contempt and -dislike for his theatrical compeers and associates of which he was often -accused. He was an irascible and imperious man. He was not a suspicious, -an envious, or an unkind man. And the high spirit of affection and -munificence breathing in his beautiful bequest of all his fortune to -soothe the declining years of aged or disabled actors and to elevate -their favorite art, will awaken a late remorse for the great wrong done -his heart. - -Others have suffered the same wrongs. Mrs. Siddons was accused of -“pride, insolence, and savage insensibility to the distresses of her -theatrical associates.” She was satirized in the daily papers for her -parsimony and avaricious inhospitality. The charges were cruelly unjust. -The truth simply was that she was engrossed in labor, study, and the -fulfilment of her duties to her family, while the meaner part of the -profession and of the public wished her to give herself to their -convivialities. Lawyers are not expected to plead cases for one another -gratuitously, nor doctors to transfer a fee to a rival. Why should an -actor alone be held bound to give his time and earnings to his -associates whenever they ask? The practice of calling up and -representing together the noblest sentiments of human nature is expected -to create in them more friendship, more genial feeling, than is -cultivated in others. This is a compliment to the profession. But any -actor of high rank who protects his individuality and asks no favor -beyond justice and good will, dignifies his profession and serves the -true interests of its members. - -Forrest had too profound and assured a sense of his own place and rank -and worth to be restlessly inquisitive and sensitive as to what his -associates thought or felt about him, or to feel any mean twinge of -jealousy at any attention they could draw. He did not, as Macready and -so many other renowned players did, desire to monopolize everything to -himself when before an audience. On the contrary, nothing so much -pleased him as to see another actor or actress studious, aspiring, and -successful. Then the more applause they secured the better he liked it. -But one point there was in his conduct which gave much offence to many -and was not forgiven by them. He shrank from all familiar association -with those of his profession who were not gentlemen and ladies in their -personal self-respect and professional conduct. He had a horror for -carelessness, sloth, unpunctuality, untruthfulness, drunkenness, or -other common neglect of duty and thrift, whether arising from a slipshod -good nature or from depravity. And it is notorious that the dramatic -profession, although the freest of all professions from the darker -crimes, is much addicted to indulgence in the vices associated with -conviviality and a relaxed sternness of social conscience. The -temptations to these snares of soul and body Forrest had felt and -resisted. The opposite traits he had made a second nature. He liked men -and women who kept their word, did their duty, saved their money, and -aspired to do more excellent work and win a better position. It was -because so many of those with whom he came in contact on the stage were -not studious, prompt, careful, self-respectful, but idle, loose, -negligent, reckless, that he stood socially aloof from them, censured -them, and drew their hostility. But the more faithful and honorable body -of the profession always cherished a warm appreciation of his sterling -qualities of character and stood in the most friendly personal relations -with him. Repeatedly, in different periods of his career, in Great -Britain and in America, the whole company of a theatre, at the close of -one of his engagements, united in bestowing some gift, with an address, -in testimony of their sense of his courtesy, their admiration for his -genius, and their gratitude for his professional example. John -McCullough, who for five years played second parts to him and was his -intimate comrade on and off the stage, speaks of him thus: “He was exact -to a moment in every appointment; and the tardiness of any one delaying -a rehearsal stirred his mightiest anger. He would sternly say to the -offender, ‘You have stolen from these ladies and gentlemen ten minutes -of their time,—ten minutes that even God cannot restore.’ But to those -whom he saw attentive and industrious he was the kindest of men. No -matter how incapable they might be, he aided them to the full extent of -his power, often at rehearsal playing the most unimportant parts to -teach an actor, and encouraging him by kind words and treatment. He -never recognized the existence of weaknesses so long as they did not -interfere with business. An actor might be what he pleased in private -life until he carried the effects into moments of duty, and then he knew -no mercy. On the stage he was the best and easiest of men. It was a -pleasure to act with him. He would in every way assist those around him, -aid them in every possible fashion, and do all to strengthen their faith -in him and in themselves. Particularly was this so in the case of -subordinates; while to equals who showed the slightest carelessness or -injustice he was unrelenting.” And in this connection the following -letter written by Forrest to Thomas Barry, manager of the old Tremont -Theatre and of the later Boston Theatre, is very characteristic: - - “BALTIMORE, December 17th, 1854. - - “MY DEAR MR. BARRY,—From an expression which you used to me while I - had the pleasure to be with you last in Boston, I inferred that you - could not justify my conduct towards Mr. —— in refusing him - permission to act with me during my late engagement there. When I - briefly replied to your expression, I supposed I had answered your - objections. But, thinking over the matter since, I am not so certain - that I had convinced you of my undeniable right to pursue the course - I then adopted. So I will now more fully state my views of the - question. - - “It is an axiom that a man in a state of liberty may choose his own - associates, and if he find one to be treacherous and unworthy he may - discard him. Therefore I discard Mr. ——. Again, I never believed in - the hypocrisy which tells us to love our enemies. _My_ religion is - to love the good and to eschew the evil. Therefore I eschew Mr. ——. - Physical cowardice may be forgiven, but I never forgave a moral - coward; and therefore I forgive not Mr. ——. He who insists upon - associating, professionally or otherwise, with another known to - despise him, is a wretch unworthy of the name of man. Consequently - Mr. —— is unworthy of the name of man. But, sir, besides all this, I - have an indisputable right to choose from the company such actors as - I consider will render me the most agreeable as well as the most - efficient support. - - “In my rejection of Mr. —— I took the earliest care not to - jeopardize any of the interests of your theatre. For I advised you - in ample time of my resolution, warning you of my intentions, and - giving my reasons therefor, so that you might choose between the - services of Mr. —— and my own. For, while I claim the right in these - matters to choose for myself, I unhesitatingly concede the same - right to another. - - “And now if, after this expression of my views relative to this - thing, you still hold to the opinion that my conduct was - unjustifiable, you cannot with the slightest propriety ask me to - fulfil another engagement so long as Mr. —— remains in your company. - For I pledge you my word as a man that he shall never, under any - circumstances, act with me again. - - “Yours truly, - “EDWIN FORREST. - - “THOS. BARRY, ESQ.” - -Two incidents of a different kind will illustrate other qualities in the -character of Forrest. A boy of sixteen or seventeen had a few lines to -recite. At rehearsal his delivery was incorrect and annoying. Forrest -repeated the lines, and asked to have them read in that manner. Each -attempt failed more badly than the preceding. At last, quite irritated -and out of patience, Forrest said, “Not so, not so. Read the passage as -I do.” The boy looked up with an injured but not immodest air, and -replied, “Mr. Forrest, if I could read the lines as you do, I should not -be occupying the low position I do in this company.” Forrest felt that -his petulance had been unjust. His chin sank upon his breast as he -paused a moment in reflection. Then he said, “I am properly rebuked, and -I ask your pardon.” At the close of the rehearsal he went to the manager -and inquired, “How much do you give that boy a week?” “Eight dollars.” -“Well, during my engagement pay him sixteen, and charge the extra amount -to me.” - -At another rehearsal the company had been waiting some time for the -arrival of a subordinate player who was usually very prompt and -faithful. When the delinquent entered, Forrest broke out testily, “Well, -sir, you see how long you have detained us all.” The poor man, pale, and -struggling with emotion, answered, humbly, “I am very sorry. I came as -soon as I could. I have suffered a great misfortune. My boy died last -night.” A thrill of sympathy went through the company. Forrest stepped -forward and took the man respectfully by the hand, and said, “Excuse me, -my friend, and go back to your home at once. You ought not to be here -to-day, and we will get along in some way without you.” Then, giving him -a fifty-dollar bill, he added, “And accept this with my sincere -apology.” - -The tremendous strength of Forrest, and the downright earnestness with -which he used it on those unhappy men whose business it was to be -seized, shaken, and hurled about, gave rise to scores of apocryphal -stories concerning his violence in acting and the terrible sufferings of -his subordinates. In many of these stories, under their exaggeration, -something characteristic can be discerned. On a certain occasion when he -impersonated a Roman hero attacked by six minions of a tyrant, he -complained that the aforesaid minions were too tame; they did not come -upon him as if it were a real struggle. After his storming against their -inefficiency, the supernumeraries sulked and consulted. Their captain -said, “If you want this to be a bully fight, Mr. Forrest, you have only -to say so.” “I do,” he replied. When the scene came on, the hero was -standing in the middle of the stage. The minions entered and deployed in -rapid skirmishing. One struck energetically at his face, a second -levelled a strenuous kick at his paunch, and the remainder made ready to -rush for a decisive tussle. For one instant he stood astounded, his -chest heaving, his eyes flashing, his legs planted like columns of rock. -Then came two minutes of powerful acting, at the end of which one -supernumerary was seen sticking head foremost in the bass-drum of the -orchestra, four were having their wounds dressed in the greenroom, and -one, finding himself in the flies, rushed on the roof of the theatre -shouting “fire!” Forrest, called before the curtain, panted his thanks -to the audience, who, taking it as a legitimate part of the performance, -protested that they had never before seen him act so splendidly. The -story is questionable, yet through its grotesque dilatation undoubtedly -one lower and lesser phase of the actor and of his public may be seen. - -During the earlier years of his own pecuniary prosperity, Forrest lent -at various times sums of money ranging from one dollar to five hundred -dollars to a large number of his more improvident theatrical associates. -In very few instances were these sums repaid. In most cases the -obligation was suffered to go by default, and in many the favor of the -loans, so far from being felt as a claim for gratitude, proved a source -of uneasiness and alienation. To a man of his just, careful, -straightforward character and habits this multiplied experience of -dishonesty, often coupled with treachery and slander, was extremely -trying. It nettled him, it embittered him, it tended strongly to close -his originally over-free hand against applications to borrow, and made -him sometimes suspicious that friendly attentions were designed, as they -not unfrequently were, as means to get at his purse. The rich man is -much exposed to this experience, with its hardening and souring -influence on character, especially the rich man in a profession like the -dramatic abounding with impecunious and unthrifty members. Under these -circumstances it was certain that many unsuccessful applicants for -pecuniary favors, persons whom he refused because he thought them -unworthy, would slander him. But throughout his life his heart and hand -were generously open to the appeals of all distressed actors or -actresses on whom he believed assistance would not be thrown away. In -many an instance of destitution and suffering among his unfortunate -brethren and sisters sick, deserted, dying, did his bounty come to -relieve and console. Among his papers a score or more of letters were -found, with widely-separated dates, from well-known members of the -profession, containing requests of this sort or thanks for his prompt -responses. For example, there was one from the estimable gentleman and -veteran actor George Holland gratefully acknowledging a gift of two -hundred dollars. The kind deeds of Forrest were not blazoned, but -carefully concealed. Yet the few friends who had his inmost confidence, -who were themselves the frequent channels of his secret beneficence, -knew how free and full his charities were, especially to worthy and -unfortunate members of the dramatic profession. In the course of his -career he gave over fifty benefits for needy associates, dramatic -authors, and public charities,—from Porter, Woodhull, Devese, and Stone, -to John Howard Payne and J. W. Wallack and the Dramatic Fund -Association,—the proceeds of which were upwards of twenty-five thousand -dollars. And when, in consequence of the thickening requests for such -favors and the invidiousness of a selection, he made a rule not to play -for the benefit of any one, unless in some exceptional case, he would -still often give towards the object his price for a single performance, -two hundred dollars. Yet, such is the unreasonableness of censorious -minds, he was severely blamed for showing an avaricious and -unsympathizing spirit towards his theatrical contemporaries. The -accusation frequently appeared in print and stung him, though he could -never brook to answer it. - -Many a time on the last night of his engagement at a theatre he would -send for the treasurer and make him his almoner for the distribution of -sums varying from five to fifteen dollars to the humbler laborers, the -scene-shifters, gasman, watchman, and others whose incomes were hardly -enough to keep the wolf from their doors. During one of his engagements -at Niblo’s Garden the actors and actresses for some reason did not -receive their regular salary. Learning the fact, he refused to take his -share of the proceeds until they had been paid; and, going still -further, he advanced a sum from his own pocket to make up what was due -them. - -More interesting and important, however, than his pecuniary attitude -towards his fellow-players is his moral relation. And this in one aspect -was eminently sweet and noble. If he avoided unworthy actors with -contempt, he yielded to no one in the admiration, gratitude, and love he -cherished for the gifted and faithful, the lustre of whose genius gilded -the theatre, and the merit of whose character lifted and adorned the -profession. - -The earliest strong and distinct feeling of love, in the usual sense of -the word, ever awakened in him, he said, was by a young and fascinating -actress in the part of Juliet, whom he saw in a Philadelphia theatre -when he was in his thirteenth year. What her name was he knew not, nor -what became of her, nor could he remember who played Romeo to her; but -the emotions she awakened in him by her representation of the sweet girl -of Verona, the picture of her face and form and moving, remained as fair -and bright and delicious as ever to the end of his days. Recounting the -story to his biographer one evening in the summer of 1869 as he sat in -his library, the moonlight streaming through the trees in at the open -window and across the floor, he said, “A thousand times have I wondered -at the intensity of the impression she made on my boyish soul, and -longed to know what her after-fate was. She was a vision of enchantment, -and, shutting my eyes, I seem to see her now. Years ago I came across -the following lines, which so well corresponded to my remembrance of her -that I committed them to memory: - - “‘’Twas the embodying of a lovely thought, - A living picture exquisitely wrought - With hues we think, but never hope to see - In all their beautiful reality, - With something more than fancy can create, - So full of life, so warm, so passionate. - Young beauty, sweetly didst thou paint the deep - Intense affection woman’s heart will keep - More tenderly than life! I see thee now, - With thy white-wreathed arms, thy pensive brow, - Standing so lovely in thy sorrowing. - I’ve sometimes read, and closed the page divine, - Dreaming what that Italian girl might be, - Yet ne’er imagined look or tone more sweet than thine.’” - -An actor named James Fennell, endowed with a superb figure and a noble -elocution, and a great favorite with play-goers in the boyhood of -Forrest, made an indelible impression on him. The finished actor, -however, was an unhappy man, thriftless in his affairs, and an -inveterate drunkard. When he had become an old man his intemperance grew -so gross, and his indebtedness to his landlady was so great, that she -would keep him no longer. Driven away, he roamed about for some time in -despair. Finally, on a bitter winter’s night, amidst a pelting snow- -storm, he came back and knocked at the door. The landlady opened the -window and looked out. Fennell, a picture of woebegone wretchedness, -struck an attitude and recited the lines,— - - “Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, - Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; - His days are dwindled to the shortest span: - Oh, give relief, and heaven will bless your store;—” - -with such powerful pathos that the heart of the woman relented, and she -took him in and cared for him till, a little later, he died. The piteous -case of this actor, whose infirmity destroyed the fruits of his genius, -taught the youthful Forrest a lesson which he never forgot. - -Instead of looking to artificial stimulants to prop up forces flagging -under the strain of the irregular exertions and late hours of a player, -he learned to depend on a sufficient supply of plain, wholesome food, -carefully and slowly taken, and a scrupulous observance of full hours of -sleep. Had they followed this wise course, how many—like the brilliant -and wayward Kean, whose conduct disgraced the profession his genius -glorified, and poor Mrs. George Barrett, whose beauty of person and -motion intoxicated the beholder—would have been kept from their untimely -and unhonored graves! - -The first actor of really strong original power and commanding art under -whose influence Forrest came in his early youth was Thomas A. Cooper. -From him the boyish aspirant caught much that was valuable. He always -retained a grateful recollection of his debt, and spoke warmly of his -benefactor. In the destitute age of the veteran, Forrest was one of the -first movers in securing a benefit for him. Unable himself to act on the -occasion in New York, he got up another benefit at New Orleans, in which -he acted the chief part, and raised a handsome sum for his old -instructor. Cooper warmly acknowledged the kindness of his young friend -in a published card. On another occasion also the same spirit was shown. -One of the daughters of Cooper was to make her débût in the character of -Virginia, the performance to be for the benefit of Cooper. Forrest -agreed to give his services and play the part of Virginius. As soon as -he heard that Miss Cooper would feel more confidence if her father -played that part, Forrest consented to undertake the part of Dentatus. -One of the daily journals remarked, “This is another instance of that -generous kindness on the part of Mr. Forrest which has bought him golden -opinions from all sorts of people. The public will award him the meed -which such an act merits.” - -Another actor of consummate merit, both as artist and as man, there was -in Philadelphia, in whose public performances and personal intercourse -the boy Forrest took the keenest delight,—Joseph Jefferson, the -incomparable comedian, great-grandfather of the present Joseph Jefferson -the exquisite perfection and unrivalled popularity of whose Rip Van -Winkle have filled the English-speaking world with his fame. The elder -Jefferson was a man universally beloved for his charming qualities of -character and universally admired for his inimitable art. Forrest’s -memory of him was singularly clear and strong and sweet. Whenever -touching on this theme his tongue was full of eloquent music and his -heart seemed steeped in tender reverence and love. He said the Theatre -had produced some saints as well as the Church, and Jefferson was one of -the most benignant and faultless. For thirty-five years he was the soul -and life of the Philadelphia stage, the pre-eminent favorite of all, -delighting every one who saw him with the quiet felicities and -irresistible strokes of an art that was as nature itself. He played the -characters of fools,—Launcelot Gobbo, Dogberry, Malvolio, the fool in -Lear,—Forrest said, in a manner that made them actually sublime, -suggesting something supernatural, through their mirth and simpleness -insinuating into the audience astounding and overpowering meanings. In -his age Jefferson risked his little fortune, the modest earnings of an -industrious life, in an enterprise of his friend Warren, the theatrical -manager. It was all lost. Once more he appealed to the patrons who had -always smiled on him. The summer birds had flown, and his benefit-night -showed him an empty house. The blow actually killed him. He left the -city and went to Harrisburg, where he soon afterwards died among -strangers. Hearing of his poverty and loneliness at Harrisburg, Forrest, -who was then in his high tide of success, wrote to him that he would get -up a benefit for him at the Arch Street Theatre and play Othello for -him. But the heart-broken player replied that he would never be a -suppliant for patronage in that city again. While he lay in his room -very sick, the doctor called and found him reading Lalla Rookh. “I can -assure you of a cure,” said the physician. Jefferson replied, in a sad -but firm voice, “My children are all grown up. I am of no further use to -them; and I am weary of life. I care not to get well. I think it is -better to be elsewhere.” And so he died. Chief-Justice Gibson placed a -marble slab over his dust, with a happy inscription which some nameless -but gifted friend of the actor has appended to his own tributary verses. - - For thee, poor Player, who hast seen the day - When stern neglect has bent thee to her state, - With fond remembrance let the poet pay - One tribute to thy melancholy fate. - - Haply some aged man may yet exclaim, - “Him I remember in his youthful pride, - When sober age ran riot at his name, - And roaring laughter held his bursting side.” - - There at his home, the father, husband kind, - Oft have I noted his calm noon of life; - With humor chastened, and with wit refined, - Enjoy the social board with comforts rife. - - Him have I seen when age crept on apace, - Portraying to the life some earlier part, - The soul of mirth reflected from his face, - While bitter pangs disturbed his throbbing heart. - - One night we missed him from his ancient chair, - Placed by our host beside the blazing hearth; - Another passed, yet still he was not there, - Gone was the spirit of our former mirth! - - The future came, and with it came the tale, - How Time had cured the wounds the world had given; - How Death had wrapt him in his sable veil - And gently borne him to the gates of heaven. - - Beneath the shadow of a sacred dome - The pride and honor of our stage reclines; - There stranger hands conveyed him to his home, - And graced his memory with these sculptured lines: - - Beneath this marble - _Are deposited the ashes of_ - JOSEPH JEFFERSON, - _An actor whose unrivalled powers_ - Took in the whole extent of Comic Character, - From Pathos to heart-shaking Mirth. - His coloring was that of nature, warm, fresh, - And enriched with the finest conceptions of Genius. - He was a member of the Chestnut Street Theatre, - Philadelphia, - In its most high and palmy days, - _and the compeer_ - OF COOPER, WOOD, WARREN, FRANCIS, - _and a host of worthies_ - Who, - like himself, - _Are remembered with admiration and praise._ - -The love and reverence which Forrest cherished for this exquisite actor -and good man were in the eyes of the numerous friends who often heard -him express them in fond lingering reminiscences, a touching proof of -the goodness of his own heart despite all the scars it had suffered. - -When Forrest was playing at Louisville in his youth, during a rehearsal -of Macbeth he came to the lines,— - - “Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapped in proof, - Confronted him with self-comparisons,” - -when Drake, the manager of the theatre, who happened to be on the stage, -said to him, “Boy, who was Bellona? And who was her bridegroom?” The -stripling tragedian was forced to answer, “I do not know.” “Then,” -exclaimed Drake, “get a classical dictionary and study the thing out. -Never go on spouting words ignorant of their meaning.” “Thank you, sir, -for so good a piece of advice,” replied young Forrest, with a little -mortification in his air. “I have had that lesson before, but see that I -have failed to practise it as I ought to have done.” A long time after, -in another city, when Drake had become a venerable white-haired -gentleman, Forrest was rehearsing Othello in his presence. These lines -were spoken relating to the magic handkerchief: - - “A sibyl, that had numbered in the world - The sun to course two hundred compasses, - In her prophetic fury sewed the work; - The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk; - And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful - Conserved of maidens’ hearts.” - -A citizen who was standing by Drake asked him if he could explain these -strange words. He said he could not. Forrest immediately gave, with -great rapidity of utterance, an elegant and lucid exposition of the -classical superstitions on which the passage is based. He did it with -such grace and force that the whole company broke into applause. He -turned to Drake with a low bow and said, “My dear sir, I owe this to -you. Do you remember the lesson you taught me at Louisville, fifteen -years ago, about Bellona and her bridegroom? Allow me now to thank you.” -As he took him by the hand the tears were rolling down the cheeks both -of the old man and of the young man. - -Forrest ever remembered with gratitude the kindness shown him by Mr. -Jones, one of the managers under whom he made his first journey to the -West and served his practical apprenticeship on the stage. And when the -player had become a mature man, crowned with prosperity, living in his -great mansion on Broad Street, in Philadelphia, and the manager was -destitute and forsaken, bowed by misfortune and old age, he gave his -early benefactor a home, taking him into his own house, treating him -with kind consideration, comforting his last days, and following his -dust to the grave with affectionate respect. - -The relations of Forrest with the ladies who acted principal parts with -him were almost uniformly of the most satisfactory character, marked by -the greatest courtesy, justice, and delicacy. There were two or three -instances of strong dislike on both sides. But in all the other -examples, from his first assistants, Mrs. Riddle and Miss Placide, to -his latest protégées, Miss Kellogg and Miss Lillie, there was nothing -but the highest esteem and the most cordial good-will between the -parties, their kind sentiments towards him ever sincere, his grateful -recollections of them unalloyed. To that estimable woman and gifted -actress, Mrs. Riddle, he especially felt himself indebted. In a letter -to his biographer he says of her, “To her most kind and unselfish -friendship, her motherly care, her wise counsels, the valuable -instructions her artistic genius and experience enabled her to give me -during two of the most critical years of my young life, I owe more of -acknowledgment and affection than I can easily express or ever forget.” - -But the most beautiful of all his relations with women of the dramatic -profession was the long and sacred friendship subsisting between him and -Mrs. Sarah Wheatley. This honored lady, distinguished even more for the -rare strength and beauty of her character than for her extraordinary -histrionic talent, was a great favorite with the theatrical public of -New York. She was one of the few examples that charm and uplift all who -feel their influence, of a perfectly balanced womanhood, commanding the -whole range of feminine virtues, from modest gentleness and self-denial -to august dignity and authority, fitted to sweeten, adorn, or aggrandize -any station. She first went upon the stage, without any preparatory -training, to relieve and support her family, and, as it were by -instinctive fitness, was instantly at home and a mistress there. And -after withdrawing from the public, she lived amidst the worship of her -children and her children’s children to an extreme old age, full of -exalted worth and serenity, the admiration and delight of the widest -circle of friends, who felt that the atmosphere of her presence and -manner more than repaid every attention they could lavish on her. Mrs. -Wheatley saw the Othello of Forrest on the memorable night he played for -the benefit of poor Woodhull. She felt his power, foresaw what he might -become, and, with a generous impulse, went to him from behind the scenes -and spoke kindly to him words of warm appreciation. The poor, unfriended -youth was deeply touched. This was the beginning of an acquaintance -which was never interrupted or shadowed by the faintest cloud, but grew -stronger and holier to the end. She never noticed his foibles, for he -never had them in her presence; and he thought of her with a loving -veneration second only to that he felt for his mother. Her son, Mr. -William Wheatley,—widely known to the dramatic profession as actor and -manager, and esteemed by all for his talent, integrity, and refinement,— -speaking of the beauty of this friendship after the death of the great -tragedian, whom he had known long and most intimately, said, “If there -was one sentiment deeper and keener than any other in the soul of -Forrest, it was his reverence for a pure and good woman: and I know that -his esteem for my mother approached idolatry, and that she regarded him -with maternal fondness.” - -On a certain occasion when his friend James Oakes was with Forrest in -his room at a hotel in New York, something had occurred which had -greatly enraged him. He was pacing up and down the floor in a fury, -tearing and swearing with the greatest violence. A servant knocked at -the door, and announced that Mrs. Wheatley was in waiting. “The change -that came over my friend at the announcement of this name,” said Oakes, -“was like a work of magic. The wrinkles left his brow, a smile was on -his mouth, and his angered voice grew calm and musical.” “Mrs. -Wheatley?” he said. “Ask her if she will do me the honor to come to my -parlor.” Then, turning to his silent friend, he exclaimed, “Oakes, if -you want to see a woman fit to be worshipped by every good man, a model -of grace and dignity, a living embodiment of wisdom and goodness, you -shall now have that grand satisfaction.” As she entered he lifted his -head illuminated with joy, threw open his arms, and cried, “Why, Mother -Wheatley, how long it is since I saw you last,—more than a year!” “It -_is_ a long time,” she answered, with a sweet and grave fervor; “it _is_ -a long time; and how has it been with you all the while, my boy?” Oakes -adds, “It was a picture as charming to behold as anything I ever saw. It -stands in my memory holy to this day.” When such experiences are found -in the life of one whose biography is to be written, they should be -recorded, and not, as is usually done, be carefully omitted; for these -sacred passages are just what is most wholesome and needful in a world -gone insane with selfish struggles, hatred, and indifference. - -Of the appreciation Forrest had of the genius of the great comedian -William E. Burton, he gave a striking expression in the last year of his -life. He had been confined to his bed for several weeks in great agony. -Oakes was sitting by him. Their talk turned upon the unrivalled gifts -and charm of old Joseph Jefferson. Forrest poured out his heart warmly, -as he always did, on this favorite theme. He then spoke of the wonderful -pathos and instructiveness which might be thrown into the humblest comic -characters, and added in close, “I would give twenty thousand dollars to -have Burton alive again for ten years to go over the country and play -the fools of Shakspeare!” - -All who knew Forrest with any intimacy were well aware of his -enthusiastic appreciation of the genius and affection for the memory of -Kean. He never tired of expatiating on this subject. And he always felt -a sharp pleasure in the recollection that when his friend Hackett, the -incomparable American Falstaff, called on Kean in London, only a few -days before his death, the first words of the dying tragedian were a -kind inquiry after the welfare of Edwin Forrest. In his library one day, -showing a friend a superb steel engraving of Sir Thomas Lawrence’s -portrait of John Philip Kemble, he said earnestly and with a regretful -tone, “I would give a thousand dollars in gold for a likeness of Kean as -good as this is of Kemble.” He was familiar with the principal histories -of the stage and biographies of players, and felt the keenest interest -in their characters, their styles of acting, their personal fortunes. He -also felt a pride in the fame and triumphs of his best contemporaries. -He was always on kind terms with the elder Booth, to whom he assigned -dramatic powers of a very extraordinary degree, although he believed -that considerable of their effectiveness was caught from the contagious -and electrifying example of Edmund Kean. In the last year of his life, -when he was badly broken down in health and fortune, Booth said to -Forrest one day, “I want to play the Devil.” “It seems to me,” said -Forrest, “that you have done that pretty well all your life.” “Oh, I -don’t mean that,” replied Booth; “I am referring to the drama of Lord -Byron. I want to play Lucifer to your Cain. Would not that draw,—you -cast in the character of Cain, I in that of Lucifer?” “I think it -would,” remarked Forrest. “We _must_ do it before we die,” replied -Booth,—and went away, soon to pass into the impenetrable shadow, leaving -this too with many another broken and unfulfilled dream. - -Forrest assigned an exalted artistic rank to the very varied dramatic -impersonations of Mr. E. L. Davenport, every one of whose rôles is -marked by firm drawing, distinct light and shade, fine consistency and -finish. His Sir Giles Overreach was hardly surpassed by Kean or Booth, -and has not been approached by anybody else. His quick, alert, springy -tread full of fire and rapidity, the whole man in every step, fixed the -attention and made every one feel that there was a terrific -concentration of energy, an insane possession of the nerve-centres, -portending something frightful soon to come. An old play-goer on -witnessing this impersonation wrote the following impromptu: - - “While viewing each remembered scene, before my gaze appears - Each famed depictor of Sir Giles for almost fifty years; - The elder Kean and mighty Booth have held all hearts in thrall, - But, without overreaching truth, you overreach them all!” - -It is a satisfaction to put on record this judgment of one artist -concerning another whose merit transcends even his high reputation,— -especially as a coolness separated the two men, Mr. Davenport having -through a misapprehension of the fact of the publication of Jack Cade by -Judge Conrad inferred that it had thus in some sense become the property -of the public, and produced the play on the stage, while Forrest held it -to be his own private property. He had been so annoyed by such -proceedings on the part of other actors before, provoking him into angry -suits at law, that his temper was sore. He wrote sharply to Mr. -Davenport, who, even if he had made a mistake, had done no conscious -wrong and meant no offence, and who replied in a calmer tone and with -better taste. Here the matter closed, but left an alienation,—for -Forrest when irritated was relentlessly tenacious of his point. Mr. -Davenport is a man of gentle and generous character, respected and -beloved by all his companions. He is also in all parts of his profession -a highly accomplished artist and critic. Accordingly, when he expresses -the conviction, as he repeatedly has both before and since the decease -of his former friend and great compeer, that Forrest was beyond -comparison the most original and the greatest actor America has -produced, his words are weighty, and their spirit honors the speaker as -much as it does the subject. - -In a letter written to Forrest twenty-five years earlier, under date of -October 10th, 1847, Mr. Davenport had said, “I have not words to express -the gratification and pleasure I felt in witnessing your masterly -performance. It was probably the last time I shall have an opportunity -to see you for years; but I assure you, however long it may be, the -remembrance will always live in my mind as vividly as now.” - -The treatment also which Mr. John McCullough received from Forrest -during his five years of constant service under him, the impression he -made on his young coadjutor, and the permanent esteem and gratitude he -secured from him, are all pleasant to contemplate. At the close of their -business arrangement, Forrest said to McCullough, “I believe I have kept -my agreement with you to the letter; but before we part I want to thank -you for your strict fidelity to your professional duties at all times. -And allow me to say that I have been most of all pleased to see you -uniformly so studious and zealous in your efforts to improve. Continue -in this course, firm against every temptation, and you will command a -proud and happy future. Now, as a token of my esteem, I put in your -hands the sum of five hundred dollars, which I want you to invest for -your little boy, to accumulate until he is twenty-one years old, and -then to be given to him.” McCullough says that with the exception of two -or three unreasonable outbreaks, which he immediately forgave and -forgot, Forrest was extremely kind and good to him, sparing no pains to -encourage and further him. And in return the young man would at any time -have gladly given his heart’s blood for his dear old imperious master, -whom, in his enthusiasm, he held to be the most truthful and powerful -actor that ever lived. Such an estimate by one of his talent and rank, -making every allowance for the personal equation, is an abundant offset -for the squeamish purists who have stigmatized Forrest as “a coarse -ranter,” and the prejudiced critic who called him “a vast animal -bewildered with a grain of genius.” It may well be believed that in the -history of his country’s drama he will be seen by distant ages towering -in statuesque originality above the pigmy herd of his imitators and -detractors. - -Gabriel Harrison was another actor on whom the personality and the -playing of Forrest took the deepest effect. He was a long time on the -stage, and, though he afterwards became an author, a teacher, and a -painter, he never abated the intense fervor of his enthusiasm for the -dramatic art. His “Life of John Howard Payne,” and his “Hundred Years of -the Dramatic and Lyric Stage in Brooklyn,” show him to be a man of much -more than common intelligence and culture. He knew Forrest well for many -years, and cherished the warmest friendship for him as a man whose -nature he found noble and whose intercourse charming. The last -Thanksgiving Day that Forrest had on earth, Harrison, by invitation, -spent with him alone in his Broad Street mansion, enjoying a day of -frank and memorable reminiscences, delicious effusions of mind and heart -and soul. Harrison, writing to the biographer of his friend in protest -against the epithet melodramatic, records his estimate thus: “Are the -wonderful figures of Michael Angelo melodramatic because they are so -strongly outlined? Is Niagara unnatural and full of trick because it is -mighty and thunders so in its fall? When I looked at it, its sublimity -made me feel as if I were looking God in the face; and I have never -thought that God was melodramatic. I have seen Forrest act more than -four hundred times. I have sat at his feet as a pupil artist learning of -a master artist. In all his chief rôles I have studied him with the most -earnest carefulness, from his _tout ensemble_ to the minutest -particulars of look, tone, posture, and motion. And I say that without -doubt he was the most honest, finished, and powerful actor that ever -lived. Whenever I saw him act I used to feel with exultation how -perfectly grand God had made him. How grand a form! how grand a mind! -how grand a heart! how grand a voice! how grand a flood of passion, -sweeping all these to their mark in perfect unison! My memory of him is -so worshipful and affectionate, and so full of regret that I can see him -no more, that my tears are blotting the leaf on which I write.” - -One further incident in the life of Forrest will also serve to -illustrate his feeling towards the _personnel_ of his profession. It is -not without an element of romantic interest. It will fitly close the -treatment of this part of the subject. At the end of the war he received -a letter from a granddaughter of that Joseph Jefferson whose memory he -had always cherished so tenderly. Residing in the South, the fortunes of -war had reduced her to poverty, and she asked him to lend her a hundred -dollars to meet her immediate necessities. With joyous alacrity he -forwarded the amount, and deemed the ministration a great privilege. The -sequel of the good deed will please every one who reads it. It need only -be said that at the date of the ensuing correspondence Forrest had just -been bereaved of his last sister, Eleonora: - - “PHILADELPHIA, June 13th, 1871. - - “MY DEAR MR. FORREST,—I understand from my aunt, Mrs. Fisher, that - during my absence from America, and when she had become destitute - from the effects of the war, you were kind enough to let her have - one hundred dollars. - - “My being nearly related to the lady sufficiently explains why I - enclose you the sum you so generously gave. - - “Permit me to offer my condolence in your late sad loss, and to ask - pardon for addressing you at such a time. - - “Faithfully yours, - “J. JEFFERSON. - - “TO EDWIN FORREST.” - - “PHILADELPHIA, June 15th, 1871. - - “DEAR MR. JEFFERSON,—I received your note of 13th inst., covering a - check for one hundred dollars, in payment of a like sum loaned by - me, some years since, to your relative, Mrs. Fisher. - - “I have no claim whatever on you for the liquidation of this debt. - Yet, as the motive is apparent which prompts you to the kindly act, - I make no cavil in accepting its payment from you. - - “With thanks for the touching sympathy you express in my late - bereavement, I am sincerely yours, - - “EDWIN FORREST. - - “J. JEFFERSON, ESQ.” - -When an actor vanquishes the jealous instinct of his tribe and really -admires another, his professional training gives a distinct relish and -certainty to his praise. When Garrick heard of the decease of Mrs. -Theophilus Cibber, a sister of Arne the musician, he said, “Then Tragedy -is dead on one side.” Also when seeing Carlin Bertinazzi in a piece -where, having been beaten by his master, he threatened him with one hand -while rubbing his wounded loins with the other, Garrick was so delighted -with the truthfulness of the pantomime that he cried, “See, the back of -Carlin has its expression and physiognomy.” Old Quin had a strong -aversion to Mrs. Bellamy, and a conviction that she would fail. But at -the close of the first act, as she came off the stage, he caught her in -his arms, exclaiming, generously, “Thou art a divine creature, and the -true spirit is in thee.” Within a year of the expulsion of Mrs. Siddons -from Drury Lane as an uninteresting performer, Henderson declared that -“she was an actress who had never had an equal and would never have a -superior.” She remembered this with deep gratitude to her dying day; and -when his death had left his family poor she played Belvidera in Covent -Garden for their benefit. - -Forrest was abundantly capable of this same liberal spirit. No admirer -of Henry Placide in his best day could be more enthusiastic in his -eulogy than Forrest was, declaring that in his line he had no living -equal. He said the same also of the Jesse Rural and two or three other -parts of William R. Blake. He had likewise a profound admiration for the -romantic and electrifying Othello of Gustavus Vasa Brooke. And of the -performance of Cassio in Othello and of Cabrero in the Broker of Bogota, -by William Wheatley, he said, “They were two of the most perfect pieces -of acting I ever saw. One night when he had performed the part of -Cabrero better than he ever had done it before, producing a sensation -intense enough in the applause it drew to gratify the pride of any -player, he said to me, as he left the stage, ‘Never again will I play -that part.’ And, surely enough, he never did. The reason why was a -mystery I have not been able to this day to fathom.” - -Forrest once said, “An intelligent, sympathetic actor, who resists the -social temptations of his profession and keeps dignity of character and -high purpose, ought to be the most charming of companions. In a great -many cases this is the fact. With their insight into character, their -power of interpreting even the most unpurposed signals, the secrets of -society are more open to them than to others, and they have more -adventures. This naturally makes them interesting.” He gave two examples -in illustration. When he was playing in England, he and James Sheridan -Knowles became warm friends. Knowles had often seen Mrs. Siddons act. -Forrest asked him what was the mysterious effect she produced in her -celebrated sleep-walking scene of Lady Macbeth. He said, “I have read -all the high-flown descriptions of the critics, and they fall short. I -want you to tell me in plain blunt phrase just what impression she -produced on you.” Knowles replied, with a sort of shudder, as if the -mere remembrance terrified him still, “Well, sir, I smelt blood! I swear -that I smelt blood!” Forrest added that the whole life of that amazing -actress by Campbell was not worth so much to him as this one Hogarthean -stroke by Knowles. - -The other anecdote related to an incident which happened to John -McCullough, who for several years had been playing second parts to -Forrest. He was staying in Washington. Two or three nights before the -assassination of President Lincoln he was awakened by tears falling on -his face from the eyes of some one standing over him. Looking up, he saw -Wilkes Booth, and exclaimed, “Why, what is the matter?” “My God,” -replied the unhappy man, already burdened with his monstrous crime, and -speaking in a tone of long-drawn melancholy indescribably pathetic, “My -God, how peacefully you were sleeping! _I_ cannot sleep.” - -Another element of strong interest in actors, giving them an imaginative -attraction, is the obvious but profound symbolism of their art, the -analogies of scenic life and human life. Harley, while playing Bottom in -Midsummer Night’s Dream, was stricken with apoplexy. Carried home, the -last words he ever spoke were the words in his part, “I feel an -exposition to sleep coming over me.” Immediately it was so, and he slept -forever. The aged Macklin attended the funeral of Barry. Looking into -the grave, he murmured, “Poor Spranger!” One would have led him away, -but the old man said, mournfully, “Sir, I am at my rehearsal; do not -disturb my reverie.” The elements of the art of acting are the applied -elements of the science of human nature. They are the same on the stage -as in life, save that there they are systematized and pronounced, set in -relief, and consequently excite a more vivid interest. How rich it would -have been to share in the fellowship of Lekain and Garrick when in the -Champs Elysées they practised the representation of drunkenness! “How is -that?” said Lekain. “Very well,” replied Garrick. “You are all drunk -except your left leg.” - -Such works as Colley Cibber’s Apology, the several lives of Garrick, -Boaden’s Life of Kemble, Macklin’s Memoirs, Campbell’s Life of Mrs. -Siddons, Galt’s Lives of the Players, Proctor’s Life of Kean, Collier’s -Annals of the Stage, Doran’s His Majesty’s Servants, were familiar to -Forrest. His memory was well stored with their contents. He had -reflected carefully and much on the general topics of which they treat, -and he conversed on them with eloquence and with wisdom. He cherished an -eager interest in everything pertaining to his profession viewed in its -most comprehensive aspect. His intelligent and profound enthusiasm for -the theatre gave him an entire faith that the drama is destined to -flourish as long as human nature shall be embodied in men. Its seeming -eclipse by cheaper and coarser attractions he held to be but temporary. -Its perversion and degradation in meaningless spectacles and prurient -dances will pass by, and its restoration to its own high mission, the -exhibition of the grandest elements of the soul in the noblest -situations, the teaching of the most beautiful and sublime lessons by -direct exemplification in breathing life, will give it, ere many -generations pass, a glory and a popular charm it has never yet known. -Then we may expect to see a great purification and enrichment of the -subject-matter presented on the stage. The mere animal affections will -cease to have an exaggerated and morbid attention paid to them. Justice -will be done to the generic moral sentiments of man, and to his noblest -historic and ideal types. The passions of love of truth and spiritual -aspiration will dilate in treatment, those of individual jealousy and -social ambition dwindle. Instructive and inspiring plays will be -constructed out of the veracious materials furnished by characters and -careers like those of Columbus and Galileo. - -Certainly the realization of such a vision is a great desideratum; -because the theatre is a sort of universal Church of Humanity, where -good and evil are shown in their true colors without formalism or cant. -Its influence—unlike that of sectarian enclosures—is to draw all its -attendants together in common sympathies towards the good and fair, and -in common antipathies for the foul and cruel. Men are more open and -generous in their pleasures than in their pains. Places of public -amusement are the first to vibrate to the notes of public joy or grief, -defeat or triumph. Telegrams announcing victories or calamities are read -from the stage. Theatres are sure to be decked on great festival or -pageant days, the popular pulse beating strongest there. - -The taste for dramatic representations is native and ineradicable in -man. It is a fixed passion with man to love to see the passions of men -exhibited in plot and action, and to watch the mutual workings of -characters on one another through their different manners of behavior. -Just now, it is true, the great, complex, terribly exciting and exacting -drama of real life, revealed to us in the newspaper and the novel and -the telegraph, so fastens and drains our sympathies that we lack the -ideal freedom and restful leisure to enjoy the stage drama so eagerly as -it was enjoyed at an earlier and simpler time. But this will not always -be so;— - - “The world will grow a less distracting scene, - And life, less busy, wear a gentler mien.” - -Forrest looked for a revival, at no remote date, in America and Europe, -of the ancient Greek pride and joy in athletic exercises and the -development of nude strength and beauty. The reflex influence from such -a revival, he imagined, would flood the stage with a new lustre, making -it a resplendent and exalted centre for the inspiring exposure to the -public of the perfected models of every form of human excellence. Then -the gymnasium, the circus, the race-course, dance, music, song, and the -intellectual emulations of the academy may all be grouped around the -theatre and find their dazzling climax in the scenic drama, made -religious once more as it was in the palmiest day of Greece. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - OUTER AND INNER LIFE OF THE MAN. - - -The external life of Forrest from the close of his first engagement -after the divorce trial to the year 1869—the period stretching from his -forty-sixth to his sixty-third year—was largely but the continual -repetition of his old triumphs, varied now and then with some fresh -professional glory or new personal adventure. To recite the details of -his travels and theatrical experiences would be to make a monotonous -record of popular successes without any important significance or -general interest. A brief sketch of the leading incidents of this period -is all that the reader will care to have. - -The immense publicity and circulation given to the sensational reports -of the long-drawn legal warfare between Forrest and his wife in their -suits against each other added to his great fame a still greater -notoriety, which enhanced public curiosity and drew to the theatre -greater crowds than ever whenever he played. From Portland and Boston to -Cincinnati and St. Louis, from Buffalo and Detroit to Charleston and New -Orleans, the announcement of his name invariably brought out an -overwhelming throng. The first sight of his person on the stage was the -signal for wild applause. At the close of the performance he was often -called before the curtain and constrained to address the assembly, and -then on retiring to his hotel was not unfrequently followed by band and -orchestra and complimented with a serenade. - -The ranks of his enemies, reinforced with the malevolent critics or -Bohemians whom he would not propitiate by any favor, social or -pecuniary, continued to fling at him and annoy him in every way they -could. But while their pestiferous buzzing and stinging made him sore -and angry, it did not make him unhappy. His enormous professional -success and broad personal following prevented that. One example of his -remarkable public triumphs may stand to represent scores. It was the -last night of a long and most brilliant engagement in New York. The -“Forrest Light Guard,” in full uniform, occupied the front seats of the -parquet. No sooner had the curtain fallen on the performance of -Coriolanus than the air grew wild with the prolonged shouts of “Forrest! -Forrest!” At last he came forth, and the auditory, rising en masse, -greeted him with stormy plaudits. “Speech! speech!” they cried. He -responded thus: - - “I need not tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that I am gratified to - see this large assemblage before me; and I have an additional - gratification when I remember that among my troops of friends I have - now a military troop who have done me the honor to grace my name by - associating it with their soldier-like corps. This night, ladies and - gentlemen, ends my labors _inside_ of the theatre for the season. I - call them labors, for no one who has not experienced the toil of - acting such parts as I have been called upon nightly to present to - you, can have any idea of the labor, both mental and physical, - required in the performance of the task. They who suppose the - actor’s life to be one of comparative ease mistake the fact - egregiously. My experience has shown me that it is one of - unremitting toil. In no other profession in the world is high - eminence so difficult to reach as in ours. This proposition becomes - evident when you remember how many of rare talents and - accomplishments essay to mount the histrionic ladder, and how very - few approach its topmost round. My earliest ambition was distinction - upon the stage; and while yet a mere child I shaped my course to - reach the wished-for goal. I soon became aware that distinction in - any vocation was only to be won by hard work and by an unfailing - self-reliance. And I resolved - - ‘with such jewels as the exploring mind - Brings from the caves of knowledge, to buy my ransom - From those twin jailers of the daring heart, - Low birth and iron fortune.’ - - I resolved to educate myself; not that education only which belongs - to the schools, and which is often comprised in a knowledge of mere - words, but that other education of the world which makes words - things. I resolved to educate myself as Garrick, and Kemble, and - Cooke, and, last and greatest of all, Edmund Kean, had done. As he - had done before me, I educated myself. The self-same volume from - which the Bard of Avon drew his power of mastery lay open before me - also,—the infallible volume of Nature. And in the pages of that - great book, as in the pages of its epitome, the works of Shakspeare, - I have conned the lessons of my glorious art. The philosopher-poet - had taught me that - - ‘The proper study of mankind is man;’ - - and, in pursuit of this study, I sojourned in Europe, in Asia, in - Africa, as well as in the length and in the breadth of our own proud - Republic. To catch the living lineaments of passion, I mixed with - the prince and with the potentate, with the peasant and with the - proletary, with the serf and with the savage. All the glorious works - of Art belonging to the world, in painting and in sculpture, in - architecture and in letters, I endeavored to make subservient to the - studies of my calling. How successful I have been I leave to the - verdict of my fellow-countrymen,—my fellow-countrymen, who, for a - quarter of a century, have never denied to me their suffrages. - Ladies and gentlemen, I have spoken thus much not to indulge in any - feeling of pride, nor to gratify any sentiment of egotism, but I - have done so in the hope that the words which I have uttered here - to-night may be the means, perhaps, of inspiring in the bosom of - some young enthusiast who may hereafter aspire to the stage a - feeling of confidence. Some poor and friendless boy, perchance, - imbued with genius, and with those refined sensibilities which are - inseparably connected with genius, may be encouraged not to falter - in his path for the paltry obstacles flung across it by envy, - hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. Let him rather, with a - vigorous heart, buckle on the armor of patient industry, with his - own discretion for his tutor, and then, with an unfaltering step, - despising the malice of his foes, - - ‘climb - The steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar.’” - -A shower of bravos broke out, bouquets were thrown upon the stage, and -the actor slowly withdrew, crowned with the applauses of the people like -a victorious Roman in the Capitol. - -As the years passed on, Forrest came to take an ever keener interest in -accumulating wealth. A good deal of his time and thought was devoted to -the nursing of his earnings. He showed great shrewdness in his -investments, which, with scarcely a single exception, turned out -profitably. He was prudent and thrifty in his ways, but not parsimonious -or mean. He lived in a handsome, generous style, without ostentation or -extravagance, keeping plenty of servants, horses, and carriages, and a -table generous in wholesome fare but sparing of luxuries. This love of -money, and pleasure in amassing it, though it became a passion, as, with -his bitter early experience of poverty and constant lessons of the evils -of improvidence, it was natural that it should, did not become a vice or -a disease; for it never prevented his full and ready response to every -claim on his conscience or on his sympathy. And within this limit the -love of accumulation is more to be praised than blamed. In final -refutation of the gross injustice which so often during his life charged -upon him the vice of a grasping penuriousness, a few specimens of his -deeds of public spirit and benevolence—not a list, but a few specimens— -may fitly be recorded here. To the fund in aid of the Democratic -campaign which resulted in the election of Buchanan as President he sent -his check for one thousand dollars. He gave the like sum to the first -great meeting in Philadelphia at the outbreak of the war for the defence -of the Union. In 1867, when the South was in such distress from the -effects of the war, he gave five hundred dollars to the treasurer of a -fund in their behalf, saying, “God only knows the whole suffering of our -Southern brethren. Let us do all we can to relieve them, not stopping to -question what is _constitutional_; for charity itself fulfils the law.” -He subscribed five hundred dollars towards the relief of the sufferers -by the great Chicago fire in 1871. The ship “Edwin Forrest” being in -distress on the coast, the towboat “Ajax,” from New York, went to her -assistance, having on board three pilots. The “Ajax” was never heard of -afterwards. To the widows of the three lost pilots Forrest, unsolicited, -sent one thousand dollars each. On two separate occasions he is known to -have sent contributions of five hundred dollars to the Masonic Charity -Fund of the New York Grand Lodge. These acts, which were not -exceptional, but in keeping with his nature and habit, are not the acts -of an unclean slave of avarice. The jealousy too often felt towards the -rich too often incites groundless fault-finding. - -It is true that an absorbing passion for truth, for beauty, for -humanity, for perfection, is more glorious and commanding than even the -most honorable chase of riches. But it is likewise true that reckless -idlers and spendthrifts are a greater curse to society, breed worse -evils, than can be attributed to misers. Self-indulgence, dependence, -distress, contempt, the worst temptations, and untimely death, follow -the steps of thriftlessness. Self-denial, foresight, industry, manifold -power of usefulness, wait on a well-regulated purpose to secure -pecuniary independence. Money represents the means of life,—the command -of the best outer conditions of life,—food, shelter, education, culture -in every direction. In itself it is a good, and the fostering of the -virtues adapted to win it is beneficial alike to the individual and the -community, despite the enormous evils associated with the excessive or -unprincipled pursuit of it. Sharp and exacting as he was, the absolute -honesty and honor of Forrest in all pecuniary dealings were so high -above suspicion that they were never questioned. Although often -wrongfully accused of a miserly and sordid temper, he never was accused -of falsehood or trickery. The large fortune he obtained was honorably -earned, liberally used, and at last nobly bestowed. He had a good right -to the deep, vivid satisfaction and sense of power which it yielded him. -His fortune was to him a huge supplementary background of support, a -wide border of the means of life surrounding and sustaining his -immediate life. - -An extract from a letter written by him to his biographer may fitly be -cited to complete what has been said above. Under date of August 28th, -1870, he wrote. “The desire I had for wealth was first fostered only -that I might be abler to contribute to the comforts of those whose veins -bore blood like mine, and to smooth the pathway to the grave of the -gentlest, the truest, the most unselfish friend I ever knew—my mother!— -and so, from this holy source, to widen the boundaries of all good and -charitable deeds,—to relieve the wants of friends less fortunate than -myself, and to succor the distressed wherever found. In early life, from -necessity, I learned to depend solely upon myself for my own sustenance. -This self-reliance soon gave me power in a small way to relieve the -wants of others, and this I never failed to do even to the extent of my -ability. So far did I carry this feeling for the distress of others that -I have frequently been forced to ask an advance of salary from the -theatre to pay the current expenses of my own frugal living. And this I -have done when in the receipt of eight thousand dollars a year. I have -been very, very poor; but in my whole life I have never from need -borrowed more than two hundred dollars in all. I have lent two thousand -times that sum, only an infinitesimal part of which was ever returned.” - -In 1851 Forrest moved from New York to Philadelphia, and took his three -sisters to live with him. But he paid frequent visits to his romantic -castle on the Hudson. During one of these visits an incident occurred -which presents him to the imagination in real life in a light as -picturesque and sensational as many of those scenes of fiction on the -stage in which he had so often thrilled the multitude who beheld him. -The steamboat “Henry Clay,” plying on the Hudson between New York and -Albany, when opposite Fonthill was suddenly wrapt in flames by an -explosion of its boiler, and sunk with a crowd of shrieking passengers. -The New York “Mirror” of the next day said, “We are informed that while -the unfortunate wretches were struggling, Edwin Forrest, who was then at -his castle, seeing their condition, rushed down to the river, jumped in, -and succeeded in rescuing many from a watery grave, as well as in -recovering the bodies of several who were drowned.” - -In 1856 Forrest sold Fonthill to the Catholic Sisterhood of Mount Saint -Vincent, for one hundred thousand dollars. For the devout and beneficent -lives of the members of this order he had a profound reverence; and -immediately on completing the sale he made to the Mother Superior a -present of the sum of five thousand dollars. And so ended all the dreams -of domestic peace and bliss his fancy had woven on that enchanted spot, -still to be associated with memories of his career and echoes of his -name as long as its gray towers shall peer above the trees and be -descried from afar by the sailers on the lordly river below. - -In 1857 Forrest received an unparalleled compliment from the State of -California. The Governor, Lieutenant-Governor, Secretary, Treasurer, and -Comptroller of the State, twenty-seven members of the Senate, with the -Secretary and Sergeant-at-Arms, the Speaker and forty-eight members of -the House of Representatives, sent him a letter of invitation to make a -professional visit to the Golden Coast. It read as follows: - - “STATE CAPITOL, SACRAMENTO, April 20th, 1857. - - “RESPECTED SIR,—The undersigned, State officers and members of the - Senate and Assembly, a small portion of your many admirers on the - coast of the Pacific, avail themselves of this, the only mode under - their control, of signifying to you the very high estimation, as a - gentleman and an actor, in which you are generally and universally - held by all who have a taste for the legitimate drama. Genuine taste - and rigid criticism have united with the verdict of impartial - history to pronounce you the head and leader of the noble profession - to which you have consecrated abilities that would in any sphere of - life render you eminent. We believe that so long as Shakspeare is - remembered, and his words revered, your name, too, will be - remembered with pride by all who glory in the triumphs of our Saxon - literature. - - “In conclusion, permit us to express the hope that your existing - engagements will so far coincide with our wishes as to permit us, at - an early day, to welcome you to the shores of the Pacific, assuring - you of a warm and sincere reception, so far as our efforts can - accomplish the same, and we feel that we but express the feelings of - every good citizen of the State.” - -To this he replied: - - “PHILADELPHIA, July 10th, 1857. - - “GENTLEMEN,—With a grateful pleasure I acknowledge your - communication of April 20th, delivered to me a short time since by - the hands of Mr. Maguire. - - “Your flattering invitation, so generously bestowed and so - gracefully expressed, to enter the Golden Gate and visit your - beautiful land, is one of the highest compliments I have ever - received. It is an honor, I venture to say, that was never before - conferred on one of my profession. - - “It comes not from the lovers of the drama or men of letters merely, - but from the Executive, the Representatives, and other high - officials of a great State of the American Confederacy; and I shall - ever regard it as one of the proudest compliments in all my - professional career. - - “Believe me, I deeply feel this mark of your kindness, not as mere - incense to professional or personal vanity, but as a proud tribute - to that art which I have loved so well and have followed so long: - - “‘The youngest of the Sister Arts, - Where all their beauty blends.’ - - “This art, permit me to add, from my youth I have sought personally - to elevate, and professionally to improve, more from the truths in - nature’s infallible volume than from the pedantic words of the - schools,—a volume open to all, and which needs neither Greek nor - Latin lore to be understood. - - “And now, gentlemen, although I greatly regret that it is not in my - power to accept your invitation, I sincerely trust there will be a - time for such a word, when we may yet meet together under the roof - of one of those proud temples consecrated to the drama by the taste - and the munificence of your fellow-citizens.” - -During the crisis of his domestic unhappiness—1849–1852—Forrest had -withdrawn from the stage for about two years. In 1856, stricken down -with a severe attack of gout and inflammatory rheumatism, wearied also -of his long round of professional labors, he retired into private life -for a period of nearly five years. He now devoted his time to the care -of his rapidly increasing wealth, and to the cultivation of his mind by -reading, studying works of art, and conversing with a few chosen -friends, leading, on the whole, a still and secluded life. At this time -an enthusiastic religious revival was going on in the city, and it was -reported that the tragedian had been made a convert. An old and dear -friend, the Rev. E. L. Magoon, wrote to him a very cordial letter -expressing the hope that this report was well founded. Here is the reply -of Forrest: - - “PHILADELPHIA, March 27, 1858. - - “I have much pleasure in the receipt of yours of the 23d instant. - - “While I thank you and Mrs. Magoon with all my heart for the kind - hope you have expressed that the recent rumor with regard to my - highest welfare may be true, I am constrained to say the rumor is in - this, as in most matters which pertain to me, most pitifully in - error: there is not one word of truth in it. - - “But in answer to your questions, my good friend,—for I know you are - animated only by a sincere regard for my spiritual as well as for my - temporal welfare,—I am happy to assure you that the painful attack - of inflammatory rheumatism with which for the last three months I - have combated is now quite overcome, and I think I may safely say - that with the return of more genial weather I shall be restored once - more to a sound and pristine health. - - “Then, for the state of my mind. I do not know the time, since when - a boy I blew sportive bladders in the beamy sun, that it was ever so - tranquil and serene as in the present hour. Having profited by the - leisure given me by my lengthened illness seriously to review the - past and carefully to consider the future, both for time and for - eternity, I have with a chastened spirit beheld with many regrets - that there was much in the past that might have been improved; more, - perhaps, in the acts of omission than in acts of commission, for I - feel sustained that my whole conduct has been actuated solely by an - honest desire to adhere strictly to the rule of right; that the past - has been characterized, as I trust the future will be, to love my - friends, to hate my enemies,—for I cannot be a hypocrite,—and to - live in accordance with the Divine precept: ‘As ye would that men - should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.’ - - “And now for that ‘higher welfare’ of which you speak, I can only - say that, believing, as I sincerely do, in the justice, the mercy, - the wisdom, and the love of Him who knoweth the secrets of our - hearts, I hope I may with - - ‘An unfaltering trust approach my grave, - Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch - About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.’ - - “Hoping you are in the enjoyment of good health, and that you still - prosper in the ‘good work,’ which to you I know is a labor of love, - - “I am your friend, - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -At length, rested in mind and body, chastened in taste, sobered and -polished in style, but with no abatement of fire or energy, sought by -the public, solicited by friends, urged by managers, and impelled by his -own feelings, he broke from his long repose, and reappeared in New York -under circumstances as flattering as any that had ever crowned his -ambition. Niblo’s Garden was packed to its remotest corners with an -auditory whose upturned expanse of eager faces lighted with smiles and -burst into cheers as he slowly advanced and received a welcome whose -earnestness and unity might well have thrilled him with pride and joy. -The following lines, strong and eloquent as their theme, written for the -occasion by William Ross Wallace, contain perhaps the most truthful and -characteristic tribute ever paid to his genius, drawing the real contour -and breathing the express spirit of the man and the player. - - - EDWIN FORREST. - - Welcome to his look of grandeur, welcome to his stately mien, - Always shedding native glory o’er the wondrous mimic scene, - Always like a mighty mirror glassing Vice or Virtue’s star, - Giving Time his very pressure, showing Nations as they are! - - Once again old Rome—the awful—rears her red imperial crest, - And _Virginius_ speaks her downfall in a father’s tortured breast; - Once again far Albion’s genius from sweet Avon leans to view, - As he was, her thoughtful _Hamlet_, and the very _Lear_ she drew. - - Nor alone does Europe glory in the Actor’s perfect art,— - From Columbia’s leafy mountains see the native hero start! - Not in depths of mere romances can you _Nature’s_ Indian find; - See him there, as God hath made him, in the _Metamora_ shrined. - - Where hast thou, O noble Artist,—crowned by Fame’s immortal flower,— - Grasped the lightnings of thy genius? caught the magic of thy power? - Not, I know, in foreign regions,—for thou art too true and bold: - ’Tis the _New_ alone gives daring thus to paint the shapes of _Old_: - - From the deep full wind that sweepeth through thine own wild native - woods, - From the organ-like grand cadence heard in autumn’s solemn floods, - Thou hast tuned the voice that thrills us with its modulated roll, - Echoing through the deepest caverns of the hearer’s startled soul: - - From the tender blossoms blooming on our haughty torrents’ side— - Like some angel sent by Pity, preaching gentleness to Pride— - Thou didst learn such tender bearing, hushing every listener’s breath, - When in thee poor _Lear_, the crownless, totters gently down to death: - - - From the boundless lakes and rivers, from our broad continuous climes, - Over which the bell of Freedom sounds her everlasting chimes, - Thou didst catch that breadth of manner; and to wreath the glorious - whole, - Sacred flames are ever leaping from thy democratic soul. - - Welcome then that look of grandeur, welcome then that stately mien, - Always shedding native glory o’er the wondrous mimic scene, - Always like a mighty mirror glassing Vice or Virtue’s star, - Giving Time his very pressure, showing Nations as they are! - -After a long absence from Albany, Forrest fulfilled an engagement there -in 1864. It carried his mind back to his early struggles in the same -place, though few of the kind friends who had then cheered him now -remained. There was no vacant spot, however, any more than there was any -loss of fervor. On the last night the audience—so crowded that “they -seemed actually piled on one another in the lobbies”—called him before -the curtain and asked for a speech. He said,— - -“I am very glad, ladies and gentlemen, that an opportunity is thus -afforded me to say a few words, to thank you for your generous welcome -here, and also for the kind applause you have lavished on my -performances. In Albany I seem to live a twofold existence,—I live one -in the past, and I live one in the present,—and both alike are filled -with the most agreeable memories. Here, within these very walls, even in -my boyish days, I was cheered on to those inspiring toils - - ‘Which make man master men.’ - -Here, within these walls, while yet in my boyish days, one of the -proudest honors of my professional life was achieved; for I here essayed -the part of Iago to the Othello of the greatest actor that ‘ever lived -in the tide of times,’—Edmund Kean. To me there is music in the very -name,—Edmund Kean, a name blended indissolubly with the genius of -Shakspeare; Edmund Kean, who did more by his acting to illustrate the -Bard of all time than all the commentators from Johnson, Warburton, and -Steevens down to the critics of the present day. It was said of Edmund -Kean by a distinguished English poet, that ‘he read Shakspeare by -flashes of lightning.’ It is true; but those flashes of lightning were -the coruscations of his own divine mind, which was in affinity with the -mind of Shakspeare. Now I must beg leave to express my heartfelt thanks -for this demonstration of your favor, hoping at no distant day to meet -you again.” - -Thus it is clear that, whatever the sufferings of Forrest may have been, -however many trials and pangs his growing experience of the world may -have brought him, he had great enjoyments still. Besides the proud -delight of his professional successes and the solid satisfaction of his -swelling property, he had an even more keen and substantial complacency -of pleasure in his own physical health and strength. His enormous vital -and muscular power supported a superb personal consciousness of joy and -contentment. He trod the earth like an indigenous monarch, afraid of -nothing. The dynamic charge, or rather surcharge, of his frame was often -so profuse that it would break out in wild feats of power to relieve the -aching muscles. For instance, one night when acting in the old Tremont -Theatre in Boston, under such an exhilarating impulse he struck his -sword against a wooden column at the side of the stage as he was passing -out, and cut into it to the depth of more than three inches. An -Englishman who sat near jumped from his seat in terror, and tremblingly -said, as he hastened out, “He is a damned brute. He is going to cut the -theatre down!” This full vigor of the organic nature, this vivid -relishing edge of unsatiated senses, yielded a constant feeling of -actual or potential happiness, and clothed him with an air of native -pride which was both attractive and authoritative. He had paid the price -for this great prize of an indomitable physique in systematic exercises -and temperance. He wore it most proudly and kept it intact until he was -fifty-nine years old. The lesson of his experience and example in -physical culture is well worth heeding. - -The fashion of society in regard to the education and care of the body -has passed through three phases. The most extraordinary phase, in the -glorious results it secured, was the worship of bodily perfection among -the Greeks, a reflex revival of which was shown by the nobles and -knights at the period of the Renaissance. The Greek gymnastic of the age -of Pericles, as described by Plato so often and with such enthusiasm,—a -gymnastic in which music, instead of being an end in itself, a sensuous -luxury of the soul, was made a guide and adjunct to bodily training, -giving rhythm to every motion, or that grace and economy of force which -so much enhances both beauty and power,—lifted men higher in unity of -strength and charm of health and harmony of faculties than has anywhere -else been known. The Grecian games were made an ennobling and joyous -religious service and festival. The eager, emulous, patriotic, and -artistic appreciation of the spectators,—the wondrous strength, beauty, -swiftness, rhythmic motions, imposing attitudes of the athletes,—the -legends of the presence and contentions of the gods themselves on that -very spot in earlier times,—the setting up of the statues of the victors -in the temples as a worship of the Givers of Strength, Joy, and Glory,— -served to carry the interest to a pitch hardly to be understood by us. -The sculptures by Phidias which immortalize the triumph of Greek -physical culture show a harmony of the circulations, a compacted unity -of the organism, a central poise of equilibrium, a profundity of -consciousness and a fulness of self-control, a perfect blending of the -automatic and the volitional sides of human nature, which must have -exalted the Olympic victors at once to the extreme of sensibility and to -the extreme of repose. It is a million pities that this ideal should -ever have been lost. But in Rome, under the military drill and unbridled -license of the emperors, it degenerated into a brutal tyranny and -sensuality, the gigantic superiority of potency it generated being -perverted to the two uses of indulging self and oppressing others. - -The next swing of the historic pendulum flung men, by the reaction of -spirituality, over to the fatal opposite,—the ecclesiastic contempt and -neglect of the body. The Christian ideal, or at least the Church ideal, -in its scornful revulsion from gladiators and voluptuaries, glorified -the soul at the expense of the loathed and mortified flesh. At the base -of this cultus was the ascetic superstition that matter is evil, that -the capacity for pleasure is an infernal snare, and that the only way to -heaven is through material maceration and renunciation. Sound philosophy -and religion teach, on the contrary, that the body is the temple of God, -to be developed, cleansed, and adorned to the highest degree possible -for His habitation. - -The third phase in the history of bodily training is that neutral -condition, between the two foregoing extremes, which generally -characterizes the present period,—a state of almost universal -indifference, or a fitful alternation of unregulated attention to it and -neglect of it. The pedagogue gives his pupils some crude exercises to -keep them from utterly losing their health and breaking down on his -hands under the barbaric pressure of mental forcing; the drill-sergeant -disciplines his recruits to go through their technical evolutions; the -dancing-master trains the aspirants for the mysteries of the ballet; and -the various other classes of public performers who get their living by -playing on the curiosity, taste, or passion of the public, have their -specialities of bodily education for their particular work. But a -perfected system of æsthetic gymnastics, based on all that is known of -the laws of anatomy, physiology, and hygiene,—a system of exercises -regulated by the exactest rhythm and fitted to liberate every -articulation, to develop every muscle, and to harmonize and exalt every -nerve,—such a system applied from childhood to maturity for the purpose -not of making professional exhibitors of themselves, but of perfecting -men and women for the completest fulfilment and fruition of life itself, -does not yet exist. It is the great educational desideratum of the age. -Co-ordinating all our bodily organs and spiritual faculties, unifying -the outward organism and the inward consciousness, it would remove -disease, crime, and untimely death, open to men and women the highest -conditions of inspiration, and raise them towards the estate of gods and -goddesses. Avoiding equally the classic deification of the body and the -mediæval excommunication of it, emerging from the general indifference -and inattention to it which belong to the modern absorption in mental -work and social ambition, the next phase in the progress of physical -education should be the awakening on the part of the whole people of a -thorough appreciation of its just importance, and the assigning to it of -its proportionate place in their practical discipline. This is a work -worthy to be done now in America. As democratic Athens gave the world -the first splendid gymnastic training with its transcendent models of -manhood, so let democratic America, improving on the old example with -all the new treasures of science and sympathy, make application to its -citizens of a system of motions for the simultaneous education of bodies -and souls to the full possession of their personal sovereignty, making -them all kings and queens of themselves, because strong and beautiful -and free and happy in every limb and in every faculty! - -There is a vulgar prejudice among many of the most refined and religious -people against the training of the body to its highest condition, as if -that necessitated an animality fatal to the richest action of mind, -heart, and soul. The fop whose delicacy is so exquisite that the least -shock of vigorous emotion makes him turn pale and sicken, fancies the -superb athlete a vulgar creature whose tissues are as coarse as wire -netting and the globules of his blood as big as peas. But in reality the -presence of fidgeting nerves in place of reposeful muscles gives feebler -reactions, not finer ones, a more irritable consciousness, not a richer -one. Were this squeamish prejudice well founded it would make God seem a -bungler in his work, essential discord inhering in its different parts. -It is not so. The harmonious development of all portions of our being -will raise the whole higher than any fragment can be lifted alone. The -two finest and loftiest and richest flowers of Greek genius, Plato and -Sophocles, were both crowned victors in the Olympic games. But this -strong, lazy prejudice has widely fulfilled itself in fact by limiting -the greatest triumphs of physical culture to the more debased and -profane types,—to professional dancers and pugilists. And even here it -is to be affirmed that, on this low range of brawn and pluck and skill, -physical power and prowess are better than physical weakness and -cowardice. It is better, if men are on that level, to surpass and be -admired there than to fail and be despised there. But since one God is -the Creator of flesh and spirit, both of which when obedient are -recipients of his influx and held in tune by all his laws, the best -material states are not hostile, but most favorable, to the best -spiritual fulfilments. The life of the mind will lift out of, not mire -in, the life of the body. And hitherto unknown revelations of inspired -power, delight, and longevity wait on that future age when the -vindication of a divineness for the body equally sacred with that of the -soul shall cause the choicest persons to be as faithful in physical -culture for the perfection of their experience as prize-fighters are for -winning the victory in the ring. Give us the soul of Channing, purest -lover and hero of God, in the body of Heenan, foremost bruiser and -champion of the world; the soul of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, tender -poetess of humanity, in the body of Fanny Elssler, incomparable queen of -the stage;—and what marvels of intuitive perception, creative genius, -irresistible authority, and redemptive conquest shall we not behold! - -Such is one of the prophecies drawn from the supremest examples of -combined mental and physical culture in the dramatic profession. Forrest -fell short of any such mark. His gymnastic was coarse and heavy, based -on bone and muscle rather than brain and nerve. The sense of musical -rhythm was not quick and fine in him. His blood was too densely charged -with amorous heat, and his tissues too much clogged with his weight of -over two hundred pounds, for the most ethereal delicacies of -spirituality and the inspired imagination. But within his limitations he -was a marked type of immense original and cultivated power. And his -sedulous fidelity in taking care of his bodily strength and health is -worthy of general imitation. He practised athletics daily, posturing -with dumb-bells or Indian clubs, taking walks and drives. He was -extremely attentive to ventilation, saying, “The first condition of -health is to breathe pure air plentifully.” He ever sought the sunshine, -worshipping the smile of the divine luminary with the ardor of a true -Parsee. “The weather has been pernicious,” he says in one of his -letters. “Oh for a day of pure sunshine! What a true worshipper of the -Sun I have always been! And how he has rewarded me, in the light of his -omnipotent and kindly eye, with health and joy and sweet content! How -reasonable and how sublime was the worship of Zoroaster! I had rather be -a beggar in a sunny climate than a Crœsus in a cloudy one.” He was -temperate in food and drink, shunning for the most part rich luxuries, -complex and highly-seasoned dishes, falling to with the greatest relish -on the simplest and wholesomest things, especially oatmeal, cracked -wheat, corn-meal mush, brown bread, Scotch bannocks, cream, buttermilk. -When fatigued, he turned from artificial stimulants and sought recovery -in rest and sleep. When hard-worked, he never omitted going regularly to -bed in the daytime to supplement the insufficient repose of the night. -He had great facility in catching a nap, and at such times his deep and -full respiration was as regular as clock-work. But above all the rest he -attributed the greatest importance to keeping his skin in a clean and -vigorous condition. Night and morning he gave himself a thorough -washing, followed by energetic scrubbing with coarse towels and a -percussing of his back and spine with elastic balls fastened to the ends -of two little clubs. His skin was always aglow with life, polished like -marble, a soft and sensitive yet firm and flowing mantle of protection -and avenue of influences between his interior world and the exterior -world. This extreme health and vigor of the skin relieved the tasks put -on the other excretory organs, and was most conducive to vital energy -and longevity. - -The one fault in the constitution of Forrest was the gouty diathesis he -inherited from his grandfather on the maternal side. This rheumatic -inflammability—a contracted and congested state of some part of the -capillary circulation and the associated sensory nerves accumulating -force to be discharged in hot explosions of twinging agony—might have -been cured by an æsthetic gymnastic adapted to free and harmonize all -the circulations,—the breath, the blood, the nerve-force. But, -unfortunately, his heavy and violent gymnastic was fitted to produce -rigidity rather than suppleness, and thus to cause breaks in the nervous -flow instead of an equable uniformity. This was the secret of his -painful attacks and of his otherwise unexpectedly early death. There are -three natures in man, the vital nature, the mental nature, the moral -nature. These natures express and reveal themselves in three kinds or -directions of movement. The vital nature betrays or asserts itself in -eccentric movement, movement from a centre; the mental, in acentric -movement, movement towards a centre; the moral, in concentric movement, -movement around a centre. Outward lines of motion express vital -activity, inward lines express mental activity, curved lines, which are -a blending of the two other, express moral or affectional activity. This -physiological philosophy is the basis of all sound and safe gymnastic. -The essential evil and danger of the heavy and violent gymnastic of the -circus and the ring is that it consists so largely of the outward and -inward lines which express the individual will or vital energy and -mental purpose. Each of these tends exclusively to strengthen the nature -which it exercises. Straight hitting, pushing, lifting, jumping, in -their two directions of exertion, tend to expand and to contract. That -is vital, and this is mental. Both are expensive in their drain on the -volition, but one tends to enlarge the physical organism, the other to -shrink it and to produce strictures at every weak point. The former -gives a heavy, obese development; the latter an irritable, irregular, at -once bulgy and constricted development. The vice of the vital nature -dominating unchecked is gluttony, and its end, idiocy. The vice of the -mental nature is avarice, both corporal and spiritual, and its end, -madness. The vice of the moral nature, when it becomes diseased, is -fanaticism; and its subject becomes, if the vital element in it -controls, an ecstatic devotee; if the mental element controls, a -reckless proselyter. Now, a true system of gymnastic will perfect all -the three natures of man by not allowing the vital or the mental to -domineer or its special motions to preponderate, but blending them in -those rotatory elliptical or spiral movements which combine the generous -expansion of the vital organs and the selfish concentration of the -mental faculties in just proportion and thereby constitute the language -of the moral nature. Rigid outward movements enlarge the bulk and -strengthen sensuality. Rigid inward movements cramp the organism and -break the unity and liberty of its circulations, leading to every -variety of disease. But flowing musical movements justly blent of the -other two movements, in which rhythm is observed, and the extensor -muscles are used in preponderance over the contractile so as to -neutralize the modern instinctive tendency to use the contractile more -than the extensor,—movements in which the motor nerves are, for the same -reason, used more than the sensory,—will economize the expenditure of -force, soothe the sensibilities, and secure a balanced and harmonious -development of the whole man in equal strength and grace. Such a system -of exercise will remove every tendency to a monstrous force in one part -and a dwarfed proportion in another. It will secure health and beauty in -a rounded fulness equally removed from shrivelled meagreness and -repulsive corpulence. It will make its practiser far more than a match -for the huge athletes of the coarse school, as the man whose every limb -is a whip is thrice more puissant and terrible than the man whose every -limb is a club. The deepest secret of the final result of this æsthetic -gymnastic is that it gives one the perfect possession of himself in the -perfected unity of his organism, _the connective tissue being so -developed by the practice of a slow and rhythmical extensor action that -it serves as an unbroken bed of solidarity for the whole muscular -coating of the man_. Nothing else can be so conducive as this to -equilibrium, and consequently to longevity. When the unity of the -connective tissue is broken by strictures at the articulations or -elsewhere, the waves of motion or force ever beating through the webs of -nerves are interrupted, stopped, or reflected by devitalized wrinkles -which they cannot pass. Thence result the innumerable mischiefs of -inflammation in the outer membrane and catarrh in the inner. - -The æsthetic gymnastic, which will serve as a diacatholicon and panacea -for a perverted and sick generation, is one whose measured and -curvilinear movements will not be wasteful of force but conservative of -it, by keeping the molecular vibrations circulating in the organism in -perpetual translations of their power, instead of shaking them out and -losing them through sharp angles and shocks. This will develop the brain -and nerves, the genius and character, as the old system developed the -muscles and the viscera. It will lead to harmony, virtue, inspiration, -and long life, as the old system led to exaggeration, lust, excess, and -early death. How greatly it is needed one fact shows, namely, the steady -process which has long been going on of lessening beauty and increasing -ugliness in the higher classes of society, lessening roundness and -increasing angularity of facial contour. The proof of this historic -encroachment of anxious, nervous wear and tear displacing the full grace -of curved lines with the sinister sharpness of straight lines is given -in most collections of family portraits, and may be strikingly seen by -glancing from the rosy and generous faces of Fox and Burke or of -Washington and Hamilton to the pinched and wrinkled visages of Gladstone -and D’Israeli or of Lincoln and Seward. - -There is probably only one man now living who is fully competent to -construct this system of æsthetic gymnastic,—James Steele Mackaye, the -heir of the traditions and the developer of the philosophy of François -Delsarte. It was he of whom Forrest, two years before his own death, -said, “He has thrown floods of light into my mind: in fifteen minutes he -has given me a deeper insight into the philosophy of my own art than I -had myself learned in fifty years of study.” If he shall die without -producing this work, it will be a calamity to the world greater than the -loss of any battle ever fought or the defeat of any legislative measure -ever advocated. For this style of gymnastic alone recognizes the -infinitely solemn and beautiful truth that every attitude, every motion, -tends to _produce_ the quality of which it is the legitimate expression. -Here is brought to light an education constantly going on in every one, -and far more momentous and fatal than any other. Here is a principle -which makes the body and the laws of mechanics as sacred revelations of -the will of God as the soul and the laws of morality. Here is the basis -of the new religious education destined to perfect the children of men, -abolish deformity, sickness, and crime, and redeem the earth. - -Had Forrest practised such a style of exercise, instead of weighing -upwards of two hundred pounds and suffering from those irregularities of -circulation which often disabled, at length paralyzed, and at last -killed him at sixty-seven, he would have weighed a hundred and sixty, -been as free and agile as he was powerful, and lived without an ache or -a shock to ninety or a hundred. - -His faithful exercises, defective as they were in the spirit of beauty -and economy, gave him enormous vital potency and tenacity. He felt this -keenly as a priceless luxury, and was justly proud of it. He used to be -extremely fond of the Turkish bath, and once said, “No man who has not -taken a Turkish bath has ever known the moral luxury of being personally -clean.” He was a great frequenter of the celebrated establishment of Dr. -Angell, on Lexington Avenue, in New York. After the bath and the -shampoo, and the inunction and the rest, on one occasion, as he was -striding up and down the room, feeling like an Olympian god who had been -freshly fed through all the pores of his skin with some diviner viands -than ambrosia, he vented his slight grief and his massive satisfaction -in these words: “What a pity it is that a man should have to suffer for -the sins of his ancestors! Were it not for this damned gouty diathesis, -I would not swap constitutions with any man on earth,—damned if I -would!” - -It was in 1865, while playing, on a terribly cold February night, in the -Holliday Street Theatre, in Baltimore, that Forrest received the first -dread intimation that his so proudly cherished prerogative of bodily -strength was insecure. He was enacting the part of Damon. The theatre -was so cold that, he said, he felt chilled from the extremities of his -hands and feet to the centre of his heart, and the words he uttered -seemed to freeze on his lips. Suddenly his right leg began twitching and -jerking. He nearly lost control of it; but by a violent effort of will -he succeeded in getting through the play. Reaching his lodgings and -calling a physician, he found, to his great grief and horror, that his -right sciatic nerve was partially paralyzed. - -An obvious lameness, a slight hobble in his gait, was the permanent -consequence of this attack. It was sometimes better, sometimes worse; -but not all his earnest and patient attempts to cure it ever availed to -find a remedy. It was a mortifying blow, from which he never fully -recovered, though he grew used to it. His strength of build and movement -had been so complete, such a glory to him, he had so exulted in it as it -drew admiring attention, that to be thus maimed and halted in one of its -most conspicuous centres was indeed a bitter trial to him. Still he kept -up good heart, and fondly hoped yet to outgrow it and be all himself -again. He was just as faithful as ever to his exercises, his diet, his -bathing, his rest and sleep; and he retained, in spite of this shocking -blow, an astonishing quantity of vital and muscular energy. Still a -large and dark blot had been made on his personal splendor, and all -those rôles which required grace and speed of bodily movement sank from -their previous height. Notwithstanding his strenuous endeavors to -neutralize the effects of this paralysis, its stealthy encroachments -spread by imperceptible degrees until his whole right side—shoulder and -chest and leg—shrank to smaller dimensions than the left, and at last he -was obliged when fencing to have the sword fastened to his hand. And yet -he continued to act to the end; acting still with a remarkable physical -power and with a mental vividness not one particle lowered from that of -his palmiest day. But, after the year 1865, for any of his old friends -who remembered the electrifying spontaneity of his terrible -demonstrations of strength in former days, to see him in such casts as -Metamora, Damon, Spartacus, and Cade, was painful. - -In the month of January, 1866, Forrest had a most gratifying triumph in -Chicago. The receipts were unprecedentedly large, averaging for the five -nights of his engagement nearly twenty-five hundred dollars a night. He -wrote to his friend Oakes: “Eighteen years since, I acted here in a -small theatre of which the present mayor of Chicago, J. B. Rice, Esq., -was manager. The population, then about six thousand, is now one hundred -and eighty thousand, with a theatre that would grace Naples, Florence, -or Paris. The applause I have received here has been as enthusiastic as -I have ever known, and the money-return greater. It beats the history of -the stage in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, and -New Orleans. Give me joy, my dear and steadfast friend, that the veteran -does _not_ lag superfluous on the stage.” - -Early in the same year he accepted the munificent offer made by the -manager of the San Francisco theatre to induce him to pay a professional -visit to California. He remembered the flattering letter sent him by the -government of the State nine years before. He felt a keen desire, as a -patriotic American, to view the wondrous scenery and products of the -golden coast of the Pacific, and he also was ambitious that the youngest -part of the country should behold those dramatic portrayals which had so -long been applauded by the oldest. Landing in San Francisco on the third -of May, he was serenaded in the evening by the Philharmonic Society, and -on the fourteenth made his débût in the Opera House in the rôle of -Richelieu. The prices of admission were doubled, and the seats for the -opening night were sold at auction. The first ticket brought five -hundred dollars. “At an early hour last night,” said one of the morning -papers, “the tide of people turned with steady current towards the Opera -House. Throng after throng approached the portal and melted into the -vast space. Inside, the scene was one of extraordinary magnificence. -Hundreds of flaming jets poured a flood of shadowless light on the rich -painting and gilding of the amphitheatre, the luxurious draperies of the -boxes, and the galaxy of wealth and beauty smiling beneath its rays.” He -played for thirty-five nights to an aggregate of over sixty thousand -persons, and was paid twenty thousand dollars in gold. His engagement -was suddenly interrupted by a severe attack of his old enemy the gout. -He fled away to the cedar groves, the mineral springs, and the -mountains, to feast his eyes on the marvellous California landscapes and -to nurse his health. His enjoyment of the whole trip, and in particular -of his long tarry at the Mammoth Tree Grove, was profound. He delighted -in recalling and describing to his friends one scene in this grove, a -scene in which he was himself a striking figure. Visible in various -directions were gigantic trees hundreds of feet in height, whose age -could be reckoned by centuries, bearing the memorial names of celebrated -Americans, — Bryant, Lincoln, Seward, Longfellow, Webster, Kane, -Everett, and the darling of so many hearts, sweet Starr King,—whose top, -three hundred and sixty-six feet high, overpeers all the rest. Here the -Father of the Forest, long ago fallen, his trunk four hundred and fifty -feet long and one hundred and twelve feet in circumference at the base, -lies mouldering in gray and stupendous ruin. A hollow chamber, large -enough for one to pass through on horseback, extends for two hundred -feet through the colossal trunk of this prone and dead monarch of the -grove, whose descendants tower around him in their fresh life, and seem -mourning his requiem as the evening breeze sighs in their branches. -Forrest mounted a horse, and, with all the pageant personalities he had -so long made familiar to the American people clustering upon his own, -rode slowly through this incredible hollow just as the level beams of -the setting sun illuminated the columns of the grove and turned it into -a golden cathedral. - -In September he wrote to Oakes,— - -“Here I am still enjoying the salubrious air of the mountains, on -horseback and afoot, and bathing in waters from the hot and cold springs -which pour their affluent streams on every hand. - -“My health is greatly improved, and my lameness is now scarcely -perceptible. In a few weeks more I shall return to San Francisco to -finish my engagement, which was interrupted by my late indisposition. My -present intention is not to return to the East until next spring; for it -would be too great a risk to encounter the rigors of a winter there -which might prove disastrous. You are aware that the winter in San -Francisco is much more agreeable than the summer; and after my -professional engagement there I shall visit Sacramento and some few -other towns, and then go to Los Angelos, where I shall enjoy a climate -quite equal to that of the tropics. I am determined to come back to you -in perfect health. How I should like to take a tramp with you into the -mountains this blessed day! I can give you no reasonable idea of the -beauty of the weather here. The skies are cloudless, save with the rare -and rosiest shadows, not a drop of rain, and yet no drought, no aridity; -the trees are fresh and green, and the air as exhilarating as -champagne.” - -The news of the serious illness of his sister Caroline caused him to -abandon the purpose of resuming his interrupted engagement in San -Francisco, and, enriched with a thousand agreeable memories, on the -twentieth of October he set sail for home. - -The sentiment of patriotism was a fervid element in the inner life of -Forrest, a source of strength and pleasure. He had a deep faith in the -democratic principles and institutions of his country, a large knowledge -and enjoyment of her scenery, a strong interest in her honor, -industries, and fortunes, and an unshaken confidence and pride in her -sublime destiny. His sympathy in politics, which he studied and voted on -with intelligent conviction, had always been Southern as well as -democratic; but at the first sound of the war he sprang into the most -resolute attitude in defence of the imperilled cause of freedom and -humanity. He wrote the following letter to one of his old friends in the -West in June, 1861: - -“The political aspect of our country is ominous indeed, and yet I hope -with you that in the Divine Providence there will be some great good -brought out of this evil state of affairs which will prove at last a -blessing to our country. Oftentimes from that we consider evil comes a -reviving good. I trust it may prove so in this case. I do not, however, -condemn the South for their feelings of just indignation towards the -intermeddling abolitionist of the North,—the abolitionist who for years -by his incendiary acts has made the homestead of the planter a place of -anxiety and unrest instead of peace and tranquillity. But I do condemn -the leaders of this unwarrantable rebellion, those scurvy politicians -who, to serve their own selfish ends, flatter and fool, browbeat and -threaten honest people into an attitude which seems to threaten the -safety of our glorious Union. I still believe in man’s capacity to -govern himself, and I prophesy that by September next all our -difficulties will be adjusted. The South will know that the North has no -hostile, no subversive feelings to gratify, that it is the Union of the -States—that Union cemented by the blood of patriot sires—which is to be -preserved unbroken and inviolate, and that under its fraternal ægis all -discord shall cease, all wounds be healed. To this end we must be ready -for the field; we must gird up our loins and put on our armor; for a -graceful and lasting peace is only won when men are equals in honor and -in courage. And to this end it gives me pleasure to know that my -namesake, your son ——, has decided to take arms in defence of the Union -of the States and the Constitution of our fathers; and, more, that his -good mother, as well as yourself, approves his resolution. Now is the -time to test if our Government be really a shield and a protection -against anarchy and rebellion, or merely a rope of sand, an illusion, a -chimera; and it is this spontaneous uprising of every friend of freedom -rallying around the flag of his country—that sacred symbol of our -individual faith—which will proclaim to the world in tones more potent -than heaven’s thunder-peal that we HAVE a Government stronger and more -enduring than that of kings and potentates, because founded on equal and -exact justice, the offspring of man’s holiest and noblest nature, the -attribute of God himself.” - -Two years later, he wrote in a letter to another friend,— - -“Great God! in what a melancholy condition is our country now! _An -ineradicable curse begin at the very root of his heart that harbors a -single thought that favors disunion._ May God avert the overwhelming -evil!” - -He made himself familiar with the triumphs of American genius in every -department of industry and art, and glowed with pride over the names of -his illustrious countrymen. The following brief letter reveals his -heart. He never had any personal acquaintance with the brilliant man -whose departure he thus mourns. - - “NEW YORK, July 15th, 1859. - - “MY DEAR OAKES,—It is with the deepest emotions I have just heard of - the death of Rufus Choate. His decease is an irreparable loss to the - whole country. A noble citizen, a peerless advocate, a great - patriot, has gone, and there is no one to supply his place. In the - fall of this great man death has obtained a victory and humanity - suffered a defeat. - - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -One other letter of his should be preserved in this connection, for its -eloquent expression of blended friendship and patriotism: - - “PHILADELPHIA, July 28th, 1862. - - “MY DEAR FRIEND,—Where are you, and what are you doing? Are you ill - or well? I have telegraphed to you twice, and one answer is that you - are ill, another that you are much better. I called on Mr. - Chickering during my recent visit to New York, and he assured me you - could not be seriously ill, or he would have been advised of it; and - so I calmed my fears. That you have greatly suffered in mind I have - reason to know. The death of Colonel Wyman assured me of that. You - must have felt it intensely. But he fell nobly, in the discharge of - a most sacred duty which consecrates his name forever among the - defenders of the Union of his country. I too have lost friends in - the same glorious cause,—peace and renown to their ashes! Among them - one, the noblest of God’s manly creatures, Colonel Samuel Black, of - Pennsylvania. Enclosed you have a merited eulogy of him by our - friend Forney, who knew him well. Let us prepare ourselves for more - of the same sad bereavements. This unnatural war, which has already - ‘widow’d and unchilded many a one,’ has not yet reached its - fearfullest extent. The Union cemented by the blood of our fathers - must and shall be preserved; this is the unalterable decree of the - people of the Free States. Better that all the slaves should perish - and the blood of all those who uphold the institution of slavery - perish with them, than that this proud Temple, this glorious Union - consecrated to human freedom, should tumble into ruins. Do you - remember what Tom Paine, the great Apostle of Liberty, wrote to - General Washington in 1796? ‘A thousand years hence,’ he writes, - ‘perhaps much less, America may be what Britain now is. The - innocence of her character, that won the hearts of all nations in - her favor, may sound like a romance, and her inimitable virtue be as - if it had never been. The ruins of that Liberty thousands bled to - obtain may just furnish materials for a village tale. When we - contemplate the fall of empires and the extinction of the nations of - the Old World we see but little more to excite our regret than - mouldering ruins, pompous palaces, magnificent monuments, lofty - pyramids. But when the Empire of America shall fall the subject for - contemplative sorrow will be infinitely greater than crumbling brass - or marble can inspire. It will not then be said, here stood a temple - of vast antiquity, a Babel of invisible height, or there a palace of - sumptuous extravagance,—but here, oh painful thought! the noblest - work of human wisdom, the greatest scene of human glory, THE FAIR - CAUSE OF FREEDOM ROSE AND FELL!’ - - “May God in his infinite wisdom avert from us such a moral - desolation! Write to me soon, and tell me all about yourself. I have - been ill of late and confined to my bed. I am now better. - - “EDWIN FORREST. - - “JAMES OAKES, ESQ.” - -The earnestness of the feeling of Forrest as an American exerted a -profound influence in moulding his character and in coloring his -theatrical representations. The satisfactions it yielded, the proud -hopes it inspired, were a great comfort and inspiration to him. And he -said that one of his greatest regrets in dying would be that he should -not see the unparalleled growth, happiness, and glory of his country as -they would be a hundred years hence. - -Another source of unfailing consolation and pleasure to him was his love -of nature. He took a real solid joy in the forms and processes of the -material creation, the changing lights and shades of the world, the -solemn and lovely phenomena of morning and evening and summer and -winter, the gorgeous upholstery of the clouds, and the mysterious -marshalling of the stars. His letters abound in expressions which only a -sincere and fervent lover of nature could have used. Writing from -Philadelphia in early October, when recovering from a severe illness, he -says, “It is the true Indian summer. The sunbeams stream through the -golden veil of autumn with a softened radiance. How gratefully I receive -these benedictions from the Universal Cause!” And in a letter dated at -Savannah, November, 1870, he writes to his biographer, “Ah, my friend, -could the fine weather you boast of having in Boston make me feel fresh -and happy, Heaven has sent enough of it here to fill a world with -gladness. The skies are bright and roseate as in summer, the air is -filled with fragrance drawn by the warm sun from the balsamic trees, -while the autumnal wild-flowers waft their incense to the glorious day. -All these things I have enjoyed, and, I trust, with a spirit grateful to -the Giver of all good. Yet all these, though they may meliorate in a -degree the sadness of one’s life, cannot bind up the broken heart, heal -the wounded spirit, nor even, as Falstaff has it, ‘set a leg.’” - -This taste for nature, with the inexhaustible enjoyment and the refining -culture it yields, was his in a degree not common except with artists -and poets. While acting in Cleveland once in mid-winter, he persuaded a -friend to walk with him for a few miles early on a very cold morning. -Striding off, exulting in his strength, after an hour and a half he -paused on the edge of the lake, his blood glowing with the exercise, his -eyes sparkling with delight, while his somewhat overfat companion was -nearly frozen and panted with fatigue. Stretching his hand out towards -the magnificent expanse of scenery spread before them, he exclaimed, -“Bring your prating atheists out here, let them look on that, and then -say there is no God—if they can!” - -An eminent New York lawyer, an intimate friend of Forrest, who had spent -his whole life in the city absorbed in the social struggle, was utterly -indifferent to the beauties of nature. He had never felt even the -loveliness of a sunset,—something which one would think must fill the -commonest mind with glory. Walking with him in the environs of the city -on a certain occasion when approaching twilight had caused the blue -chamber of the west to blaze with such splendors of architectural clouds -and crimsoned squadrons of war as no scenic art could ever begin to -mock, Forrest called the attention of his comrade to the marvellous -spectacle. “I have no doubt,” said the lawyer, “that I have seen a great -many of these things; but I never cared anything about them.” The -disciple of Shakspeare proceeded to discourse to the disciple of Coke -upon Littleton on the charm of natural scenery, its soothing and -delight-giving ministrations to a man of taste and sensibility, in a -strain that left a permanent impression on his hearer, who from that -time began to watch the phenomena of the outward world with a new -interest. - -But even more than in his professional triumphs, his increasing store of -wealth, his animal health and strength, his patriotism, or his love for -the works of God in nature, Forrest found during the last twenty years -of his life a never-failing resource for his mind and heart in the -treasures of literature. He gathered a library of between ten and -fifteen thousand volumes, well selected, carefully arranged and -catalogued, for the accommodation of which he set apart the finest -apartment in his house, a lofty and spacious room running the whole -length of the edifice. In this bright and cheerful room all the -conveniences of use and comfort were collected. Beside his desk, where -from his chair he could lay his hand on it, superbly bound in purple -velvet, on a stand made expressly for it, rested his rare copy of the -original folio edition of Shakspeare, valued at two thousand dollars. -Around him, invitingly disposed, were the standard works of the -historians, the biographers, the poets, and especially the dramatists -and their commentators. Here he added to his shelved treasures many of -the best new works as they appeared, keeping himself somewhat abreast -with the fresh literature of the times in books like Motley’s -Netherlands, Grimm’s Life of Michael Angelo, and Hawkins’s Life of Kean, -which he read with a generous relish. Here, ensconced in an arm-chair by -the window, or lolling on a lounge in the centre of the library, or -seated at his study-table, he passed nearly all the leisure time of his -lonely later years. Here he would occupy himself for many an hour of day -and night,—hours that flew swiftly, laden with stingless enjoyment,— -passing from volume to volume sipping the hived sweetnesses of the -paradisal field of literature. Here, alone and quiet in the peopled -solitude of books, he loved to read aloud by the hour together, -listening to himself as if some one else were reading to him,—the -perfection of his breathing and the ease of his articulation being such -that the labor of utterance took nothing from the interest of the -subject, while the rich music and accurate inflections of his voice -added much. Here his not numerous intimates, with occasional callers -from abroad,—Rees, Forney, and his particular favorite, Daniel -Dougherty,—would often drop in, ever sure of an honest welcome and -genial fellowship, and speed the time with wit and humor, reminiscence, -anecdote, argument, joke, and repartee, vainly seeking to beguile him -into that more general society which would have gladly welcomed what he -could so richly give and take. - -An extract from a letter of his written in June, 1870, is of interest in -this connection: - -“I will read Forster’s Life of Walter Savage Landor, of which you speak, -at my first leisure; though I consider Forster personally to be a snob. -You will find among my papers in your possession exactly what I think of -him. For Landor, even as a boy, I had a great admiration. I sate with -wonder while I quaffed instruction at the shrine of his genius. There is -a book just published in England which I shall devour with an insatiable -mental appetite. It is called ‘Benedict Spinoza, his Life, -Correspondence, and Ethics.’ It is the first time that his works have -been collected and published in English. So that I shall have a rare -treat. His Ethics I have read in a French translation which I found in -Paris years ago; and its perusal divided my time between the pleasures -of the town and the intellectual culture which the study of his sublime -philosophy gave me. It was called ‘Spinoza’s Ethics; or, Man’s -Revelation to Man of the Dealings of God with the World.’” - -Yes, his library was indeed his sure refuge from care and sorrow, a -sweet solace for disappointment and vacancy and heartache. Here, in the -glorious fellowship of the genius and worth of all ages, he fully -gratified that love of reading without whose employment he would hardly -have known how to bear some of the years of his checkered life. An -anecdote will illustrate the strength of this habit in him and afford an -interesting glimpse of the interior of the man. In his library one -summer afternoon, the notes of birds in the trees and the hum of bees in -his garden languidly stealing in at the open window, he sat, with the -precious Shakspeare folio in his lap, conversing with his biographer. He -said, “If I could describe how large a space Shakspeare has filled of my -inward life, and how intense an interest I feel in his personality, no -one would believe me. I would this moment give one hundred thousand -dollars simply to read—even if the instant I had finished its perusal -the manuscript were to be destroyed forever—a full account of the first -eighteen years of the life of Shakspeare,—such an account as he could -himself have written at forty had he been so minded, of his joys and -sorrows, hopes and fears, his aspirations, his disappointments, his -friendships, his enmities, his quarrels, his fights, his day-dreams, his -loves; in short, the whole inward and outward drama of his boyhood.” It -was certainly one of the most striking tributes ever paid to the genius -of the immortal dramatist. A thorough familiarity with the works of -Shakspeare is of itself an education and a fortune for the inner man. -There all the known grades of experience, all the kinds of characters -and styles of life seen in the world, are shown in their most vivid -expressions. There all the varieties of thought and sentiment are -gathered in their most choice and energetic forms of utterance. There -are stimulus and employment for every faculty. There is incitement for -all ambition, solace for all sorrow, beguilement for all care, -provocation and means for every sort and degree of self-culture. -Shakspeare is one of the greatest teachers that ever lived, and those -players who have character, docility, and aspiration are his favorite -pupils. Betterton, who was born in 1635, only twelve years after the -death of Shakspeare, made a journey from London to Warwickshire on -purpose to gather up what traditions and anecdotes remained of him. -Garrick was the author of the remarkable centennial celebration of his -memory. And the voice of Kemble faltered and his tears were visible as -in his farewell speech on the stage he alluded to the divine Shakspeare. - -Anecdotes of the conduct and expressions of a man when he is off his -guard and unstudiedly natural give a truer picture of his character than -elaborate general statements. And three or four brief ones may be given -to close this chapter with an impartial view of the inner life of -Forrest in its contrasted aspects of refinement and even sublimity at -one time, and of rude severity and coarseness at another. - -One summer evening, when he was paying a visit to his friend Oakes, they -were at Cohasset, sitting on a piazza overhanging the sea. Mr. John F. -Mills, one of the best men that ever lived, whose beautiful spirit gave -pain to his host of friends for the first time only when he died, was -with them. There had been a long storm, and now that it had subsided the -moaning roar of the sea was loud and dismal. Forrest addressed it with -this extemporaneous apostrophe, as reported by Mr. Mills: “Howl on, -cursed old ocean, howl in remorse for the crimes you have committed. -Millions of skeletons lie bleaching on your bed; and if all our race -were swallowed there to-night you would not care any more for them than -for the bursting of a bubble on your breast. There is something dreadful -in this inhumanity of nature. Therefore I love to hear you groan, you -heartless monster! It makes you seem as unhappy as you make your victims -when they empty their stomachs into you or are themselves engulfed. -Gnash your rocky teeth and churn your rage white. Thank God, your cruel -reign will one day end, and there will be no more sea.” - -The next evening they sat in the same place, but the moon was up, and -his mood was different, more placid and pensive than before. The swell -and plunge of the billows on the beach made solemn accompaniment to the -guttural music of his voice. There was a mournfulness in the murmur of -his tones as elemental and sad as the tremendous sighing of the sea -itself. “This world,” he said, “seems to me a penal abode. We have all -lived elsewhere and gone astray, and now we expiate our bygone offences. -There is no other explanation that I can think of for the tangled snarl -of human fates. True, since we are ignorant of these sins, our -punishment seems not just. But then we may some time recover memory of -all and so understand everything clearly. It is all mystery now, but if -there is any explanation I am convinced we are convicts working out our -penances, and hell is not hereafter but here. Just hear those breakers -boom, boom, boom. Do they not seem to you to be drumming the funereal -Rogue’s March for this Botany Bay of a world?” - -A stranger to Forrest, merely to gratify his vanity by drawing the -attention of a company to his speech, said he had seen the celebrated -actor drunk in the gutter. The friend who reported this to Forrest would -not reveal who the man was. But one day he pointed him out on the -opposite sidewalk. The outraged and angry tragedian went quietly over -and accosted the slanderer; “Do you know Edwin Forrest, and do you say -you once saw him drunk in the gutter?” On receiving an affirmative reply -he broke out in the strong vernacular of which he was a master, “Now, -you sneaking scoundrel and lying calumniator, I am Edwin Forrest. I ache -all over to give you the damnedest thrashing you ever tasted. But it is -against my principles. I should be ashamed of myself if I stooped to -take such advantage of your cowardly weakness. But, while I will not do -it with my body, in my mind I kick and spit on you. Now pass on, and -relish yourself, and be damned, you human skunk.” - -Although Forrest used much profane language, his real spirit was not an -irreverential one. His profanity was but an expletive habit, a safety- -valve for wrath. When expostulated with on the custom, he said, “I never -knowingly swear before ladies or clergymen, lest it should shock or -grieve them. But at other times, when it is necessary either for proper -emphasis or as a vent for passion too hot and strong, why I let it rip -as it will.” - -In connection with the Broad Street mansion which he occupied at the -time of his death, Forrest built and fitted up a handsome private -theatre. John Wiser, a scenic artist, arranged and painted it. At its -completion Forrest seated himself in a large chair, and, after -expressing his pleasure at the effect, said, “John, do you know what -would be the most delightful sight in the world, eh? If I could only see -this room filled with children, and a company of little boys and girls -playing on that stage.” - -One day when Forrest was walking with a friend in Brooklyn a beggar -accosted them. Tears were in his eyes, and he had a ragged exterior as -well as a tottering form and a pale and sunken look. With a plaintive -voice he said, “For the love of heaven, gentlemen, give me a trifle for -the sake of my starving family. You will not feel it, and it will -relieve a half a score of hungry ones. Will you not aid me?” Forrest -looked at the man for a moment as if reading his very soul, and then -said, while placing a golden eagle in his hand, “Yes, my friend, you are -either a true subject for charity or else the best actor I ever saw.” - -Forrest always carried his professional humor and docility with him. He -gave a ludicrous description of an amateur grave-digger who lived in -Philadelphia. He was worth fifty thousand dollars, yet whenever a grave -was to be made he liked to have a hand in it. His nose was so turned up -that his brains might have been seen, had he possessed any. And his -voice was a perfect model for the second grave-digger in Hamlet, saying, -“The crowner hath set on her, and finds it Christian burial.” - -A strolling exhibitor of snakes came to Louisville when Forrest was -playing there in his youth. Wishing to feel the strongest emotions of -fear, that he might utilize the experience in his acting, Forrest asked -the man to take care of the head of a boa-constrictor some twelve feet -in length and let the hideous reptile crawl about his naked neck. He -never forgot the cold, clammy slip of the coils on his flesh and the -sickening horror it awakened. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - PRIZES AND PENALTIES OF FAME. - - -The next important feature to be studied in order to appreciate the -character and life of Forrest is his experience of the prizes and the -penalties of fame. For he had a great fame; and fame, particularly in a -democratic country, inflicts penalties as well as bestows prizes. Not -one man in a thousand has enough force and tenacity of character to -determine to gain the solid and lasting prizes of life. Average men -willingly put up with cheap and transient substitutes for the real ends, -or with deluding mockeries of them. They seek passing pleasures instead -of the conditions of permanent happiness; applause instead of merit; a -crowd of acquaintances instead of true friends; notoriety or stagnant -indifference instead of fame. There is nothing more worthy of contempt, -although it is so miserably common, than the mean and whining cant which -puts negation and failure above affirmation and success, constantly -asserting the emptiness and deceit of all earthly goods. In opposition -to this morbid depreciation of every natural attractiveness without and -desire within, nothing is more wholesome or grand than a positive grasp -and fruition of all the native worths of the world. A great deal of the -fashionable disparagement and scorn of the prizes of wealth, position, -reputation, is but unconscious envy decrying what it lacks the strength -and courage to seize. The fame which a gifted and faithful man secures -is the reflex signal of the effects he has produced, and a broad, vivid, -healthy enjoyment of it is an intrinsic social good to be desired. It is -one of the greatest forces employed by Providence for the education of -men and the advancement of society. To condemn or despise it is to fling -in the face of God. The fancied pious who do this are dupes of an -impious error. - -Fame is a life in the souls of other men added to our own. It is a -feeling of the effect we have taken on the admiration and love of those -who regard us with honoring attention and sympathy. It is a social -atmosphere of respect and praise and curiosity, enveloping its subject, -fostering his self-esteem, keeping his soul in a moral climate of -complacency. The famous man has a secret feeling that the contributors -to his glory are his friends, loyal to him, ready to protect, further, -and bless him. Thus he is fortified and enriched by them, their powers -ideally appropriated to his ideal use. Thus fame is the multiplication -of the life of its subject, reflected in the lives of its givers. This -is the real cause of the powerful fascination of fame for its votaries; -for there is no instinct deeper in man than the instinct which leads him -to desire to intensify, enlarge, and prolong his existence; and fame -makes a man feel that in some sense his existence is multiplied and -continued in all those who think of him admiringly, and that it will -last as long as their successive generations endure. As Conrad makes -Jack Cade say,— - - “Fame is the thirst - Of gods and godlike men to make a life - Which nature made not, stealing from heaven - Its imaged immortality.” - -And so in its ultimate essence and use fame represents a magnified and -prolonged idealization of direct personal experience. It is ideal means -of life, a deeper foundation and wider range of reflected sympathetic -life embracing and sustaining immediate individual life. This great -prize is evidently a good to be desired, the evils connected with it -belonging not to itself but to unprincipled methods of pursuing it, -vulgar errors in distributing it, and the selfish perversion of its true -offices. It exists and is enjoyed in various degrees, on many different -levels, from the plebeian enthusiasm for the champion boxer to the -aristocratic recognition of a great thinker. As we ascend in rank we -lose in fervor. Fame is seen in its ruddiest intensity at the funeral of -Thomas Sayers celebrated by fifty thousand screaming admirers; in its -palest expansion in the renown of Plato, whose works are read by -scattered philosophers and whose name glitters inaccessibly in the -eternal empyrean. The reason for this greater heat of glory on its lower -ranges plainly is that men feel the sharpest interest in the lowest -bases of life, because these are the most indispensable. Existence can -be maintained without transcendent talents, but not without health, -strength, and courage. Animal perfection goes before spiritual -perfection, and its glory is more popular because more appreciable. - -Forrest drank the intoxicating cup of fame on widely separated levels, -from the idolatrous incense of the Bowery Boys who at the sight of his -herculean proportions shied their caps into the air with a wild yell of -delight, to the praise of the refined judges who applauded the -intellectual and imaginative genius of his Lear. It was a genuine luxury -to his soul for many years, and would have been a far deeper one had it -not been for the alloys accompanying it. He enjoyed the prize because he -had honorably won it, not sacrificing to it the more commanding aims of -life; and fame is a mockery only when it shines on the absence of the -goods greater than itself,—honor, health, peace, and love. He suffered -much on account of it, in consequence of the detestable jealousies, -plots, ranklings, and slanders always kindled by it among unhappy rivals -and malignant observers. But one suffering he was always spared, namely, -the bitter mortifications of the charlatan who has snatched the outward -semblance of the prizes of desert without paying their price or -possessing their substance. Striving always to deserve his reputation, -he did not forfeit his own esteem. The satisfaction he received from -applause was the joy of feeling his own power in the fibres of the -audience thrilling under his touch. Fame was the magnifying and -certified abstract of this,—a vast and constant assurance in his -imagination of life and power and pleasure. Dry sticks, leather men, may -sneer at the idea, but the rising moral ranks of souls are indicated by -the intensity with which they can act and react on ideal considerations. -Fame puts a favorable bias on all our relations with the approving -public, and thus enriches our inner life by aiding our sympathies to -appropriate their goods. - -The actor lives in an atmosphere electrized with human publicity, and -walks between walls lined with mirrors. Everything in his career is -calculated to develop an acute self-consciousness. And then by what -terrible trials his sensitiveness is beset in his exposure to the -opposite extremes of derision and eulogy! Dr. Johnson, alluding at one -time to the sensibility of Garrick, said, contemptuously, “Punch has no -feelings.” At another time, praising his genius, he said, sublimely, -“His death eclipsed the gayety of nations.” The actor tastes the -sweetness of fame more keenly than any other, because no other lives so -directly on it or draws the expression of it so openly and directly. -Bannister was invited by the royal family at Windsor one evening to read -a new play, and was treated with the utmost regard. The very next night -he was stopped by a footpad, who, dragging him to a lamp to plunder him, -discovered who he was, and said, “I’ll be damned if I can rob Jack -Bannister.” Having thus the esteem of both extremes of society, it is -safe to conclude that he enjoyed the admiration of all between. And this -boon of public honor and love will seem valuable to a performer in -proportion to the quickness and depth of his emotional power. “The awful -consciousness,” said Mrs. Siddons, “that one is the sole object of -attention to that immense space, lined as it were with human intellect -all around from top to bottom, may perhaps be imagined, but can never be -described.” A vulgar performer would rush on as if those heads were so -many turnips. The genius of imaginative sensibility is the raw material -for greatness. Forrest had much of this, although his self-possession -was so strong; and under his composed exterior, even after he had been -thirty years on the stage, he often shrank with temporary trepidation -from the ordeal of facing a fresh audience. His enjoyment of the -tributes paid to him was commensurately deep. - -And, stretching through the long fifty years of his professional course, -how varied, how numerous, how interesting and precious, these crowded -tributes were! There was no end to the compliments paid him, echoes of -the impression he had made on the country. Now it was a peerless race- -horse, carrying off prize on prize, that was named after him. Then it -was some beautiful yacht, club-boat, or pilot-boat, of which there were -a dozen or more to whose owners he presented sets of flags. At another -time it was a noble steamer or merchantman, of which there were a good -many named for him, each adorned with a statue of some one of his -characters as a figure-head. Locomotives and fire-engines also were -crowned with his name and his likeness. Military companies, too, took -their titles from him and carried his face copied on their banners. The -following letter indicates another of the results of his fame: - - “WALTHAM, February 12th, 1871. - - “EDWIN FORREST, ESQ.: - - “DEAR SIR,—Being one of the small army of boys called after you, I - should feel happy to receive some token from my illustrious - namesake, if nothing more than his autograph. Hoping to see you - before you leave the stage, - - “I am respectfully yours, - “EDWIN FORREST MOORE.” - -Seven different dramatic associations, composed of amateurs and -professionals, were formed in the cities of Portland, Boston, New York, -and elsewhere, bearing his name. And the notices of him in the -newspapers were to be reckoned by thousands, ranging all the way from -majestic eulogium to gross vituperation. - -Portraits of him, paintings, engravings, photographs, in his own -individuality and in his chief impersonations, were multiplied in many -quarters. Numerous plaster casts of him, four or five busts in marble, -and one full-length statue of surpassing grandeur, were taken. Many -celebrated artists studied him, from Gilbert Stuart, whose Washington -stands supremely immortal in American portraiture, to William Page, -whose lovingly elaborated Shakspeare may become so in creative -portraiture. Page has depicted Forrest in the role of Spartacus. He -shows him at that moment of the scene in the amphitheatre where he -utters the words which he never spoke without moving the audience to -repeated bursts of applause: “Let them come in: we are armed!” The last -portrait ever painted by the dying Stuart was of Forrest, then in his -youth and only just beginning to become famous. Forrest used often to -speak of his sitting to Stuart, whose strong fiery soul was enclosed in -a frame then tottering and tremulous with age. “He was an old white -lion,” said Forrest, “and so blind that I had to tell him the color of -my eyes and of my hair. By sudden efforts of will he _threw_ the lines -and bits of color on the canvas, and every stroke was speech.” - -Of the likenesses of Forrest published in this volume, the frontispiece -is engraved from a daguerreotype of him at the age of forty-six; the -succeeding one is from a painting by Samuel Lawrence, and shows him as -he was at twenty-eight; the last one is from a photograph taken when he -was in his sixty-seventh year. The illustrations of him in dramatic -characters are from photographs made after he had passed sixty and had -suffered partial paralysis. They do no justice to him as he appeared in -his perfect meridian. - -Of all the expressions of admiration, affection, pleasure, called forth -by a professional artist, of all the forms or signals of fame, perhaps -none is more flattering or more delightful to the recipient than the -tributary verses evoked from souls endowed with the poetic faculty. As -such natures are finer and higher than others, their homage is -proportionally more precious. During his life more than fifty poems -addressed to Forrest were published, and gave him a great deal of pure -pleasure. A few specimens of these offerings may properly find a place -here. - -The following lines felicitously copied were thrown upon the stage to -him one evening in a bouquet: - - - TO EDWIN FORREST. - - When Time hath often turned his glass, - And Memory scans the stage, - Foremost shall then thy image pass, - The Roscius of this age. - -The succeeding piece was written in 1828: - - - TO EDWIN FORREST. - - Young heir of glory, Nature’s bold and favorite child, - Nurtured ’midst matchless scenes of wild sublimity, - Thou who wert reared with sternest truth in groves of song, - To thy bare arm the grasp is given to hurl the bolts - Of wrathful heaven. ’Tis thine, with thundering voice to shake - Creation to her centre, wakening love or rage, - And show thyself as angels or as demons are. - Yea, thou didst seem, as at the shrine I saw thee kneel, - With that bold brow of thine, like some creation bright - From higher spheres breathing thy inspiration there, - As if the Altar’s flame itself had lit thine eye - With all the dazzling radiance of the Deity. - Go forth. Already round thy brow the wreath of fame - Amidst thy godlike locks with classic grace is curled. - Go forth, and shine, the Sun of the dramatic world! - - R. M. WARD. - -The next piece, in which he is associated with his friend Halleck, is -dated 1830: - - - TO EDWIN FORREST. - - When genius, with creative fancy fraught, - Moulds some new being for the sphere of thought, - How the soul triumphs as, supremely blest, - She opes her temple to the welcome guest, - And her white pulses feel, with answering glow, - The kindred breath of the young presence flow! - - Such moments, bright as hours in heaven that bring - To spirits life, a pure and deathless thing, - Cheer him who, warm with poesy’s true flame, - Rears in his bower of song the birds of fame; - He whose wreathed locks the lyric laurels wear - Green with immortal dew and cloudless air; - Whose harp-chords wildly echoed back the swell - Of glory’s clarion when BOZZARIS fell,— - Thus knew his human fancies grow divine, - And poured their spirit o’er the happy line. - - Yet not alone the sons of song can feel - This joy along the grateful senses steal. - To him who, musing, waits at Nature’s throne, - And feels, at last, her wealth become his own, - Then with the priceless gold, thought, passion, heart, - And feeling, tempers to the test of art, - Blends these with poesy’s mysterious spell - Strange as the sigh of ocean’s rosy shell, - No less belong the triumph-throb, the pride - To mind-ennobling sympathies allied, - The deep emotion, and the rapture free; - And these, O Forrest, we behold in thee! - - Who e’er has marked thine eye, thy matchless mien, - While, all forgetful of the mimic scene, - Spurning the formal, manner-taught control, - Thou bar’st the fire that lightens in the soul, - Has deemed there moved the form that Shakspeare drew - From visions bright with passion’s warmest hue, - As, wildly garbed in awful tragic guise, - MACBETH, OTHELLO, LEAR, he saw arise. - - When the last outrage of oppression falls - On man enthralled by man, and Freedom calls - Some champion to flash her steel where’er, - Bloody and black, death, shrieking, hovers near, - Who can portray like thee the throe of hate - Which warns the tyrant of his dreadful fate? - Who image forth th’ exalted agony - Of strife and maddening hope of victory? - There thrills an echo of the pulse, the tone, - That universal man exults to own, - A voice which teaches craven souls that War - For right than guilty Peace is holier far; - Nor suffers them to breathe and pass away - As dust that ne’er forsook its primal clay. - -The lines that follow next were printed in 1852, after the divorce -trial: - - - TO EDWIN FORREST. - - In every soul where Poesy and Beauty find a place, - Thy image, Forrest, sits enshrined in majesty and grace. - Could but the high and mighty bard, whose votary thou art, - Have seen with what a matchless power thou swayest the human heart, - He too had bowed beneath the spell and owned thy wondrous sway, - And bound thy brow with laurel, and with flowers strewn thy way. - - The clouds of grief that for a time obscured thy brilliant morn, - Like to the envious shadows that would dim the rising sun, - Meridian’s fame has put to flight. Cast not thy glances back, - But in the light of fearless genius hold thine onward track. - - MARGARET BARNETT. - -This sonnet was written in the same year: - - - TO EDWIN FORREST. - - King of the tragic art! without compeer! - Thy sway is sovereign in the scenic realm; - And where thy sceptre waves, or nods thy helm, - All crowd to be thy royal presence near. - Thou speakest,—we are stilled; the solemn Past, - Rich with grand thought, and filled with noble men - Over whose lives and deeds time’s veil is cast, - Rises to view, and they do live again! - While thou dost tread life’s stage, thy lofty fame, - Undimmed, shall grow, and be the drama’s pride - Centuries hence, when all shall see thy name - Carved deep and high her noblest names beside; - And, with the noblest placed, will aye be found, - In Thespis’ fane, thy statue, laurel-crowned! - - R. H. BACON. - -Here is a tribute penned in 1862, in the midst of our civil war: - - - EDWIN FORREST AS “DAMON.” - - Great master of the tragic art, - Whose genius moves the passions’ spring, - To melt the eye and warm the heart - With love of virtue, hate of sin, - Is it our nation’s bleeding fate - That gives thee such heroic fire - Singly to brave the Senate’s hate - And faith for country’s good inspire? - Yes; ’tis not all the mimic scene - We view when now beholding thee; - The heart-strung voice and earnest mien - Of “Damon” breathe pure liberty. - The test of friendship true is there; - But hope for freedom more than life - Starts the usurping tyrant near— - Pleads for the boy—weeps for the wife. - O art divine! when Forrest brings - His matchless eloquence to bear, - Denouncing treason’s poisonous stings, - While for his loved land falls the tear, - The temple of the Muses, filled - With beauty, fashion, youth, and age, - Proves admiration for the skilled - And perfect artist of the stage. - - G. C. HOWARD. - -And a year later the following eloquent verses were published by their -author in the Philadelphia “Press:” - - - FORREST. - - Pride of the Grecian art, - King of the glorious act, - Whose sceptre-touch can start - From airiest fancy fact! - Sole monarch of the stage! - Thy crowning is the truth - That garners unto age - The laurel-wreaths of youth. - Were massive mien or mould - Of Thespian gods divine - E’er richer in the gold - Of Thespian grace than _thine_? - A voice that thrills the soul - Through all her trembling keys, - From deepening organ-roll - To flute-born symphonies; - An eye that gleams the light - Of Tragedy’s quick fire, - And soul that sweeps aright - Each grandest poet-lyre,— - These into living thought, - FORREST! in thee sublime - The Thespian gods have wrought, - A masterpiece for Time! - - Not from the clods of earth - ’Mid grovelling toil and strife - Thy GENIUS hailed her birth - To all her peerless life; - Her viewless home hath been - Where Poesy hath flung - Its sweetest words to win - The music of thy tongue! - How Manhood’s honor rose, - How perished Woman’s shame, - When robed in worth and woes - Thine own VIRGINIUS came! - How Freedom claims a peal - And Tyranny a knell - When BRUTUS waves the steel - Where Slave and Tarquin fell! - When SPARTACUS leads on - Each gladiator-blade, - Or feudal tyrants fawn - To lion-hearted CADE,— - How every listening heart - its narrow span, - And, in that glorious art, - Adores the peerless man! - - But dearer than the rest - We own thy mystic spell - To lave the lingering breast - Where Avon’s sweetness fell! - To marshal from the page - And summon from the pen - Of SHAKSPEARE, to _thy_ stage, - His living, breathing men! - No longer Shakspeare’s line, - But _studious_ gaze controls; - It girds and gilds from _thine_ - The multitude of souls! - While Genius claims a crown, - Or mimic woe a tear, - Paled be the envious frown - And dumb the cynic sneer - That barreth from thy heart - Or veileth from thy name - The loftiest, grandest part - Of histrionic FAME! - - C. H. B. - -A single sonnet more shall end these examples of the poetic tributes to -the genius and worth of Forrest; tributes which, adding lustre to his -career and shedding comfort and joy into his heart, were and are one of -the most attractive illustrations of the value and sweetness of the -prize of fame: - - - ON ROOT’S DAGUERREOTYPE OF MR. FORREST. - - Light-born, and limned by Heaven! It is no cheat, - No image; but himself, his living shade! - With hurried pulse, the heart leaps forth to greet - The man who merits more than Tully said - Of his own Roscius, that the histrion’s power - Was but a leaf amid his garland wreath. - His swaying spirit ruled the magic hour, - But his vast virtues knew no day, no death. - He seems not now, but is. And I do know, - Or think I do, what meaning from those lips - Would break; and on that bold and manly brow - There hangs a light that knows not an eclipse, - The light of a true soul. If art can give - The bodied soul this life, who doubts the soul will live? - - ROBERT T. CONRAD. - -Public and private banquets were given in honor of the actor by -distinguished men in all parts of the country, occasions drawing -together brilliant assemblages and yielding the highest enjoyment to -every faculty of sense and soul. To meet around the social table, decked -with everything that wealth and taste can command, the most eminent -members of the learned professions, artists, authors, statesmen, the -leaders of the business world, beautiful and accomplished women, and -pass the hours in friendly converse seasoned with every charm of culture -and wit, is one of the choicest privileges society can bestow in -recognition and reward of worth and celebrity. Among the more notable of -these honors may be mentioned as especially brilliant and locally -conspicuous at the time a dinner given him at Detroit by General Lewis -Cass, one at Cincinnati by his old friend James Taylor, one at New -Orleans by a committee of the leading citizens, including some of his -early admirers, and, later, one at Washington by his intimate and -esteemed friend Colonel Forney, then Clerk of the House of -Representatives. During one of his engagements in Washington he dined -with a distinguished company under the princely auspices of Henry Clay. -The great Kentuckian, in allusion to Pierre Soulé, a Louisiana Senator, -who was a passionate orator but wanting, perhaps, in sobriety of -judgment and steadiness of character, said to one of the guests, “A mere -actor, sir, a mere actor!” At that instant chancing to catch the eye of -Forrest, he promptly added, with the courteous grace of self-possession -and winsome eloquence native to his thoroughbred soul, “I do not allude, -Mr. Forrest, when I use the word actor thus demeaningly, to those men of -genius who impersonate the great characters of Shakspeare and the other -immortal dramatists, holding the very mirror of truth up to nature; I -refer to the man who in real life affects convictions and plays parts -foreign to his soul.” - -At a banquet given in honor of John Howard Payne, the first vice- -president, Prosper M. Wetmore, an old and dear friend of Forrest, paid -him a compliment which, received as it was by the brilliant company with -three times three enthusiastic cheers, must have given him a proud -pleasure. Mr. Wetmore said, “Before mentioning the name of the gentleman -whose health I am about to ask you to drink, I take this opportunity to -say a word in relation to the generosity of his heart and the richness -of his mind. He was one of the very first who took an interest in the -festival of Thursday last, and kindly offered his name and services to -add to the attractions of the evening. He has always been the foremost -to do his share in honoring our sons of genius; and his purse has never -been shut against the meritorious who stood in need of his bounty. His -talents as an actor you all know and appreciate. Allow me to give you— -Edwin Forrest: - - “His health; and would on earth there stood - Some more of such a frame, - That life might be all poetry, - And weariness a name.” - -Such as above described were the satisfactions afforded to Forrest by -his fame. They are what thousands have vainly wished to win, fondly -believing that if they could gain them they should be happy indeed. But -to these advantages there are drawbacks, corresponding to these prizes -there are penalties, which were experienced by Forrest in all their -varieties of bitterness. The evils which dog the goods of public life, -as their shadows, went far to disenchant him, to sour him, to make him -turn sadly and resentfully into himself away from the lures and shams of -society. - -To any man of honorable instincts, clear perceptions, and high -principles, the incompetency, corruption, and selfish biases of many of -those who assume to sit in judgment on the claims of the competitors for -public favor and glory, the shallowness and fickleness of the average -public itself, the contemptible means successfully used by ignoble -aspirants for their own advancement and the defeat of their rivals, the -frequent reaction of their own modesty and high-mindedness to obscure -and keep down the most meritorious, have a strong influence to rob -ambition of its power, destroy all the relish of its rewards, and make -fame seem worthless or even odious. Critics write in utter ignorance of -the laws of criticism or standards of judgment, and even without having -seen the performance they presume to approve or to condemn. Claqueurs -are hired to clap one and to hiss another irrespective of merit or -demerit. Wreaths, bouquets, rings, jewelled snuff-boxes, are purchased -by actors or actresses themselves, through confederates, to be then -presented to them in the name of an admiring public. A vase or cup or -watch has been known to go with a popular performer from city to city to -be presented to him over and over with eulogistic addresses of his own -composition. A brazen politician, successful in compassing a nomination -and election by shameless wire-pulling, mendacity, and bribery, then -receives the tribute of an ostentatious testimonial of which he is -himself the secret originator and prime manager. No one who has not had -long experience of the world and been admitted behind the scenes, with -the keys for interpreting appearances, can suspect how common such -things are. They are terribly disheartening and repulsive to a generous -soul. They destroy the splendor and value of the outward prizes of -existence, and thus paralyze the grandest motives of action. When fools, -charlatans, and swindlers carry off honors, then wisdom, genius, and -heroism are tempted to despise honors. When the owl is umpire in a -contest of song between the donkey and the nightingale, and awards the -prize to the brayer, the lark and the mocking-bird may well decline to -enter the lists. - -In the fashionable rage for Master Betty, Kemble and Siddons were quite -neglected; as the levee of Tom Thumb drew a throng of the nobility and -fashion of London while poor Haydon, across the street, watched them -with a gnawing heart from the door of his deserted exhibition. Cowper -says in his “Task,”— - - “For Betty the boy - Did strut and storm and straddle, stamp and stare, - And show the world how Garrick did not act.” - -When, with pompous incompetency, Lord Abercorn told Mrs. Siddons that -“that boy would yet eclipse everything which had been called acting in -England,” she quietly replied, with crushing knowledge, “My lord, he is -a very clever, pretty boy, but nothing more.” Garrick said it was the -lot of actors to be alternately petted and pelted. And Kemble, when -congratulated on the superb honors given him at his final adieu to the -stage, responded, “It was very fine, but then I could not help -remembering that without any cause they were once going to burn my -house.” Genius and nobility naturally love fame, worship the public, -would pour out their very life-blood to gain popular sympathy and -admiration; but after such experiences of baseness and wrong and error -the fascination flies from the prizes they had adored as so sacred, and -never more do their souls leap and burn with the old enthusiasm of their -unsophisticated days. The injustice of the world drives from it the love -and homage of its noblest children. - -Parasites and egotists seek association with a famous man merely to -gratify their vanity, though they call it friendship. They fawn on him -to share a reflection of his glory, to reap advantage from his -influence, or to beg loans of his money; and when circumstances unmask -their characters and show how they were preying on his frankness, he is -revolted and his confidence in human nature shaken. Many a man of a -sweet and loving nature, like the noble Timon, has gone out to the world -with throbbing heart and open arms, and, met with selfishness and -treachery, reacted into despair and hate. One of the penalties of a -great reputation with its personal following is to be annoyed by -sycophants, toadies, the impertinent curiosity of a miscellaneous throng -who have neither genuine appreciation for talent nor sincere love for -excellence, but a pestiferous instinct for boring and preying. Mrs. -Siddons, bereaved of her children amidst her great fame, was so annoyed -by worrying interruptions, assailed by envy, slandered by enemies, and -vexed by parasites, that she breathed the deepest wishes of her soul in -these lines: - - “Say, what’s the brightest wreath of fame, - But cankered buds that opening close? - Ah, what the world’s most pleasing dream, - But broken fragments of repose? - - “Lead me where peace with steady hand - The mingled cup of life shall hold, - Where time shall smoothly pour his sand, - And wisdom turn that sand to gold. - - “Then haply at religion’s shrine - This weary heart its load shall lay, - Each wish my fatal love resign, - And passion melt in tears away.” - -The falsehood, the injustice, the plots, insincerity and triviality that -gather about the surfaces and course of a showy popular career Forrest -experienced in their full extent. He was not deceived by them, but saw -through them. They repelled and disgusted him, angered and depressed -him. They did not make him a misanthrope, but they chilled his demeanor, -hardened his face, checked the trustfulness of his sympathy, and gave -him an increasing distaste for convivial scenes and an increased liking -for his library and the chosen few in whom he could fully confide. He -was a man who esteemed justice and sincerity above all things else. -Flattery or interested eulogy he detested as much as he did venal -prejudice and blame. He loathed the unmeaning, conventional praises of -the journals, the polite compliments of acquaintances or strangers, but -was glad of all honest estimates. His dignity kept him from mingling -with the audience as they conversed on their way out of the theatre, but -he loved to hear what they said when it was repeated by one whom he -could trust. Nothing more surely proves that deep elements of love and -pride instead of shallow vanity and selfishness formed the basis of his -character than the fact that he hated to mix in great companies, either -public or private, where he was known and noticed, but loved to mingle -with the population of the streets, with festive multitudes, where, -unrecognized, he could look on and enter into their ways and pleasures. -“It is a great feat,” he used to say, “to resist the temptations of our -friends.” He did it when he withdrew from the obstreperous enthusiasm of -those who adulated him while revelling at his expense and shouting, “By -heaven, Forrest, you are an institution!”—forsaking them, and giving -himself exclusively to nature, his art, his books, and his disinterested -friends. - -The practice of the arts of purchasing unearned praise, the tricks of -the mean to circumvent the noble, the accredited verdicts of titled -ignorance, and the fickle superficiality of popular favor, lessen the -value of common fame in the eyes of all who understand these things. -They foul its prizes and repel ingenuous spirits from its pursuit. The -same influence is exerted in a yet stronger degree by the experience of -the malignant envy awakened in plebeian natures by the sight of the -success of others contrasted with their own failure. It was long ago -remarked that - - “With fame in just proportion envy grows; - The man that makes a character makes foes.” - -The selfishness—not to say the innate depravity—of human nature, as -transmitted by historic inheritance, is such that every one who has not -been regenerated by the reception or culture of a better spirit secretly -craves a monopoly of the goods which command his desires. He dislikes -his competitors, and would gladly defeat their designs and appropriate -every waiting laurel to himself. In 1865 Forrest wrote, in a letter to -Oakes, “Yes, my dear friend, there are many in this world who take -pleasure in the misfortunes of their fellow-men and gloat over the -miseries of their neighbors. And their envy, hatred, and malice are -always manifested most towards men of positive natures.” - -Souls of a generous type leave this base temper behind, and rejoice in -the glory of a rival as if it were their own. But mean souls, so far -from taking a disinterested delight in the spectacle of triumphant -genius or valor justly crowned with what it has justly won, are filled -with pain at the sight, a pain obscenely mixed up with fear and hate. -Wherever they see an illustrious head they would fain strike it down or -spatter it with mud. Their perverse instincts regard every good of -another as so much kept from them. There was a powerful passage in the -play of Jack Cade which Forrest used to pronounce with tremendous -effect, ingravidating every word with his own bitter experience of its -truth: - - “Life’s story still! all would o’ertop their fellows; - And every rank, the lowest, hath its height, - To which hearts flutter with as large a hope - As princes feel for empire! but in each - Ambition struggles with a sea of hate. - He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life - Finds in each station icy scorn above; - Below him, hooting envy!” - -The extent to which this dark and malign power operates in the breasts -of men is fearful. The careless see it not, the innocent suspect it not; -carefully disguising itself under all sorts of garbs, it dupes the -superficial observer. But the wise and earnest student of human life who -has had large experience knows that it is almost omnipresent. In every -walk of society, every profession,—even in the Church and among the -clergy,—are men who fear and hate their superiors simply because they -are superior, and the inferiors feel themselves obscured and taunted by -the superiority. A good free man loves to reverence a superior, feels -himself blessed and helped in looking up. But the slave of egotism and -envy feels elevated and enriched only in looking down on those he -fancies less favored than himself. It is a frightful and disheartening -phase of human nature; but it ought to be recognized, that we may be -guarded against it in others and stimulated to outgrow it in ourselves. - -No other profession is so beset by the temptations and trials of this -odious spirit as the histrionic, which lives directly in the public -gaze, feeding on popular favor. And among all the actors America has -produced, no other had so varied, so intense and immense an experience -of the results of it as Forrest. He wrote these sad and caustic words in -his old age: “For more than forty years the usual weapons of abuse, -ridicule, and calumny have been unceasingly levelled at me, personally -and professionally, by envious associates, by ungrateful friends turned -traitors, by the hirelings of the press, and by a crowd of causeless -enemies made such by sheer malignity.” In a speech made twenty-two years -previously in the Walnut Street Theatre, in response to a call before -the curtain, he had said, “I thank you with all my heart for this -glorious and generous reception. In the midst of my trials it is -gratifying to be thus sustained. I have been assailed, ladies and -gentlemen, by a fiendish combination of enemies, who, not content with -striking at my professional efforts, have let loose their calumnies upon -my private character and invaded the sacred precincts of my home. Apart -from the support of my ardent and cherished friends is the consciousness -that I possess a reputation far dearer than all the professional honors -that the world could bestow,—a reputation which is dearer to me than -life itself. I will therefore pursue unawed the even tenor of my way. I -will, with God’s blessing, live down the calumnies that would destroy me -with my countrymen; and, turning neither to the right hand nor to the -left hand, will fearlessly toil to preserve to the last the reputation -of an honest and independent American citizen.” - -To a man of his keen feeling and proud self-respect it must have been a -torture to read the studiously belittling estimates, the satires, the -insults, the slanderous caricatures continually published in the -newspapers under the name of criticism. No wonder they stirred his rage -and poisoned his repose, as they wounded his heart, offended his -conscience, and made him sometimes shrink from social intercourse and -sicken of the world. One critic says, “He is an injury to the stage. He -has established a bad school for the young actors who are all imitating -him. He has a contempt for genius and a disrelish for literature.” -Against this extract, pasted in one of his scrap-books, Forrest had -written, “Oh! oh!” A second writes, “It is impossible for us to admit -that a man of Mr. Forrest’s intelligence can take pleasure in making of -himself a silly spectacle for the amusement of the ignorant and the -sorrow and pity of the educated. We prefer to believe that it is even a -greater pain for him to play Metamora than it is for us to see him play -it. In that case, how great must be his anguish!” A third philosophizes -thus on his playing: “The best performances of Mr. Forrest are those -tame readings of ordinary authors which offer no opportunity for -enormous blunders. In the flat, dreary regions of the commonplace he -walks firmly. But he climbs painfully up Shakspeare as a blind man would -climb a mountain, continually tumbling over precipices without seeming -to know it. He shocks our sensibilities, astonishes our judgment, -bewilders and offends us; and this is at least excitement, if not -entertainment. But his Brutus is a remarkably stupid performance. The -only way in which he can redeem its stupidity is to make it worse; and -if he wants to do this he must inspire it with the spirit of his Hamlet -or his Othello.” A fourth makes malicious sport at his expense in this -manner: “Mr. Forrest excels every tragedian we remember in one grand -achievement. He can snort better than any man on the stage. It is an -accomplishment which must have cost him much labor, and of which he is -doubtless proud, for he introduces it whenever he gets a chance. His -snort in Hamlet is tremendous; but that dying, swan-like note, which -closes the career of the Gladiator, is unparalleled in the whole history -of his sonorous and tragic nose. It must be heard, not described. We can -only say that when he staggers in, with twenty mortal murders on his -crown, with a face hideous with gore, and falls dying on the stage, he -sounds a long, trumpet-like wail of dissolution, which is the most -supernaturally appalling sound we ever heard from any nose, either of -man or brute.” And a fifth caps the climax by calling him “A herculean -murderer of Shakspeare!” So did a critic say of Garrick, on the eve of -his retirement, “His voice is hoarse and hollow, his dimples are -furrows, his neck hideous, his lips ugly, especially the upper one, -which is raised all at once like a turgid piece of leather.” “He is a -grimace-maker, a haberdasher of wry faces, a hypocrite who laughs and -cries for hire!” Well might Byron exclaim,— - - “Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze - Is fixed forever to detract or praise.” - -A servile fawning on the press, a cowardly fear of its censures, a -tremulous sensitiveness to its comments, is one of the chief weaknesses -of American society. Its unprincipled meddlesomeness, tyranny, and -cruelty are thus pampered. A quiet ignoring of its impertinence or its -slander is undoubtedly the course most conducive to comfort on the part -of one assailed. But the man who has the independence and the courage -publicly to call his wanton assailant to account and prosecute him, even -though shielded by all the formidable immunities of an editorial chair, -sets a good example and does a real service to the whole community. -Every American who values his personal freedom should crown with his -applause the American who seizes an insolent newspaper by the throat and -brings it to its knees; for unkind and unprincipled criticism is the -bane of the American people. The antidote for this bane is personal -independence supported by personal conscience and honor in calm defiance -of all prying and censorious espionage. This would produce individual -distinction, raciness, and variety, resulting in an endless series of -personal ranks, with perfect freedom of circulation among them all; -whereas the two chief exposures of a democracy are individual envy and -social cowardice, yielding the double evil of universal rivalry and -universal truckling, and threatening to end in a dead level of conceited -mediocrity. The envy towards superiors which De Tocqueville showed to be -the cardinal vice of democracy finds its worst vent in the newspaper -press, which assails almost every official in the country with the -foulest accusations. Are these writers destitute of patriotism and of -faith in humanity? Are they ignorant of the fact that if they convince -the public that their superiors are all corrupt the irresistible reflex -influence of the conviction will itself corrupt the whole public? - -That American citizen who has original manhood and lives a fresh, honest -life of his own, regardless of the dictation of King Caucus or Queen -Average,—the most heartless and vulgar despots that ever reigned,—sets -the bravest of examples and teaches the most needed of lessons. Fenimore -Cooper did this, criticising the errors and defects of his fellow- -citizens as an enthusiastic and conscientious patriot should who sets -humanity and truth above even country and fashion, and in consequence he -was misunderstood, lampooned, and insulted by the baser newspapers, and -finally, after one or two hundred libel suits, hounded into his grave. -If they ever come to their senses, his repentant countrymen will one day -build him a monument. Forrest was much this sort of man. He asserted -himself, resented and defied dictation, and wanted others to do the -same. He secured at different times a verdict with damages against the -proprietors of four newspapers, and threatened libel suits against three -others, which he withdrew on receiving ample public apology. The apology -given in one instance, where he had been professionally abused and -personally accused of drunkenness, is of so exemplary a character that -it ought to be preserved. And here it is: - -“It will perhaps be remembered by most of our readers that Mr. Edwin -Forrest brought a libel suit against the proprietors of this paper for -articles which appeared in our issues of 10th, 17th, and 24th of -November, 1867. The solicitations and representations of mutual friends -have induced Mr. Forrest generously to consent to the withdrawal of the -case. Under these circumstances it becomes our duty as it is our -pleasure, to express our regret at the publication of the articles in -question. - -“The articles complained of were, we frankly admit, beyond the limits of -dramatic criticism; and the present proprietors, who saw them for the -first time when printed, were at the time and still are sincerely sorry -they appeared. Though not personally acquainted with Mr. Forrest, we do -know, what the world knows, that he has always been prompt and faithful -in his professional engagements; and his bitterest enemies, if he have -any, must admit that he is not only eminent in his profession but -especially free from the vice of intemperance.” - -The newspaper attack from which he suffered the most was so peculiar in -some of its features as to demand mention. In 1855 a series of elaborate -critiques on his chief rôles appeared in a leading metropolitan journal. -They were so scholarly, careful, and strong in their analysis of the -plays, and so cutting in their strictures on the player, that they -attracted wide attention and did him much damage. Now, two hands were -concerned in these articles. The learning, thought, and eloquence were -furnished by a German of uncommon scholarship and talent, who deeply -felt the power and merit of Forrest as an actor and considered him a man -of accomplished dramatic genius. The articles, as he wrote them, were -then padded with demeaning epithets and scurrilous estimates of Forrest -by one who was filled with prejudices theoretical and personal. Could -Forrest have totally disregarded the articles, fortified in a -magnanimous serenity, it had been well. He could not do it. He took them -home with extreme pain and with extreme wrath, intensely resenting their -injustice and their unkindness. This is a specimen of what is inflicted -and suffered in the battle of public life. It tempts one to say, Blessed -is the man who escapes all publicity, and lives and loves and dies -happily in private! No doubt, however, it is best to say, with the grand -old Faliero,— - - “I will be what I should be, or be nothing.” - -His long, crowded experience of unfairness and unkindness deposited in -Forrest a burning grudge against the world, a fierce animosity towards -his injurers, an angry recoil of self-esteem, and a morbid exaggeration -of the real vices of society. In one of his letters to a friend he -writes, “This human life is a wretched failure, and the sooner -annihilation comes to it the better.” An old poet makes one of his -characters who had been deeply wronged say,— - - “I will instruct my sorrows to be proud, - For grief is proud and makes his owner stout.” - -Mrs. Montagu wrote to John Philip Kemble under similar circumstances, -“If you retire, from an opinion that mankind are insincere, ungrateful, -and malignant, you will grow proud by reflecting that you are not like -these Pharisees.” How such an opinion in Forrest marred his peace of -mind and rankled in his general feelings—although much kindliness to men -and much enjoyment of life still remained—was obvious enough in his -later years, and is vividly expressed in many of his letters. “It would -amaze and shock the honest, upright people of this country,” he writes, -“could they but know as I do how these sage judges, these benign law- -peddlers, are manipulated by outsiders to give any decree that malice -and money may demand.” Again he writes, “I have all my life been cheated -and preyed on by harpies, right and left. While they have enjoyed my -money and maligned me I have toiled on for the next batch of swindlers. -I have squandered more than a quarter of a million dollars on friends -who, with a few noble exceptions, have returned my kindness not only -with ingratitude but with obloquy.” And at another time he says still -more at length, “Whatever my enemies may say of me—be it good or bad— -matters but little. I would not buy their mercy at the price of one fair -word. I claim no exemption from the infirmities of my temper, which are -doubtless many. But I would not exchange the honest vices of my blood -for the nefarious hypocrisies and assumed virtues of my malignant -detractors. I am no canting religionist, and I cordially hate those who -have wronged and backbitten me. I have—yes, let me own that I have—a -religion of hate; not of revenge, for while I detest I would not injure. -I have a hatred of oppression in whatever shape it may appear,—a hatred -of hypocrisy, falsehood, and injustice,—a hatred of bad and wicked men -and women,—and a hatred of my enemies, for whom I have no forgiveness -excepting through their own repentance of the injuries they have done -me. I have never flattered the blown-up fool above me nor crushed the -wretch beneath me. - - “‘I have not caused the widow’s tear, - Nor dimmed the orphan’s eye; - I have not stained the virgin years, - Nor mocked the mourner’s cry.’” - -“As for those who misjudge and mislike me, I hate and defy them, and -appeal for justice to Nature and God, confident that they will one day -grant it.” - -These expressions but too plainly reveal the sore places in his heart. -Ah, could he but have attained a sweet and magnanimous self- -sufficingness, frankly forgiven and forgotten his foes, and outgrown all -those chronic contempts and resentments,—could he but have turned his -thoughts away from brooding over the vices of men, and dwelt -prevailingly on the other side of the picture of the world,—how much -more peaceful and dignified and happy his age would have been! But this -is hardly to be expected of one passionately struggling in the emulous -arena, his veins swollen with hot blood in which still runs the barbaric -tradition, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. To expurgate that -old animal tradition and introduce in its place the saintly principle of -forgiveness needs patient suffering and leisurely culture grafted on a -fine spirit. When this result is secured, man rises superior to wrong, -to enmity, to disgrace, is content to do his duty and fulfil his destiny -in the love of truth and humanity, sure that every one will at last be -rewarded after his deserts, and letting the cruel or ridiculous caprices -of fortune and fame pass by him as unregarded as the idle wind. - -It would not be fair to the truth of the case if this chapter left the -impression that Forrest found on the whole the penalties of his fame -bitterer to bear than its prizes were sweet to enjoy. The opposite was -the fact. The annoyances attendant on his great reputation alloyed but -destroyed not the comfort it yielded in its varied tributes and in its -vast supporting sense of sympathetic life. Besides, the very vexations -consequent on it were often accompanied by their own outweighing -compensations. Sallying out of the Tremont House in Boston, one -forenoon, arm in arm with his friend Oakes, and passing down Washington -Street, his attention was caught by a hideous caricature of himself in a -shop-window. A group of boys were gazing at it in great merriment. “Good -heavens, Oakes,” he cried, “just look at that infernal thing! It is -enough to make one curse the day he was born.” At that moment one of the -boys recognized him, and exclaimed to the others, “Here he is!” Forrest -whispered to his friend, “Boys are impartial; they have not the -prejudices men have. I am going to ask them their opinion. Look here, -boys, do I look like that?” One of them, a little older than the rest, -answered, promptly, “Well, we knew that it was you; but then you see -there is this difference,—this makes us laugh, and you make us cry.” -“Thank you, my lad, thank you,” responded Forrest, “Come on, Oakes; I -have got better than I bargained for. My enemy when he produced that -beastly monstrosity little dreamed what a pleasure he was going to give -me.” And, as they swung slowly along, he said, half musingly, “I wonder -why they always degrade me by caricature and never exalt me by -idealization.” The solution, which he left unattempted, is this. -Caricature is the exaggeration of bad points, idealization is the -heightening of good points. It is much easier to make the bad appear -worse than it is to make the good appear better. Man intuitively likes -to attempt what he feels he can succeed in, and dislikes to attempt what -he feels he shall fail in. Therefore, when commonplace natures represent -their superiors they lower them by travesty rather than raise them by -improvement. And so in critical art caricature abounds over -idealization. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX. -FRIENDSHIPS.—THEIR ESSENTIAL NATURE AND DIFFERENT LEVELS.—THEIR LOSS AND - GAIN, GRIEF AND JOY. - - -In addition to the satisfaction yielded by his professional triumphs, -the growth of his fortune, the enjoyment of his health and strength, his -taste for literature, his delight in nature, his love of country, and -the tributes of his fame, there was another element in the life of -Forrest which was of eminent importance, the source of a great deal of -comfort and not a little pain,—his friendships. Some sketch of this -portion and aspect of his experience must be essayed, though it will -perforce be a brief and poor one because these delicate concerns of the -heart are shy and elusive, leaving few records of themselves as they -glide secretly to oblivion enriching only the responsive places which -they bless and hallow as they pass. There are many histories which no -historian writes, and the inmost trials and joys of the soul are mostly -of them. - -Friendship, in our times, is more thought about and longed for than it -is talked of, and more talked of than experienced. Yet the experience -itself of men differs vastly according to their characters, situations, -and companions. To some, in their relations with humanity, the world is -made up of strangers; they have neither acquaintances, enemies, nor -friends. To some it consists of enemies alone. To a few it holds only -friends. But to most men it is divided into four groups,—a wilderness of -strangers, a throng of acquaintances, a snarl of enemies, and a knot of -friends. Among the members of this larger class the chief distinctions -lie in the comparative number and fervor of their lovers and of their -haters, and in the comparative space they themselves assign to their -experience respectively of sympathy and of antipathy. Some men pursued -by virulent foes have the gracious faculty and habit of ignoring their -existence, giving predominant attention to congenial persons, and -forgetting annoyances in the charm of diviner employment. Others are -continually infested by persecutions and resentments as by a species of -diabolical vermin which tarnish the brightness of every prize, destroy -the worth of every boon, and foster a chronic irritation in -consciousness. To hate enemies with barbaric pertinacity of -unforgivingness tends to this latter result, while to love friends with -frank and joyous surrender tends to the former. Both the sinister and -the benign experience were well illustrated in the life of Forrest, who -had sympathetic companionship richly and enjoyed it deeply, although he -was pestered by a mob of parasites, censors, and assailants whom he -religiously abhorred and loathed. Hostility filled a large, dark, sad, -cold place in his history, friendship a prominent, bright, warm, and -happy place. The two facts have their equal lesson,—one of warning, one -of example. Blessed is the fortunate man who cherishes his friends with -loving enthusiasm, but never has a single grudge or fear or sneer for a -foe. - -The universal interest felt in the subject of friendship—the strange -fascination the story of any ardent and noble instance of it has for all -readers,—the intense longing for such an experience which exists -explicit or latent in the centre of every heart in spite of all the -corrupting and hardening influences of the world—is a pathetic signal of -the mystery of our nature and a profound prophecy of our destiny. It -means that no man is sufficient unto himself, but must find a complement -in another. It means that man was not made to be alone, but must -supplement himself with his fellows. The final significance of -friendship—whereof love itself is but a specialized and intensified -variety—is an almost unfathomable deep, but it would appear to be this. -Every man in the structure and forces of his physical organism is an -epitome of all Nature, a living mirror of the material universe; and in -the faculties and desires of his soul he is a revelation of the Creator, -a conscious image of God. As the ancients said, man is a little universe -in the great universe,—_microcosmos in macrocosmo_. But every one of -these divine microcosms has a central indestructible originality -differencing it from all the rest. This is the eternal essence or monad -of its personality, which reflects in its own peculiar forms and colors -the substances and lights and shades of the whole. Thence arises that -inexhaustible charm of idiosyncrasy, that everlasting play and shimmer -of individual qualities, which constitutes the lure for all pursuit, the -zest wherewith all life antidotes the monotonous bane of sameness and -death. Now the secret of friendship becomes clear in the light of these -statements. First, it is the destiny of every man eternally to epitomize -in his own being the universe of matter and mind,—in other words, to be -an intelligent focal point in the surrounding infinitude of nature and -the interior infinitude of God. Secondly, he is to recognize such an -epitome embodied and endlessly varied in the endless variety of other -men, all of whom are perfectly distinguishable from one another by -unnumbered peculiarities, every shape and tinge of their experience -determined by their personal moulds and tints. Thirdly, the entire life -of every person consists, in the last analysis, of a mutual -communication between his selfhood and that surrounding Whole made up of -everything which is not himself,—an interchange of action and reaction -between his infinitely concentrated soul and his infinitely expanded -environment. Fourthly, when two men, two of these intellectual and -sentient microcosms, meet, so adjusted as mutually to reflect each other -with all their contents and possibilities in sympathetic communion, -their life is perfected, their destiny is fulfilled, since the infinite -Unity of Being is revealed in each made piquant with the bewitching -relish of foreign individuality, and nothing more is required, save -immortality of career in boundless theatre of space, to round in the -drama with sempiternal adventures and surprises, as, beneath the -sleepless eye of the One, the Many hide and peep beneath their incarnate -masks in life after life and world beyond world. Thus the highest idea -of the experience of friendship is that it is God glimmering in and out -of the souls of the friends in revelation of their destiny,—as Plato -would say, the perpetually varied perception of the SAME under the -provocative and delightful disguise of the OTHER. And every lower idea -of it which has any truth is in connection with this and points up to -it,—from the revellers who entwine their cups and attune their glee, the -soldiers who stand side by side in battle, and the politicians who vote -the same ballot, to the thinkers who see the same truths and the martyrs -who die in allegiance to the same sentiment. Everywhere, on all its -ranges, friendship means communion of lives, sharing of thought and -feeling, co-operative fellowship of personalities, the reflection of one -consciousness in another. Those who meet only at the bottom of the scale -in sensual mirth should be able sometimes, at least by the aid of a -literary telescope, to see those who commingle at its top in immortal -faith and aspiration. - -Forrest possessed in a marked degree many of the qualities of a good -friend; although, of course, it is not pretended that he had the mental -disinterestedness, the refined spirituality, or the profound philosophic -and religious insight which calls one to the most exalted style and -height of friendship as it is celebrated for perpetual remembrance in -the In Memoriam of Tennyson. He was affectionate, quick of perception, -full of spontaneous sympathy and a deep and wide humanity, strictly -truthful, in the highest degree just in his principles and purposes -though often badly warped by prejudice, prompt in attention, retentive -in memory, and inflexibly faithful to his pledge. If he was proud, it -was not an arrogant and cruel pride, but a lofty self-assertion bottomed -on a sense of worth. And even in regard to his irascible temper, the -inflammability and explosiveness were on the surface of his mind, while -tenderness, justice, and magnanimity were in its depths, excepting where -some supposed meanness or wrong had caused hate to percolate there. The -keenness and tenacity of his feelings took effect alike in his -attractions and repulsions, so that he was as slow to forget a comrade -as he was to forgive a foe. In London he saw two carriage-dogs who had -been mates for years running along together, when one of them was -crushed by a wheel and killed. The other just glanced at him, and, -without deigning so much as to stop and smell of him, trotted on. From -the sight of this Forrest caught such a contempt for the whole breed of -carriage-dogs that he could never afterwards look at one without -disgust. It was hardly fair perhaps to spread over an entire race what -was the fault of one, but the impulse was generous. So long as any man -with whom he had once been friends behaved properly and treated him -justly he remained as true as steel to his fellowship. But open -dereliction from duty, or clear degradation of character, or, in -particular, any instance of baseness, cowardice, or treachery, moved his -scorn and anger and fatally alienated him. It will be remembered that -while yet a mere youth he played very successfully at Albany with Edmund -Kean, whose genius he idolized. After the play a man whom he had always -liked said to him, “Your Iago was better than Kean’s Othello.” Forrest -says, “I never spoke to that man again!” - -There was a strong feeling of kindness and admiration between him and -Silas Wright, the celebrated Democratic Senator from New York. The day -was once fixed for an important debate between Silas Wright and Daniel -Webster. Early in the morning a man who had seen Wright drinking deeply -and somewhat overcharged went to Webster and said, “You will have an -easy task to-day in overthrowing your adversary; he already reels.” -Indignant at the meanness of the remark, the great man frowned darkly -and answered in his sternest tones, “Sir, no man has an easy victory -over Silas Wright, drunk or sober,” and stalked away. Forrest used to -tell this anecdote with characteristic relish of the rebuke pride gave -impertinence. He could well appreciate traits of character and modes of -conduct which he did not profess to practise but openly repudiated for -himself. For instance, though he preferred truth to charity when they -were opposed, he often quoted with the warmest admiration the sentiment -uttered by some one on the death of Robert Burns: “Let his faults be -like swans’ feet, hid beneath the stream.” And he also once said, “The -finest eulogy I ever heard spoken of General Grant was, as uttered by an -old acquaintance of his, ‘He never forgot a friend nor remembered an -enemy.’ Ah, is not that beautiful? If it be justly said, as I am sorry -to say I very much doubt, it sets a grace around his head which he -himself could never set there.” It is certainly a very curious—though -not at all an extraordinary—illustration of human nature to set against -the above utterance of Forrest the following quotation from a letter of -his dated Syracuse, October 5, 1868: “I saw by the telegraphic news in -the paper this morning that George W. Jamieson was killed last night by -a railroad train at Yonkers. God is great; and justice, though slow, is -sure. Another scoundrel has gone to hell—I trust forever!” - -Of the very large number of friends Forrest had, his intimacy continued -to the end of life with but comparatively few. Fatal barriers and chill -spaces of separation came between him and a great many of them, caused -sometimes by mere lapse of time and pressure of occupation or removal of -residence and change of personal tastes, sometimes by alienating -disagreements and collisions of temper. These estrangements were so -numerous that he acquired the reputation of being a quarrelsome man and -hard to get along with, which was not altogether the fact. - -One class of his earlier friends were in many cases converted into -enemies on this wise. Boon companions are easy to have, but cheap, -superficial, fickle. Genuine friendship, on the other hand, generous -community of life and aspiration, co-operative pursuit and enjoyment of -the worthiest ends, is a rare and costly prize, requiring virtues and -imposing tasks. Multitudes therefore are tempted to put up with jovial -fellowship in the pleasures of the table and let the desire for an -ennobling intercourse of souls die out. The parasitic and treacherous -nature of most pot-fellowship is proverbial. How well Shakspeare paints -it in his version of Timon! When the eyes of the generous Athenian were -opened to the selfishness of his pretended friends he became so rankling -a misanthrope that the Greek Anthology gives us this as the epitaph -sculptured on his sepulchre: - - “Dost hate the earth or Hades worse! Speak clear! - Hades, O fool! There are more of us here.” - -Forrest was not many years in learning how shallow, how selfish, how -untrustworthy such comrades were. He had too much ambition, too much -earnestness and dignity to be satisfied with a worthless substitute for -a sacred reality. He would not let an ungirt indulgence of the senses in -conviviality take the place of a consentient action of congenial souls -in the enjoyment of excellence and the pursuit of glory. More and more, -therefore, he withdrew from these scenes of banqueting, story-telling, -and singing, and found his contentment more and more in books, in the -repose and reflection of solitude, and in the society of a select few. -The most of those whom he thus left to themselves resented his defection -from their ways, and repaid his former favor and bounty with personal -dislike and invidious speech. - -Another class of his quondam friends he broke with not on the ground of -their general principles and social habits but in consequence of some -particular individual offence in their individual character and conduct. -His standard for a friend—his standard of honesty, sincerity, and manly -fairness—was an exacting one, and he brooked no gross deviation from it. -When he believed, either correctly or incorrectly, that any associate of -his had wilfully violated that standard, he at once openly repudiated -his friendship and walked with him no more. In this way dark gaps were -made in the ranks of his temporary friends by the expulsion thence of -the satellites who preyed on his money, the actors who pirated his -plays, the debauchees who dishonored themselves, the companions who -betrayed his confidence and slandered his name. And thus the crowd of -his revengeful assailants was again swelled. A single example in -illustration of his conduct under such circumstances is marked by such -racy vigor that it must be here adduced. A man of great smartness and of -considerable distinction, with whom he had been especially intimate, but -whom, having discovered his unworthiness, he had discarded, sought to -reingratiate himself. Forrest wrote him this remarkable specimen of -terse English: - - “NEW YORK, January 14, 1859. - - “I hope the motives which led you to address me a note under date of - 13th inst. will never induce you to do so again. Attempts upon - either my credulity or my purse will be found alike in vain. No - person however malicious, as you assume to believe, could change my - opinion of you. Your intention to write a book is a matter which - rests entirely with yourself. May I, however, take the liberty of - suggesting that at this late day such a thing is not really needed, - to illustrate your character, to alter public opinion, nor to prove - to the world how great a dust can be raised by an ass out of place - in either diplomacy or literature? There is already enough known of - your career to prove that your task of becoming the apologist for a - prostitution which has girdled the globe is one congenial to your - tastes, fitted to your peculiar abilities, and coincident with your - antecedents even from your birth to the present day. - - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -Furthermore, an important circle of his most honored friends fell away -from Forrest under circumstances peculiarly trying to his feelings. All -those who in the time of his domestic unhappiness and the consequent -lawsuits sympathized with the lady and supported her cause against him -he regarded as having committed an unpardonable offence. He would never -again speak with one of them. It was a heavy defection. It inflicted -much suffering on him and bred a bitter sense of hostility towards them, -with a sad feeling of impoverishment. For the places they had occupied -in his heart and memory were thenceforth as so many closed and sealed -chambers of funereal gloom. - -But, after all the foregoing failures have been allowed for, there -remain in the life we are contemplating a goodly number of friendships -full of hearty sincerity and wholesome human helpfulness and joy,— -friendships unstained by vice, unbroken by quarrels, undestroyed by -years. Several of these have already been alluded to; especially the -supreme example in his opening manhood, his relations with the eloquent, -heroic, and generous William Leggett. Some account also has been given -of his endeared intimacy with James Lawson, who first greeted him on the -night of his first appearance in New York, and whose faithful attachment -to his person and interests grew closer and stronger to the day of his -death, never for an instant having seen the prospect of a breach or -known the shadow of a passing cloud. “My friend Lawson,” said Forrest, -when near his end, “is a gentleman on whom, as Duncan remarked of the -thane of Cawdor, I have always built an absolute trust. He has, in our -long communion of nigh fifty years, never failed me in a single point -nor deceived me by so much as a look, but has been as good and kind to -me as man can be to man.” Here is one of his letters: - - “PHILADELPHIA, Dec. 1, 1869. - - “DEAR LAWSON,—I am glad you like the notice of _Spartacus_. It was - written by our friend Forney, in his hearty and friendly spirit. - - “My dear friend Lawson, it is not money that I play for now, but the - excitement of the stage keeps me from rusting physically and - mentally. It drives away the canker care, and averts the progress of - decay. It is wholesome to be employed in ‘the labor we delight in.’ - What prolonged the life of Izaak Walton, but his useful employments, - which gave vigor to his mind and body, until mildly drew on the slow - necessity of death? I hope to take you by the hand when you are - ninety, and tell some merry tales of times long past. Day after to- - morrow I leave home for Cincinnati, and shall be absent in the West - for several months, and return with the birds and the buds, to see - you once more, I hope, in your usual enjoyment of health and - happiness. God bless you. - - “Your sincere friend, - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -And now some examples of less conspicuous but true and valued -friendships, selected from among many, claim brief place in this -narrative. William D. Gallagher, a Quaker by persuasion, a man of -literary tastes and a most quiet and blameless spirit, cherished from -boyhood a fervid admiration and love for Forrest ever gratefully -appreciated by him. He took extreme pains to collect materials for the -biography of his friend, materials which have been often used in the -earlier pages of this volume. Forrest desired his biographer, if he -could find appropriate place in his work, to record an acknowledging and -tributary word in memory of this affectionate and unobtrusive friend. -The fittest words for that purpose will be the following citation from a -letter of Forrest himself. “I deeply regret to inform you of the death -of William D. Gallagher, who on his recent visit to Boston was so much -pleased in forming your acquaintance and hearing your discourses. He was -a man to be honored and loved for his genuine worth. He was quite free -from every vice of the world. He carried the spirit of a child all -through his life. He was as pure and gentle, I believe, as an angel. -Though he cut no figure in society, I was proud to know that so good a -man was my friend. I used to feel that I had rather at any time clasp -his hand than that of the heir apparent to the throne of England.” - -In the chief cities which Forrest every year visited professionally he -formed many delightful acquaintances, many of which, constantly renewed -and heightened by every fresh communion of heart and life, ripened into -precious friendships. Of these, John C. Breckinridge, of Lexington, -Kentucky, and John G. Stockly, of Cleveland, Ohio, and Charles G. -Greene, of Boston, Massachusetts, may be named. But more particular -mention should be made of James V. Wagner, of Baltimore. A Baltimore -correspondent of the “National Intelligencer,” in one of his -communications, says, “We learn that the distinguished American -tragedian during his recent sojourn in this city has presented a -splendid carriage and pair of horses to his long-tried and faithful -friend, our fellow-citizen James V. Wagner. When the celebrated actor -was but a stripling and at the beginning of his career, Mr. Wagner took -him warmly by the hand, and has been his ardent admirer and friend from -that time to the present. The gift is a magnificent one, and reflects -credit on bestower and receiver. It is an establishment altogether fit -for a duke or a prince.” In 1874 a son of Mr. Wagner gives this pleasing -reminiscence of the frequent and ever-charming visits of Forrest at his -father’s house: “Often in childhood have I sat upon his knee, and, as I -then felt, listened to the words of Metamora, Jack Cade, and Lear in -broadcloth. Often did he stroke my little black locks and ask me if I -would become a carpenter, a lawyer, a minister, or a merchant. I can -testify to his fondness for young children, consequently his goodness of -heart.” - -Judge Conrad, the eloquent author of Jack Cade, the high-souled, -brilliant man, was a very dear and close friend of Forrest. The -impulsive and generous writer gave the appreciative and steadfast player -much pleasure and inspiration by his intercourse, and received a cordial -esteem and many important favors in return. On Forrest’s arrival from -Europe with his wife in 1846 he was greeted with this hearty letter by -Conrad: - - “MY DEAR MR. AND MRS. FORREST,—A thousand warm and hearty welcomes - home! I had hoped to greet you in person, but my engagements - preclude me that pleasure. You doubtless find that the creaking and - crazy world has been grating upon its axis after the rough old - fashion since you left us; that there are fresh mounds in the grave- - yard, and fresh troubles in the way to it; but I am sure that you - find the hearts of old as true as ever. Your wandering way has had - anxious eyes watching over it; and your return is, in this city, - hailed with general rejoicing. Absence embalms friendships: friends - seldom change when so separated that they cannot offend. And to one - who has a circle such as you have, I should think it almost worth - while to go abroad for the luxury of returning home. Thank God that - you are back and in health! - - “Mrs. Conrad and our girls unite with me in bidding you welcome. The - news of your arrival made a jubilee with the children. We all look - forward anxiously for the privilege of taking you by the hand. - - “Very truly your friend, - “R. T. CONRAD.” - -One brief interruption to this friendship there was. It originated in -some misunderstanding which provoked anger and pain. Forrest wrote at -once, not unkindly, and asked an explanation. He was rejoiced by the -immediate receipt of the following letter, which he endorsed with the -single word “Reconciliation,” and they were again united: - - “PHILADELPHIA, June 25th, 1849. - - “MY DEAR FORREST,—Your letter throws the duty of apology upon me, - and, from my heart, I ask your pardon, and will tear to tatters all - record of what has passed. But there is no madness Coleridge tells - us, that so works upon the brain as unkindness in those we love. - - “Forget what has passed,—but not until you have forgiven one whose - pulses beat sometimes too hotly, but will always beat for you. This - single cloud in our past—a past all bright to me—has been absorbed - by the nobler and purer atmosphere of your nature. Surely it cannot - now cast a shadow. - - “Before the receipt of your note I had written a letter under my own - signature, replying to a brutal attack upon you in the Boston - ‘Aurora Borealis’ in relation to your course towards dramatic - authors. It will appear in McMakin’s ‘Courier,’ and I have seized - the occasion to make some editorial remarks upon the subject that - will not dissatisfy you; and, as the circulation of the ‘Courier’ is - nearly wide as that of the wind, I think it will do good. - - “Let me sign this hasty note as most truly and heartily - - “Your friend, - “R. T. CONRAD. - - “E. FORREST, ESQ.” - -The friendship with James Taylor, described in a previous chapter of -this biography, which was so pleasant and valuable to Forrest at the -time, never died, but was kept fresh and strong to the last. This will -appear from the interesting letters that follow: - - “FIRE ISLAND, N.Y., July 14th, 1870. - - “EDWIN FORREST, ESQ.: - - “MY DEAR FRIEND,—When you were last at my house I promised you a - copy of my portrait of George F. Cooke. I could not until now - procure such a copy as I thought worthy to be sent you. It was first - photographed and then painted, and is an exact counterfeit of the - original. It is not full size. Several attempts were made to get a - good photograph copy, or _negative_, and in the present size it was - the most perfect. The history of this picture (I mean the one in my - possession) is as follows: A young gentleman by the name of Jouitt - studied portrait-painting with Sully in 1816, and on his leaving for - his native State, Kentucky, Sully presented him with this picture of - Cooke, being a copy of his _original picture of the great - tragedian_. Jouitt presented the picture to Captain John Fowler, of - Lexington, Ky., in 1818, and he on his death-bed in 1840 gave it to - me. He was an old pioneer, and came to Kentucky with my mother in - 1783. Now, my old and much-admired friend, please accept this - portrait as a testimony of my high regard for you as a gentleman and - a man of genius. I often have a vivid recollection of the old times - when we were together,—the night you slept with me at Kean’s Hotel, - and the New Year’s dinner at Ayer’s Hotel with Clay, Merceir, and - others. We were young then, full of life, hope, and enthusiasm; and - I do not feel old yet. These days, my friend, I look back on with - pleasure. I was not then vexed or troubled with the cares of life. - If we should never meet again, I wish you much happiness and length - of days. I am here enjoying the breezes of ‘Neptune’s salt wash,’ - fishing, and sailing. I shall return to New York in a week or ten - days. Please write to me at the St. Nicholas, as I desire to know - whether the picture reached you uninjured. - - “Yours very sincerely, - “JAMES TAYLOR.” - - “FIRE ISLAND, August 1st, 1870. - - “EDWIN FORREST: - - “MY DEAR FRIEND,—Yours of the 21st of July was forwarded to me from - New York at the close of last week, and I regret that it was out of - my power to comply with your request to meet you at your home in - Philadelphia. I have been here now over three weeks,—a most - delightful cool place,—and I only regret that I have to leave it in - the midst of the hot season to return to Kentucky, where business - calls me. I am gratified that you liked the portrait; it is in fact - a true copy of the original. Dear Ned, I often think of our young - days in Lexington with our friends Lewis, Turpin, Clay, and others, - and how happy we were amidst those scenes. But they are gone, and we - are almost old men. I hope we shall gracefully go down to death, - having courageously fought the battle of life. You will leave a name - and a fame behind you as one of the great masters of the dramatic - art. Should you again visit the West, you know where to find your - friend, - - “JAMES TAYLOR.” - -Another letter, much longer and more important, was addressed by Mr. -Taylor to S. S. Smith, a common friend to the two persons,—a friend of -whom Forrest once wrote to Oakes, “If my old friend S. S. Smith does not -go to heaven when he dies, the office of door-keeper there is a sinecure -and the place might as well be shut up. He is one of the most honest, -kind-hearted, trustworthy men I have ever known. I have always cherished -the warmest esteem for him.” This letter was written after the death of -Forrest, and contains a most interesting and touching tribute to him. It -belongs in the closing chapter rather than here. - -Among the long- and well-cherished friends of Forrest, of a later date -than Taylor, were the two distinguished New York counsellors John Graham -and James T. Brady. The sudden death of the latter at the zenith of his -manhood called from him a strong expression of feeling in a letter to -one of their common friends: “The death of Brady shocked me very much. -He was a genial, noble man, and an eloquent and honest lawyer,—every way -so unlike the pettifogging peddlers of iniquity and the corrupt and -ermined ruffians of the bench whom we have known. I feel honored in -saying that I was his friend and that he was mine. His place will not -easily be supplied with any of those who knew him, and could not know -him without loving him. What an interesting figure he was, and how he -drew all eyes where he came, with his beating heart, his bright frank -face, his large and warm presence! He was a contrast indeed to those -commonplace creatures concerning whom nobody cares anything, and never -asks who they are, or what they do, or whence they come, or where they -go. I regret that he should have died and not have made friends with -John Graham. How I should like to have been instrumental with you in -bringing about a reconciliation between them!” - -And now we come to the central, crowning, supreme friendship which most -of all alleviated the life and blessed the heart of Forrest alike when -he was young and when he was old,—the glowing bond of cordiality that -knit his soul with the soul of James Oakes. One of the two partners in -this happy league of unselfish love and faithful service has passed -through nature to eternity, while one still lives. To do justice to the -relation on the side of the former it is necessary to know something of -the character of the man who sustained the other side of it. And though -it is a delicate office, and one somewhat offensive to fashion, to speak -frankly of the traits of the living, except indeed in assault and -censure, yet, since truth is truth, and moral lessons have the same -import whether drawn from those who are alive or from those who are -dead, one who is called to tell the story of a departed Damon may -perhaps venture honestly and with modesty to depict his lingering -Pythias. - -Oakes is a man of positive nature, downright and forthright, as blunt -and strong in act and word as Forrest himself, and, so far, fitted to -meet and mate him. He has made a host of foes by his bluff truth of -speech and deed, his sturdy standing to his opinion, his straight march -to his purpose. These foes, no matter who they were, high or low, he has -always scorned and defied with unfaltering and unrepentant vigor. He has -likewise made a host of friends, by his sound judgment always at their -service, his genially affectionate spirit, and his unwearied devotion to -gentle works of humanity in befriending the unfortunate and ministering -to the distressed, the sick, and the dying. To these friends, rich and -poor alike, and whether basking in popular favor or crushed under -obloquy, he has always been steadfastly true. No fickle misliker or mere -sunshine friend he, but, like Forrest, tenacious both in antipathies and -sympathies. His nature has ever been wax to receive, steel to retain, -the memory of injuries and of benefits, hostility and love. His -sensitive openness to the beauty of nature, to the charm of poetry, to -the voice of eloquence, to the touch of fine sentiment, is extreme. -Anything pathetic, noble, or grand makes his tears spring quicker than a -woman’s, and his blood burns with instant indignation and his heart -beats fast and loud against injustice, cruelty, or meanness. And yet he -is not what is called a society man, a careful observer of the sleek -proprieties of the polite world of conventional appearances. On the -contrary, in many things his aboriginal love of free sincerity has -shocked these. And he has been a strong lover of horses, of dogs, of -sporting life, and of the rough, warm, honest ways of fearless and -spontaneous sporting men. A soft heart, a true tongue, a clear head, -self-asserting character and life, pity for suffering, defiance to -pretension, contempt for fashion when opposed to nature, have been his -passports to men and theirs to him. From his boyhood he has taken -delight in doing kind deeds to the needy, carrying wines, fruits, -flowers, and other delicacies to the sick, being a champion for the weak -and injured, whether man or woman or child or quadruped or bird. -Hundreds of times has he been seen in drifting snow-storms, undeterred -by the pelting elements, in his wide-rimmed hat, shaggy overcoat, and -long boots up to his thighs, loaded with good things, on his way to the -bedside of some disabled friend or some poor sufferer forgotten by -others. His enemies no doubt may justly bring many accusations against -him. His friends certainly will confess his defects and faults. He -himself would blush at the thought of claiming immunity from a full -share of the weaknesses and sins of men. But no one who knows him, -whether friend or foe, can question his extreme tenderness, tenacity, -and fidelity of nature, his rare sensibility of hate for detestable -forms of character and action, his heroic adhesion and indefatigable -attentiveness to all whom he admires and loves. - -His moral portrait is limned by the hand of one who had known him most -thoroughly on his favorable side as a friend for nearly all his -lifetime, in this private epistle: - - “NEW YORK, Sunday morning, May 24, 1874. - - “MY DEAR OAKES,—Your letter of the 22d reached me yesterday morning, - and was read and re-read with pleasure. When you tell me you foot up - sixty-seven, I find it difficult to believe you, and if you refer me - to the record I shall still exclaim with Beau Shatterly (do you - remember how poor Finn used to play it?), ‘D—n parish registers! - They’re all impudent impositions and no authority!’ - - “There are a few exceptional men in the world who project their - youth far forward into their lives, and this not so much from force - of constitution as from the size of their hearts. You are one of - these few phenomenal men. That you may long continue to flourish in - perennial spring is my sincerest prayer. You have been just and - generous (except to yourself),—to what extent you forget. I think - the recording angel must sometimes curse your good deeds, you have - given him or her or it (there is no sex to angels) so many to record - in that huge log-book which is kept up aloft for future reference. - In the race for salvation, while the saints (professional) are - plying steel and whipcord, jostling each other and riding foul, you - will distance them and go into the gate at an easy canter under no - pull at all. As for me, it is different. I stood near the pyramid of - Caius Sextius at Rome, at the grave of Keats, and read his epitaph - by himself, ‘Here lies one whose name was writ in water,’ and said, - That ought to be mine. However, I went up the steps of the Santa - Scala on my knees, invested fifty francs or so in indulgences, and - left the Eternal City whiter than snow,—but perhaps only as a whited - sepulchre is sometimes whiter than snow. - - “Excuse my levity. You will read between the lines and find plenty - of sad and serious thoughts there. If I did not valiantly fight - against bitter memories, I should cave. - - “Yours entirely, - “F. A. D.” - -Oakes had many friends besides Forrest, some of whom he had known -earlier and most of whom were friends in common to them both. Among the -chief of these may be named—and they were men of extraordinary talent, -force, racy originality of character, and depth of human passion—George -W. Kendall and A. M. Holbrook, editors of the New Orleans “Picayune,” -William T. Porter, editor of the “Spirit of the Times,” Dr. Charles M. -Windship, of Roxbury, the romantic and tragic William Henry Herbert,— -better known as Frank Forrester, a sort of modern Bertrand du Guesclin, -who, when the woman he loved deceived him, resolutely severed every tie -joining him with humanity and the world, requested that no epitaph -should be written on him save “The Most Unhappy,” and quieted his -convulsed brain with a bullet,—Sargent S. Prentiss, of Mississippi, -Thomas F. Marshall, of Kentucky, George W. Prentice, Albert Pike, -Colonel Powell T. Wyman, and Francis A. Durivage. The inner lives of -such characters as these, and others whose names are not given, fully -revealed, show in human experience gulfs of delight and woe, degrees of -intensity and wonder, little dreamed of by the peaceful and feeble -superficialists who fancy in their innocence that the life of the -nineteenth century is tame and dull, wholly wanting in the extremities -of spiritual adventure and social excitement that marked the times of -old. The knowledge of the sincere life of society to day—the real -unconventional life behind the scenes—as it was uncovered and made -familiar to Forrest and Oakes, when it is suddenly appreciated by a -thoughtful scholar, an inexperienced recluse, gives him a shock of -amazement, a mingled sorrow and wonder which make him cry, “What a sad, -bitter, strange, beautiful, terrible world it is! O God! who knows or -can even faintly guess from afar the meaning of it all? These fathomless -passions of men and women, giving a bliss and a pain which make every -other heaven or hell utterly superfluous,—these temptations and crimes -which horrify the soul and curdle the blood,—these betrayals and -disappointments that break our hearts, unhinge our reason, and -precipitate us into self-sought graves, mad to pluck the secret of -eternity,—who shall ever read the infinite riddle and tell us what it -all is for?” - -As the heaping decades of years rolled by, Oakes had to part with many -of his dearest friends at the edge of that shadow which no mortal, only -immortals, can penetrate. But, unlike what happens with most men, his -friendly offices ceased not with the breath of the departed. For one and -another and another and another of his old comrades, whom he had -assiduously nursed in their last hours, when all was ended, with his own -hands he tenderly closed the eyes, washed the body, put on the burial- -garments, and reverently laid the humanized clay in the earth with -farewell tears. To so many of his closest comrades had he paid this last -service that at length in his twilight meditations he began to feel a -chilly solitude spreading around. It was in such a mood that he wrote a -letter to one of the surviving and central figures of that group of -strong, brave, fiery-passioned men, who knew the full height and depth -of the romance and tragedy of human experience, and had nearly all gone, -most of them untimely, and several by their own hands. It was to Albert -Pike that he wrote. What he wrote moved Pike to compose an essay, “Of -Leaves and their Falling,” in which this touching, tributary passage -occurs. Having alluded to the dead of their circle,—Porter, Elliot, -Lewis and Willis Gaylord Clark, Herbert, Wyman, Forrest, and others,—he -proceeds: “James Oakes, of the old Salt-Store, 49 Long Wharf, Boston,— -‘Acorn’ of the old ‘Spirit of the Times,’—lives yet, as generous and -genial as ever. He loved Porter like a brother, and, in a letter -received by me yesterday, says, ‘This is my birthday! 67 is marked on -the milestone of my life just passed. Among the few old friends of my -early days who are left on this side the river, none is dearer to me -than yourself. As I creep down the western slope towards the last -sunset, my old heart turns with irresistible longings to those early -friends, my love for whom grew with my growth and strengthened with my -strength. Alas, how few are left! As I look back upon the long line of -grave-stones by the wayside that remind me of my early associates, a -feeling of inexpressible sadness possesses me, and my heart yearns -towards the few old friends left, to whom I cling with hooks of steel.’ -And so he thanks me for a poem sent him, and tells me how he has worked -for the estate of Forrest, and sincerely and affectionately wishes that -God may bless me and keep me in health for many years to come. - -“Ah, dear old friend! the cold November days of life have come for both -of us, and the dull bars of cloud scowl on the barren stubble-fields, -the wind blows inhospitably, and the hills in the distance are bleak and -gray and bare, and the winter comes, when we must drop from the tree, -and be remembered a little while, and then forgotten almost as soon as -the dead leaves. - -“Well, what does it matter to us if we are to be forgotten before the -spring showers fall a second time on our graves, as Porter was, except -by two or three friends? What is it to the leaf that falls, killed by an -untimely frost, whether it is remembered or forgotten by its fellows -that still cling to the tree, to fall a little later in the season? Men -are seldom remembered after death for anything that you or I would care -to be remembered for. - -“Porter would not have cared to be remembered by many, nor by any one, -unless with affection for his unbounded goodness of heart and -generosity. Nor am I covetous of large remembrance among men. If I -should die before him, I should wish, if I cared for anything here after -death more than a dead leaf does, to have Oakes come to my grave, as I -wish that he and I could go to that of Porter, and there repeat, in the -language to which no translation can do justice, this exquisite threnody -of Catullus: - - - INFERIÆ AD FRATRIS TUMULUM. - - Multas per gentes et multa per æquora vectus, - Advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias, - Ut te postremo donarem munere mortis, - Et mutum nequicquam alloquerer cinerem, - Quandoquidem Fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum, - Heu miser indigne frater ademte mihi - Nunc tamen interea hæc prisco quæ more parentum - Tradita sunt tristes munera ad inferias, - Accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu, - Atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale. - -“Discontented with the translations whereof by Lamb, Elton, and Hodgson, -I have endeavored this more literal one: - - “Through many nations, over many seas, - Brother, to this sad sacrifice I come - To pay to thee Death’s final offices, - And, though in vain, invoke thine ashes dumb, - Since Fate’s fell swoop has torn thyself from me,— - Alas, poor brother, from me severed ruthlessly! - - “Therefore, meanwhile, these offices of sorrow, - Which, by old custom of our fathers’ years - To the last sacrifice assigned, I borrow, - Flowing with torrents of fraternal tears, - Accept, though only half my grief they tell,— - And so, forever, brother, bless thee, and farewell!” - -Such as he has been above described was the man who for forty-three -years best loved Edwin Forrest and whom in return Edwin Forrest best -loved. How much this means, the narrative of their friendship that -follows will show. - -At the time of their first meeting, which took place at the close of the -actor’s debut in Boston in the play of Damon and Pythias, Forrest was -within a few weeks of twenty-one and Oakes a little less than twenty. -They had so many traits and tastes in common that their souls chimed at -once. When absent they corresponded by letter, and, seizing every -opportunity for renewed personal fellowship, their mutual interest -quickly ripened into a fervent attachment. Oakes had a passion for the -theatre and the drama. He earnestly studied the principal plays -produced, and soon began scribbling criticisms. These paragraphs he -often gave to the regular reporters and dramatic critics of the -newspapers, and sometimes sent them directly in his own name to the -editors. Afterwards, over the signature of “Acorn,” he acquired good -reputation as a stated contributor to several leading journals in the -East and the South. Both he and Forrest were great sticklers for a -vigorous daily bath and scrub, and very fond of athletic exercises, -which they especially enjoyed together, an example which might be copied -with immense advantage by many daintily cultured people who fancy -themselves above it. They were about equally matched with the gloves and -the foils, if anything Forrest being the better boxer, Oakes the better -fencer, as his motions were the more nimble. - -As time passed and their mutual knowledge and confidence increased, the -sympathies of the friends were more closely interlocked and spread over -all their business interests and affectional experiences, and their -constantly crossing letters were transcripts of their inner states and -their daily outer lives. They scarcely held any secret back from each -other. Forrest almost invariably consulted Oakes and carefully weighed -his advice before taking any important step. Oakes made it his study to -do everything in his power to aid and further his honored friend alike -in his personal status and in his professional glory. For this end he -wrote and moved others to write hundreds and hundreds of newspaper -notices, working up every conceivable kind of item calculated to keep -the name and personality of the actor freshly before the eyes of the -public. His letters, with the alert instinct of love, were varied to -meet and minister to the trials and condition of him to whom they were -addressed, congratulating him in his triumph, counselling him in his -perplexity, soothing him in his anger, consoling him in his sorrow. In -the innumerable letters, transmitted for nearly fifty years at the rate -of from two to seven a week, Oakes used to enclose slips snipped from -the newspapers, and extracts from magazines and books, containing -everything he found which he thought would interest, amuse, or edify his -correspondent. Thus was he ever what a friend should be,—a mirror -glassing the soul and fortunes of the counterpart friend; but a mirror -which at the same time that it reflects what exists also reveals the -supply of what is needed. - -One of the charms of the correspondence of Oakes and Forrest is the -ingenuous freedom with which their feelings are expressed. A shamefaced -or frigid reticence on all matters of sentiment or personal affection -between men seems to be the conspicuous characteristic of the Anglo- -Saxon race. The most that the average well-to-do Englishman or American -can say on meeting his dearest friend is, Well, old fellow, how goes it? -Glad to see you! It is painful for a really rich and tender heart to -move about in this sterile wilderness of dumb and bashful sympathy or -frozen and petrified love. But these friends were wont to speak their -free hearts each to each without reserve or affectation. Early in their -acquaintance Oakes writes thus: - - “MY DEAR FORREST,—I cannot tell you how much delight I had in your - visit to me. When you left, the sinking of my heart told me how dear - you had become. The more I see of you the more I find to honor and - to love. I set your image against the remembrance of all the scamps - I have known, and think more highly of the human race. How I long - for the day when you will visit Boston again or I shall come to you! - Command my services to the fullest extent in anything and in - everything. For I am, from top to bottom, inside and out, and all - through, forever yours, - - “JAMES OAKES.” - -And Forrest replies: - - “MY DEAREST AND BEST OF FRIENDS,—Thanking you for your hearty - letter, which has given me a real pleasure, I assure you you could - not have enjoyed my visit more than I did. Your encouraging smiles - and delicate attentions gave a daily beauty to my life while I was - under the same roof with you. In my life I have had the fellowship - of many goodly men, brave and manly fellows who knew not what it was - to lie or to be afraid. I have never met one whose heart beat with a - nobler humanity than yours. I am proud to be your friend and to have - you for mine. God bless you, and keep us always worthy of one - another. - - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -Every summer for the last thirty years of his life Forrest made it a -rule to spend a week or a fortnight with Oakes, when they either -loitered about lovely Boston or went into the country or to the seaside -and gave themselves up to leisurely enjoyment, “fleeting the time -carelessly as they did in the golden world.” Then the days and nights -flew as if they were enchanted with speed. These visits were regularly -repaid at New York, at Fonthill, at Philadelphia. Whenever they met, -after a long separation, as soon as they were alone together they threw -their arms around each other in fond embrace with mutual kisses, after -the manner of lovers in our land or of friends in more tropical and -demonstrative climes. - -A single forlorn tomato was the entire crop raised at Fonthill Castle in -the season of 1851. As the friends stood looking at it, Oakes suddenly -plucked, peeled, and swallowed it. The tragedian gazed for some time in -open-eyed astonishment. At length with affected rage he broke out, -“Well, if this is not the most outrageous piece of selfishness! an -impudent and barbarous robbery! That was the tomato which I had -cherished and depended on as the precious product of all the money and -pains I have spent here. And now you come, whip out your jack-knife, -and, at one fell swoop, gulp down my whole harvest. I swear, it is the -meanest thing I ever knew done.” They looked each other in the eyes a -moment, burst into a hearty laugh, and, locking arms, strolled down to -the bank of the river. - -When Forrest engaged his friend S. S. Smith to oversee the laying out of -his estate of Forrest Hill, at Covington, opposite Cincinnati, he named -one of the principal streets Oakes Avenue. When he purchased and began -occasionally to occupy the Springbrook place he named the room opposite -his own Oakes’s Chamber. In his Broad Street Mansion, in Philadelphia, -there was a portrait of Oakes in the entry, a portrait of Oakes in the -dining-room, a portrait of Oakes in the picture-gallery, a portrait of -Oakes in the library, and a general seeming presence of Oakes all over -the house. Early one summer day, while visiting there, Oakes might have -been seen, wrapped in a silk morning-gown of George Frederick Cooke, -with a wig of John Philip Kemble on his head and a sword of Edmund Kean -by his side, tackled between the thills of a heavy stone roller, rolling -the garden walks to earn his breakfast. Forrest was behind him, urging -him forward. Henrietta and Eleanora Forrest gazed out of a window at the -scene in amazement until its amusing significance broke upon them, when -their frolicsome peals of laughter caused the busy pair of laborers -below to pause in their task and look up. - -Oakes was fond of being with Forrest during his professional engagements -as well as in his vacations. And the hours they then spent together -yielded them a keen and solid enjoyment. This experience was most -characteristic of their friendship, and is worthy of description. Oakes -would go to the play and watch with the most vigilant attention every -point in the performance. Then he would go behind the scenes to the -dressing-room. There the excited and perspiring actor, blowing off -steam, stripped and put himself in the hands of his body-servant, who -sponged him, vigorously rubbed him dry, and helped him to dress. Locking -arms, and avoiding all hangers-on who might be in the way, the friends -proceeded to their room at the hotel. Forrest would then throw off his -coat and boots, and loosen his nether garments so as to be perfectly at -ease, and call for his supper. It was his custom, as he ate nothing -before playing, to refresh himself afterwards with some simple dish. His -usual food was a generous bowl of cold corn-meal mush and milk. This he -took with a wholesome relish, the abstinent Oakes sharing only in -sympathy. Then was the tragedian to be seen in his highest social glory; -for he threw every restraint to the wind and gave full course to the -impulses of his nature. “Now here we are, my friend,” he would say, “and -let the world wag as it will, what do we care? Is it not a luxury to -unbutton your heart once in a while and let it all out where you know -there can be no misunderstanding? Come, go to, now, and let us have a -good time!” And a good time they _did_ have. They recalled past -adventures. They planned future ones. They gave every faculty of wit, -humor, and affection free play, without heed of any law beyond that of -their own friendly souls. Then, if he happened to be in the vein, -Forrest would tell anecdotes of other players, and give imitations of -them. He would take off with remarkable felicity the peculiarities of -Irishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, Englishmen, and, above all, of negroes. -Very few comic actors at their best on the stage appear better in -portraying ludicrous dialect characters or in telling funny stories than -Forrest did on these occasions when giving himself full swing with his -friend alone, thoroughly unbent from professional duty and social -stiffness. No one who then saw him sitting on the floor mimicking a -tailor at work, rolling on the bed in convulsions of laughter, or -representing the double part of two negro woodsawyers who undertook to -play Damon and Pythias, would dream that this was the man whom the world -thought so grim and sour and gloomy. He used to say, “It is often the -case that we solemn tragedians when off the stage are your jolliest -dogs, while your clowns and comedians are dyspeptic and melancholy in -private.” There was a genuine vein of humor in him very strong and -active. He was extremely fond of indulging it. He read “Darius Green and -his Flying Machine” with great effect. He said he would like very much -to recite it to the author, Mr. Trowbridge, and then recite to him the -“Idiot Boy,” that he might perceive the contrast of the humor in the one -and the pathos in the other as illustrated by a tragedian. - -Another feature in the friendship of Forrest and Oakes was their -frequent co-operation in works of mercy to the suffering and of -championship for the weak and wronged. In reading over their voluminous -correspondence many cases have been brought to light in which they took -up the cause of a poor man, an orphan, or an unfortunate widow, against -cruel and rapacious oppressors. One instance of this was where a rich -man was endeavoring by legal technicalities to defraud a widow and her -children of all the little property they had. Forrest heard of it, and -his just wrath was stirred. He wrote to Oakes to stand in the breach and -defeat this iniquity, promising to furnish whatever money was needed to -secure justice. It was a difficult case, and the poor woman was in -despair. But Oakes stood by her with acute advice and sympathy and -courage that never failed. After a hard and long fight, and a good deal -of expense, the right was vindicated. Writing to Forrest an account of -the result, and thanking him for his check, Oakes said, “This act is in -such keeping with your magnificent soul, and joins so with a multitude -of kindred deeds in reflecting lustre on you, that if my heart did not -feel at least as much satisfaction for your sake as for my own I would -tear it out and fling it at your feet.” - -The following extract is from another letter: - -“Your letter enclosing a hundred and fifty dollars reaches me this -moment. In an hour it will be in the hands of the poor forlorn creature -who indeed has no claim but the claim of a common humanity on either of -us, but whose near death of disease ought not to be anticipated by a -death of neglect, starvation, and cold. Your charity will now prevent -that. Once this unhappy woman moved in a high circle, envied and admired -by all. Now everybody deserts her death-garret. The Day of Judgment, if -there ever is one, will uncover strange secrets. Among the shameful -secrets dragged to light there will be glorious ones too,—like this your -response to my appeal for a desolated, forgotten outcast.” - -In 1856 Forrest had a severe illness which, in connection with his -domestic sorrow and vexatious litigation, greatly depressed his spirit. -Oakes, ever watchful and thoughtful for him, held it to be essential -that he should take a prolonged respite from public life and labor. On -purpose to persuade him to this course, to which he was obstinately -averse, Oakes made a journey to Philadelphia. After their greetings he -said, bluntly, “Forrest, I have come to ask a great favor.” Forrest -broke in on his speech with these words: “Oakes, in all our long -acquaintance never once have you asked anything of me in a selfish -spirit; and often as I have followed your advice I have never yet made a -mistake when I have allowed myself to be guided by you. Whatever the -request is which you have to make, it is granted before you make it.” -Oakes was deeply moved, but, commanding himself, he said, “Your -professional life has been one of hard work. Your health is not good, -and you are no longer young. You have money enough. You are now at the -top notch of your fame. To keep your rank there you will have to make -great exertions. You ought to have a good long rest. Now I want you to -promise me that you will not act again for three years.” Forrest drew a -long breath and dropped his head forward on his breast. In a minute he -looked up and said, “Ah, my friend, you have tested me in my tenderest -point. But it shall be so.” Nearly four years passed before he again -confronted an audience from his theatrical throne and welcomed their -applause. - -A group of the most ardent admirers of Forrest combined and subscribed a -handsome sum of money to secure a full-length marble statue of him in -one of his classic characters. But he shrank from the long and tedious -sittings, and refused to comply with their request. Oakes, who was -doubly desirous of securing this memorial, first as a tribute to his -illustrious friend, second as an important piece of patronage to a -gifted artist then just entering his career, now undertook the work of -persuasion. To his solicitation Forrest replied, “What troubles me is -the weary sittings I must undergo. But since you put this matter on -personal grounds, and ask me to endure the load for the sake of an old -unselfish friendship,—which cannot appeal in vain,—I yield with pleasure -to your request. Whenever Mr. Ball shall come to Philadelphia I will -submit myself with alacrity to the torture.” - -The name of Thomas Ball has acquired celebrity in art since that day, -but this statue of Forrest in the character of Coriolanus will always -stand as a proud landmark in his sculptured path of fame. It was a true -work of love not less than of ambition. For in the long hours of their -fellowship in the preparatory studying and sketching and casting the -sitter and the artist grew friends. The sculptor took his model and -sailed for Florence, there to produce the work he had conceived. And -when a year and a half had gone by, the complete result, safely landed -in Boston and set up for view in an art-gallery, greeted the eyes of -Oakes and gladdened his heart. For it more than met his expectations, it -perfectly contented him. He wrote to Mr. Ball, “I am glad the statue -came unheralded to our shores, and am content to let the verdict of the -public rest on the merits of the work. I congratulate you on an -unequivocal and grand success. As a personal likeness of Forrest it is -most truthful, and as an illustration of the Shakspearean conception of -the Roman Consul it is sublime. For more than forty years I have known -this man with an intimacy not common among men. Indeed, our friendship -has been more like the devotion of a man to the woman he loves than the -relations usually subsisting between men. In all my intercourse with the -world I have never known a truer man or one with a nobler nature than -Edwin Forrest, whose real worth and greatness will not be acknowledged -by the world until he is dead. I rejoice that one of his own countrymen -has given to posterity this true and magnificent portrait of him in -immortal marble. The eloquence of this marble will outlive the -malevolence of all the enemies and of all the critics who have assailed -him.” - -Forrest was indeed fortunate in the peaceful and time-enduring victory -achieved for him by the artist in this sculptured Coriolanus, whose -haughty beauty, and right foot insupportably advanced with the planted -weight of all imperious Rome, will speak his quality to generations yet -unborn. What a melancholy contrast is suggested by the words of Mrs. -Siddons after seeing the marble counterfeit of John Philip Kemble: “I -cannot help thinking of the statue of my poor brother. It is an absolute -libel on his noble person and air. I should like to pound it into dust -and scatter it to the winds.” - -The Coriolanus is colossal, eight feet and a half in height and weighing -six tons. The forms and muscles of the neck, the right side of the -chest, the right arm, left forearm, feet, and lower portion of the left -leg, are delineated in perfection, the remaining parts being concealed -by the folds of the mantle which is drawn around the left shoulder, -while the head is slightly turned to the right. The face and head are -superbly finished and seem pregnant with vitality. The whole expression -is one of massive and imperious strength, adamantine self-sufficingness, -reposeful, yet animated and resolute. It represents him at that point in -the play where he repels the intercessions of his mother and wife, and -says,— - - “Let the Volces - Plough Rome and harrow Italy, I’ll never - Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand - As if a man were author of himself - And knew no other kin.” - -So much pleased was Forrest with the statue, as his lingering gaze -studied it and drank in its majestic significance reflected on him from -the superb and classic pomp of marble, that he begged the privilege of -purchasing it from the subscribers. And so it now stands in the Actors’ -Home founded by his will. The enthusiastic and efficient zeal of Oakes -in securing this work drew his friend to him with an increased feeling -of obligation and of attachment, which he frankly expressed in an -eloquent letter of thanks. - -Forrest and Oakes had from time to time many pleasing adventures -together. A specimen or two may be related. Strolling in a quiet square -in Baltimore, they came upon a company of boys who were playing marbles. -“My little fellows,” said the tragedian, with his deep voice of music, -“will you lend me a marble and let me play with you?” “Oh, yes,” said a -barefoot, smiling urchin, and held up a marble in his dirty paw. Forrest -took it, sank on one knee, and began his game. In less than half an hour -he had won every marble they had, and the discomfited and destitute gang -were gazing at him in astonishment. “Don’t you see,” he then said, “how -dangerous it is for you to play with a stranger, about whose skill or -whose character you are wholly ignorant? Boys, as you grow up and mix in -the fight of life it will always be useful to you to know in advance -what kind of a fellow he is with whom you are going to deal.” One of the -boys, who had been sharply eying him, whispered to another, “I guess he -is Mr. Forrest, the play-actor, you know, at the theatre.” The other -replied, “Well, I should like to go there and see if he can playact as -well as he plays marbles.” “Yes,” said Forrest, “come, all of you. I -want you to come. I will do my best to please you.” And he wrote an -order of admission for them, gave them back their marbles, and bade them -good-morning. - -Once when he was filling an engagement in Boston, Oakes told him a story -of a humble mechanic whose landlord had compelled him to pay a debt -twice over, under circumstances of cruelty which had brought out proofs -of a most heroic honesty and refined sensibility in the poor man. -Forrest listened to the narrative with rapt attention. At its close he -exclaimed, “That landlord is a stony-hearted brute, and this mechanic is -a man of a royal soul! I must go and see him and his family before I -leave Boston.” Thanksgiving Day came that week. A friend of Oakes had -sent him for his Thanksgiving dinner an enormous wild turkey, weighing -with the feathers on twenty-seven and a half pounds. He showed this to -Forrest on Wednesday and told him they were to feast on it the next day. -“No, old chap,” replied Forrest; “you and I will dine on a beefsteak, -and take the wild turkey to the noble fellow who paid Shylock his money -twice.” Immediately after breakfast on Thanksgiving Day a barouche was -ordered, the big black turkey, looking nearly as large as a Newfoundland -dog, placed on the front seat, and Forrest and Oakes took the back seat. -They drove to the theatre. Forrest accosted the box-keeper: “Mr. Fenno, -I want for to-night’s performance six of the best seats in the house, -for an emperor and his family who are to honor me by their presence.” -Fenno gave him the tickets and declined to take pay for them. He -insisted on paying for them, saying, “They are my guests, sir.” They -then rode over to East Boston to the house of the honest man, found him, -announced their names, explained the cause and object of their visit, -and were invited in by him and introduced to his wife and four children. -Forrest kissed each one of the children. He brought in the huge turkey -and laid it on the table. Then, turning to the wife, he said, “We have -brought a turkey for your Thanksgiving dinner; and if you and your noble -husband and children enjoy as much in eating it as my friend and myself -do in offering it you will be very happy. And I am sure you deserve -great happiness, and I have faith that God will give it to you all.” He -then presented the tickets for the play of Metamora, saying, “I shall -look to see if you are all in the seats before I begin to act.” Not one -of them had ever been inside of a theatre. The sensations that were -awaiting them may be imagined. When the curtain rose and Metamora -appeared on the stage amidst that tumultuous applause which in those -times never failed to greet his entrance, he walked deliberately to the -front, fixed his eyes on the little family, bowed, and then proceeded. -Throughout the play he acted for and at that group, who seemed far -happier than any titular royalty could have been. Though this happened -twenty years before his death, he never forgot when in Boston to inquire -after the _American emperor_! The honest man is still living, and should -this little story ever meet his eye he will vouch for its entire truth. - -A few extracts taken almost at random from the letters of these friends -will clearly indicate the substantial earnestness and warmth of their -relation. Letters when honest and free reveal the likeness of the -writer, photographing the features of the soul, a feat which usually -baffles artistic skill and always defies chemical action. - -“You will doubtless receive this note to-morrow,—my birthday,—when, you -say, you will _think_ of me. Tell me the day, my dear friend, when you -do _not_ think of me! God bless you! Last night I acted at Washington in -Damon and Pythias. The sound of weeping was actually audible all over -the house as the noble Pythagorean rushed breathlessly back to save his -friend and then to die. What a grand moral is told in that play! What -sermon was ever half so impressive in its teaching! Had Shakspeare -written on the subject he had ‘drowned the stage with tears.’” - -“I cannot let this day pass without sending to you a renewed expression -of the esteem and high regard with which through so many years my heart -has unceasingly honored you. A merry Christmas to you, my glorious -friend, and a happy New Year, early in which I hope again to take you by -the hand.” - -“As the years go by us, my noble Spartacus, many things slip away never -to return, and many things that stay lose their charm. But one thing -seems to grow ever more fresh and precious,—the joy of an honest -friendship and trust in manly worth. May this, dear Forrest, never fail -for you or for me, however long we live.” - -“God bless you, Oakes, for your kindly greeting on the New Year’s day! -Though I was too busy to write, my soul went out to you on that day with -renewed messages of love, and with thanks to Almighty God that he has -quickened at least two hearts with an unselfish and unwavering devotion -to each other, and that those two hearts are yours and mine.” - -“You are almost the only intimate friend I have had who never asked of -me a pecuniary favor, and to whom I am indebted for as many personal -kindnesses as I ever received from any. I will send you my portrait to -hang in your parlor, with my autograph, and with such words as I have -not written, and will never write, upon another.” - -“It gives me great pleasure, my much-loved friend, to know that in a few -days more I shall see you again, and reach that haven of rest, the -presence of a true friend, where the storms of trouble cease to -prevail.” - -“And now, my friend, permit me to thank you for all the delicate -attentions you so considerately showed me during my late visit, and for -your noble manly sympathy for me in the wound I received from the legal -assassins of the Court of Appeals, who by their recent decision have -trampled upon law, precedent, justice, and the instinctive honor of the -human heart.” - -On the eve of his professional trip to California, Forrest wrote to -Oakes, “My dear friend, how much I should like, if your business matters -would permit, to have you accompany me to California! I would right -willingly pay all your expenses for the entire journey, and I am sure -you would enjoy the trip beyond expression. Is it not _possible_ for you -to arrange your affairs and go with me? It would make me the happiest -man in the world.” - -The scheme could not be realized, and after his own return he wrote, -“Yes, in a few days I will come to you in Boston, my dear friend. We -will talk of scenes long gone, and renew the pleasant things of the past -in sweet reflections on their memory. We will hopefully trust in the -future that our friendship may grow brighter with our years, and cease, -if it must cease then, only with our lives.” - -In 1864 he had written, “I think we both of us have vitality enough to -enjoy many happy years even in this vale of tears; but then we must -occupy it together. For - - “‘When true hearts lie withered, - And fond ones are gone, - Oh, who would inhabit - This bleak world alone?’” - -There was a partial change in his tone four years later, when he wrote, -“I think with you that we ought not to live so much asunder. Our time is -now dwindled to a span; and why should we not _together_ see the sinking -sun go brightly down on the evening of our day? What a blessed thing it -would be to realize that dream of Cuba I named to you when we last met!” - -In 1870 Oakes determined to retire from business, and Forrest wrote to -him from Macon, Georgia,— - -“I am glad to hear you are about to close your toils in the ‘Old Salt -House’ and give your much-worn mind and body the quiet repose they need. -In this way you will receive a new and happy lease of life, enlarge your -sphere of usefulness to your friends, and be a joy to yourself in giving -and taking kindnesses. I look forward with a loving impatience to the -end of my professional engagements this season, that I may repair to -Philadelphia, there to effect a settlement of such comforting means as -shall make the residue of your life glide on in ceaseless ease. Do not, -I beg you, let any pride or sensitiveness stand in the way of this my -purpose. It is a debt which I owe to you for the innumerable kindnesses -I have experienced at your hands, and for your unwearied fidelity to all -my interests.” - -Oakes rejected the proposition, though keenly feeling how generous and -beautiful it was. Argument and persuasion from friendly lips, however, -at length overcame his repugnance, and the noble kindness—so uncommon -and exemplary among friends in our hard grasping time—was finally as -gratefully accepted as it was gladly bestowed. This gift was the most -effective stroke of _real_ acting that ever came from the genius of the -player. Taken in connection with his traits of generous sweetness and -his clouded passages of ferocious hate, it reveals a character like one -of those barbaric kings who loom gigantic on the screen of the past, -dusky and explosive with the ground passions of nature, but wearing a -coronet of royal virtues and blazing all over with the jewelry of -splendid deeds. It shows in him such a spirit in daily life as would -enable him to utter on the stage with no knocking rebuke of memory the -proud words of the noble Roman:— - - “When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous - To lock his rascal counters from his friends, - Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, - Dash him to pieces.” - -To anticipate here the sequel and earthly close of the friendship of -Forrest and Oakes would be to detract too much from the proper interest -of the last chapter of this biography. The story may well be left for -the present as it stands at this point, where a half-century of -unfaltering love and service was repaid not only by a heart full of -gratitude but also with a munificent material Philadelphia, there to -effect a settlement of such comforting means as shall make the residue -of your life glide on in ceaseless ease. - -When the hand that wrote these tender words had been nigh four years -mouldering in the tomb the survivor was heard to say, “Every year, every -month, every day, I more and more appreciate his noble qualities and -miss more and more his precious companionship. And I would, were it in -my power, bring him back from the grave to be with me as long as I am to -stay.” - -In ending this chapter of the friendships of Forrest, the justice of -history requires a few words more. For there are several names of -friends, who were long very dear to him and to whom he was very dear, -which should be added to those set down above. The reason why no account -of their relationship has been embodied here, is simply that the writer -had not knowledge of any incidents which he could so narrate as to make -them of public interest. Yet the friendships were of the most endeared -character, full of happiness, and never marred or clouded. The names of -the Rev. Elias L. Magoon, Colonel John W. Forney, and Mr. James Rees -should not be omitted in any list of the friends of Edwin Forrest. And -still more emphatic and conspicuous mention is due to that intimate, -affectionate, and sustained relation of trust and love with Daniel -Dougherty, on which the grateful actor and man set his unquestionable -seal in leaving him a bequest of five thousand dollars and making him -one of the executors of his will and one of the trustees of his estate. - - - - - CHAPTER XX. - PLACE AND RANK OF FORREST AS A PLAYER.—THE CLASSIC, ROMANTIC, NATURAL, - AND ARTISTIC SCHOOLS OF ACTING. - - -Forrest being the most conspicuous and memorable actor America has -produced, it is desirable to fix the place and rank which belong to him -in the history of his profession. To do this with any clearness or with -any authority we must first penetrate to the central characteristics of -each of the great schools of acting, illustrate them by some examples, -and explain his relation to them. - -Omitting the consideration of comedy and confining our attention to -tragedy, the most familiar distinction in the styles of dramatic -representation is that which divides them into the two schools called -Classic and Romantic or Ancient and Modern. But this enumeration is -altogether insufficient. It needs to be supplemented by two other -schools, namely, the Natural and the Artistic. - -The antique theatres of Greece and Rome stood open in the air unroofed -to the sky, and were so vast, holding from ten thousand to two hundred -thousand spectators, that the players in order not to be belittled and -inaudible were raised on the high cothurnus and wore a metallic mask -whose huge and reverberating mouth augmented the voice. The word persona -is derived from _personare_, to sound through. Dramatis personæ -originally meant masks, and only later came to denote the persons of the -play. The conditions suppressed all the finer inflections of tone and -the play of the features. The actor had to depend for his effects on -measured declamation, imposing forms and attitudes, slow and appropriate -movements, simple pictures distinctly outlined and set in bold relief. -The characters principally brought forward were kings, heroes, prophets, -demi-gods, deities. It was the stately representation of superhuman or -exalted personages, full of exaggerated solemnity and pomp both in -bearing and in speech. All this naturally arose from the circumstances -under which the serious drama was developed,—the audience a whole -population, the player at a distance from them, in the scenery of -surrounding sea and mountains and the overhanging heaven. The traditions -of the Classic School came directly down to the subsequent ages and gave -their mould and spirit to the modern theatre. They have been kept up by -the long list of all the great conventional tragedians in their stilted -pose and stride and grandiose delivery, until the very word theatrical -has come to signify something overdone, unreal, turgid, hollow, -bombastic. - -But when, from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, in Italy, Spain, -Germany, France, and England, the drama revived and asserted itself in -such an extended and deepened popular interest,—when the theatres were -built on a smaller scale adapted for accurate seeing and hearing, and -the actors and the stage were brought close to the limited and select -audience,—when the plays, instead of dealing mainly with sublime themes -of fate and the tragic pomp and grandeur of monarchs and gods, began to -depict ordinary mortal characters and reflect the contents of real -life,—the scene changed from an enormous amphitheatre where before a -city of gazers giants stalked and trumpeted, to a parlor where a group -of ladies and gentlemen exhibited to a company of critical observers the -workings of human souls and the tangled plots of human life. The buskins -were thrown off and the masks laid aside, the true form and moving -displayed, living expression given to the features, and the changing -tones of passion restored to the voice. Then the mechanical in acting -gave way to the passionate; the Classic School, which was statuesque, -receded, and the Romantic School, which was picturesque, advanced. - -The Classic School modulates from the idea of dignity. Its attributes -are unity, calmness, gravity, symmetry, power, harmonic severity. Its -symbol is the Greek Parthenon, whose plain spaces marble images people -with purity and silence. The Romantic School modulates from the idea of -sensational effect. Its attributes are variety, change, excitement, -sudden contrasts, alternations of accord and discord, vehement extremes. -Its symbol is the Christian Cathedral, whose complicated cells and -arches palpitate as the strains of the organ swell and die within them -trembling with sensibility and mystery. The ancient tragedian -represented man as a plaything of destiny, sublimely helpless in the -grasp of his own doings and the will of the gods. The chief interest was -in the evolution of the character, which had but one dominant chord -raised with a cunning simplicity through ever-converging effects to a -single overwhelming climax. The modern tragedian impersonates man as now -the toy and now the master of his fate, a creature of a hundred -contradictions, his history full of contrasts and explosive crises. The -chief interest is in the complications of the character and the -situations of the plot so combined as to keep the sympathies and -antipathies in varying but constant excitement. The vices of the former -school are proud rigidity and frigidity, pompous formality and -mechanical bombast. The vices of the latter school, on the other hand, -are incongruity, sensational extravagance, and affectation. The Classic -virtue is unity set in relief, but a mathematical chill was its fault. -The Romantic virtue is variety set in relief, but its bane was -inconsistency. The true tone of the heart, however, and the breathing -warmth of life which it brings to the stage more than atone for all its -defects and excesses. - -The Romantic School early began to branch in two directions. In one it -degenerated into that Melodramatic Medley which, although it has a -nameless herd of followers, does not deserve to be called a school, -because it has no system and is but instinct and passion let loose and -run wild. In the other direction, joining with the traditional stream of -example from its Classic rival, the Romantic issued in what should be -named the Natural School. So the Classic School, too, forked in a double -tendency, one branch of which led to death in an icy formalism and -slavish subserviency to empiric rules, while the other led to the -perfecting of vital genius and skill in the rounded fulness of truth; -not truth as refracted in crude individualities but as generalized into -a scientific art. This higher result of the double issue of the Classic -School, joined with the higher result of the double issue of the -Romantic School, constitutes the Artistic School. The Natural School is -to be defined as having merely an empiric foundation, in it the contents -of human nature and their modes of manifestation being grasped by -intuition, instinct, observation, and practice, with no commanded -insight of ultimate principles. The Artistic School, on the contrary, -has a scientific foundation, in it the materials and methods being -mastered by a philosophical study which employs all the means of -enlightenment and inspiration systematically co-ordinated and applied. - -Betterton was a noble representative of the classic style with a large -infusion of the romantic and the natural and with a strong determination -towards the artistic. Garrick had less of the first two and more of the -third and fourth. In the history of the British stage Garrick is an -epochal mark in the progressive displacement of theatricality by nature. -He ridiculed the noisy mechanical declamation of the stage and -introduced a quiet conversational manner. He agreed with the suggestion -of his friend Aaron Hill that Shakspeare, judging from his wise -directions to the players in Hamlet, must himself have been a fine -actor, but in advance of the taste of his time. Quin, Young, Kemble, -Conway, and Vandenhoff were examples of the classic type of acting, -while Barton Booth, Mossop, and Spranger Barry exemplified the more -passionate and impulsive romantic type. Macklin was a bold and -intelligent though somewhat coarse and hard representative of the -Natural School. Cooper and Cooke, each of whom had a personality of -great original power, veered between the three preceding schools, with a -large and varying element of each one infused in their impersonations. -But the fullest glory of the Romantic School was seen in Edmund Kean, -the coruscations of whose meteoric genius blazed out equally in the -sensational feats of the melodramatic and in the profound triumphs of -the natural. In France, Lekain, Talma, and Lemaître moved the stiff -traditions of their art many degrees towards the simplicity and the free -fire of truth, released the actor from his stilts, and did much to -humanize the strutting and mouthing stage-ideal transmitted by tyrannic -tradition. - -The Classic and the Romantic School each had its separate reign. The -Melodramatic offshoot of the latter also had and still has its -prevalence, yielding its mushroom crops of empiric sensationalists. But -in the historic evolution of the art of acting there must come a -complete junction of two great historic schools in one person. The -plebeian Lekain, a working goldsmith, was not bred in the laps of -queens, as Baron said an actor ought to be; but, as Talma declared of -him, Nature, a nobler instructress than any queen, undertook to reveal -her secrets to him. And he broke the fetters of pedantry, repudiated the -sing-song or monotonous chant so long in vogue, and brought the -unaffected accents of the soul on the stage. Living, however, in the -very focus of monarchical traditions and habits, subject to every royal -and aristocratic influence, he could not establish in the eighteenth- -century-theatres of France the true Democratic School of Nature. This -was necessarily left for America and the nineteenth century. Edwin -Forrest was the man. By his burning depth and quick exuberance of -passion, his instinctive and cultivated democracy of conviction and -sentiment, his resolute defiance of old rules and customs, and his -constant recurrence to original observation of nature, it was easy for -him to master the Romantic School, while the spirit and mode of the -Classic School could not be difficult for one of his proud mind, -imposing physique, and severe self-possession. The intense bias he -caught from Kean in the melodramatic direction and the lofty bias -imparted to him by Cooper in the stately antique way were supplemented, -first, by his wild strolling experiences and training in the West and -South, secondly, by his patient self-culture and studies at the prime -fountain-heads of nature itself. In addition to this, he rose and -flourished in the midst of the latest and ripest development of all the -unconventional institutions and influences of the most democratic land -and people the world has yet known. And so he came to represent, in the -history of the drama, the moment of the fusion of the Classic and -Romantic Schools and their passage into the Natural School. As the -founder of this school in the United States he has been followed by a -whole brood of disciples,—such as Kirby, Neafie, Buchanan, and Proctor,— -who have reflected discredit on him by imitating his faultiness instead -of reproducing his excellence. - -Substantially intellectual, impassioned, profoundly ambitious, with -flaming physical energies, with a very imperfect education, and few -social advantages, Forrest was early thrown into the company of men who -had great natural force of mind, and were frank and generous, but -comparatively unpolished in taste and reckless in habits, leading a life -of free amusement, conviviality, and passion often exploding in frenzied -jealousies, rages, duels, deaths. He resisted the temptations that would -have proved fatal to him, as they did to so many of his fellows, kept -his self-respect, and faithfully studied and aspired to something -better. He was exposed to the widest extremes of praise and abuse,— -petted without bounds and assailed without measure. He kept his head -unturned by either extravagance, though not uninjured, and swiftly -sprang into a vast and intense popularity. But under the circumstances -of the case—his burning impulsiveness and exuberant energy and lack of -early culture, his tempestuous associates, and the general rawness or -sensational eagerness of our population at that time—he would have been -a miracle if his acting had not been marred with faults, if he had not -been extravagant in displays of muscle and voice, if he had not been in -some degree what his hostile critics called a melodramatic actor. Yet -even then there were excellences in his playing, virtues of sincerity, -truthfulness, intelligence, electric strokes of fine feeling, exquisite -touches of beauty, confluences of light and shade, sustained unity of -design, which justified the admiration and gave ground for the excessive -eulogies he received. In melodrama the action is more physical than -mental, the exertions of the actor blows of artifice to produce an -effect rather than strokes of art to reveal truth. But in this sense -Forrest always, even in his crudest day, was more tragic than -melodramatic, his efforts explosions of the soul through the senses -rather than convulsions of the muscles,—vents of the mind and glimpses -of the spirit rather than contortions of the person, limbs, voice, and -face. And he went steadily on, reading the best books, studying himself -and other men, scrutinizing the unconscious acting of all kinds of -persons in every diversity of situation, sedulously trying to correct -errors, outgrow faults, gain deeper insight, and secure a fuller and -finer mastery of the resources of his art. - -Consequently his career was a progressive one, and in his latest and -mentally best days he gave impersonations of the loftiest and most -difficult characters known in the drama which have hardly been -surpassed. The prejudices against him as a strutting and robustious -ranter who shivered the timbers of his hearers and tore everything to -tatters were largely unwarranted at the outset, and for every year -afterwards were a gross wrong. In the time of his herculean glory with -the Bowery Boys it may be true that his fame was bottomed on the great -lower classes of society, and made its strongest appeals through the -signs he gave of muscle, blood, and fire; yet there must have been -wonderful intelligence, pathos, and beauty, as well as naked power, to -have commanded, as his playing did at that early day, the glowing -tributes paid to him by Irving, Leggett, Bryant, Chandler, Clay, Conrad, -Wetmore, Halleck, Ingraham, Lawson, and Oakes. He always had sincerity -and earnestness. His audiences always felt his entrance as the -appearance of a genuine man among the hollow fictions of the stage. His -soul filled with power and passion by nature, without anything else was -greater than everything else could be without this. A celebrated English -actress generously undertook to train a young beginner, who was yet -unknown, to assume higher parts. Tutoring her in the rôle of a princess -neglected by the man she loved, the patroness could not get the pupil to -make her concern appear natural. “Heaven and earth!” she exclaimed. -“Suppose it real. Suppose yourself slighted by the man you devotedly -loved. How would you act then in real life?” The hopeless reply was, “I? -I should get another lover as quickly as I could.” The instructress saw -the fatal, fatal defect of nature. She shut the book and gave no more -lessons. Nature must supply the diamond which art polishes. - -The youthful Forrest not only had nature in himself, but he was a -careful student of nature in others. He used to walk behind old men, -watching every movement, to attain the gait and peculiarities of age. He -visited hospitals and asylums, and patiently observed the phases of -weakness and death, the features and actions of maniacs. His reading was -a model of precision and lucidity in the extrication of the sense of the -words. One of his earlier critics said, “He grasps the meaning of a -passage more firmly than any actor we know. He discloses the idea with -exactness, energy, and fulness, leaving in this respect nothing to be -desired. His recitation is as clear as a mathematical demonstration.” He -had also an exquisite tenderness of feeling and utterance which -penetrated the heart, and a power of intense mournfulness or delicious -sadness which could always unseal the eyes of the sensitive. He studied -the different forms of actual death with such minute attention that his -stage deaths were so painfully true as to excite repugnance while they -compelled admiration. The physical accompaniments were too literally -exact. He had not yet learned that the highest artistic power lowers and -absorbs the minor details in its broad grasp and conspicuous portrayal -of the whole. The Natural School, as a rule, does not enough -discriminate between the terror that paralyzes the brain and the horror -that turns the stomach. In the part of Virginius, Forrest for some years -had the hollow blade of the knife filled with a red fluid which, on the -pressure of a spring as he struck his daughter, spurted out like blood -following a stab. A lady fainted away as he played this scene in -Providence, and, feeling that the act was artifice, and not art, he -never afterwards repeated it. So it was nature, and not art, when Polus, -the Roman tragedian, having to act a part of great pathos secretly -brought in the urn the ashes of his own son. In distinction equally from -artifice and from nature, art grasps the essential with a noble -disregard of the accidental, and finely subordinates what is particular -to what is general. - -The Classic School modulates from the idea of grandeur or dignity; its -aim is to set unity in relief, and its attribute is power in repose. The -Romantic School modulates from the idea of effectiveness; its aim is to -set the contrasts of variety in relief, and its attribute is power in -excitement. The Natural School modulates from the idea of sincerity; its -aim is to set reality in relief, exhibiting both unity in variety and -variety in unity, and its attribute is alternation of power in repose -and power in excitement, according to the exigencies of character and -circumstance. The Artistic School modulates from the idea of truth; its -attributes are freedom from personal crudity and prejudice, liberation -of the faculties of the soul and the functions of the body, and an exact -discrimination of the accidental and the individual from the essential -and the universal; and its aim is to set in relief in due order and -degree every variety of character and experience, every style and grade -of spiritual manifestation, not as the workings of nature are made known -in any given person however sincere, but as they are generalized into -laws by a mastery of all the standards of comparison and classification. -Sincerity is individual truth, but truth is universal sincerity. “Why do -you enact that part in Macbeth as you do?” asked a friend of Forrest. -“Because,” he replied, “that is the way I should have done it had I been -Macbeth.” Ah, but the question is not how would a Forrestian Macbeth -have done it, but how would a Macbethian Macbeth do it? The sincere -Natural School of acting is hampered by the limiting of its vision to -the reflections of nature in the refracting individuality of the actor. -The true Artistic School purifies, corrects, supplements, and harmonizes -individual perceptions by that consensus of averages, or elimination of -the personal equation, which dispels illusions and reveals permanent -principles. - -Forrest stands at the head of the Natural School as its greatest -representative, with earnest aspirations and efforts towards that final -and perfect School whose threshold he thoroughly crossed but whose -central shrine and crown he could not attain. He attained a solitary -supremacy in the Natural School, but could not attain it in the Artistic -School, because he had not in his mind grasped the philosophically -perfected ideal of that School, and did not in his preliminary practices -apply to himself its scientifically systematized drill. His ideal and -drill were the old traditional ones, based on observation, instinct, and -empirical study, modified only by his originality and direct recurrence -to nature. But Nature gives her empirical student merely genuine facts -without and sincere impulses within. She yields essential universal -truths and principles only to the student who is equipped with -rectifying tests and a generalizing method. Destitute of this, both -theoretically and practically, Forrest wanted that clearness and -detachment of the spiritual faculties and the physical articulations, -that consummated liberty and swiftness of thought and feeling and -muscular play, which are absolutely necessary to the perfect actor. He -was so great an artist that he gave his pictures background, foreground, -proportion, perspective, light and shade, gradations of tone, and unity; -but he fell short of perfection, because carrying into every character -too much of his own individuality, and not sufficiently seizing their -various individualities and giving their distinctive attributes an -adequate setting in the refinements of an intellectualized -representation of universal human nature. - -The perfect artist—such an one as Delsarte was—will build a form of -character in the cold marble of pure intellect and then transfuse it -with passion till it blushes and burns. He will also reverse the -process, seize the spiritual shape born flaming from intuitive passion, -change it into critical perception, and deposit it in memory for -subsequent evocation at will. This is more than nature: it is art -superimposed on nature. Garrick, Siddons, Talma, Rachel, Salvini, -Forrest, were natural actors, and, more, they were artists. But the only -supreme master of the Artistic School known as yet, whose theoretic -ideal and actual training were perfect, was the great dramatic teacher -François Delsarte. - -Nature is truth in itself. But it is the ideal operation of truth that -constitutes art. Acting, like all art, is truth seen not in itself, but -reflected in man. It should not exhibit unmodified nature directly. It -should hold up the mirror of the human soul and reveal nature as -reflected there. It is a Claude Lorraine mirror of intellectual -sympathy, softening, shading, toning,—just as Shakspeare says, begetting -a temperance which gives smoothness to everything seen. The fights of -the gladiators and the butcheries of the victims in the Roman -amphitheatre were not acting, but reality. The splendor of art was -trodden into the mire of fact. The error, the defect, the exaggeration -in the acting of Forrest, so far as such existed, was that sometimes -excess of nature prevented perfection of art. If certainly a glorious -fault, it was no less clearly a fault. - -But as he advanced in years this fault diminished, and the polish of art -removed the crudeness of nature. Step by step the tricks into which he -had been betrayed revealed themselves to him as distasteful tricks, and -the sturdy impetuous honesty of his character made him repudiate them. -Too often in his earlier Lear he gave the impression that he was -buffeting fate and fortune instead of being buffeted by them; but slowly -the spiritual element predominated over the physical one, until the -embodiment stood alone in its balanced and massive combination of -sublimated truth, epic simplicity, exquisite tenderness, and tragic -strength. So his young Damon was greatly a performance of captivating -points and electrical transitions, stirring the audience to fever-heats -of fear and transport. No one who saw his wonderful burst of passion -when he learned that his slave had slain the horse that was to carry him -to the rescue of his friend and hostage—no one who saw his reappearance -before the block, stained and smeared with sweat and dust, crazed and -worn, yet sustained by a terrible nervous energy—could say that in any -class of passion he ever witnessed a truer or a grander thing. But the -conception was rather of a hot-blooded knight of the age of chivalry -than of a contemplative, resolute, symmetrical Greek senator. Gradually, -however, the maturing mind of the actor lessened the mere tumult of -sensational excitement, and increased and co-ordinated the mental and -moral qualities into a classical and climacteric harmony. One of the -most striking evidences of the progressive artistic improvement of -Forrest was the change in his delivery of the celebrated lament of -Othello, “Farewell the tranquil mind.” He used, speaking it in a kind of -musical recitative, to utter the words “neighing steed” in equine tones, -imitate the shrillness of “the shrill trump,” give a deep boom to the -phrase “spirit-stirring drum,” and swell and rattle his voice to portray -“the engines whose rude throats the immortal Jove’s dread clamors -counterfeit.” He learned to see that however effective this might be as -elocution it was neither nature nor art, but an artificiality; and then -he read the passage with consummate feeling and force, his voice broken -with passionate emotion but not moulded to any pedantic cadences or -flourishes. And yet it must be owned that after all his sedulous study -and great growth in taste, his too strong individuality would still crop -out sometimes to mar what else had been very nigh perfect. For instance, -there was, even to the last, an occasional touch of vanity that was -repulsive in those displays of voice which he would make on a favorite -sonorous word. In the line of the Gladiator, “We will make Rome howl for -this,” the boys would repeat as they went homeward along the streets his -vociferous and exaggerated downward slide and prolongation of the -unhappy word _howl_. And the same fault was conspicuous and painful in -the word _royal_, where Othello says,— - - “’Tis yet to know, - (Which, when I know that boasting is an honour, - I shall promulgate,) I fetch my life and being - From men of royal siege.” - -Despite this and other similar flaws, however, he had an intense -sincerity and force of nature, a varied truth blent in one consistent -whole of grand moral effectiveness, that place him high among the most -extraordinary players. His youthful Gladiator and Othello were as -impetuous, volcanic, and terrible as any of the delineations of -Frederick Lemaître. His mature Coriolanus had as imperial a stateliness, -as grand a hauteur, as massive a dynamic pomp, as were ever seen in John -Philip Kemble. His aged Lear was as boldly drawn and carefully finished, -as fearfully powerful in its general truth, and as wonderfully tinted, -toned, shaded, and balanced in its details, as any character-portrait -ever pictured by David Garrick. In the various parts he played in the -successive periods of his career he traversed the several schools of his -art,—except the last one, and fairly entered that,—and displayed the -leading traits of them all, the lava passion of Kean, the superb -pomposity of Vandenhoff, the statuesque kingliness of Talma, the -mechanically studied effects of Macready. His great glory was -“magnanimous breadth and generosity of manly temperament.” His faults -were an occasional slip in delicacy of taste, inability always to free -himself from himself, and the grave want of a swift grace and lightness -in the one direction equal to his ponderous weight and slowness in the -other. Thus, while in some respects he may be called the king of the -Natural School, he must be considered only a striking member, and not a -model, of the Artistic School. After his death his former wife, Mrs. -Sinclair, who was in every way an excellent judge of acting, and could -not be thought biased in his favor, was asked her opinion of him -professionally. She replied, “He was a very great artist. In some things -I do not think he ever had an equal; certainly not in my day. I do not -believe his Othello and his Lear were ever surpassed. His great -characteristics as an actor were power and naturalness.” In illustration -of this judgment the following anecdote, told by James Oakes, may be -adduced: - -“I was visiting my friend in Philadelphia, and went to the theatre to -see his Virginius. He had said to me at sunset, ‘I feel like acting this -part to-night better than I ever did it before;’ and accordingly I was -full of expectation. Surely enough, never before in his life had I seen -him so intensely grand. His touching and sublime pathos made not only -women but sturdy men weep audibly. As for myself, I cried like a baby. I -observed, sitting in the pit near the stage, a fine-looking old -gentleman with hair as white as snow, who seemed entirely absorbed in -the play, so much so that the attention of Forrest was drawn to him, and -in some of the most moving scenes he appeared acting directly towards -him. In the part where the desperate father kills his daughter the -acting was so vivid and real that many ladies, sobbing aloud, buried -their faces in their handkerchiefs and groaned. The old gentleman above -alluded to said, in quite a distinct tone, ‘My God, he has killed her!’ -Afterwards, when Virginius, having lost his reason, comes upon the stage -and says, with a distraught air, ‘Where is my daughter?’ utterly -absorbed and lost in the action, the old man rose from his seat, and, -looking the player earnestly in the face, while the tears were streaming -from his eyes, said, ‘Good God, sir, don’t you know that you killed -her?’ After the play Forrest told me that when he saw how deeply -affected the old gentleman was he came very near breaking down himself. -He esteemed it one of the greatest tributes ever paid him, one that he -valued more than the most boisterous applause of a whole audience.” - -The following critical notice of the histrionic type and style of -Forrest is from the gifted pen of William Winter, whose dramatic -criticisms in the New York “Tribune” for the past ten years have been -marked by a knowledge, an eloquence, an assured grasp and a -conscientiousness which make them stand out in refreshing contrast to -the average theatrical commenting of the newspaper press. Making a -little allowance for the obvious antipathy and sympathy of the writer, -the article is both just and generous: - -“Mr. Forrest has always been remarkable for his iron repose, his perfect -precision of method, his immense physical force, his capacity for -leonine banter, his fiery ferocity, and his occasional felicity of -elocution in passages of monotone and colloquy. These features are still -conspicuous in his acting. The spell of physical magnetism that he has -wielded so long is yet unbroken. The certainty of purpose that has -always distinguished him remains the same. Hence his popular success is -as great as ever. Strength and definiteness are always comprehensible, -and generally admirable. Mr. Forrest is the union of both. We may liken -him to a rugged old castle, conspicuous in a landscape. The architecture -may not be admired, but the building is distinctly seen and known. You -may not like the actor, but you cannot help seeing that he is the -graphic representative of a certain set of ideas in art. That is -something. Nay, in a world of loose and wavering motives and conduct, it -is much. We have little sympathy with the school of acting which Mr. -Forrest heads; but we know that it also serves in the great educational -system of the age, and we are glad to see it so thoroughly represented. -But, while Mr. Forrest illustrates the value of earnestness and of -assured skill, he also illustrates the law of classification in art as -well as in humanity. All mankind—artists among the rest—are distinctly -classified. We are what we are. Each man develops along his own grade, -but never rises into a higher one. Hence the world’s continual wrangling -over representative men,—wrangling between persons of different classes, -who can never possibly become of one mind. Mr. Forrest has from the -first been the theme of this sort of controversy. He represents the -physical element in art. He is a landmark on the border-line between -physical and spiritual power. Natures kindred with his own admire him, -follow him, reverence him as the finest type of artist. That is natural -and inevitable. But there is another sort of nature,—with which neither -Mr. Forrest nor his admirers can possibly sympathize,—that demands an -artist of a very different stamp; that asks continually for some great -spiritual hero and leader; that has crowned and uncrowned many false -monarchs; and that must for ever and ever hopelessly pursue its ideal. -This nature feels what Shelley felt when he wrote of ‘the desire of the -moth for the star, of the night for the morrow.’ To persons of this -order—and they are sufficiently numerous to constitute a large minority— -Mr. Forrest’s peculiar interpretations of character and passion are -unsatisfactory. They see and admire his certainty of touch, his profound -assurance, his solid symmetry. But they feel that something is wanting -to complete the artist. But enough of this. It is pleasanter now to -dwell upon whatever is most agreeable in the veteran’s professional -attitude. Mr. Forrest is one of the few thorough and indefatigable -students remaining to the stage. He has collected the best Shakspearean -library in America. He studies acting with an earnest and single-hearted -devotion worthy of all honor, worthy also of professional emulation. -Every one of his personations bears the marks of elaborate thought. -According to the measure of his abilities, Mr. Forrest is a true and -faithful artist; and if, as seems to us, the divine spark be wanting to -animate and glorify his creations, that lack, unhappily, is one that -nearly all artists endure, and one that not all the world can supply.” - -And now it is left to show more clearly and fully, while doing justice -to what Forrest was in his own noble School of Nature, how he fell short -in that other School of Art which is the finest and greatest of all. - -The voice of Forrest, naturally deep, rich, and strong, and developed by -constant exercise until it became astonishingly full and powerful, -ministered largely to the delight of his audiences and was a theme of -unfailing wonder and eulogy to his admirers. It may not be said which is -the most important weapon of the actor, the chest and neck, the arm and -hand, the face and head, or the voice; because they depend on and -contribute to one another, and each in its turn may be made the most -potent of the agents of expression. But if the primacy be assigned to -any organ it must be to the central and royal faculty of voice, since -this is the most varied and complex and intellectual of all the channels -of thought and emotion. A perfected voice can reveal almost everything -which human nature is capable of thinking or feeling or being, and not -only reveal it, but also wield it as an instrument of influence to -awaken in the auditor correspondent experiences. But for this result not -only an uncommon endowment by nature is necessary, but likewise an -exquisite artistic training, prolonged with a skill and a patience which -finally work a revolution in the vocal apparatus. Only one or two -examples of this are seen in a generation. The Italian school of -vocalization occasionally gives an instance in a Braham or a Lablache. -But such perfection in the speaking voice is even rarer than in the -singing. Henry Russell, whose reading and recitative were as consummate -as his song, and played as irresistibly on the feelings, had a voice of -perhaps the most nearly perfect expressive power known in our times. He -could infuse into it every quality of experience, color it with every -hue and tint of feeling, every light and shade of sentiment. To speak in -illustrative metaphor, he could issue it at will in such a varying -texture and quality of sound, such modified degrees of softness or -hardness, energy or gentleness, as would suggest bolts of steel, of -gold, of silver, or of opal; waves of velvet or of fire; ribbons of -satin or of crystal. His organism seemed a mass of electric sensibility, -all alive, and, in response to the touches of ideas within, giving out -fitted tones and articulations through the whole diapason of humanity, -from the very _vox angelica_ down to the gruff basses where lions roar -and serpents hiss. This is a result of the complete combination of -instinctive sensibility in the mind and developed elocutionary apparatus -in the body. The muscular connections of the thoracic and abdominal -structures are brought into unity, every part playing into all the parts -and propagating every vibration or undulatory impulse. At the slightest -volition the entire space sounding becomes a vital whole, all its walls, -from the roof of the mouth to the base of the inside, compressing and -relaxing with elastic exactitude, or yielding in supple undulation so as -to reveal in the sounds emitted precisely the tinge and energy of the -dominant thought and emotion. Then the voice appears a pure mental -agent, not a physical one. It seems to reside in the centre of the -breath, using air alone to articulate its syllables. Commanding, without -any bony or meaty quality, both extremes,—the thread-like diminuendo of -the nightingale and the stunning crash of the thunderbolt,—it gives -forth the whole contents of the man in explicit revelation. - -This perfection of the Italian School has been confined to the lyric -stage. Perhaps the nearest examples to it on the dramatic stage were -Edmund Kean for a short time in his best period, and Forrest and Salvini -in our own day. Forrest had it not in its complete finish. He grew up -wild, as it were, on a wild continent, where no such consummate training -had ever been known. Left to himself and to nature, he did everything -and more than everything that could have been expected. But _perfection_ -of voice, a detached vocal mentality which uses the column of -respiratory air alone as its instrument, sending its vibrations freely -into the sonorous surfaces around it, he did not wholly attain. His -voice seemed rather by direct will to employ the muscles to seize the -breath and shape and throw the words. He could crash it in sheeted -thunder better than he could hurl it in fagoted bolts, and he loved too -much to do it. In a word, his voice lacked, just as his character did, -the qualities of intellectualized spirituality, ethereal brilliancy, -aerial abstraction and liberty from its muscular settings and -environment. Had these qualities been fully his in body and soul, in -addition to what he was, he would have been the unrivalled paragon of -the stage. The fibres of the backbone and of the solar plexus were too -much intertangled with the fibres of the brain, the individual traits in -him were too closely mixed with the universal, for this. But -nevertheless, as it was, his voice was an organ of magnificent richness -and force for the expression of the elemental experiences of humanity in -all their wide ranges of intelligence, instinct, and passion. It could -do full justice to love and hate, scorn and admiration, desire, -entreaty, expostulation, remorse, wonder, and awe, and was most -especially effective in pity, in command, and in irony and sarcasm. His -profound visceral vitality and vigor were truly extraordinary. This grew -out of an athletic development exceptionally complete and a respiration -exceptionally deep and perfect. When Forrest under great passion or -mental energy spoke mighty words, his vocal blows, muffled thunder- -strokes on the diaphragmatic drum, used to send convulsive shocks of -emotion through the audience. The writer well remembers hearing him -imitate the peculiar utterance of Edmund Kean in his most concentrated -excitement. The sweet, gurgling, half-smothered and half-resonant -staccato spasms of articulation betokened the most intense state of -organic power, a girded and impassioned condition as terrible and -fascinating as the muscular splendor of an infuriated tiger. The voice -and elocution of Forrest were all that could be expected of nature and a -culture instinctive, observational, and intelligent, but irregular and -without fundamental principles. What was wanting was a systematic drill -based on ultimate laws and presided over by a consummate ideal, an ideal -which is the result of all the traditions of vocal training and triumphs -perfected with the latest physiological knowledge. Then he could have -done in tragedy what Braham did in song. Braham sang, “But the children -of Israel went on dry land.” He paused, and a painful hush filled the -vast space. Then, as if carved out of the solid stillness, came the -three little words, “through the sea.” The breath of the audience -failed, their pulses ceased to beat, as all the wonder of the miracle -seemed to pass over them with those accents, awful, radiant, resonant, -triumphant. He sat down amid the thunder of the whole house, while -people turned to one another wiping their eyes, and said, Braham! - -If the voice is the soul of the drama, facial expression is its life. In -the latter as in the former Forrest had remarkable power and skill, yet -fell short of the perfection of the few supreme masters. He stood at the -head of the Natural School whose representatives achieve everything that -can be done by a genuine inspiration and laborious study, but not -everything that can be done by these conjoined with that learned and -disciplined art which is the highest fruit of science applied in a -systematic drill. Imitatively and impulsively, with careful study of -nature in others, and with sincere excitement of his own faculties of -thought and feeling, he practised faithfully to acquire mobility of -feature and a facile command of every sort of passional expression. He -succeeded in a very uncommon yet clearly limited degree. The familiar -states of vernacular humanity when existing in their extremest degrees -of intensity and breadth he could express with a fidelity and vigor -possible to but few. His organic portraitures of the staple passions of -man were exact in detail and stereoscopic in outline,—breathing -sculptures, speaking pictures. Pre-eminently was this true in regard to -the basic attributes and ground passions of our nature. His Gladiator in -his palmiest day of vital strength was something never surpassed in its -kind. Every stroke touched the raw of the truth, and it was sublime in -its terribleness. At one moment he stood among his enemies like a column -of rock among dashing waves; at another moment the storm of passion -shook him as an oak is shaken by the hurricane. And when brought to bay -his action was a living revelation, never to be forgotten, of a dread -historic type of man,—the tense muscles, the distended neck, the -obstructed breath, the swollen arteries and veins, the rigid jaws, the -orbs now rolling like the dilated and blazing eyes of a leopard, now -white and set like the ferocious deathly eyes of a bull, while smothered -passion seemed to threaten an actual explosion of the whole frame. It -was fearful, but it was great. It was nature at first hand. And he could -paint with the same clear accuracy the sweeter and nobler phases of -human nature and the higher and grander elements of experience. His -expressions of domestic affection, friendship, honesty, honor, -patriotism, compassion, valor, fortitude, meditation, wonder, sorrow, -resignation, were marked by a delicate finish and a pronounced -distinctness of truth seldom equalled. For example, when in Virginius he -said to his motherless daughter, “I never saw you look so like your -mother in all my life,” the pensive and effusive tenderness of his look -and speech irresistibly drew tears. When he said to her, “So, thou art -Claudius’s slave!” the combination in his utterance of love for her and -ironic scorn for the tyrant was a stroke of art subtile and effective -beyond description. And when, in his subsequent madness, he exhibited -the phases of insanity from inane listlessness to raving frenzy, when -his sinews visibly set as he seized Appius and strangled him to death, -when he sat down beside the corpse and his face paled and his eyes -glazed and his limbs slowly stiffened and his head dropped in death,—his -attitudes and movements were a series of vital sculptures fit to be -photographed for immortality. - -Still, after every eulogy which can justly be paid him, it must be said -that he remained far from the complete mastership of his art in its -whole compass. Neither in conception nor execution did he ever grasp the -entire range of the possibilities of histrionic expression. Had he done -this he would not have stood at the head of the spontaneous and -cultivated Natural School, but would have represented that Artistic -School which practically still lies in the future, although its -boundaries have been mapped and its contents sketched by François -Delsarte. For instance, the feat performed by Lablache after a dinner at -Gore House, the representation of a thunder-storm simply by facial -expression, was something that Forrest would never have dreamed of -undertaking. Lablache said he once witnessed, when walking in the Champs -Elysées with Signor de Begnis, a distant thunder-storm above the Arc de -Triomphe, and the idea occurred to him of picturing it with the play of -his own features. He proceeded to do it without a single word. A gloom -overspread his countenance appearing to deepen into actual darkness, and -a terrific frown indicated the angry lowering of the tempest. The -lightnings began by winks of the eyes and twitchings of the muscles of -the face, succeeded by rapid sidelong movements of the mouth which -wonderfully recalled the forked flashes that seem to rend the sky, while -he conveyed the notion of thunder in the shaking of his head. By degrees -the lightnings became less vivid, the frown relaxed, the gloom departed, -and a broad smile illuminating his expressive face gave assurance that -the sun had broken through the clouds and the storm was over. - -By a Scientifically Artistic School of acting is not meant, as some -perversely understand, a cold-blooded procedure on mechanical -calculations, but a systematic application of the exact methods of -science to the materials and practice of the dramatic art. It means an -art of acting not left to chance, to caprice, to imitation, to -individual inspiration, or to a desultory and indigested observation of -others and study of self, but based on a comprehensive accurately -formulated knowledge of the truths of human nature and experience, and a -perfected mastery of the instruments for their expression. To be a -worthy representative of this school one must have spontaneous genius, -passion, inspiration, and mimetic instinct, and a patient training in -the actual exercise of his profession, no less than if he belonged to -the Classic, the Romantic, or the Natural School; while in addition he -seizes the laws of dramatic revelation by analysis and generalization, -and gains a complete possession of the organic apparatus for their -display in his own person by a physical and mental drill minute and -systematic to the last degree. The Artistic School of acting is the -Classic, Romantic, and Natural Schools combined, purified, supplemented -and perfected by adequate knowledge and drill methodically applied. - -Human nature has its laws of manifestation as well as every other -department of being. These laws are incomparably more elusive, obscure, -and complicated than those of natural philosophy, and therefore later to -gain formulation; but they are not a whit less real and unerring. The -business of the dramatic performer is to reveal the secrets of the -characters he represents by giving them open manifestation. Acting is -the art of commanding the discriminated manifestations of human nature. -If not based on the science of the structure and workings of human -nature it is not an art, but mere empiricism, as most acting always has -been. - -Delsarte toiled forty years with unswerving zeal to transform the -fumbling empiricism of the stage into a perfect art growing out of a -perfect science. He was himself beyond all comparison the most -accomplished actor that ever lived, and might, had he pleased, have -raised whirlwinds of applause and reaped fortunes. But, with a heroic -abnegation of fame and a proud consecration to the lonely pursuit of -truth, he refused to cater to a public who craved only amusement and -would not accept instruction; and he died comparatively obscure, in -poverty and martyrdom. He mastered the whole circle of the sciences and -the whole circle of the arts, and synthetized and crowned them all with -an art of acting based on a science of man as comprehensive as the world -and as minute as experience. It is to be hoped that he has left works -which will yet be published in justification of his claim, to glorify -his valiant, neglected, and saintly life, and to enrich mankind with an -invaluable bequest. - -Every form has its meaning. Every attitude has its meaning. Every motion -has its meaning. Every sound has its meaning. Every combination of -forms, attitudes, motions, or sounds, has its meaning. These meanings -are intrinsic or conventional or both. Their purport, value, rank, -beauty, merit, may be exactly determined, fixed, defined, portrayed. The -knowledge of all this with reference to human nature, methodically -arranged, constitutes the scientific foundation for dramatic -representation. Then the art consists in setting it all in free living -play. The first thing is a complete analysis and synthesis of the -actions and reactions of our nature in its three divisions of -intelligence, instinct, and passion; mind, heart, and conscience; -mentality, vitality, and morality. The second thing is a complete -command of the whole apparatus of expression, so that when it is known -exactly what the action of each muscle or of each combination of muscles -signifies, the actor may have the power to effect the requisite muscular -adjustment and excitation. The first requisite, then, is a competent -psychological knowledge of the spiritual functions of men, with a -sympathetic quickness to summon them into life; and the second, a -correspondent knowledge of anatomy and physiology applied in a gymnastic -drill to liberate all parts of the organism from stiffness and stricture -and unify it into a flexible and elastic whole. - -The æsthetic gymnastic which Delsarte devised, to perfect the dramatic -aspirant for the most exalted walks of his profession, was a series of -exercises aiming to invigorate the tissues and free the articulations of -the body, so as to give every joint and muscle its greatest possible -ease and breadth of movement and secure at once the fullest liberty of -each part and the exactest co-operation of all the parts. When the pupil -had finished this training he was competent to exemplify every physical -feat and capacity of man. Furthermore, this teacher arranged certain -gamuts of expression for the face, the practice of which would give the -brows, eyes, nose, and mouth their utmost vital mobility. He required -his pupil to sit before a mirror and cause to pass over his face, from -the appropriate ideas and emotions within, a series of revelatory -pictures. Beginning, for instance, with death, he ascended through -idiocy, drunkenness, despair, interest, curiosity, surprise, wonder, -astonishment, fear, and terror, to horror; or from grief, through pity, -love, joy, and delight, to ecstasy. Then he would reverse the passional -panorama, and descend phase by phase back again all the way from ecstasy -to despair and death. When he was able at will instantly to summon the -distinct and vivid picture on his face of whatever state of feeling -calls for expression, he was so far forth ready for entrance on his -professional career. - -Such is the training demanded of the consummate actor in that Artistic -School which combines the excellences of the three preceding schools, -cleansing them of their excesses and supplying all that they lack. The -prejudice against this sort of discipline, that it must be fatal to all -charm of impulse and fire of genius and reduce everything to a frigid -construction by rule, is either a fruit of ignorance or an excuse of -sloth. It is absurd to suppose that the perfecting of his mechanism -makes a man mechanical. On the contrary it spiritualizes him. It is -stiff obstructions or dead contractions in the organism that approximate -a man to a marionette. It is a ridiculous prejudice which fancies that -the strengthening, purification, and release of the organism from all -strictures destroys natural life and replaces it with artifice, or -banishes the fresh play of ideas and the surprising loveliness of -impulse by reducing the divine spontaneity of passion to a cold set of -formulas. The Delsartean drill so far from preventing inspiration -invites and enhances it by preparing a fit vehicle and providing the -needful conditions. The circulating curves of this æsthetic gymnastic, -whose soft elliptical lines supersede the hard and violent angles of the -vulgar style of exercise, redeem discordant man from his fragmentary -condition to a harmonious unity. He is raised from the likeness of a -puppet towards the likeness of a god. Then, as the influence of thought -and feeling breathes through him, the changes of the features and the -movement of the limbs and of the different zones of the body are so -fused and interfluent that they modulate the flesh as if it were -materialized music. - - “Unmarked he stands amid the throng, - In rumination deep and long, - Till you may see, with sudden grace, - The very thought come o’er his face, - And by the motion of his form - Anticipate the bursting of the storm, - And by the uplifting of his brow - Tell where the bolt will strike, and how.” - -Delsarte could shrink and diminish his stature under the shrivelling -contraction of meanness and cowardice or suspicion and crime until it -seemed dwarfed, or lift and dilate it under the inspiration of grand -ideas and magnanimous passions until it seemed gigantic. Every great -emotional impulse that took possession of him seemed to melt all the -parts of his organism together into a flexible whole with flowing -joints, and then his fused movements awed the spectator like something -supernatural. His face was a living canvas on which his soul painted the -very proportions and hues of every feeling. His voice in tone and -inflection took every color and shadow of thought and emotion, from the -sombre cloudiness of breathing awe to the crystalline lucidity of -articulating intellect. His inward furnishing even richer than the -outward, he would sit down at the piano, in a coarse overcoat, in a room -with bare walls, and, as he acted and sang, Œdipus, Agamemnon, Orestes, -Augustus, Cinna, Pompey, Robert le Diable, Tartuffe, rose before you and -revealed themselves in a truth that appeared almost miraculous and with -a power that was actually irresistible. It was no reproduction by -painful mimicry of externals, no portrayal by elaborate delineation of -details. It was positive identification and resurrection. It was a real -recreation of characters in their ensemble of being, and an exhibited -reanimation of them by imaginative insight and sympathetic assimilation. -Most wonderful of all, and greatest proof of the value of his system of -drill, he could catch a part by inspiration and go through it under the -automatic direction of nature, and then deliberately repeat the same -thing by critical perception and conscious free will; and he could also -reverse the process with equal ease, critically elaborate a rôle by -analysis and then fix it in the nerves and perform it with inspired -spontaneity. This was the highest possible exemplification of the -dramatic art by the founder of its only perfect school. It was Classic, -because it had the greatest dignity, repose, power, symmetry, unity. It -was Romantic, because it was full of the most startling effects, -beautiful combinations, sudden changes, surprising contrasts, and -extremes. It was Natural, because exactly conformed to the facts of -experience and the laws of truth as disclosed by the profoundest study -of nature. And above all it was supremely Artistic, because in it -intuition, instinct, inspiration, intelligence, will, and educated -discipline were reconciled with one another in co-operative harmony, and -everything was freely commanded by conscious knowledge and not left to -accident. - -True art is never merely an imitation of nature, nor is it ever purely -creative; but it is partly both. It arises from the desire to convert -conceptions into perceptions, to objectify the subjective in order to -enhance and prolong it in order to revive it at will and impart it to -others. Art, Delsarte said, with his matchless precision of phrase, is -feeling passed through thought and fixed in form. Grace without force is -the product of weakness or decay, and can please none save those whose -sensibilities are drained. Force without grace is like presenting a -figure skinned or flayed, and must shock every one who has taste. But -grace in force and force in grace, combined impetuosity and moderation, -power revealed hinting a far mightier power reserved,—this is what -irresistibly charms all. This is what only the very fewest ever attain -to in a superlative degree; for it requires not only richness of soul -and spontaneous instinct, and not only analytic study and systematic -drill, but all these added to patience and delicacy and energy. The -elements of the art of acting are the applied elements of the science of -human nature; yet on the stage those elements are different from what -they are in life in this respect, that there they are set in relief,— -that is, so systematized and pronounced as to give them distinct -prominence. That is precisely the difference of art from nature. It -heightens effect by the convergence of co-operative agencies. For -instance, when the variations of the speech exactly correspond with the -changes of the face, how the effect of each is heightened! Aaron Hill -said of Barton Booth that the blind might have seen him in his voice and -the deaf have heard him in his visage. Of those in whom nature is equal -he who has the greater art will carry the day, as of those in whom art -is equal he who has more nature must win. A lady said, “Had I been -Juliet to Garrick’s Romeo, so ardent and impassioned was he, I should -have expected that he would come up to me in the balcony; but had I been -Juliet to Barry’s Romeo, so tender, so eloquent and seductive was he, -that I should certainly have gone down to him.” In these two great -actors nature and art contended which was stronger. Very different was -it with Macready and Kean, of whom it used to be said respectively, “We -go to see Macready in Othello, but we go to see Othello in Kean.” The -latter himself enjoyed, and delighted others by showing, a transcript of -the great world of mankind in the little world of his heart. The -former,— - - “Whate’er the part in which his cast was laid, - Self still, like oil, upon the surface played.” - -Talma said, “In whatever sphere fate may have placed a man, the grand -movements of the soul lift him into an ideal nature.” The greatness of -every truly great actor shows itself in the general ideal which -characterizes his embodiments. If he has any originality it will publish -itself in his ideal. Now, while most actors are not only second-rate but -also second-hand, Forrest certainly was original alike as man and as -player. He was distinctively original in his personality, original and -independent in the very make of his mind and heart. This subtle and -striking originality of personal mind and genius was thoroughly leavened -and animated by a distinctively American spirit, the spirit generated by -the historic and material conditions of American society and the social -and moral conditions of American life. He was original by inherited -idiosyncrasy, original by his natural education, original by his self- -moulding culture which resented and shed every authoritative -interference with his freedom and every merely traditional dictation. He -was original in going directly to the instructions of nature and in -drawing directly from the revelations of his own soul. He was original -in a homely intensity of feeling and in a broad and unsophisticated -intelligence whose honest edges were never blunted by hypocritical -conformity and falsehood. And above all, as an actor he exhibited his -originality in a bearing or style of manners thoroughly democratic in -its prevailing scornful repudiation of tricks or squeamish nicety, and a -frank reliance on the simplicity of truth and nature in their naked -power. - -Now, precisely the crowning originality of Forrest as an actor, that -which secures him a distinctive place in the historic evolution of the -drama, is that while the ideals which the great actors before him -impersonated were monarchical, aristocratic, or purely individual, he -embodied the democratic ideal of the intrinsic independence and royalty -of man. Give Kemble only the man to play, he was nothing; give him the -paraphernalia of rank and station, he was imposing. But Forrest, a born -democrat, his bare feet on the earth, his bare breast to his foes, his -bare forehead to the sky, asked no foreign aid, no gilded toggery, no -superstitious titles, to fill the theatre with his presence and thrill -the crowd with his spell. There is an egotism of pride, an egotism of -vanity, an egotism of conceit, all of which, based in want of sympathy, -are contemptible and detestable. Forrest was remarkable for a tremendous -and obstinate pride, but not for vanity or conceit; and his sympathy was -as deep and quick as his pride, so that he was not an odious egotist, -although he was imperious and resentful. Many distinguished players have -trodden the stage as gentlemen, Forrest trod it as man. The ideal of -detachment, authority throned in cold-blooded self-regard, has been -often set forth. He exhibited the ideal of identification, burning -honesty of passion and open fellowship. The former is the ideal of -polite society. The latter is the ideal of unsophisticated humanity. -Macready asserted himself in his characters; Forrest asserted his -characters in himself. Both were self-attached, though in an opposite -way, and thus missed the perfect triumph which Delsarte achieved by -abolishing self and always resuscitating alive in its pure integrity the -very truth of the characters he essayed. Macready as an elaborate and -frigid representative of titular kings was a sovereign on the boards, a -subject elsewhere. Forrest as an inborn representative of natural kings -was a true sovereign in himself everywhere and always. The former by his -petulant pride and pomp and his drilled exemption from the sway of the -sympathies secured the approval of a sensitive and irritable _nil -admirari_ class. The latter by the fulness of his sympathies and his -impassioned eloquence as the impersonator of oppressed races awakened -the enthusiastic admiration of the people. A line, said an accomplished -critic, drawn across the tops of the points of Macready would leave -Forrest below in matters of mechanical detail, but would only cut the -bases of his pyramids of power and passion. His chief rôles were all -embodiments of the elemental vernacular of man in his natural virtue and -glory rather than in the refinements of his choicest dialects. Always -asserting the superiority of man to his accidents, he will be remembered -in the history of the theatre as the greatest democrat that up to his -time had ever stepped before the footlights. He had sincerity, -eloquence, power, nobleness, sublimity. His want was beauty, charm. The -epithets strong, fearless, heroic, grand, terrible, magnificent, were -fully applicable to him; but the epithets bright, bold, brisk, romantic, -winsome, graceful, poetic, were inapplicable. In a word, though -abounding in the broad substance of sensibility and the warm breath of -kindness, he lacked the artificial polish and finesse of etiquette; and -consequently the under-current of dissent from his fame, the murmur of -detraction, that followed him, was the resentment of the conventional -society whose superfine code he neglected and scorned. - -For this penalty, however, his sincerity and direct reliance on nature -gave ample compensation in making him capable of inspiration. Adherence -to mere authority, tradition, usage, or dry technicality, is fatal to -inspiration. This carried to an extreme makes the most cultivated player -a mere professor of postures and stage mechanics,—what the French called -Macready, “_L’artiste de poses_.” There is an infinite distance from -such external elaboration to the surprises of feeling which open the -soul directly upon the mysteries of experience, send cold waves of awe -through the nerves, and convert the man into a sublime automaton of -elemental nature, or a hand with which God himself gesticulates. Then -the performing of the actor originates not on the volitional surfaces of -the brain, but in the dynamic deeps of the spine and ganglia, and he -seems an incarnate fagot of thunderbolts. Then the gesticulating arms, -modulated by the profound spinal rhythms, become the instruments of a -visible music of passion mysteriously powerful. For all action from the -distal extremities of the nerves is feverish, twitching, anxious, with a -fidgety and wasteful expensiveness of force, while action from their -central extremities is steady, harmonious, commanding, economical of -force. The nearer to the central insertions of the muscles the initial -impulses take effect, so much the longer the lines they fling, the -acuter the angles they subtend, the vaster the segments they cut and the -areas they sweep. This suggests to the imagination of the spectator, -without his knowing the meaning or ground of it, a godlike dignity and -greatness. Forrest was full of this hinted and hinting power. It was the -secret of his loaded personality and magnetizing port. - -Art, while it is not pure and simple nature, is not anything substituted -for nature nor anything opposed to nature. It is something superadded to -nature, which gives the artist supreme possession of his theme, supreme -possession of himself, and supreme command of his treatment of his -theme. It is a grasped generalization of the truths of nature freed from -all coarse, crude, and degrading accidents and details. The consummate -artist, observing the principle or law, does everything easily; but the -empiric, striving at the facts, does everything laboriously. Feeling -transmuted into art by being passed through thought and fixed in form is -transferred for its exemplification from the volition of the cerebral -nerves to the automatic execution of the spinal nerves. This does not -exhaust the strength, but leaves one fresh after apparently the most -tremendous exertions. Talma, Rachel, Salvini, did not sweat or fatigue -themselves, however violent their action seemed. But when feeling, -instead of having been passed through thought and fixed in form for -automatic exhibition, is livingly radiated into form by the will freshly -exerted each time, the exaction on the forces of the organism is great. -It is then nature in her expensiveness that is seen, rather than the art -which secures the maximum of result at the minimum of cost. It was said -of Barry that excessive sensibility conquered his powers. His heart -overcame his head; while Garrick never lost possession of himself and of -his acting. The one felt everything himself before he made his audience -feel it; the other remained cool, and yet by his kingly self-control -forced his audience to feel so much the more. In his direct honest -feeling and exertion Forrest paid the expensive penalty of the Natural -School. After playing one of his great parts he was drenched with -perspiration and blew off steam like a locomotive brought to rest. The -nerves of his brain and the nerves of his spinal cord were -insufficiently detached in their activities, too much mixed. Like Edmund -Kean, he was as a fusee, and the points of the play were as matches; at -each electric touch his nerve-centres exploded and his muscles struck -lightning. But in the Artistic School the actor is like a lens made of -ice, through which the sunbeams passing set on fire whatever is placed -in their focus. The player who can pour the full fire of passion through -his soul while his nerves remain firm and calm has command of every -power of nature, and reaches the greatest effects without waste. But, as -Garrick said,— - - “In vain will Art from Nature help implore - When Nature for herself exhausts her store.” - -The essence of the dramatic art or the mission of the theatre is the -revelation of the different grades of character and culture as exhibited -in the different styles of manners, so that the spectator may assign -them their respective ranks. The skill or bungling of the actor is shown -by the degrees of accuracy and completeness which mark his portraitures. -And the predominant ideal illustrated in his impersonations betrays the -personal quality and level of the actor himself. - -Manners are the index of the soul, silently pointing out its rank. All -grades of souls, from the bottom of the moral scale to its top, have -their correspondent modes of behavior which are the direct expression of -their immediate states and the reflex revelation of their permanent -characters. The principle of politeness or good manners is the law of -the ideal appropriation of states of feeling on recognition of their -signs. Sympathy implies that when we see the sign of any state in -another we at once enter into that state ourselves. Interpreting the -sign we assimilate the substance signified and thus reflect the -experience. Everything injurious, repulsive, or petty, pains, lessens, -and lowers us. The signs of such states therefore are to be withheld. -But the signs of beautiful, powerful, sublime, and blessed states enrich -and exalt those who recognize them and reproduce their meaning. The -refinement and benignity of any style of manners are measured by the -largeness and purity of the sphere of sympathetic life it implies, the -generosity of its motives, and the universality of its objects. The -vulgarity and odiousness of manners are measured by the coarseness of -sensibility, the narrow egotism, the contracted sphere of consciousness -implied by them. Thus the person who fixes our attention on anything -spiritual, calming, authoritative, charming, or godlike, confers a -favor, ideally exalting us above our average level. But all such acts as -biting the nails or lips, taking snuff, smoking a cigar, talking of -things destitute of interest save to the vanity of the talker, are bad -manners, because they draw attention from dignified and pleasing themes -and fasten it to petty details, or inflict a severe nervous waste on the -sensibility that refuses to be degraded by obeying their signals. - -Now, there are four generic codes of manners in society, each of which -has its specific varieties, and all of which are exemplified in the -theatre,—that great explicit “mirror of fashion and mould of form.” -First there is the code of royal manners, the proper behavior of kings. -Kings are all of one family. They are all free, neither commanding one -another nor obeying one another, each one complete sovereign in himself -and of himself. The sphere of his personality is hedged about by a -divinity through which no one ventures to peep for dictation or -interference. In his relations with other persons the king is not an -individual, but is the focal consensus of the whole people over whom he -is placed, the apex of the collective unity of the nation. He therefore -represents public universality and no private egotism. He is the symbol -of perfect fulfilment, wealth, radiance, joy, peace. By personal will he -imposes nothing, exacts nothing, but like the sun sheds impartially on -all who approach him the golden largess of his own complete -satisfaction. That is the genuine ideal of royal manners. But the actual -exemplification is often the exact opposite,—an egotistic selfishness -pampered and maddened to its very acme. Then the formula of kingly -behavior is the essence of spiritual vulgarity and monopolizing -arrogance, namely, I am the highest of all: therefore every one must bow -to me and take the cue from me! Then, instead of representing the -universal, to enrich all, he degrades the universal into the individual, -to impoverish all. Then his insolent selfishness at the upper extreme -produces deceit and fawning at the lower extreme. The true king imposes -nothing, asks nothing, takes nothing, though all is freely offered him, -because he radiates upon all the overflow of his own absolute -contentment. Every one who sees him draws a reflected sympathetic -happiness from the spectacle of his perfect happiness. - -The formula expressed in truly royal manners is, I am so contented with -the sense of fulfilment and of universal support that my only want is to -see every one enjoying the same happiness! In a perfected state the -formula of democratic manners will be identical with this. For then the -whole community with its solidarity of wealth and power will be the -sustaining environment whereof each individual is a centre. But as yet -the private fortune of each man is his selfishly isolated environment; -and the totality of individual environments bristles with hostility, -while every one tries to break into and absorb the neighboring ones. - -The code of aristocratic manners, too, has its sinister or false -development as well as its true and benign development. The formula -which, in its ungenial phase, it is forever insinuating through all its -details of demeanor, when translated into plain words is this: I am -superior to you and therefore command you! But the real aristocratic -behavior does not say the inferior must obey the superior. On the -contrary, it withholds and suppresses the sense of superiority, seems -unconscious of it, and only indirectly implies it by the implicit -affirmation, I am glad to be able to bless and aid you, to comfort, -strengthen, and uplift you! The false aristocrat asserts himself and -would force others to follow his lead. The true aristocrat joyously -stoops to serve. His motto is not, I command, but Privilege imposes -obligation. - -The twofold aspect of plebeian manners affords a repetition of the same -contrast. The plebeian manner, discontented and insurrectionary, says, -You are superior to me, and therefore I distrust, fear, and hate you! -The plebeian manner, submissive and humble or cringing, says, I am -inferior to you, and therefore beseech your favor, deprecating your -scorn! But the plebeian manner, honest, manly, and good, says, You are -superior to me, and I am glad of it, because, looking up to you with -admiration and love, I shall appropriate your excellence and grow like -you myself! - -Finally, we come to the democratic code of manners. The spurious formula -for democratic behavior is, I am as good as you! This is the -interpretation too common in American practice thus far. It is the -insolent casting off of despotic usages and authorities, and the -replacing them with the defiant protest of a reckless independence. I am -as good as you, and therefore neither of us will have any regard or -deference for the other! But in wide distinction from this impolite and -harsh extreme, the formula implied in the genuine code of democratic -manners is, We are all amenable to the same open and universal standard -of right and good, and therefore we do not raise the question at all of -precedency or privilege, of conscious superiority or inferiority, but we -leave all such points to the decision of the facts themselves, and are -ready indifferently to lead or to follow according to the fitness of -intrinsic ranks! - -Spurious democracy would inaugurate a stagnant level of mediocrities, a -universal wilderness of social carelessness and self-assertion. Genuine -democracy recognizes every man as a monarch, independent and supreme in -his interior personal sphere of life, but in his social and public life -affiliated with endless grades of superiors, equals, and inferiors, all -called on to obey not the self-will of one another, or of any majority, -but to follow gladly the dictates of those inherent fitnesses of -inspiration from above and aspiration from below which will remain -eternally authoritative when every unjust immunity and merely -conventional or titular rank has been superseded. This was the style of -manners, this was the implied formula of behavior, embodied by Forrest -in all his great rôles. Affirming the indefeasible sovereignty of the -individual, he neither wished to command nor brooked to obey other men -except so far as the intrinsic credentials of God were displayed in -them. Thus, under every accidental or local diversity of garb and -bearing, he stood on the American stage, and stands and will stand in -front there, as the first sincere, vigorous, and grand theatrical -representative of the democratic royalty of man. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI. - HISTORIC EVOLUTION AND SOCIAL USES OF THE DRAMATIC ART.—GENIUS AND -RELATIONSHIP OF THE LIBERAL PROFESSIONS.—HOSTILITY OF THE CHURCH AND THE - THEATRE. - - -In an early chapter of this biography an analysis was given of the -dramatic art considered in its psychological origin and in its personal -uses for those who practise it. This was done that the reader might have -in his mind the data requisite for forming an intelligent judgment on -the life which was to be recorded and criticised in the succeeding -chapters. But in order to appreciate the just moral rank and worth or -the legitimate influences of such a life in its public sphere and -aspects, it is necessary to understand something of the historic -development and the social uses of the dramatic art,—its distinctive -genius in contrast with the other liberal professions, and the natural -effects on those who witness its exhibitions. The subject teems with -matters of unsuspected importance, and its discussion will yield -surprising revelations. - -Before attempting to trace the rise of the Theatre and its struggle with -its rivals, we must get an adequate idea of the essential substance of -the art practised in the Theatre. For this purpose it will be necessary -to approach the subject from a point of view different from those -generally taken hitherto. - -The practice of the dramatic art rests on the differences of men amidst -their similarities. The whole intercourse of life really consists at -bottom in a complex and subtile game of superiorities and inferiorities, -full of tests and tricks, surprises, pains, and pleasures. Every one who -has not been regenerated from the selfish heritage of history into a -saintly disinterestedness is constantly impelled by a desire far deeper -than his consciousness to wish to see others inferior to himself, to -feel himself superior to others, and to get this relative estimate -accepted in the imaginations of the bystanders. Human experience in -society is a half-open and half-disguised battle for advantage and -precedence, inward and outward, private and public, filled with attacks -and defences, feints and traps, overtures and defiances, every -conceivable sort of coarse or exquisite artifices for winning victories -and inflicting defeats in the occult and endless game of personal -comparisons. - -All comparisons imply standards of judgment. There are eight of these -standards,—four primary, and four secondary. The first of the primary -standards of excellence by which we try ourselves and one another is -bodily health, strength, grace, and beauty. The second is moral -character, goodness of disposition, purity and nobility of motives. The -third is genius and talent, brilliant powers of creative or beneficent -action. The fourth is technical acquisitions, artificial learning and -accomplishments, charm of manners, skill in doing attractive or -important things. The first of the secondary standards by which men are -estimated in society is hereditary rank or caste, birth, blood, and -title. The second is official place and power, social position and -influence. The third is reputation and fame. The fourth is wealth. All -these standards, it will be observed, find their ultimate meaning and -justification in the idea of adaptedness for the fulfilment of the ends -of life. Good is the fruition of function. The highest personal beauty -and genius imply the greatest fitness for the fulfilment of function. -Wealth is a material means, fame an ideal means, for the fruition of -life. - -But obviously there are distinctions of grade and of authority among -these standards, and he who ranks high when judged by one of them may -rank low according to another. It is the continual subterfuge of self- -love at the inner tribunal to evade the tests of the standards that are -unfavorable to it, and to court comparison by those whose verdicts are -surest to be flattering. On the contrary, in testing other people, the -egotistic and ungenerous person instinctively applies the tests most -likely to insure condemnation. This is the first vice of introspection -and of mutual criticism. - -The second evil is setting lower standards above higher ones, -attributing more importance to apparent or conventional claims than to -real and intrinsic merits. In all ignoble circles, among all men and -women of low sensibility or of shallow routine, there is a steady -tendency to estimate self and associates by factitious and hollow -standards of good instead of the inherent and substantial standards. -More deference is paid to dress and title than to form and bearing. -Privileged descent and station are put before genius and worth. Deeds -and deserts go to the wall in favor of shows and professions. Riches are -esteemed above character. What others think of us is deemed of greater -account than what God knows of us. This turning topsy-turvy of the -standards for the judging of men is what fills the world with the -confusion, wickedness, and misery of a rivalry that is as detestable as -it is pernicious and sad. - -No two men can be exactly alike. Inequality is the universal law of -existence. Without it there would be an unbroken monotony and stagnation -equivalent to death. It is the play of greater and lesser, fairer and -homelier, wiser and foolisher, higher and lower, better and worse, -richer and poorer, older and younger, that intersperses the spectacle of -being and the drama of experience with the glimpsing bewitchments of -surprise, the ravishing zest of pursuit and success, the everlasting -freshness and variety of desire, change, suspense, risk, and adventure. -The essential moral struggle for superiority, in which all men are -forever engaged whether they know it or not, is the divine method of -enchanting them with life and luring them forward. It would be an -unmixed good, covering all intercourse with the charm of a theatrical -beauty and spicing every day with the relish of a religious game, were -it not for the predominant vices of fraud, envy, and tyranny -surreptitiously introduced into the contest. Did all men regard their -superiors with joyous reverence and aspiration, their equals with co- -operative friendship, and their inferiors with respectful kindness and -help, never of their own will raising the question as to who shall -command or lead and who obey or follow, but leaving these points to be -decided by the laws in the manifest fitness of things, the unlikenesses -and inequalities which now set them at wretched odds would be the very -conditions of their orchestral harmony and the chief elements of their -converging delight. The general genius of the dramatic art, purified and -perfected, tends directly to bring this about, while the special genius -of each of the other liberal professions stands obstructively in the -way. For the spirit of each of the other professional classes segregates -it from general humanity into a privileged order whose members maintain -its prerogatives by means of a necessary _peculium_ for which their -special interest makes them desire that the rest of the world shall -depend exclusively on them. But the dramatic spirit freely enters the -soul and lot of every condition of men for the sympathetic -interpretation and intuitive feeling of their contents. The genuine -temper of this art, separate from the depraved usages of society, would -teach men to honor and copy those above, to love and blend with those -around, and to example and help those beneath. Then the strong and -cunning would no longer take selfish advantage of their power and hold -the masses of mankind in subjection by the triple bond of interest, -fraud, and fear. According to the principles of universal order, life -would everywhere become a mutual partnership of teaching and blessing -from above and learning and following from below, a spontaneous giving -and taking of all good things in justice and love without violence and -without money. Every one rendering his share of service in the co- -operation of the whole, no portion would be victimized by the rest, but -in the perfected equity and good will there would be abundant wealth for -all and plenty of leisure for each. - -There are certain select places or focal buildings in which all the -secrets of human nature are revealed and the arts of power grasped. Each -of these has become the centre of a profession which has employed the -knowledge and skill given by its social position to secure certain -advantages to its members and make the rest of mankind pay tribute to -them in return for the benefits they claim to bestow or in -acknowledgment of the authority they claim to possess. These are the -ruling or leading classes of the world, in whose hands the keys of power -are lodged. The advantages of their situation where all the secrets of -experience are uncovered and all the arts of influence developed, their -exemption from the hardships of physical drudgery, their varied training -in mental accomplishments and cumulative inheritance of superiority, -place the rest of mankind in subjection to them. Had they -disinterestedly used their power to enlighten and free other men, to -educate and enrich other men, the world would long since have been -redeemed. They have used it to secure special advantages for themselves, -making others their servants on whose uncompensated blood and sweat they -live. Therefore the strife and crime and poverty and misery of the world -continue. - -All forms of experience are laid bare in the palace of the king. Every -variety of character and of fortune is stripped of its disguises there; -every mode of behavior, every rank of motives, exposed in its true -signals. The lynx-eyed and selfish scrutiny which has its seat there -utilizes this knowledge, and the rules and methods in which ages have -generalized it, to endow the imperial profession with the peculiar -attributes and treasures by which they govern. The true function of the -king or other ruler is to represent the whole people with his -superiority of position and endowment, to warn, guide, enlighten, and -bless them, using all his privileges faithfully for their service. But -the reverse of this has been his prevailing vice in all times. He has -used his power for his own selfish luxury and the emoluments of his -favorites, making government less a means of universal welfare and more -a means of exalting the few at the cost of the many. The game of -comparisons, instead of being made a divine play of variety and surprise -in service and love, has been made a cruel engine for the oppression of -the weak by the strong. The individual interest of the governing class -has perverted its universal function into a personal privilege. The -genius of the palace is selfish luxury in irresponsible power. - -In the tent of the general the same revelation of the secrets of human -nature is made as in the royal palace, and the skill in assuming -authority and in controlling men thereby acquired is embodied in the -military profession, which is always the right arm of the imperial -profession. The genuine office of the martial profession is to raise the -protecting and executive energy of a nation to its maximum by scientific -precision of movement and unquestioning obedience to command. Its -twofold vice has been the fostering of a love of war or reckless spirit -of conquest, and the making of the officer a martinet and of the soldier -a puppet utterly mindless of right or wrong in their blind obedience to -orders. An army is a machine of destruction wielded by the most -consummate art the world has yet known. When that absolute obedience and -that perfect discipline and that matchless devotion become intelligent -and free, and are directed to beneficent ends, they will redeem the -world. But thus far the genius of the military headquarters is arbitrary -power in automatic drill to avenge and to destroy. - -By the sick-bed, in the hospital and the asylum, all the treasures of -memory are yielded up, all the mysteries of passion exposed, all the -operations of the soul unshrouded before the eyes of the physician. In -this knowledge, and in the ability which the accumulated experience of -so many centuries has gained to assuage pain, to heal disease, and to -give alleviating guidance, an immense deposit of power is placed in the -hands of the medical profession. The blessed function of the profession, -in its universal aspect, is to instruct the people in the laws of health -and to rescue them from suffering and danger. Its interest, in its class -aspect, thrives on the ills of other men. The more sickness there is, -the more completely dependent on them it is for remedy, the better for -their interest. The great vices of the craft have been charlatanism and -quackery, the owlish wisdom of the gold-headed cane and the spectacled -nose, and a helpless addictedness to routine and prescription. All the -defects of the profession, however, are fast vanishing, all its virtues -fast increasing, as under the infiltrating inspirations of science it is -shedding its bigotry and pride, subordinating pathology to hygiene, -repudiating its besotted faith in drugging, and freely throwing open to -the whole world the special discoveries and insights it used so -carefully to keep to itself as sacred secrets. This is its disinterested -phase. In its selfish phase its genius is a jealous guarding of its -knowledge and repute as a means of power and gain. - -The arts of rule are learned, the mechanism of human nature is unveiled -in all the agencies of influence that work it, perhaps even more fully -in the police-office, the court-house, and the prison, than in either of -the places previously named. Brought before the bar of the judge, -surrounded by the imposing and terrible array of the law with its dread -apparatus of inquisition and punishment, every secret of the human heart -is extorted. The culprit, the hero, the high and the low, the weak and -the strong, all kinds and states of men, there betray their several -characteristics in their demeanor, and uncover the springs of the world -in its deepest interests, passions, and plots. Thus the legal -profession, manipulating the laws, sitting as umpires for the decision -of the complex conflicts of men in the endless collisions of their -universal struggle of hostile interests, consummate masters of every -method and artifice of power, have a place nearest to the seat of -government. Their hands are on the very index and regulator of public -authority. Their omnipresent instinct, ever since the rise of the black- -gowned confraternity, has chiefly inspired and shaped as well as -administered the judicial code of society. Now, their profound knowledge -of the arts of sway, their matchless skill in victory and evasion, their -vast professional prerogative, have been chiefly used not to bless -mankind, but to win offices, honors, and fees from them. The universal -function of the lawyer is justice, the prevention or reconciliation of -disputes, the teaching of men to live in harmonious equity. But his -private individual and class interest is litigation, the putting of the -cause of a client above the public right, the retention of his light -that other men in their darkness may be forced to look to him for -guidance. The genius of the law is the nursing of its own authority by -preserving occult technicalities, blind submission to precedents, and -the pursuit of victory regardless of right or wrong. - -But the priestly profession, in the temple of religion, has penetrated -more profoundly into the soul than any of the other ruling castes to -seize the secrets of character and elaborate the arts of sway. Through -the lattice-work of the confessional breathes the dismal murmur of the -sins and miseries of men and sighs the glorious music of their -aspirations. The whole reach of experience in its degradations of vice -and its heights of virtue, from apathy to ecstasy, is a familiar thing -to the contemplation of the priest. Confided in or feared, set apart -from other men that he may study them and manage their faiths, nothing -is hidden from him. Suppressing or concealing his own passions, he -learns to play on those of others and mould them to his will. So -Jesuitism, entrenched in the superiority of its detaching and despotic -drill, holds obedience by that cold eyeball which has read human nature -so deeply and so long, plucking from it the tale of its weaknesses and -thus the secrets of rule. Every mystery of man and his life is revealed -to him who presides in the temple, at the altar, the confessional, and -the grave, and who is called in to pronounce the will of God at every -crisis of experience. His style and tenure of power are more ominous, -pervasive, and fatal than any other, because claiming a sanction -supernatural and absolute. It plants in heaven and hell the endless -lever of its hopes and fears to pry up the primitive instincts of -humanity and wrench apart the natural interests of the world. The -sublime office of the priesthood, in its generous and universal aspect, -is to teach men the truths of morality and religion and to administer -their consolations to human sorrow and doom. But, perverting this benign -office, it seeks to subdue all men to itself by claiming the exclusive -deposit of a supernatural revelation. Then it seeks its class interest -at the cost of the interests of the whole, puts authority in the place -of demonstrated truth, and persecutes dissent as the unpardonable sin. -The virtues of the clerical profession are studiousness, personal -purity, philanthropic works, self-sacrifice, and conscientious piety. -Its vices are the hideous brood of fanaticism, intolerance, cruelty, -love of power, vanity, a remorseless greed for subjecting the real -interests of the present world to the fancied interests of a future one. -The historic animus of priesthoods has been dictatorial superstition and -bigotry, setting their own favorite dogmas above the open truths of the -universe, and either superciliously pitying or ferociously hating all -outside of their own narrow folds. - -The next place for the revelation of the contents of human nature in all -the ranges of its experience is the studio of the artist. The open and -impassioned sensibility of the great artist gives him free admission to -the interiors of all whom he sees, and his genius enables him to -translate what is there and record it in his works. All experiences are -registered in the organism, and their signals, however invisible or -mystic to ordinary observers, are obvious and full of meanings to the -insight of genius. Sir Godfrey Kneller declared that the eyebrow of -Addison seemed to say, “You are a much greater fool than you think -yourself to be, but I would die sooner than tell you so!” The magic -attraction of the greatest works of art resides really in their occult -revelation of the inherent ranks of the persons depicted. Their -clearness or foulness, their beauty or deformity, their grace or -awkwardness, their radiant joy or their squalid and obscene -wretchedness, are so many hints of the degrees of good and evil in men -and women,—explicit symbols of their potencies of function, their -harmony or discord of powers. In their forms, proportions, attitudes, -gestures, lights and shades of expression, their respective capacities -for woe or bliss are ranged along the scale of human possibility. Thus, -in the paintings of Rubens the whole history of voluptuousness is made -transparent from the first musical breath of desire to the last lurid -madness of murder. In the sculptures of Phidias the most exquisite -living development into unity of all the organs and faculties of man is -petrified for posterity to behold and be stimulated to the same -achievement. In the statues of Buddha is clearly seen by the initiated -eye the intoxicating sense of godhead in the soul, the infinite dream -and entrancement of nirvana,—the molecular equilibrium of the cells of -the body and the dynamic equilibrium of the atoms of consciousness. This -is the charm and mystery with which art fascinates even its unwitting -beholders. But its great lessons of organic ranks and potencies, of -higher and lower characters and experiences, are not distinctly taught. -They are only suggested for those who have the keys to interpret them. -Thus they often give an idle pleasure or provoke a piquant curiosity, -but yield no moral fruit, no lasting benefit. The function of the artist -is revelation by inspired genius, and through this revelation to exalt -the ideals, purify and expand the sensibilities, and kindle the -aspirations of men while giving them a refined pleasure. His vice is the -luxurious enjoyment of his gifts as a subtile ministration to self- -indulgence. His class interest is not to communicate his gifts, but to -secure admiration and patronage for them. It is questionable whether as -yet art has not on the whole done more to unnerve and mislead than to -consecrate and uplift. Its genius is sympathetic insight catering to -complacence and luxury rather than prompting to edification. - -All other artists, however, must yield to the dramatic performer of -genius and experience as to the completeness with which he pierces the -secrecy of human nature and commands its manifestations. The actor gains -his knowledge of men not indirectly by ruling and making use of them, -but directly by intuitive perception and mimetic intelligence and -sympathy entering into all their conditions and experiences, reproducing -in himself their inner states of being and the outer signs of them. -Then, on the stage, he gives systematic exhibitions of the varieties of -character and life for the amusement and the instruction of the public. -The ideal of his art is the exemplification in living action of the -grades of personalities, the contrasts of conduct, the styles of -manners, so set off with appropriate foils and true standards as to -cause the spectators to discriminate the rank and worth of each, be -warned from the unworthy with fear and loathing, and drawn to the -excellent with admiration and love. This is contagious education -disguised in beguiling entertainment. Thus the genius of the drama is -earnest improvement concealed in free play, edification masked in -recreation. - -The vice that besets the player is not selfishness, despotism, avarice, -indifference, or the subserving of a class interest opposed to the -general interest. He is characteristically free from such faults. His -great error is using his art for ostentation and vanity merely to win -applause and profit. He is tempted to sacrifice the spirit of -earnestness and teaching for the spirit of sport and pleasure, playing a -part simply for people to enjoy, instead of adding to this lessons for -them to learn. As the church, in order to escape from its barren routine -of preceptive and ceremonial repetitions, needs the dramatic spirit of -reflective sympathy and living action, so the theatre, in order to -escape from its too frequent emptiness and tawdry frivolity, needs the -academic spirit of earnest instruction. When the dramatic spirit whose -home and throne are in the theatre shall add to what it already -possesses moral and religious earnestness, making the scene of its art a -school for training aspirants to perfection, it will be seen to be the -purest and richest spirit in the world. It will teach all to enter into -the soul and fortune of each, and each to feel himself bound up in one -bundle of life and destiny with all,—even as he, the Christ, who was the -divinest creature that ever wore this humanized and tearful mask of -clay, played the role of no individual ego, but impersonated collective -humanity, dramatically identifying himself to the end of time with all -the broken and suffering members of our race, saying, “Inasmuch as ye -have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me.” -The universal prevalence of that same moralized and religious dramatic -spirit in all men is all that is needed for the immediate and perfect -redemption of the world. Dogmatic theology, ecclesiastical polity, and -sectarian mechanism do more to delay than to expedite the time. - -Thus it is plain that the professions that radiate from the palace, the -tent, the hospital, the tribunal, the temple, the studio, and the -theatre all have vices which largely neutralize their good offices and -prevent the fulfilment of their true mission, namely, the spreading of -the kingdom of heaven over the whole earth in the redemption of men from -ignorance, oppression, strife, and want. - -There is another building, the seat of another profession, quite exempt -from the evils which alloy and burden the foregoing. The academy takes -all knowledge, scientifically considered, for its province; and the -teaching profession administer their possession as no _peculium_ of -their own, but as an open and free inheritance for all. They have no -class interest to foster as against the welfare of the whole. They have -no dogma of authority to impose, aside from the inherent authority of -truth and right. They do not wish to rule, only to teach every one self- -rule. The academic spirit would break open the enclosures bristling with -technical secrets, the strongholds of partial power, and dispense -freedom to all instead of despotic sway to the ruler, justice to all -instead of victory for the client, health to all instead of a fee to the -doctor, the grace of God to all instead of a salary for the priest. The -vice of the teaching class is the pedagogic dryness of routine and -verbal iteration. Academic education needs to add to itself everywhere -the dramatic spirit of life, that creative action of free sympathy which -will supplement the preceptive word with the exemplifying deed and -change the prosaic aridity for poetic freshness and bloom. It also needs -the military principle of drill, or organic habits of rhythm, wherever -applicable; but not to displace spontaneous intelligence and choice. It -likewise needs to proclaim the religiousness of scientific truth, that -every truth of morals or things is a demonstrable revelation of the will -of God, and the same for all men of all lands and faiths. Then the -academic profession will in itself reject the excesses and supply the -defects of all the other professions, and be the one guiding class in a -condition of mankind which has thrown off obsolete leading-strings. For, -while the ideal state of mankind will have no despotic or selfish ruler, -soldier, lawyer, doctor, or priest, it will always have a class of -teaching artists and artistic teachers, men of original genius and -inspiration, to refresh, enlighten, and guide their less gifted -brethren. To such a class the final government of the world will be -intrusted, not governing by the force of authority but by the persuasion -of light. Then partisan politics, ruling by human will declared in a -majority of votes, will be transmuted into social science, guiding by -the will of God revealed in demonstration. Those who desire to lift -themselves at the expense of others, and to live without labor by -appropriating the toil of others, will dislike such a conception, and -scout it as visionary. But their spirit is bad and must pass away; -because Christ, or God incarnate in man, is surely one day to reign, -putting every enemy under his feet and being All in all. - -This millennial state might soon be ushered in if the ruling -professions, instead of guarding their class privileges and keeping the -rest of the world under them, sought disinterestedly to fulfil their -universal functions, securing order, justice, freedom, health, virtue, -piety, and education to all. But in reality the chief desire which -actuates them and shapes their policy and efforts is the instinctive -desire to avoid hardships and secure luxuries by governing other men and -appropriating the fruits of their labor without any equitable return. -This is seen now concentrated in the universal struggle for money, -because the superstition of money enables its possessor to command the -products of others without producing anything himself. How can this -fatal spell be broken, and that condition of society be inaugurated -wherein all things shall be exchanged for love alone, except labor and -its products, and these be exchanged on the principle of equivalences of -cost, abjuring the tyrannical fraud of profit? It can only be brought -about through an increased spirit of sympathy animating an improved -social science. And this is primarily the office of the dramatic -principle of imaginative identification, which is to make every one feel -for all others as if he were in their place. - -Thus it is clear that the genuine moral work of the drama is essentially -the same as that of the gospel,—to redeem men from self-love by sympathy -for their kind. And yet the theatre and the church have stood askance, -and the priests and the players generally been enemies. What is the -origin, what the significance, what the remedy, of this quarrel between -those who should be friends and co-workers? A brief historic sketch and -a little human analysis will answer these questions, perhaps with some -profit as well as light. - -The dramatic instinct and faculty are native in man in all times and -conditions. When David was afraid of his life in the house of Achish, -king of Gath, “he played the madman, scrabbling on the posts of the gate -and letting his spittle fall down on his beard.” But a theatre is a -fruit only of a high civilization, and it always reflects that -civilization. In India it seems to have been at first an appanage of the -palace, designed to give amusement to the king and his nobles and -favorites. It presented poetic descriptions of nature, romantic pictures -of life, songs, dances, and satires. In the Hindoo temples also were -sometimes enacted mythological religious and mystical dramas by the -priests and their assistants, less with theatrical machinery than in -words and movements, representing avatars of the gods, notably the -avatars of Vishnu as Rama and Krishna, supernatural adventures, -transmigrations, and scenes in other worlds. In China and Japan the -drama was in ancient times, as it still is, largely confined to the -illustration of history, presenting in long-drawn performances minute -pictures of legendary or historic personages, events, costumes, manners, -and customs. But it was in Egypt, where the priesthood was so distinct a -caste, so powerful an order, possessed of so much secret knowledge and -mechanism, that the doctrines and ritual of religion itself were first -wrought into a drama of the most sensational and appalling kind. In the -depths of the temple, with pomp of numbers and dresses, with music, -gorgeous and terrible scenery, artificial thunders and lightnings, -heavens and hells were unveiled, the dead shown in their immortal state, -celestial spirits and demons and deities were revealed, and such lessons -were enforced as suited the purposes of the managers of the spectacle. -It was a tool in the hands of the priests to play on the fears and hopes -of the people, who were taught to regard what they saw not as anything -artificial but as a vision of the supernatural. This was the drama of -the cryptic church, the theatre of the priestly conclave. - -In Greece, as in Egypt,—possibly derived thence,—the earliest theatre -and drama were religious and secret. In the Bacchic and Eleusinian and -other mysteries, the incarnation, penance, death, and resurrection of -some god were represented, and in connection with the spectacle various -religious and philosophical doctrines were taught in symbolic shows. -Every art of influencing the imagination and the senses was here -employed,—the imposing forms and gestures of the hierophant and his -helpers impersonating the demiurgus and his train,—light and darkness, -colors, strange noises, music, incantations, rhythmic processions, -enchanting and maddening dances. But, as there was in Greece no distinct -priesthood separate from the rulers and leaders of the state, the -intense interest and power of this mode of impression could not remain -sequestered from the people and confined to a few sacred legends. The -great freedom and restless intelligence and critical personal emulation -of the Greeks soon brought forth from its seclusion this fascinating and -peerless method of teaching, planted it on an open stage, applied it to -sacred and political subjects, to character and experience, and gave the -world the first public theatre of the people. Still retaining in its -best examples its original religious dignity and solemnity, it added -many other qualities, developed comedy alongside of tragedy, and in its -combination of ideal and satirical types and manners rendered the stage -a mirror for the mimic reflection of the real scenes of human life. Thus -it escaped from privacy and priestly management into publicity under the -direction of a literary and political class. It was wielded for the -threefold purpose of moral and religious impression, of social or party -influence, and of displaying various styles of character and behavior -for popular amusement and edification. - -In Rome the drama was modified and varied in some particulars from its -Greek model, but no new feature was added. It nearly lost its religious -quality, became more exclusively social and sensational, extended its -range only to profane and degrade it into the barbarity of the circus -and the arena. The Greek poet dealing with the simulated woes of the -soul was displaced by the Roman gladiator dealing in the real agonies of -the body, and the supernal beauty of classic tragedy expired in the -applauded horrors of butchery. - -As the drama and the theatre in the Oriental and in the Classic world -had a priestly and religious origin and character, so was it with their -revival and first development in Christendom. The early Christian Church -regarded the games, spectacles, and plays of the moribund civilization -amidst which it arose in regenerating energy, with intense abomination, -as intimately associated with and characteristic of the idolatrous pagan -faith, the persecuting pagan power, and the corrupt pagan morals, -against whose insidious influence and threatening array the new type of -belief and life had to maintain itself. Tertullian and other -distinguished Christian fathers fulminated against the actors and their -associates excommunication in this world and damnation in the next. But -after a while, as the young religion got established, spread among -millions of adherents, and had itself a vast popular sway to uphold and -extend, the love of power and the spirit of politic conformity entered -into it. Seeing what a strong attraction for the public was inherent in -the spectacular drama, with its costume, scenery, dialogue, and action, -and what a power it possessed for insinuating persuasion and -instruction, the church began to adopt its methods, modified to suit the -new ideas and situation. First the bait of amusement, sport, and -burlesque was thrown out to draw in and please the rabble by licensing -to be held in the church the Feast of Asses, the Feast of Fools, and -other like riotous and farcical mummeries borrowed with certain -alterations from the pagan Saturnalia. Then, to add a serious element of -edification, the priests dramatically constructed and enacted in -Miracle-Plays, Mysteries, and Moralities the chief events in Scriptural -history, the outlines of dogmatic theology, the lessons of practical -duty, and the claims of ecclesiastical authority, seeking thus to draw -the crowd and teach and drill them to obedience. The virtues and vices -of men, temptation, death, judgment, were allegorized, personified, and -brought on the stage to impress the rude audience. The Creation, the -Flood, the Crucifixion, the Day of Judgment, were represented. God, -Christ, the Virgin, angels, the devil and his imps, were shown. John -Rastale, brother-in-law of Sir Thomas More, composed a Merry Interlude -to serve as a vehicle of science and philosophy, explaining the four -elements and describing various strange lands, especially the recently -discovered America. The characters were Nature, Humanity, Studious -Desire, Sensual Appetite, a Taverner, Experience, Ignorance, and a -Messenger who spoke the prologue. These plays, simple, crude, fantastic, -grotesque, as they were, suited the tastes of the time, administered fun -and terror to the spectators, who alternately laughed and shuddered -while the meaning of the creed and the hold of its power sank deeper -into their souls. There was a mixture in it of good and evil, recreation -and fear, truth and superstition, fitted to the age and furnishing a -transition to something better. - - “When friars, monks, and priests of former days - Apocrypha and Scripture turned to plays, - The Festivals of Fools and Asses kept, - Obeyed boy-bishops and to crosses crept, - They made the mumming Church the people’s rod, - And held the grinning bauble for a God.” - -But quite aside from all these dramatic excrescences of the church, -these artifices for catering to and influencing the public, there has -been always imbedded in the very substance of Christianity, ever since -the great ecclesiastical system of dogmatic theology was evolved, a -profound and awful tragedy, the incomparable Drama of Redemption, whose -subject is the birth, life, teachings, sufferings, death, and -resurrection of Christ, whose action sweeps from the creation of the -world to the day of doom, whose characters are the whole human race, God -and his angels, Satan and his demons, and whose explicating close opens -the perfect bliss of heaven for the elect and seals the hopeless agony -of hell for the damned. This is the unrivalled ecclesiastical drama -whose meaning the Protestant Church makes implicit in its creed but the -Catholic Church makes explicit not only in the colossal pathos and -overpowering _miserere_ of Passion Week, but also in every celebration -of the mass, at whose infinite dénouement of a dying God the whole -universe might well stand aghast. - -In the course of time the companies of actors who, in connection with -the priests or under their permission and oversight, had played in the -Mysteries and Moralities, gradually detached themselves from -ecclesiastical localities and management, and, with licenses obtained -from sacred and secular authority, set up on their own account, strolled -from place to place, giving entertainments in public squares, at fairs, -in the court-yards of inns, in the mansions of nobles, and in the -palaces of royalty. Then kings and great dukes came to have their own -select companies of players, who wore their livery, obeyed their orders, -and ministered to their amusement and ostentation. Herein the drama was -degraded from its proper dignity to be a vassal of vanity and luxury. In -a masque performed at the marriage of an Italian duke in the sixteenth -century, Jupiter, Juno, Apollo, Diana, Venus, and Mars appeared bringing -in dishes of dainties and waiting on the guests. The immortal gods -represented as servants to honor and ornament a human festival! - -At length the dramatic profession, forsaking courts and inns, secured a -separate home of its own, and became a guild by itself, independently -established in the distinct theatre and appealing directly to the -general public for support. In the secret theatre of the priests the -substance of the drama, based on such legends as those of the Hindoo -Krishna, the Egyptian Osiris, and the Greek Dionysus, was fiction -exhibited as fact or poetry disguised as revelation. In the open theatre -of the state the substance of the drama, in such examples as the -Prometheus of Æschylus, was mythology, moral philosophy, or poetry -represented as history. In the plays foisted on the mediæval Christian -church the dramatic substance was tradition, ceremonial, and dogma -taught as religion. But now, with the rise of the educated histrionic -profession, all this passed away, and in the freed theatre of the people -the substance of the drama became coincident with the realities of human -life, a living reflex of the experience of society. In Portugal and -Spain, Lope de Vega and Calderon developed the highest flower and finish -of the Mysteries and Miracle-Plays in their transition from the -ecclesiastical to the social type of the drama, while in England, -France, Italy, and Germany the stage became a rounded mirror of the -world, reflecting human nature and conduct in their actual form, color, -and motion. Then the theatrical art was rapidly developed in all its -varieties,—the drama of character and fate, or tragedy; the drama of -plot and intrigue, or romance; and the drama of manners, or comedy and -farce. Then the theatre instinctively assumed for its whole business -what its comprehensive function now is and must ever remain, yet what it -has never grasped and wielded with distinct consciousness, but only -blindly groped after and fumbled about,—namely, the exhibition of the -entire range of the types of human character and behavior so set off -with the contrasts of their foils and in the light of their standards as -to make the spectators feel what is admirable and lovely and what is -contemptible and odious, as the operation of the laws of destiny is made -visible before them. But all who penetrate beneath mere appearances must -perceive that just in the degree in which the theatre does this work it -is trenching on the immediate province of the church, and the players -fulfilling a function identical in moral substance with that of the -priests. - -The church aims directly to teach and to impress, to persuade and to -command. The theatre aims directly to entertain, indirectly to teach, -persuade, and impress. It often accomplishes the last three aims so much -the better because of the surrendered, genial, and pleased condition of -soul induced by the success of the first one. Another advantage the -theatre has had over the church, in attempting to educate or exert -influence, is that it does it without the perfunctory air or the -dogmatic animus or repulsive severity of those who claim the tasks of -moral guidance and authority as their supernatural professional office. -The teachings of the theatre have also a freshness and attraction in -their inexhaustible range of natural variety which are wanting to the -monotonous verbal and ritualistic routine of the set themes and -unchanging forms in the ecclesiastical scheme of Sunday drill. And then, -finally, all natural competition of the dry, bleak pulpit with the stage -becomes hopeless when the priest sees the intense sensational pleasure -and impression secured for the lessons of the player by the convergent -action of the fourteen-fold charm of the theatre,—namely, the charm of a -happy and sympathetic crowd; the charm of ornate architectural -spaciousness and brilliancy; the charm of artistic views of natural -scenery; the charm of music; the charm of light and shade and color in -costumes and jewelry and on figures and landscapes now illuminated and -now darkened; the charm of rhythmic motion in marches and processions -and dances; the charm of poetry; the charm of eloquence in word and tone -and look and gesture; the charm of receiving beautiful lessons -exquisitely taught; the charm of following an intricate and thickening -plot to its satisfactory explication; the charm of beholding in varied -exercise human forms which are trained models of strength, beauty, and -grace; the charm of seeing the varieties of human characters act and -react on one another; the charm of sympathy with the fortunes and -feelings of others under exciting conditions rising to a climax; the -charm of a temporary release from the grinding mill of business and -habit to disport the faculties of the soul freely in an ideal world. - -Is it not obvious that such a power as this should be utilized by the -most cultivated minds in the community for the highest ends? - -When in the independent theatre such a power as this arose, no longer -asking favors or paying tribute, bidding with such a fearful -preponderance of fascinations for that docile attention of the populace -whereof the clergy had previously held a monopoly, it was no wonder that -the church looked on its rival with deadly jealousy. And there was good -ground for this jealousy separate from any personal interests or -animosities. For _the respective ideals of life held up by the priest -and the player_ are diametrically opposed to each other. This is the -real ultimate basis of the chronic hostility of the church and the -theatre. The deepest genius of the one contradicts that of the other. -The ecclesiastical ideal of life is abnegation, ascetic self-repression -and denial; while the dramatic ideal of life is fulfilment, harmonic -exaltation and completeness of being and function. Which of these ideals -is the more just and adequate? If God made us, it would appear that the -fulfilment of all the normal offices of our nature in their co-ordinated -plenitude of power is his will. It is only on the theory that the Devil -made us in opposition to the wisdom and wish of God, that intrinsic and -sheer denial can be our duty. Lower abnegation as a means for higher -fruition, partial denial for the sake of total fulfilment, are clear and -rational obligations. But the idea that ascetic self-sacrifice as an end -pure and simple in itself is a virtue or a means of salvation is a -morbid superstition with which the church has always been diseased, but -from which the theatre has always been free. Accordingly, the two -institutions in their very genius, as interpreted from the narrow -professional point of view, are hostile. The vices of the church have -been sour asceticism, fanatical ferocity, sentimental melancholy, dismal -gloom, narrow mechanical formalism and cant, and a deep hypocrisy -resulting from the reaction of excessive public strictness into secret -indulgence. The vices of the theatre, on the other hand, have been -frivolity, reckless gayety, conviviality, and voluptuousness. But these -vices have been envisaged with the virtues of quick sympathy, liberal -sentiment, an ingenuous spirit of enjoyment, open docility, universal -tolerance and kindliness. - -Purified from its accidental corruptions and redeemed from its shallow -carelessness, the theatre would have greater power to teach and mould -than the church. Aside from historic authority and social prestige, its -intrinsic impressiveness is greater. The deed must go for more than the -word. The dogma must yield to the life. And while in the pulpit the -dogmatic word is preached in its hortatory dryness, on the stage the -living deed is shown in its contagious persuasion or its electric -warning. Character is much more plastic to manners than to opinions. -Manners descend from the top of society; opinions ascend from the -bottom. This is because opinions indirectly govern the world while -manners directly govern it. And the ruling class desire to maintain -things as they are, that they may keep their prerogatives. Therefore -they are opposed to new doctrines. But the ground masses of the people, -who are ruled, desire to change the _status quo_ for their own -betterment. Now the church, representing the vested interests of -traditional authority and the present condition of things, has become a -school of opinions, not for the free testing and teaching of the True, -but for the drill of the Established; while the theatre, in its genuine -ideal, is what the church ought to be,—a school of manners, or -manufactory of character. - -Another superiority of the genius of the drama to the genius of theology -is the freedom and largeness of the application of its method. The moral -principle of the dramatic art is _disinterested sympathy animating -plastic intelligence for the interpretation and free circulation of -souls and lives_. It is the redemptive or enriching supplementation of -the individual with society. For in order to put on a superior we must -first put off self. And there is nothing nobler in the attributes of man -than his ability to subdue the tyranny of old egotistic custom with new -perception and impulse, and thus start on a fresh moral career endlessly -varied and progressive. The theatre gives this principle a natural and -universal application through the whole moral range of human life. The -ecclesiastical dogmatist restricts it to a single supernatural -application to the disciple of Christ, and would monopolize its -influence to that one channel. Notoriously every bigot would drill the -whole world in his own fixed mould, to his own set pattern, stiff, -harsh, ascetic, exclusive. But the cosmopolite would see exemplified in -mankind the same generous liberty and variety which prevail in nature. -He would, instead of directing attention only to the sectarian type of -saint, hold up all sorts of worthy ideals that each may be admired and -copied according to its fitness and beauty. - -The church paints the world as a sad and fearful place of probation, -where redemption is to be fought for while the violent and speedy end of -the entire scene is implored. The theatre regards it as a gift of beauty -and joy to be graciously perfected and perpetuated. The ideal of the -priest and the ideal of the actor contrast as Dominic and Pericles, or -as Simeon Stylites and Haroun-al-Raschid. All the words denoting the -church and its party—ecclesia, église, kirche, congregation—signify a -portion selected or elected and called aside by themselves for special -salvation, apart from the great whole who are to be left to the general -doom. But the word theatre in its etymology implies that the world of -life is something worthy of contemplation, beautiful to be gazed at and -enjoyed. - -The priest naturally disliked the player because he was more attractive -to the public than himself. He also disliked him because disapproving -his art. The very object of the drama is by its spectacle of action to -rouse the faculties and excite the feelings of the assembly who regard -it. But the priest would not have the passions vivified; he would have -them mortified. The contemplation of the dread passion and sacrifice of -Christ, the fear of sin and of death and judgment, should exclude or -suppress all other passions. On the contrary, the dramatist holds to the -great moral canon of all art, that perfected life is the continuous end -of life, and that the setting of intelligence and emotion into ideal -play, a spiritual gymnastic of the passions in mental space disentangled -from their muscular connections, purifies and frees them. - -The priest not only holds that the dramatic ideal of the natural -fulfilment of the offices of being is opposed to the religious ideal of -grace, is profane, and tends directly to ruin; he likewise, from all the -prejudices of his own rigidity of mould and bigoted routine, believes -that the facility and continual practice of the actor in passing from -assumption to assumption and from mood to mood must be fatal to moral -consistency, must loosen the fibre of character, and produce -dissoluteness of soul not less than of life. This is mostly a false -prejudice. Those of the greatest dramatic mobility of genius and -versatile spiritual physiognomy, like Cervantes, Molière, Goethe, -Schiller, Dickens, Voltaire, and the very greatest actors and actresses, -like Talma, Garrick, Rachel, Siddons, had the most firm and coherent -individuality of their own. Their penetrations and impersonations of -others reacted not to weaken and scatter but to define and gird their -own personal types of being and behavior. The dramatic type of character -is richer and freer than the priestly, but not less distinctly -maintained. - -Another circumstance stirring a keen resentment in the church against -the theatre is that it has often been attacked and satirized by it. When -the divines, who had long enjoyed a monopoly of the luxurious privilege -of being the censors of morals, the critics of other men, found -themselves unceremoniously hauled over the coals by the actors, their -vices exposed to the cautery of a merciless ridicule, their personal -peculiarities caricatured, it was but human nature that they should be -angry and try to put down the new censorship which with its secular -vigor and universal principles confronted the ecclesiastical standard. -The legal, medical, and clerical professions have often had to run the -gauntlet of a scorching criticism on the stage. Herein the drama has -been a power of wholesome purification; but it could not hope to escape -the penalty of the wrath of those it exposed with its light and -laughter. It has done much to make cant and hypocrisy odious and to -vindicate true morality and devotion by unmasking false. Louis XIV. said -to Condé, “Why do the saints who are scandalized at Tartuffe make no -complaint of Scaramouche?” Condé replied, “Because the author of -Scaramouche ridicules religion, for which these gentry care nothing; but -Molière ridicules themselves, and this they cannot endure.” The censure -and satire on the stage, concealed in the quips of fools or launched -from the maxims of the noble, have often had marked effect. Jesters like -Heywood and Tarleton, who were caressed by kings and statesmen, under -their masks of simplicity and merriment have shot many a brave bolt at -privileged pretences and wrongs and pompous imposition. The power of -satire is often most piercing and most fruitful. The all-wise Shakspeare -makes his melancholy Jaques say,— - - “Invest me in my motley: give me leave - To speak my mind, and I will through and through - Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, - If they will patiently receive my medicine.” - -Furthermore, the priest often has an antipathy for the player because in -spite of his arrogated spiritual superiority feeling himself personally -inferior to him. The preacher, rigid, hide-bound, of a dogmatic and -formal cast, cannot take off the mobile, hundred-featured actor, who, on -the contrary, can easily include and transcend him, caricature him, and -make him appear in the most ridiculous or the most disagreeable light. - - “If comprehension best can power express, - And that’s still greater which includes the less, - No rank’s high claim can make the player’s small, - Since acting each he comprehends them all.” - -Molière can show up Tartuffe, Tartuffe cannot show up Molière. Therefore -Tartuffe fears and hates Molière, excommunicates him, denies his body -consecrated burial, and, with a sharp relish, consigns his soul to the -brimstone gulf. The prevailing temper of the clerical guild towards the -histrionic guild, from the first till now, has been uncharitable and -unjust, intellectually unappreciative and morally repulsive. This is -shown all the way from the frenzied De Spectaculis of Tertullian and the -vituperative Histrio-Mastix of Prynne to the sweeping denunciation of -the drama by Henry Ward Beecher, who, never having seen a play, condemns -it from inherited prejudice, although himself every Sunday carrying a -whole theatre into his pulpit in his own person. An English clergyman in -1792 uttered these words in a sermon on the drama: “No player or any of -his children ought to be entitled to Christian burial or even to lie in -a church-yard. Not one of them can be saved. And those who enter a play- -house are equally certain with the players of eternal damnation. No -player can be an honest man.” Richard Robinson, who played Wittipol in -“The Devil is an Ass” so as to win warm praise from Ben Jonson, was, at -the siege of Bassinge-House, shot through the head after he had laid -down his arms. A puritan named Harrison shot him, crying, “Cursed be he -that doeth the work of the Lord deceitfully!” The body of the favorite -Parisian actor Philippe in 1824 was refused religious rites by the -priests, and his friends were so incensed that the military had to be -called out to quell the riot. A kindred disturbance was narrowly escaped -at the death of Talma. When the wife of Nokes, a dancing-master, had -rescued Edmund Kean and his wife and children from actual starvation and -lent them a room, the landlord, a Christian clergyman named Flower, said -that “no theatrical people should have the room.” And it is matter of -fresh remembrance how the same spirit of bigotry was manifested by a -Boston bishop in refusing confirmation to the universally respected and -beloved Thomas Comer because he led the orchestra in a theatre, and by a -New York pastor who declined to read the funeral-service over the -estimable George Holland because he had been an actor. - -It must be affirmed that the chief animus of the clerical profession has -been the desire to be obeyed, and that this is less Christian and less -amiable than the ruling spirit of the dramatic profession, which is the -desire to be loved. But the real spirit which ought to reign supreme in -every one is neither the desire to be obeyed nor the desire to be loved, -but the desire to be harmonized with the principles of universal order, -giving and taking accordingly without egotistic exactions of any kind -whether dictatorial or sympathetic. And this result can only be attained -by means of the dramatic art of mutual sympathetic interpretation -universally applied under the guidance of moral and religious -principles. - -The church of Christ, in opposition to the example of its divine -Founder, has been made an exclusive enclosure for a privileged class of -believers. In it their prejudices are cherished and their ascetic ideal -glorified and urged on all. The Saviour himself was a miracle of -tolerance and inclusiveness, mingling freely with the common people, not -spurning the publican, the sinner, or the harlot, but regarding all -ranks in the great brotherhood of humanity with a sweet and -inexhaustible kindness. There was one exception alone. Towards the -bigot, the pharisee, the hypocrite, the tyrant, his scorn and -indignation burned. But all other forms of man moved only his impartial -love or his healing compassion. This was the divinely democratic genius -of Christ, but has not been the genius of the priesthood who with -arrogance and persecution have claimed to represent him. The theatre has -been far more expansive in the range of its sympathies than the church. -The highest dramatic genius that has ever appeared in the world, -Shakspeare, shows in his works a serene charity, a boundless toleration, -a genial appreciation of the widest extremes, kindred to that of God in -nature and grace. His loving imagination, like the all-holding sky, -embraces Trinculo, Bardolph, Poins, Falstaff, and Malvolio, as well as -Bassanio, Prospero, Hamlet, Cæsar, and Lear; Audrey and Quickly, as well -as Portia and Cordelia. - -The first glory of the theatre is its freedom from sectarianism; and its -first use is to radiate abroad this generous spirit of universality, not -bigotedly limiting attention to any one province of life or any single -ideal, but revealing the whole world of man in its heights and breadths -and depths, exhibiting in turn every variety of ideal and doing justice -to them all. “The drama,” Macklin said, “should be a perfect -reproduction of general nature as it passes through human life in every -character, age, rank, and station.” Taught this by genius, experience, -and learning, it teaches the common observer how wondrously large and -rich is the world of mankind. Emperors and clowns pass, saints and -villains jostle, heroes and murderers meet, the divine lady and the foul -virago appear and vanish,—and all the meanings and values of their -traits and fortunes are laid bare to those who see and can understand. -There is indeed no other revelation of the complex contents and -destinies of humanity in this world so competent as that afforded in -dramatic literature and the theatre. For here all is concentrated, -heightened, set off, and revealed by aid of the most exquisite -contrivances of art of every sort. - -One of the most penetrative and wonderful but least generally -appreciated of these contrivances is the explication of the good and -evil or beauty and ugliness of souls and deeds, the moral worth and -significance of dispositions and situations, by means of music. -Rubinstein has depicted in his symphony of Ivan the Terrible the -character of that frightful monster of the Russian throne. In this -musical character-picture he has painted his hero in the blackest -colors, revealing his hideous traits and moods by violent and spasmodic -tones repulsively combined. But Mozart is the most dramatic of the -composers,—the very Shakspeare of the musicians. The personages of his -operas are distinctive creations, true to life. They appear to think, -feel, and act in tones and combinations of tones. Each of the musical -characters keeps his individuality, however the passions and scenes and -events change. The features and outlines of the characters are defined -or determined by the style, the phrases, the time, rhythm, range, -inflections, and accompaniment. In place of this, Wagner marks his chief -personages by the mannerism of repeating the same phrase with the same -instruments whenever one of them reappears. In the Tannhäuser, as often -as Venus enters the high chromatic violin tremolo and rhythmical whisper -of the wind instruments are repeated. The artifice is profound, and its -effect mysteriously impressive. The meaning of the mystery lies in the -facts that the sounds of the music correspond with vibrations in our -nerves, and that every quality of passion has its peculiar forms and -rates of vibration. The ratios in the physical sound are parallel with -other ratios in the spiritual consciousness. And so Giovanni and -Leporello, Elvira and Anna, are distinguished. And so the Benediction of -the Poignards and the Mass for the Dead are contrasted. - -Characters are interpreted on the stage by means of their visible -motions also. For the upper classes, the most dignified personages in -the stately tragedy, there is a solemn pomp of bearing, and the -employment of marches and processions. Everything partakes more of -slowness and formality. The most heavenly human characters, or angelic -visitants from another world, are indicated by floating contours and -melodious lines of motion. Perfected equilibrium in the body is the sign -of perfected harmony in the soul. Devils or demoniac men are suggested -by dances full of excessive energy, hideous and sudden contortions, -convulsive jumps and climaxes. - -The central characteristic of the genuine melodrama, now nearly or quite -obsolete, was its combination of musical tone and muscular movement as a -method of dramatic revelation and impression. Its theme and scene lay in -the middle or lower class and in a limited sphere. Thus, while the -assassination of a monarch suggested a tragedy, a village murder would -form the subject of a melodrama. But all the gestures and pantomime of -the performers were regulated or accompanied by instrumental music -played forte or fortissimo, piano or pianissimo, as the situation -required. The villain was marked by an orchestral discord or crash, -while lovers billed and cooed to the mellifluous breathings of the -German flute. Villagers always came over a bridge at the rise of the -curtain to lively music. The heroine entered to eight bars of plaintive -melody. Four harsh and strongly accented bars heralded the approach of -the villain. The characters struggled to hurried music, recognized one -another and were surprised to chords, and crept about in caves and dark -apartments to mysterious pizzicato strains. All this correspondence of -sound, color, and motion works on the souls of the audience in the -profoundest manner, obscurely suggestive of innumerable things beyond -the reach of any clear memory and below the depths of any distinct -apprehension. It stirs up that automatic region of our nature compacted -of prehistoric experiences. - -Few persons have any idea how closely the theatre even in its romantic -extravaganzas and fairy spectacles reflects the truths of human life. It -merely intensifies the effect and produces a magical impression by -expanding and shrinking the measures of space and time. But all its -seeming miracles are in the outer world slowly brought about in prosaic -reality. The suddenness of the changes in the mimic scenes ought to open -our eyes to the equal marvellousness of them in the gradual substance of -history. Harlequin in his spangled vestment, with his sword of -enchantment, pursuing the lovely Columbine, and always outwitting and -baffling the clumsy attempts of the Clown and Pantaloon to circumvent -him, is the type of how the aristocracy of genius has always snatched -the sweet prizes of the world from blundering plebeianism amidst the -astonishment, laughter, and rage of the bewildered bystanders, who so -imperfectly comprehend the game. The relations of coexistence and -sequence, the working of laws of cause and effect that preside over -events in the actual world, are not altered in the theatre. It is only -their measures or rates of action that are trifled with so to the -amazement of the senses. Appreciating this, it is obvious that no -transformation scenes on the stage can possibly equal the real ones in -life itself. Mohammed, the poor factor of Kadijah, receives an -inspiration, preaches a new faith, is hunted by his foes, conquers -nation after nation, till a quarter of the earth exults under his -crescent flag and hails him infallible prophet of Allah. Columbus -conceives a thought, his frail pinnaces pierce their perilous way over -the ocean, and a new world is discovered. Louis Napoleon is taken from -teaching French for a livelihood in New York to be throned in the palace -of the Tuileries and to inaugurate the _Exposition Universelle_ -surrounded by the leading monarchs of the earth. The young Rachel, -haggard and ill clad, begged an influential person to obtain leave for -her to appear on the stage of the Théâtre Français. He told her to get a -basket and sell flowers. When she did appear, and heaps of bouquets were -thrown at her feet, after the curtain fell she flung them all into a -basket, slung it from her shoulders, and, kneeling to the man who had -advised her to go and sell flowers, asked him, half in smiles and half -in tears, if he would not buy a nosegay. Nothing that befalls the -glittering Harlequin or Columbine amidst the swift enchantments of the -theatre is fuller of astounding contrasts than these realities, if our -thought but escapes the tyranny of space and time. - -An artifice of vast power by which the theatre intensifies its -revelations of character and experience, conduct and destiny, so as to -make them more effective and apparently more significant than the -original realities themselves are in actual life, is by increasing the -range and vividness of the standards and foils by which they are judged, -carrying them lower and raising them higher and making their contrasts -sharper than they are seen elsewhere. The fool used to have the head of -his stick or mock sceptre painted with human features, and talk and play -with it as if it were an intelligent comrade. This was his bauble, in -allusion to which Shakspeare says, “The fool holds his bauble for a -god.” Scoggan, the famous mummer, used to dress up his fists and make -them act for the amusement of a dinner company. This is the secret of -the vulgar delight in the clown, with his ridiculous dress made up of -absurdities, his face whitened with chalk and flour and blotched with -red patches and black and yellow streaks, his lips painted in -elongations so that when he laughs his mouth seems to open from ear to -ear. The mental disparity of his standard of intelligence and manners -with that in the minds of the spectators elicits roars of coarse joy -from them. It was said of Mazurier, the great Punchinello, that he was -in deformities what Apollo was in perfections. Humped equally before and -behind, perched on the legs of a heron, equipped with the arms of an -ape, he moved with that stiffness without force, that suppleness devoid -of reaction, characterizing the play of a body which has not in itself -the principle of its movement, and whose members, set in action by a -wire, are not attached to the trunk by articulations, but by rags. He -imitated mechanism with as close a fidelity as in another rôle mechanism -is made to imitate man. He seemed to be human and yet to have nothing -human. His motions and falls were such that one believed him made not of -flesh and bone but of cotton and thread. His face was wooden, and he -carried illusion to such a pitch that the children took him for a -gigantic puppet which had grown. - -Even below this there is a lower dramatic depth still, and filled with -yet keener sport for a large class. The reflection of human life in the -marionette or puppet-show makes a revelation of a phase of human nature -as profound and fearful as it is unexpected. The revelation is not -consciously made, but springs from an intuitive perception of truth and -sense of fitness as marvellous as anything in the history of the drama. -It has long been known that there is an intimate likeness between the -insane class and the criminal class. They both show the effect of -removing the restraints exerted on the ego by its sympathetic -connections with the general public. The restraint exercised on the -indulgence of egotistic feelings and interests by a consideration of the -feelings and interests of others being lifted off, these selfish -instincts, which are the deepest organic heritage from ancestral -history, break recklessly out. Now, the puppet has no sympathy. Moved -not by his brain and heart but by wires attached to his limbs, his -character shows the result. He is personified selfishness and whim. His -individual will is absolutely reckless of other wills or of -consequences. His ferocity is murderous, his jollity fiendish, his -conduct a jumble of animal passions, cunning impulses, and chaotic -impressions. This is unregenerate man released from social order and -given over to himself. And there is a deep, sinister, raw pleasure for -an uncultivated soul in the sight of a being freed from every law but -that of self-indulgence. This is the secret of the fascination of the -plebeian puppet-show. - -Sometimes there has been in it a strange and terrible element of social -satire. The lower class vent through it their hatred for their -oppressors. One type of the Italian Polichinelle was a representative of -the populace angered and made vindictive by their wrongs. He lays the -stick lustily on the shoulders of his master and on the necks of the -police, and takes summary vengeance for the iniquities of official -justice. He is also a frightful cynic. He says, “I despise men so much -that I care not what they think or say of me. I have suffered as much as -others, but I have turned my back and my heart into leather. I am -laughter personified, triumphant laughter, wicked laughter. Pshaw for -the poor creatures knocked over by a breath! I am of iron and wood, old -also as the world.” “In thus speaking,” says his French historian, “he -is truthful; for his heart is as dry as his baton, and he is a thorough -egotist. Ferocious under his seeming good humor, he does evil for the -love of it. Valuing the life of a man no more than that of a flea, he -delights in quarrels and massacres.” He has no sincere affection, no -reverence, no fear either of God or devil, is always eager for coarse -and low enjoyment, and laughs most loudly when he has done the cruellest -deeds. He is the very type of the strong, vital, abandoned criminal; and -he opens a huge vista into the most horrible experience of the human -race. - -And now it will be a relief to turn attention aloft in the opposite -direction. The upward action of the dramatic art is its benign aspect. -The egotist looks down to learn how great he is, and up to learn how -little. The generous man looks up to feel how rich he is, and down to -feel how poor. The former sees himself in contrast with others, the -latter sees himself in unison with them. This may be exemplified in -comedy as well as in tragedy. The portraiture of reality on the stage -hitherto has perhaps chiefly aimed to amuse by exhibiting the follies -and absurdities of people and making the spectators laugh at them in -reaction from standards in their own minds. It will one day aim to -correct the follies and absurdities of the spectators by setting before -them models of superiority and ideals of perfection. - -To enter into and appropriate the states and prerogatives of those -happier, greater, and better than we, either for an admiring estimate of -them, for the enrichment of ourselves, or for the free play of desirable -spiritual qualities, is at once recreation, luxury, redemption, and -education. This is the highest application of the dramatic principle, -the mending of the characters of men with the characters of superior -men. And it tends to the reconciliation and attuning of all the world. -This is the principle which Paul illustrates in his doctrine that true -circumcision is not of the flesh but of the soul, and that the genuine -children of Abraham are the new race of spiritual characters which, -reproducing his type of faith and conduct, will supersede his mere -material descendants. He also says that those who measure themselves by -themselves and compare themselves among themselves are not wise. The -complement of this statement would be that we should compare ourselves -with all sorts of people, that we may put off every imperfection of our -own and put on every perfection of theirs. And the same apostle gives -this principle its supremest application in his immortal text, “Put ye -on the Lord Jesus Christ.” The Pauline formula for the salvation of the -world embodies the regenerating essence of the dramatic art, which is -the assimilation by less divine characters of a more divine one, raising -them into fellowship with the Divinest. It calls on all men to “behold -with open face, as in a mirror, the glory of the Lord,” and gaze on it -until “they are changed into the same image, from glory to glory, by the -Spirit of the Lord.” - -In distinction from this high use of the dramatic life and spirit, the -fault of the ordinary range of coarse and careless men is the utter -absence of all vital sympathetic insight. Fixed in the grooves of habit, -shut up in their own hard and narrow type, they move stolidly among -other men, insensible to the treasures they contain, giving and taking -no more than so many sticks would. - -And in some who have a fair share of the dramatic instinct it suffers a -direct inversion of its purest office. For the weak and reckless allow -themselves to be degraded to the level of the worst characters they -behold, adopt their customs, assume their traits, copy their vices, and -repeat their retributive ruin. The man of moral earnestness is warned -and armed by a dramatic knowledge of the profligate and criminal. Only -the impure or heedless idler will be led astray by it. - -Yet there is another abuse of this art of dramatic penetration, which, -if less fearful, is more frequent and almost as much to be reprehended, -namely, a fruitless toying with it in a spirit of mere frivolity. A -great many persons enter imaginatively into the states of other people, -neither to honor and imitate nor to disapprove and avoid, but in empty -sport and as an ostentatious luxury of vanity and pride. There is -nothing which vulgar natures are so fond of as, in vulgar phrase, -feeling their oats, pampering their fancied superiority to those they -contemplate. They hate to be rebuked and commanded by excellences beyond -their own attainment. They love to look down on something beneath their -own arrogated estimate of self. And so they come to interpret almost -everything they see as being inferior, and to draw from it a reflex -complacency. Their noisy laughter is but an indirect self-applause -consisting of what Emerson has called “contemptible squeals of joy.” For -whatever a man can laugh at he deems he is superior to. Nothing did the -audiences at the old miracle-plays enjoy half so keenly as laughing at -the devil when he was driven through a trap-door in a sulphurous shower -of fire and squibs. The reason why a superficial exhibition of wit or -humor is so popular is that it affords, at so low a price of effort, the -luxury of the feeling of detachment and mastery. The insincere or -unconsecrated nature always prefers a cheap seeming superiority to a -costly real one. However much Harlequin and Punch and Judy may relieve -and amuse, and thus find justification, they do not purify nor lift nor -inspire nor educate the ordinary spectator. The genuine drama does all -these in addition to bestowing the richest entertainment. Still, it must -be remembered that the influence of a performance depends ultimately on -the character and spirit of the spectator. Some persons seeing -Washington would think nothing of his character, but be absorbed in -admiration of his regimentals. One, at a given exhibition, will be -simply entertained. Another will be debauched. A third will be lastingly -impressed, stimulatingly edified. A fourth may enjoy the delusive luxury -of a criticising superiority, persuading himself that he includes and -transcends the characters whose enactments he so clearly understands and -sees around. Those who laugh at those who weep fancy they are above them -while really grovelling below in vulgar insensibility. One may easily -lift armor he cannot wear. - -The next use of the theatre, the most obvious of its serious uses, lies -in the force with which it carries the great practical truths of -morality home to the heart and the soul. The power of the stage in -enforcing moral lessons, the rewards of virtue, the beauty of nobleness, -the penalties of vice and crime, the horrors of remorse and disgrace, -the peace and comfort of a self-approving conscience, is greater than -that of any other mode of teaching. Its living exemplification of the -workings of good and evil in the secret soul and in the social sphere -has an effectiveness of incitement and of warning far beyond that of the -mere didactic precept or exhortation of the pulpit. It is said that many -a dissipated and felonious apprentice who saw Ross play George Barnwell -was turned from his evil courses by the terrible force of the -representation. One who was thus saved used every year anonymously to -send Ross on his benefit-night the sum of ten guineas as a token of his -gratitude. And Dr. Barrowby assured the player that he had done more -good by his acting than many a parson had by his preaching. This -educational function or moral edification in uncovering the secrets of -experience and showing how every style of character and conduct entails -its own compensatory consequences is even now a high and fruitful office -of the theatre, frivolous and corrupt as it often is. And when the drama -shall be made in all respects what it ought to be, fulfilling its own -proper ideal, it will be beyond comparison the most effective agency in -the world for imparting moral instruction and influence. The teaching of -the stage is indeed all the more insinuating and powerful because it is -indirect and not perfunctory or interested. The audience are not on -their guard against it. It works with the force of nature and sincerity -themselves. - - “I have heard - That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, - Have by the very cunning of the scene - Been struck so to the soul that presently - They have proclaimed their malefactions.” - -No thoughtful and earnest person could possibly see the wickedness of -Iago, the torture of Othello, the struggle and remorse of Macbeth, -depicted by a great actor and not be profoundly instructed, moved, and -morally fortified. - -Not only does the drama array its teachings of morality in living forms -so much more contagious and powerful than abstract precepts, but it also -gives the highest examples of didactic eloquence. It abounds in the most -beautiful expressions of poetry and philosophy, the wisest and most -charming instances of insight and moralizing experience, verbal -descriptions of character and of nature set off with every adjunct of -oratoric art and heightening scenery. The preaching on the stage is -often richer and sounder as well as more splendid than that heard from -the pulpit. Besides, the pleasing excitement of the scene, the -persuasive interest of the play, the surrendered and receptive spirits -of the crowd blending in quickest sympathy and applause always over the -most disinterested and exalted sentiments, predispose every hearer to -the most favorable mood for being impressed by what is lovely, good, and -great. The actor, inspired by his theme and his audience, makes -thousands thrill and weep as he gives burning utterance to burning -thoughts or infuses his own high spirit into beautiful and heroic -examples of eloquence and virtue. When in Macbeth Forrest said,— - - “I dare do all that may become a man, - Who dares do more is none;”— - -when in the Peruvian hero he replied to the accusation from Pizarro of -having spoken falsely, “Rolla utter falsehood! I would I had thee in a -desert with thy troop around thee, and I but with my sword in this -unshackled hand!” when in Damon he said, in rebuke of the corrupt and -sycophantic office-seeker,— - - “I told you, boy, I favored not this stealing - And winding into place: what he deserves, - An honest man dares challenge ’gainst the world,”— - -it must have been a brutish breast in which his words did not start -generous and ennobling echoes. Tell says,— - - “Ha! behold in air - Where a majestic eagle floats above - The northern turrets of the citadel, - And as the sun breaks through yon rifted cloud - His plumage shines, embathed in burning gold, - And sets off his regality in heaven!” - -To have such a picture painted in speech and action so vividly that the -hearers are transported out of themselves and tremble with pleasure is -an educational influence of a pure and lofty order. The victorious -Spartacus soliloquizes,— - - “A cloud is on my path, but my ambition - Sees glory in it. As travellers, who stand - On mountains, view upon some neighboring peak - Among the mists a figure of themselves - Traced in sublimer characters; so I - Here see the vapory image of myself - Distant and dim, but giant-like.” - -All who take the impression of the actor and his imagery in this passage -must receive some sense of the greatness of man and the mystery of his -destiny, and feel themselves magnified beyond their wonted state. And -when Forrest spoke these words of Virginius whole audiences were -electrified by their power and inspirited with their sublime faith: - - “Whoever says Justice will be defeated— - He lies in the face of the gods. She is immutable, - Immaculate, and immortal. And though all - The guilty globe should blaze, she will spring up - Through the fire and soar above the crackling pile - With not a downy feather ruffled by - Its fierceness!” - -The noble lines of the poet full of great thoughts, scarcely heeded and -soon forgotten by the reader, are by the fiery or solemn elocution of -the actor sculptured on the memories of his auditors for ineffaceable -retention. - -The theatre is always in some degree a school of manners, but it ought -to be far more distinctly and systematically such. The different -personages are foils and contrasts to set one another off. As they act -and react in their various styles of being and of behavior, they -advertise and illuminate what they are, and tacitly, but with the most -penetrative effect, teach the spectator to estimate them by mutual -comparisons and by reference to such standards as he knows. Grandeur and -meanness, awkwardness and grace, brutal or fiendish cruelty and divine -sensibility, selfish arrogance and sweet renunciation, grossness and -delicacy,—in a word, every possible sort and grade of inward disposition -and of outward bearing are exemplified on the stage. The instructive -spectacle is too often gazed at with frivolity and mirth alone. But more -profound, more vital, more important lessons are nowhere in the world -taught. This art of manners precisely fitted to the character and rank -of the person has been particularly studied in the Théâtre Français. The -writer saw a play represented there in which there were three distinct -sets of characters. The first belonged to the circle of royalty, the -second to the gentry, and the third were of the laboring class. The -second carefully aped the first, and the third painfully aped the -second. The bearing of the first was composed, easy, dignified; that of -the second was a lowered copy with curious differences made most -instructively perceptible; while the third was a ludicrous travesty. The -superior always, as by a secret magic, overswayed and gave the cue to -the inferior. The king, disguised, sat down at table with a plebeian. -The king ate and drank slowly, quietly, with a silent refinement in -every motion; but the plebeian hurried, shuffled, fussed, choked, and -sneezed. The actor who is really master of his whole business teaches in -a thousand indescribably subtile ways a thousand indescribably valuable -lessons for all who have eyes to see and intelligence behind the eyes to -interpret what they see and apply its morals to their own edification. - -Another service rendered by the theatre is in uncovering the arts of -deceit and villainy. In their unsophisticated openness the innocent are -often the helpless victims of seductive adepts in dissipation and crime. -All the designing ways and tricks of the votaries of vice, the -hypocritical wiles of brilliant scoundrels, their insinuating movements, -the magnetizing spells they weave around the unsuspicious, are exposed -on the stage in such a manner as fully to put every careful observer on -guard. This unmasking of dangers, this warning and arming, is a species -of moral instruction quite necessary in the present state of society, -and nowhere so consummately exhibited as before the footlights. Nor is -it to be fancied that the instruction is more demoralizing than -guardian; for the instinctive sympathies of a public assembly move -towards virtue, not towards vice. They who seem to be corrupted by -public plays are inwardly corrupt beforehand. - -A further and fairer utility of the stage is the exact opposite of that -last mentioned. It is the delightful privilege of dramatic performers to -exhibit pleasing and admirable types of character and display their -worths and graces so as to kindle the love and worship of those who -behold, and awaken in them emulous desires for the noble virtues and the -exquisite charms which they see so divinely embodied. If the -manifestation of heroism, piety, modesty, tenderness, self-sacrifice, -glorious aspiration in the drama is not an educational and redemptive -spectacle, it must be because the stolidity and shallowness of the -audience neutralize its proper influence. Then it is they who are -disgraced, not the play which is discredited. - -It is also a signal function of dramatic acting to reveal to ordinary -people the extraordinary attributes of their own nature by exemplifying -before them the transcendent heights and depths of the human soul. -Average persons and their average lives are prosaic and monotonous, -often mean and tiresome or repulsive. They have no conception of the -august or appalling extremes reached by those of the greatest -endowments, the intensities of their experience, the grandeurs and the -mysteries of their fate. In contrast with the tame level of vulgar life, -the dull plod of the humdrum world, the theatre shows the romantic side -of life, the supernal passions and adventures of genius, the -entrancements of dreaming ideality, the glimpsing hints and marvels of -destiny. An actor like Garrick or Salvini, an actress like Rachel or -Ristori, carrying the graduated signals of love to the climax of -beatific bliss, or the signals of jealousy to the explosive point of -madness, makes common persons feel that they had not dreamed what these -passions were. In beholding a great play greatly performed an audience -gain a new measure for the richness of experience and the width of its -extremes. Thus average people are brought to see the exceptional -greatnesses of humanity and initiated into some appreciation of those -astonishing passions, feats, and utterances of genius which must -otherwise have remained sealed mysteries to them. Rachel used to stand, -every nerve seeming an adder, and freeze and thrill the audience with -terror, as her fusing gestures, perfectly automatic although guided by -will, glided in slow continuity of curves or darted in electric starts. -The commanding majesty, intelligence, and passion of Siddons seemed to -bring her audience before her and not her before her audience. A great -actor enlarges the diapason of man. Our kind is aggrandized in him. He -is copy to men of grosser faculty and teaches them how to feel. It was -this sort of association in his mind that made Dryden say of the aged -Betterton, with such magnifying pomp of phrase,— - - “He, like the sun, still shoots a glimmering ray, - Like ancient Rome majestic in decay.” - -But the central and essential office of the drama is to serve as a means -of spiritual purification, freedom, and enrichment. It is a most -powerful alterative for those wearied, sickened, and soured with -egotism. It takes them out of themselves, transfers their thoughts from -their own affairs, and trains them in disinterested sympathy. They are -made to hate the tyrants, loathe the sycophants, admire the heroes, pity -the sufferers, love the lovers, grieve with the unhappy, and rejoice -with the glad. Redeemed from the dismal treadmill of the ego, they enter -into the fortunes of others and put on their feelings, and, exulting to -be out of the purgatory of self-consciousness, they roam at large in the -romantic paradise of sympathetic human kind. As we sit in the theatre -and follow the course of the play, a torrent of ideal life is poured -through the soul, free from the sticky attachments of personal -prejudices, slavish likes and dislikes, viscous and disturbing -morbidities. It therefore cleanses and emancipates. This is what -Aristotle meant in saying that the soul should be purged by the passions -of pity and terror. The impure mixture of broken interests and -distracted feelings known in daily life is washed away by the -overwhelming rush of the emotions and lessons of a great tragedy. One -may recognize in another the signs of states—a glow of muscle, a vigor -of thought, a height of sentiment—which he could not create in himself, -but which he easily enters into by sympathy. An actor of splendid genius -and tone, in the focus of a breathless audience, is for the hour a -millionaire of soul. Two thousand spectators sitting before him divest -themselves of themselves and put him on, and are for the hour -millionaires of soul too. And so the stage illustrates a cheap way to -wealth of consciousness, or every man his own spiritual Crœsus. - -The histrionic art is likewise the best illustration of history. No -narrative of events or biographic description can vie with a good play -properly set on the stage in giving a vivid conception of an ancient -period or a great personage. It steals the keys of time, enters the -chambers of the past, and summons the sleeping dead to life again in -their very forms, costumes, and motions. - - “Time rushes o’er us: thick as evening clouds - Ages roll back. What calls them from their shrouds? - What in full vision brings their good and great, - The men whose virtues make a nation’s fate, - The far forgotten stars of human kind? - _The Stage, that mighty telescope of mind!_” - -What are the words of Tacitus or Livy in their impression on the common -mind compared with the visible resurrection of the people and life of -Rome in “Virginius,” “Brutus,” “Julius Cæsar,” or “Antony and -Cleopatra”? Colley Cibber said, with felicitous phrase, “The most a -Vandyke can arrive at is to make his portraits of great persons seem to -think. A Shakspeare goes further, and tells you what his pictures -thought. A Betterton steps beyond both, and calls them from the grave to -breathe and be themselves again in feature, speech, and motion.” The -theatrical art puts in our hands a telescope wherewith we pierce distant -ages and nations and see them as they were. - -And as it revives the truths and wonders of antiquity, so it reflects -the present world, depicting in its successive scenes all forms of -society and experience, from the luxuries of the palace to the -wretchedness of the hovel. Moreover, in addition to thus lifting the -curtain from the past and the present, it gives prophetic glimpses of -the future, in its representations of ideal types of men and women and -in its poetic pictures of happier times yet to bless the world. While -most buildings are devoted to the mere interests and comforts of the -private individual or family, or to mechanical business and selfish -scheming, well is it that there should be one fair and open edifice -dedicated to the revelation of human nature in its whole extent, of -human experience in all its seriousness and mirth, of human love and -hope in all their beautiful glory. - -But, after all the uses of the theatre enumerated above, there remains -to be stated what is perhaps its most constant, most valuable and -universal benefit; namely, its delightful ministry of recreation and -amusement. In its charmed enclosure there is a blessed escape from the -jading cares and toils and hates and griefs and fears that so harass and -corrode heart and mind in the emulous strifes of the world. Here -pictures of beauty and bravery are exhibited, adventures of romantic -interest set forth, the most sublime deeds and engaging traits of men -lifted into relief, a tide of pride and joy and love sent warm to the -hearts of the crowd, and all factitious distinctions swept away, as -thousands of eyes gaze on the same scenes and thousands of bosoms beat -together with one emotion. In the drama all the arts are concentrated, -and made accessible to those of the most moderate means, with a splendor -which elsewhere, if found at all, can be commanded only by the favored -few. There is the rich and imposing architecture of the theatre itself, -with its stately proportions and fair ornaments. There is the audience -with its brilliant toilets and its array of celebrity, beauty, and -fashion. There are colors in every direction, and painting in the -elaborate scenery heightened by the gorgeous illumination poured over -all. There is sculpture in the most exquisite forms and motions, the -living statuary of the trained performers. There are poetry and oratory -in the skilled elocution of the speakers. There are the interest of the -story, the interplay of the characters, and the evolution and climax of -the plot. There is the profound magnetic charm of the sympathetic -assembly, all swayed and breathing as one. And then there is the -penetrative incantation, the omnipotent spell of rhythm, in the music of -the orchestra, the chant of the singers, the dancing of the ballet. - -Here indeed is an art equally fitted to amuse the weary, to instruct the -docile, and to express the inspired. The prejudiced deprecators of the -drama have delighted to depict the kings and queens of the stage -descending from their scenic pedestals, casting off their tinsel robes, -and slinking away in slovenly attire into cellar and garret. How much -worthier of note is the reverse aspect, the noble metamorphosis actors -undergo when the prosaic belittlement of their daily life of poverty and -care slips off and they enter the scene in the greatest characters of -history to enact the grandest conceptions of passion and poetry! And -there is an influence in great impersonations to purify and ennoble -their performers. The law of congruity necessitates it. “If,” said -Clairon, “I am only an ordinary woman for twenty of the twenty-four -hours of the day, no effort I can make will render me more than an -ordinary woman when I appear as Agrippina or Semiramis.” The actor, to -make heroic, sublime, or tender manifestations of the mysterious power -and pity and doom of human nature, must have these qualities in his -soul. No petty or vulgar nature could be competent to such strokes of -wonder and pathos as the “Prithee, undo this button!” of Garrick; the -“Fool, fool, fool!” of Kean; the “Vous pleurez, Zaïre!” of Lekain; the -“After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well!” of Forrest. - -The theatre offers us an unrivalled opportunity for the economical -activity of all our faculties, especially of our finer sentiments, which -there play freely, disconnected from the exacting action of the studious -intellect. The whole concentrated mass of life shown in action on the -stage is ideally radiated into the bosoms of the beholders without cost -to them. They despise, they admire, they laugh, they weep, they feel -complacent in their contempt or in their reverence. Many who are too -poor and outcast, or too busy and worn, or too proud and irascible, or -too grieved and unfortunately circumstanced, for the indulgence of these -feelings in real life, find the luxuries copiously and cheaply supplied -in the scene. This is one reason why so many play-goers retain such -grateful recollections of their favorites. Steele said, “From the acting -of Mr. Betterton I have received more strong impressions of what is -great and noble in human nature than from the arguments of the most -solid philosophers or the descriptions of the most charming poets.” -Robson declared, “I never came away from seeing Bannister without -feeling ten years younger, and that if I had not, with Christian, got -rid of my sins, I had got rid of what was pretty nearly as heavy to -carry, my cares.” A noble lady of Edinburgh who in her youth had seen -Siddons, when blind and nearly speechless in the torpor of extreme age, -on being reminded of the great actress, broke into enthusiastic -expressions, while smiles lighted up the features pale and wrinkled with -nearly a hundred years. - -An old English writer asking how he shall seclude and refresh himself -from fretting care and hardship puts aside every form of vicious -dissipation, and says,— - - “My faculties truly to recreate - With modest mirth and myself to please, - Give me a PLAY that no distaste can breed. - Prove thou a spider and from flowers suck gall; - I will, bee-like, take honey from a weed, - For I was never puritanical.” - -Collective history looked at from the human point of view may sometimes -appear a chaos, but seen from the divine auditorium above it is a -perfect drama, the earth its stage, the generations its actors. Thus the -argument of Thomas Heywood was sound, No Theatre, No World! - - “If then the world a theatre present, - As by the roundnesse it appears most fit, - Built with starre-galleries of high ascent - In which Jehove doth as spectator sit - And chief determines to applaud the best, - But by their evil actions doome the rest, - He who denies that theatres should be - He may as well deny the world to me!” - -For as the world is a stage, so the stage is a world. It is an artistic -world in which not only the natural but also the supernatural world is -revealed. This is shown with overwhelming abundance of power in William -Winter’s description of the Saul of Alfieri as rendered by Salvini: - -“It depicts the condition of an imaginative mind, a stately and robust -character, an arrogant, fiery spirit, an affectionate heart, and, -altogether, a royal and regally-poised nature, that have first been -undermined by sin and the consciousness of sin, and then crazed by -contact with the spirit-world and by a nameless dread of the impending -anger of an offended God. It would be difficult to conceive of a more -distracting and piteous state. Awe and terror surround this august -sufferer, and make him both holy and dreadful. In his person and his -condition, as these are visible to the imaginative mind, he combines all -the elements that impress and thrill. He is of vast physical stature, -which time has not bent, and of great beauty of face, which griefs have -ravaged but not destroyed. He is a valiant and bloody warrior, and -danger seems to radiate from his presence. He is a magnanimous king and -a loving father, and he softens by generosity and wins by gentleness. He -is a maniac, haunted by spectres and scourged with a whip of scorpions, -and his red-eyed fury makes all space a hell and shatters silence with -the shrieks of the damned. He is a human soul, burdened with the -frightful consciousness of the Almighty’s wrath, and poised in torment -on the precipice that overhangs the dark and storm-beaten ocean of -eternity. His human weakness is affrighted by ghastly visions and by all -manner of indefinite horrors, against which his vain struggles do but -make more piteous his awful condition. The gleams of calm that fall upon -his tortured heart only light up an abyss of misery,—a vault of darkness -peopled by demons. He is already cut off from among the living by the -doom of inevitable fate, and while we pity him we fear him. His coming -seems attended with monstrous shapes; he diffuses dissonance; his voice -is a cry of anguish or a wail of desolation; his existence is a tempest; -there can be no relief for him save death, and the death that ends him -comes like the blessing of tears to the scorched eyelids of consuming -misery. That is the Saul of the Bible and of Alfieri’s tragedy; and that -is the Saul whom Salvini embodies. It is a colossal monument of human -suffering that the actor presents, and no man can look upon it without -being awed and chastened and lifted above the common level of this -world.” - -But the culminating utility and glory and eulogy of the art of the -theatre are not that it furnishes common people an opportunity for -learning what are the exceptional greatness, beauty, and wonder of human -nature by the sight of its most colossal faculties unveiled and its most -marvellous terrors, splendors, sorrows, and ecstasies exposed for study, -but that _its inherent genius tends to produce expansive sympathy, -sincerity of soul, generous deeds, and an open catholicity of temper_. -No other class is so true and liberal to its own members in distress or -so prompt in response to public calamity as that of the actors. Their -constant familiarity with the sentiments of nobleness and pity imbues -them with the qualities. In trying exigencies, personal or national, -their conduct has often illustrated the truth of the compliment paid -them by the poet: - - “These men will act the passions they inspire, - And wave the sabre as they sweep the lyre.” - -Macklin said, “I have always loved the conscious worth of a good action -more than the profit that would arise from a bad one.” A famous singer -was passing through the market-place of Lyons one day, when a woman with -a sick child asked alms of him. He had left his purse behind, but, -wishing to aid the woman, he took off his hat, sang his best, and -hastily gave her the money he collected. - - “The singer, pleased, passed on, and softly thought, - Men will not know by whom this deed was wrought; - But when at night he came upon the stage, - Cheer after cheer went up from that wide throng, - And flowers rained on him. Nothing could assuage - The tumult of the welcome save the song - That for the beggars he had sung that day - While standing in the city’s busy way.” - -So when in his old age the great tenor, Duprez, reappeared to sing some -stanzas he had composed in behalf of the sufferers by an inundation, as -he said he could no longer utter the sensational cry of Arnold in -William Tell, _Suivez-moi_, but that he still had strength to sing -_Secourons le malheur_, the house rang with plaudits. - -The flexibility of the actor, his sympathetic art, the affecting poetic -situations in which he is seen set off by aggrandizing and romantic -adjuncts, clothe him with fascinating associations, make him gazed after -and courted. This is one secret of the keen interest felt in him. He who -gives the most powerful signs of soul is naturally thought to have the -greatest soul. The great have always been drawn to make favorites of -actors. Demosthenes was the friend of Satyrus; Cicero, of Roscius; Louis -the Fourteenth, of Molière; Bolingbroke, of Barton Booth; Napoleon, of -Talma; Byron, of Kean. The Duke of Northumberland gave Kemble ten -thousand pounds sterling. Lord Loughborough settled a handsome annuity -on Macklin in his destitute age; and when the old actor in his one -hundred and eighth year was about to die he besought the friend who had -agreed to write his life to make grateful mention of this. - -Players have given kings and nobles greater benefits than they have -received from them, often teaching them character as well as manners. -When the Earl of Essex told Edmund Kean that by continuing to associate -with Incledon, the decayed singer, he would endanger his own further -welcome in the upper class, the actor replied, “My lord, Incledon was my -friend, in the strictest sense of the word, when I had scarcely another -friend in the world; and if I should now desert him in the decline of -his popularity and the fall of his fortunes I should little deserve the -friendship of any man, and be quite unworthy of the favorable opinion -your lordship has done me the honor to entertain for me.” Thus speaking, -he rose, and, with a profound bow to the earl, left the room. - -The greatest social characters have not only always affected the society -of gifted players, but have themselves had a profound passion for the -personal practice of the art. This is because the art deals with all the -most subtile secrets of human nature and experience, out of which grow -those arts of power which they feel to be their peculiar province. It is -also because in this practice they escape from the empty round of the -merely conventional and titular which soon becomes so wearying to the -soul and so nauseous to the heart, and come into the realm of reality. -The effect produced by the king, the deference paid to him, may be -hollow. The power of the actor depends on genuine gifts, on his own real -being and skill and charm. And he sees through all cold forms and -shallow pretences. His very art, in its bedizenments and factitious -accessories, sickens him of all shams in private life. There he wants -sincerity and the unaffected substantial goods of nature, a friendly -fellowship springing straight from the heart. When the wife of Kean -asked him what Lord Essex had said of his Shylock, the actor replied, -“Damn Lord Essex. The pit rose at me!” A common soldier with whom Cooke -had quarrelled refused to fight him because he was rich and the persons -present would favor him. Cooke said, “Look here, sir. This is all I -possess in the world,” showing three hundred and fifty pounds in bank- -notes, which he immediately thrust into the fire, holding the poker on -them till they were consumed. Then he added, “Now I am a beggar, sir. -Will you fight me now?” - -This democratic spirit which spurns social affectations and tramples -unreal claims, keenly recognizing distinctions but insisting that they -shall be genuine and not merely supposititious, is the very genius of -the drama as felt in its inmost essence. Rulers have ever delighted to -evade their imprisonment in etiquette, put on an incognito, and disport -themselves in the original relishes of human intercourse on the basis of -facts. Nothing in literature is more charming than the adventures in -this kind of Haroun-al-Raschid and his Vizier in the Arabian Nights’ -Entertainments. Nero and Commodus were proudest of all to strip off -their imperial insignia and win plaudits by their performances in the -amphitheatre. Julius Cæsar acted in his own theatre the part of Hercules -Furens. He was so carried away by the spirit of the rôle that he -actually killed the youth who played Lycus and swung the body two or -three times round his head. Louis the Fourteenth appeared in the -Magnificent Lovers, by Molière, and pantomimed, danced, sang, and played -on the flute and the guitar. He especially loved in gorgeous ballets to -perform the rôle of the Sun; and in the ballet of the Seasons he -repeatedly filled the rôle of the blonde Ceres surrounded by harvesters. -Even Oliver Cromwell once acted the part of Tactus in the play of -“Lingua, or the Combat of the Five Senses for Superiority.” - -But the life of the dramatic profession is not all a brilliant round of -power, gayety, and indulgence. It too has sacrifices, toils, tears, -strenuous duty and virtue, tragedy, mystery, and triumph. The strange -picture of human life and death is nowhere more vividly reflected than -in the theatrical career. The little prodigy James Speaight, whose -performances on the violin had for three years been applauded by crowds, -when he was not yet seven years old, was one evening slightly ill as he -left the stage. About midnight his father heard him say, “Gracious God, -make room for another little child in heaven.” The father spoke, -received no answer, and on going to him found him dead. In 1819, a Mlle. -Charton made her débût at the Odéon. Her enchanting loveliness and -talent captivated all. Intoxicated Paris rang with her praises. Suddenly -she ceased to act. A jealous lover had flung into that beautiful and -happy face a cup of vitriol, destroying beauty, happiness, and eyesight -forever. She refused to prosecute the ruffian, but sat at home, -suffering and helpless, and was soon absorbed in the population and -forgotten. What could be more dreadful than such a doom, or more -pathetic than such submission! In fact, many of those who lived by -acting on the stage have given as noble specimens of acting off of it as -are to be found in history. Mrs. Porter, a famous actress of the -generation preceding Garrick, riding home after the play, in a one-horse -chaise, was accosted by a highwayman with a demand for her money. “She -levelled a pistol at him, when he changed his tone to supplication, told -her his name and the abode of his starving family, and appealed to her -compassion so strongly that she gave him ten guineas. He left her, and, -as she lashed her horse, the animal started aside, upset the chaise, and -in the fall her hip-joint was dislocated. Notwithstanding all the pain -and loss the man had thus occasioned her, she inquired into his -circumstances, and, finding that he had told her the truth, raised sixty -pounds among her acquaintances and sent it to his family.” Her lameness -forced her to leave the stage, and she had herself to subsist upon -charity. - -The dread shrinking and anxiety felt by Mrs. Siddons on the night of her -first successful appearance in London, after her earlier failure, were -such as common natures cannot imagine, and such as nothing but a holy -love for her young dependent children could have nerved even her heroic -nature to bear. The dying away of the frenzied shouts and plaudits left -her half dead, as she wrote to a friend. “My joy and thankfulness were -of too solemn and overpowering a nature to admit of words or even tears. -My father, my husband, and myself sat down to a frugal supper in a -silence uninterrupted except by exclamations of gladness from Mr. -Siddons. My father enjoyed his refreshments, but occasionally stopped -short, and, laying down his knife and fork, and lifting up his venerable -face, and throwing back his silver hair, gave way to tears of -happiness.” - -The essence of the ecclesiastical and theatrical quarrel lies in the -relation of the natural passions to duty. It is especially concentrated -and prominent in regard to the passion of love, concerning which the -opposed views are seen on the one side in the prurient plays constantly -produced on the boards, and on the other side in the repressive -injunctions as constantly iterated from the pulpit. The latter loudly -commands denial, the former silently insinuates indulgence. The one is -inflamed with the love of power, the other is infected with the love of -pleasure. The battle can never be ended by the victory of either party. -The strife is hopeless so long as the ascetic ideal is proclaimed alone, -kindling the bigoted mental passions, and the voluptuous ideal is -exhibited alone, inflaming the loose sensual passions. Each will have -its party, and they will keep on fighting. The only solution lies in the -appearance and triumph of that juster and broader ideal which shows that -the genuine aim and end of life are not the gratification of any -despotic separate passions, whether spiritual or physical, but the -perfection of individual being in social unity. The two combatants, -therefore, must be reconciled by a mediator diviner than either of them, -armed with a truer authority than the one and animated by a purer mind -than the other. That mediator is Science, unfolding the psychological -and physiological laws of the subject, and bringing denial and -indulgence into reconciliation by giving wholesomeness and normality to -every passion, which shall then seek fulfilment only in accordance with -the conditions of universal order, securing a pure harmony at once of -all the functions of the individual and of all the interests of society. -The incomplete and vain formula of the church is, Deny thyself. The -equally defective and dangerous formula of the theatre is, Indulge -thyself. But the perfect and bridging formula of science is, So deny or -rule in the parts of thy being and life as to fulfil thyself in the -whole. - -Virtue is not confined to the votaries of the pulpit, but is often -glorified in the votaries of the stage. Vice, if sometimes openly -flaunted in the theatre, is sometimes secretly cherished in the church. -Neither should scorn the other, but they should mutually teach and aid -each other, and combine their methods as friends, to purify, enlighten, -and free the world. Each has much to give the other, and as much to -receive from it. For, while the mischief of the ascetic ecclesiastic -ideal of repression and denial is the breeding of a spirit of sour and -fanatical gloom, its glory is the earnest conscience, the trimmed lamp, -and the girt loins. Add this sacred self-restraint, which allows no -indulgence not in accordance with the conditions of universal order, to -the genial dramatic ideal of man and life,—a perfect organism and -perfect faculties in perfect conditions of fulfilment and liberty, or -the greatest amount of harmonious experience rooted in the physical -nature and flowering in the spiritual,—and it is the just ideal. - -The true business of the church is to inculcate morality and religion. -Its perversions are traditional routine, creed authority, and ceremony. -The true business of the theatre is to exhibit characters and manners in -their contrasts so as to secure appropriating approval for the best, -condemnation and avoidance for the worst. Its perversions are -carelessness, frivolity, and license. When the church purifies itself -for its two genuine functions,—truth and consolation,—and the theatre -cleanly administers its two genuine functions,—wholesome recreation and -earnest teaching,—their offices will coincide and the strife of priest -and player cease. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII. - FORREST IN SEVEN OF HIS CHIEF ROLES.—CHARACTERS OF IMAGINATIVE -PORTRAITURE.—RICHELIEU.—MACBETH.—RICHARD.—HAMLET.—CORIOLANUS.—OTHELLO.— - LEAR. - - -At the date of this writing, although there are many good actors in -America, there are none who are generally recognized as great. There -also appears for the time to be a decline in the popular taste for the -serious and lofty drama, and a general preference for sensational, -comic, and spectacular plays. In vain does the call-boy summon the -sublime characters and parts that entranced the audiences of a bygone -generation. They seem to have died with the strong and stately actors -who gave them such noble life and motion. The sceptred pall of gorgeous -tragedy has vanished from the stage, it may almost be said, and for the -poet and the thinker have been substituted the carpenter, the scene- -painter, the upholsterer, and the milliner. Nudity, prurience, broad -appeals to sensual passion, extravagant glare and movement and noise, -have largely thrust aside tragic action, romantic sentiment, and moral -grandeur. Even though the depravation be but temporary, marking a -transitional crisis, it is a feature unpleasant to contemplate. And it -may be of some service, not only in completing the picture of the life -of Forrest, but likewise in revealing the higher social uses and lessons -of his art, to give a description of the chief of those massive and -heroic rôles he loved best to fill in the ripest period of his -professional career. The accounts must be brief and fragmentary, and -very inadequate at the best. To preserve or re-create the full -impression of a great actor in a great part, he should be sculptured in -every attitude and movement, with every gesture and look, and painted in -every tone, emphasis, and inflection of his voice. Yet, without -attempting this impossible feat in the case of Forrest, enough may be -rapidly indicated in general sketches to enable intelligent readers to -form some approximate conception of his leading impersonations and of -the influences they were calculated to exert. - -The pictures of the acting of Forrest now to be essayed must be -tantalizingly faint and imperfect, in the absence of an art to translate -and reproduce all the other eight dramatic languages of human nature in -the one language of words. But to appreciate even these poor attempts at -their worth one preliminary condition on the part of those who read is -pre-eminently necessary. They must remember that Forrest was one of -those rare men profusely endowed with that mysterious power to interest -and impress which is popularly called personal magnetism. He was -signally charged with that secret spell, that loaded and swaying -fascination, which all feel though no one understands, which -contagiously works on those who come within its reach, seizing -curiosity, enlisting sympathy, or evoking repulsion. The distinguishing -differences of men in this respect are indescribable and fatal. No art -can efface them or neutralize them. For an artist who makes direct -personal appeal to an audience the having or the not having this -magnetic gift is as the hidden core of destiny. With it obstacles are -removed as by magic, friends won, enemies overthrown, and wherever the -possessor sails through the community he leaves a wide phosphorescent -wake of social interest and gossip. Without it, though flags are waved -and trumpets are blown and all pains taken to make an impression and -secure a victorious career, yet the efforts prove futile and public -attention wanders listlessly away. One seems created to be the victim of -perpetual slights, dry, trivial, destitute of charm, nobody caring -anything about him; while another, freighted with occult talismans, -strangely interests everybody. The recognition of such contrasts is one -of the most familiar facts of experience. These phenomena are suggested -by the word sphere as applied to the characteristic influence of -personality. The spiritual sphere or signalling power of an individual -is described as attractive or repulsive, strong or weak, vast or little, -harmonious or discordant. The mystery is not so blankly baffling as it -has been supposed, but is in a large degree susceptible of rational -explication. - -Out of a hundred accomplished singers, beautiful in person and -marvellous in voice, one prima donna shall surpass all the rest in -fascinating the public. There is a nameless distinction in her bearing, -there is an indescribable charm in her song, which bewitch and enthrall, -are her irresistible passports to public enthusiasm, and make her sure -of a long and dazzling career; while one after another of the rest with -desperate exertions and fitful plaudits disappear. Here is a tragedian -who exercises the same spell and quickly obscures his distanced rivals. -He advances on the stage with a quiet step, his mantle negligently -crossing his breast, his countenance calm. Without a start, without a -gesture, without a word, he simply is and looks. Yet, as he approaches, -awe spreads around him. Why this breathless silence all over the -theatre, this rooted attention from every one? He seats himself, he -leans on the arm of the chair; his voice, quick and deep, seems not to -utter common words, but to pronounce supernatural oracles. By what -transcendent faculty does he render hate so terrible, irony so -frightful, disdain so superhuman, devotion so entrancing, love so -inexpressibly sweet, that the whole assembly rivet their eyes and hold -their breath while their hearts throb under the mystic influence of his -action? The secret is purely a matter of law without anything of chance -or whim or caprice in it. It is the profound and universal law which -regulates the exercise of sympathetic influence by one person on -another. It has two elements, namely, beauty and power. Beauty and power -both can be expressed in shapes, features, motions, and tones. Shapes, -features, and tones are results and revelations of modes of motion. The -face is shaped and modulated by the ideal forces within, the rhythmical -vibrations which preside over the processes of nutrition. All those -shapes or movements in a person which in their completeness constitute, -or in their segments imply, returning curves or undulations, such as -circles, ellipses, and spirals, are beautiful. They suggest economy of -force, ease of function, sustained vitality, and potency. But abrupt -changes of direction, sudden snatches and breaks of movement, sharp -angles, are ugly and repellent, because they suggest waste of force, -difficulty of function, discord of the individual with the universal, -and therefore hint evil and death. The serpent was anciently considered -a symbol of immortality on account, no doubt, of all its motions being -endless lines or undulations circling in themselves. This is the law of -beauty which just in proportion to its pervasive prevalence and -exhibition in any one gives its possessor charm. The subtile indication -of this in the incessant and innumerable play of the person fascinates -and delights all who see it; and those who do not consciously perceive -it are still influenced by it in the unconscious depths of their nature. - -The element of power is closely allied in its mode of revelation and -influence with that of beauty. Every attitude, gesture, or facial -expression is composed of contours and lines, static and dynamic, latent -and explicit, fragmentary and complete, straight, curved, or angularly -crooked. Now, the nature of these lines, the degree in which their -curves return or do not return into themselves, the nature and sizes of -the figures they describe, or would describe if completed according to -their indicative commencements, determine their beauty or ugliness and -decide what effect they shall produce on the spectator. The beauty and -the pleasure it yields are proportioned to the preponderance of endless -lines suggestive of circulation of force without waste, and therefore of -perfect grace and immortal life. But that sense of power which breeds -awe in the beholder is measured by the proportion of exertion made to -effect produced. All force expended passes off on angular lines. The -angles of movement may be obtuse or sharp in varying degrees, and -consequently subtend lines of different lengths. All attitudes and -gestures compose curves and figures, or cast lines and form angles, -which constitute their æsthetic and dynamic values, those measuring -beauty, these measuring power. For, on the principle of the lever and -momentum, the power expended at the end of a line is equal to that -exerted at the beginning of the line multiplied by its length. The -amounts of exertion and the lengths of lines are unconsciously estimated -by the intuitions of the observer, and the unconscious interpretations -to which he is led are what yield the impressions he experiences on -seeing any given actor. The greatest sense of power is received when the -minimum of initial effort is seen with the maximum of terminal result; -when the smallest weight at the central extremity balances the largest -one at the distal extremity. The law of combined beauty and power of -action, then, is contained in the relations of returning lines and -lengths of straight lines. The measure of dramatic expression is this: -impression of grace is according to the preponderance of perpetuating -curves, and impression of strength according to the degrees of the -angles formed by the straight lines. That actress or actor in whose -organism there is the greatest freedom of the parts and the greatest -unity of the whole, the most perfect co-operation of all the nerve- -centres in a free dynamic solidarity and the most complete surrender of -the individual will to universal principles, will make the deepest -sensation,—in other words, will have the largest amount of what has been -vaguely called personal magnetism. The divinest character expresses -itself in softly-flowing forms and inexpensive movements. The most royal -and august majesty of function indicates its rank of power by the -slightest exertions implying the vastest effects. Frivolous, false, and -vulgar characters are ever full of short lines, incongruous, fussy, and -broken motions, curves everywhere subordinated and angles obtrusive. -Such persons are, as it is said, destitute of magnetism. They do not -interest. They cannot possibly charm or awe. It is a law of -inexpressible importance that _the quality, grade, and measure of a -personality are revealed primarily in the proportions, secondarily in -the movements, of the physical organism_. These proportions and -movements betray alike the permanent features of the indwelling -character and all its passing thoughts and emotions. The truth is all -there, though the spectator may be incompetent to interpret its signals. -The most harmonious and perfect character will show the most exquisite -symmetry and grace of repose and action. The irregulated, raw, and -reckless type of character expresses itself in awkward, violent, or -incongruous movements, wasteful of energy yet not impressive in result. -Beauty of motion, the implication of endless lines, is the normal sign -of loveliness of soul. Grandeur of soul or dynamic greatness of mind is -indicated by implicit extent and ponderous slowness of motion. When the -smallest displays of motion at the centres suggest the most sustained -and extended lines, the impression given of power is the most mysterious -and overwhelming. The most tremendous exertions, in lines and angles -whose invisible complements are small, produce a weak impression, -because they make no appeal to the imagination. The beauty of the -figures implied in the forms of the movements of a man is the analogue -of his goodness; the dimensions of the figures, the analogue of his -strength. And in the case of every one the spectators are constantly -apprehending the forms of these figures and how far they reach, and -emotionally reacting in accordance with the results thus attained. It is -not a conscious and critical process of the understanding or the senses, -but a swift procedure of the intuitions or organic habits, including the -sum of ancestral experiences deposited in instinctive faculty. Many who -are ignorant of this law of the revelation of human nature, and of the -sympathetic influence of man on man involved in it, may feel that the -whole conception is merely a fine-spun fancy, with no solid basis in -fact. But a perfect parallel to the process here described as taking -place through the eye has been both mathematically and visibly -demonstrated in the case of the ear. The beauty of form as perceived by -the eye depends on implicit perception of geometric law, and is -proportioned to the simplicity of the law and the variety of the outline -embodying it, just as the harmony of colors or the harmony of sounds -depends on the implicit perception of arithmetical ratios, and is -proportioned to the harmony of times in which the vibrations of the -visible or audible medium occur. We distinguish the beauty and the -quality of a tone of the same pitch produced by different instruments or -voices, and our feelings are differently affected with pleasure or pain -as we listen to them. But the beauty of a tone consists in the -equidistance of the pulsations of air composing it, and the quality of a -tone consists in the forms of the pulsations. The auditory apparatus -reports the symmetry or asymmetry of the pulsations in form and rate, -and the soul, intuitively grasping the secret significance, is delighted -or disturbed accordingly. The charm of a delicious, musical, powerful -voice has these four elements, beautiful forms in its vibrations, -perfect rhythm or equidistance in its vibrations, varying breadth in its -vibrations, and varying extent of vibratory surface in the sounding -mechanism. Without knowing anything about any of these conditions, the -sensitive hearer, played on by them through his ear, accurately responds -in feeling. It is exactly the same, in the case of the eye, with the -geometrical lines and figures involved in the bearing of a person. If -these are beautiful in forms, graceful in motions, sublime in implicit -dimensions, the impression is delightful and profound; while if they are -petty and incoherent, or clumsy and unbalanced, their appeal is -superficial and disagreeable. This is the law of personal magnetism, -which always exerts the vastest swing of power from the most exactly -centred equilibrium. The mysteries of God are revealed in space and time -through form and motion. They are concentrated in rhythm, which, as -defined by Delsarte, is the simultaneous vibration of number, weight, -and measure. We are creatures of space and time; all our experience has -been written and is organized in that language. Our whole nature -therefore in its inmost depths corresponds and thrills to the mystic -symbols of harmony or discord with love and pleasure or with fear and -pain. The secret of the delight that waits on the perception or feeling -of beauty and power is the recognition of sequent ratios which express -symmetry in time or algebraic law, and coexistent ratios which express -symmetry in space or geometric law. Spatial symmetry is the law of -equilibrium, the adjustment of the individual with the universal, and -measures power. Temporal symmetry is the law of health, the pulsating -adjustment of function with its norm, and measures the melodious flow of -life. Rhythm is the constant dynamic reproduction of symmetry in space -and time combined. It is the secret of personal magnetism. Its charm and -its power are at their height when the symmetries are most varied in -detail and most perfect in unity. - -Now, Forrest ever possessed this magnetic temperament, this firmly -poised and ingravidated personality, and ever wielded its signals with -startling effect. The tones and inflections of his sweet and majestic -voice in its wide diapason were felt by his hearers palpitating among -the pulses of their hearts. His attitude, look, and gesture in great -situations often produced on a whole assembly the electric creep of the -flesh and the cold shudder of the marrow. His fearlessness and -deliberation were conspicuous and proverbial. A censorious critic said, -“Mr. Forrest is the most painfully elaborate actor on the stage. He -swings in a great slow orbit, and, though he revolves with dignity and -sublimity, the sublimity is often stupid and the dignity a little -pompous. He dwells so long on unimportant passages that one might -imagine he intended to take up an everlasting rest on a period, to go to -sleep over a semicolon, or spend the evening with a comma. His pauses -are like the distances from star to star, and if he continues in his -course people will have time to stroll in the lobbies between his -sentences. His performances might be defined by his enemies as infinite -extensions of silence with incidental intervals of speech.” Through this -enveloping burlesque one discerns the poise, sang-froid, and grandeur of -the man. - -Senator Stockton, passing the Broadway Theatre one evening, met a friend -coming out, and asked him, “What is going on in there?” The reply was, -“Oh, nothing: Forrest is in one of his pauses!” An admiring critic said -of him, and if the diction be exaggerated it yet invests the truth, -“There is no actor living who takes a stronger hold of the feelings of -his audience or grasps the passions of the human heart with such a -giant-like clutch. He is as imposing and daring in his action as the -mountain condor when he darts on the flock, or the bird of Jove when he -wheels from the peaks and burnishes his plumage in the blaze of the sun. -It is not one here and there that submits to his sovereignty. The entire -audience are swayed and fashioned after the workings of his soul. He -permits none to escape the potency of his sceptre, but makes all bow to -his terrible and overwhelming mastery.” Of course different persons had -different degrees of susceptibility to this elemental power and -earnestness of nature and to this trained and skilled display of art, -though all must feel it more or less either as attraction or as -repulsion. The varying effects of the playing of character through its -signs is the genuine drama of life itself. The idiot holds his bauble -for a god, as Shakspeare says. The ruffian is hardened against all -delicate and noble manifestations of mind. The dilettante, in his -dryness, veneer, and varnish, is incapable of any enthusiasm for -persons. And there are multitudes so harassed and exhausted in the -selfish contests of the day, their hearts and imaginations so perverted -or shrivelled, that the brightest signals of heroism, genius, and -saintliness shine before them in vain. The play of personal qualities, -the study and appreciation of them, are more neglected now than they -ever were before. It is one of the greatest of social calamities; for it -takes the social stimulus away from spiritual ambition or the passion -for excellence. And it is one of the supreme benefactions conferred on -society by a great actor that he intensifies and illuminates the -revelatory language of character and fixes attention on its import by -lifting all its modes of expression to their highest pitch. - - - RICHELIEU. - -In a previous chapter an attempt was made to describe Forrest in those -characters of physical and mental realism with which his fame was -chiefly identified during the earlier and middle portions of his popular -career. It remains now to essay a similar sketch of those characters of -imaginative portraiture which he best loved to impersonate in the -culminating glory and at the close of his artistic career. In the Rolla, -Damon, Spartacus, Metamora of his young manhood he was, rather than -played, the men whose parts he assumed, so intensely did he feel them -and so completely did he reproduce nature. He wrestled with the genius -of his art as Hercules with Antæus, throwing it to the ground -continually, but making its vitality more vigorous with every fall. As -years passed, and brought the philosophic mind, they tempered and -refined the animal fierceness, strained out the crudity and excess, and -secured a result marked by greater symmetry in details, fuller harmony -of accessories, a purer unity in the whole, and a loftier climax of -interest and impression. Then studious intellect and impassioned -sentiment, guided by truth and taste, preponderated over mere instinct -and observation, and imaginative portraiture took the place which had -been held by sensational realism. This is what in dramatic art gives the -violence of passion moderating restraint, puts the calm girdle of beauty -about the throbbing loins of power. Imagination, it is true, cannot -create, but it can idealize, order, and unify, unravel the tangled snarl -of details, and wind the intricacies in one unbroken thread, making -nature more natural by abstraction of the accidental and arrangement of -the essential. This was what the acting of Forrest, always sincere and -natural, for a long time needed, but at last, in a great degree, -attained, and, in attaining, became genuinely artistic. - -The Richelieu of Forrest was a grand conception consummately elaborated -and grandly represented. It was a part suited to his nature, and which -he always loved to portray. The glorious patriotism which knit his soul -to France, the tender affection which bound his heart to his niece, the -leonine banter with which he mocked his rivals, the indomitable courage -with which he defied his foes, the sublime self-sufficingness with which -he trusted in fate and in the deepest emergencies prophesied the dawn -while his followers were trembling in the gloom, his immense personal -superiority of mind and force swaying all others, as the sun sways its -orbs,—these were traits to which Forrest brought congenial qualities and -moods, making their representation a delight to his soul. - -He dressed for the part in long robes, an iron-gray wig, and the scarlet -cap of a cardinal. He stooped a little, coughed, but gave no signs of -superannuation. As the conspiracies thickened about him and the end drew -on, he seemed visibly to grow older and more excitable. His age and -feebleness, though simulated with an exquisite skill, were not obtruded. -Though the picture of an old man, it was the picture of a very grand old -man, like the ruin of a mighty castle, worn by time and broken by -storms, yet towering proudly in its strength, with foundations the -earthquake could not uproot and battlements over which the thunder -crashed in vain. Forrest made the character not only intensely -interesting and exciting by the great variety of sharp contrasts he -brought into reconciliation in it, but also admirable and lovable from -the honest virtues and august traits it embodied. He represented -Richelieu as a patriotic statesman of the loftiest order, and also as a -sage deeply read in the lore of the human heart, tenaciously just, a -careful weigher of motives, his sometimes rough and repellent manner -always covering a deep well of love and a rich vein of satire. - -In the opening scene, the cunning slyness of the veteran plotter and -detective, the dignity of the great statesman, and the magnetic command -of the powerful minister were revealed in rapid alternation in a manner -which was a masterpiece of art. - - “And so you think this new conspiracy - The craftiest trap yet laid for the old fox? - Fox? Well, I like the nickname. What did Plutarch - Say of the Greek Lysander? - That where the lion’s skin fell short, he eked it - Out with the fox’s! A great statesman, Joseph, - That same Lysander!” - -There was in the delivery of these words a mixture of sportiveness and -sobriety, complacency and irony, which spoke volumes. Then, speaking of -Baradas, the conceited upstart who expected to outwit and overthrow him, -the expression of self-conscious greatness in his manner, combined with -contempt for the mushroom success of littleness, made the verbal passage -and the picture he painted in uttering it equally memorable as he said,— - - “It cost me six long winters - To mount as high as in six little moons - This painted lizard. But I hold the ladder, - And when I shake—he falls!” - -As his hand imaginatively shook the ladder, his eye blazed, his voice -grew solid, and the audience saw everything indicated by the words as -distinctly as if it had been presented in material reality. Nothing -could be more finely drawn and colored than the variety of moods, the -changing qualities of character and temper, called out in Richelieu by -the reactions of his soul on the contrasted persons of the play and -exigencies of the plot as he came in contact with them. When, alluding -to the attachment of the king for his ward as an ivy, he said— - - “Insidious ivy, - And shall it creep around my blossoming tree, - Where innocent thoughts, like happy birds, make music - That spirits in heaven might hear?”— - -there was a fond caressing sweetness in his tones that fell on the heart -like a celestial dew. Into what a wholly different world of human nature -we were taken in the absolute transformation of his demeanor with -Joseph, the Capuchin monk, his confidant! Here there was a grim humor, -an amusing yet sinister banter: - - “In my closet - You’ll find a rosary, Joseph: ere you tell - Three hundred beads I’ll summon you. Stay, Joseph. - I did omit an Ave in my matins,— - A grievous fault. Atone it for me, Joseph. - There is a scourge within; I am weak, you strong. - It were but charity to take my sin - On such broad shoulders. Exercise is healthful.” - -His interview with De Mauprat reminded one of a cat playing with a -mouse, or of a royal tiger which had laid its paw on one of the sacred -cattle and was watching its quiverings under the velvet-sheathed claws. -When De Mauprat expects to be ordered to the block, Richelieu sends him -to his darling Julie: - - “To the tapestry chamber. You will there behold - The executioner: your doom be private, - And heaven have mercy on you!” - -The delightful humor here follows the desperate terror like sunlight -streaming on a thunder-cloud. What a contrast was furnished in the -allusion to the detested Baradas and his confederates when the aroused -cardinal, after the failure of every method to conciliate, towers into -his kingliest port, and exclaims, with concentrated and vindictive -resolution,— - - “All means to crush. As with the opening and - The clenching of this little hand, I will - Crush the small vermin of the stinging courtiers!” - -The central and all-conspicuous merit of Forrest’s rendering of -Richelieu was the unfailing felicity of skill with which he kept the -unity of the character clear through all the variety of its -manifestations. It was a character fixed in its centre but mobile in its -exterior, dominated by a magnificent patriotic ambition, open to -everything great, tinged with cynicism by bitter experience, if -irascible and revengeful yet full of honest human sympathy. He enjoyed -circumventing traitors with a finesse keener than their own, and defying -enemies with a haughtiness that blasted, while ever and anon gleams of -gentle and generous affection lighted up and softened the sombre -prominences of a nature formed to mould rugged wills and to rule stormy -times. - -It is only great actors who are able to make the individuality of a -character imperially prominent and absorbing yet at the same time to do -equal justice to every universal thought or sentiment occurring in the -part. Forrest was remarkable for this supreme excellence. Whenever the -author had introduced any idea or passion of especial dignity from the -depth of its meaning or the largeness of its scope, he was sure to -express it with corresponding emphasis and finish. This makes a dramatic -entertainment educational and ennobling no less than pleasurable. When -François, starting on an important errand, says, “If I fail?” Richelieu -gazes on the boy, while recollections of the marvellous triumphs of his -own career flit over his face, and exclaims, with an electric -accentuation of surprise and unconquerable assurance,— - - “Fail? - In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves - For a bright manhood, there is no such word - As fail!” - -When the huge sword of his martial period at Rochelle drops from his -grasp, and he is reminded that he has other weapons now, he goes slowly -to his desk, the old hand from which the heavy falchion had dropped -takes up the light feather, his eyes look into vacancy, the soldier -passes into the seer, an indefinable presence of prophecy broods over -him, and the meditative exultation of his air and the solemn warmth of -his voice make the whole audience thrill as his sculptured syllables -fall on their ears: - - “True,—_this_! - Beneath the rule of men entirely great - The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold - The arch-enchanted wand! Itself a nothing, - But taking sorcery from the master hand - To paralyze the Cæsars and to strike - The loud earth breathless. Take away the sword: - States _can_ be saved without it.” - -When Julie, appealing to him for aid which he cannot promise, -expostulatingly asks,— - - “Art thou not Richelieu?”— - -he answers in a manner whose attitude, look, and tone instantly carry -the imagination and sympathy of the soul-stricken auditors from the -individual instance before them to the solemn pathos and mystery of the -destiny of all mankind in this world: - - “Yesterday I was: - To-day, a very weak old man: to-morrow, - I know not what!” - -So, when, amidst unveiled treason, hate and fear and sickening -ingratitude, left alone in his desolation, his spirit for a moment -wavered under the load of suspicion and melancholy, but quickly rallied -into its own invincible heroism, he so painted and voiced the successive -moods that every bosom palpitated in living response: - - “My leeches bribed to poisoners; pages - To strangle me in sleep; my very king— - This brain the unresting loom from which was woven - The purple of his greatness—leagued against me! - Old, childless, friendless, broken—all forsake, - All, all, but the indomitable heart - Of Armand Richelieu!” - -Never was transition more powerful than from the minor wail of -lamentation with which Forrest here began to the glorious eloquence of -the climax, where his vocal thunderbolts drove home to every heart the -lesson of conscious greatness and courage. The treachery was depicted -with a look and voice expressive of a weary and mournful indignation and -scorn touched with loathing; the desertion, with bowed head and drooping -arms, in low, lingering, tearful tones; the self-assertion was launched -from a mien that swelled with sudden access of inspiration, as if -heaving off its weakness and stiffened in its utmost erection. - -Another imposing instance in which Forrest so rendered a towering sense -of genius and personal superiority as to change it from egotism to -revelation, merging the individual peculiarity in a universal attribute, -was where the armed De Mauprat comes upon the solitary cardinal and -tells him the next step will be his grave. The defiant retort to this -threat was so given as to impress the audience with a sense of prophetic -power, a feeling that the destiny of man is mysteriously linked with -unseen and supernatural ranks of being: - - “Thou liest, knave! - I am old, infirm, most feeble—but thou liest. - Armand de Richelieu dies not by the hand - Of man. The stars have said it, and the voice - Of my own prophetic and oracular soul - Confirms the shining sibyls!” - -A crowning glory of the impersonation of this great rôle by Forrest was -the august grandeur of the method by which he set the intrinsic royalty -of Richelieu over against the titular royalty of Louis. In many nameless -ways besides by his subtile irony, his air of inherent command masked in -studied courtesy of subordination, and the continual contrast of the -comprehensive measures and sublime visions of the one with the petty -personal spites and schemes of the other, he made it ever clear that the -crowned monarch was a sham, the statesman the real one anointed and -sealed by heaven itself. This true and democratic idea of superiority, -that he is the genuine king, not who chances to hold the throne, but who -knows how to govern, received a splendid setting in all the interviews -of the king and the cardinal. When the conspirators had won Louis to -turn his back on his minister with the words,— - - “Remember, he who made can unmake,”— - -who that saw it could ever forget the dilating mien and burning oratoric -burst which instantly made the sovereign seem a menial subject, and the -subject a vindicated sovereign? - - “Never! Your anger can recall your trust, - Annul my office, spoil me of my lands, - Rifle my coffers: but my name, my deeds, - Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre. - Pass sentence on me if you will. From kings, - Lo, I appeal to Time!” - -Again, when Louis, with mere personal passion, had harshly rebuffed him -with the words,— - - “For our conference - This is no place nor season,”— - -the narrow selfishness of the king makes him seem a pygmy and a plebeian -in the light of the universal sentiment and expansive thought with which -Richelieu overwhelmingly responds,— - - “Good my liege, for justice - All place is a temple and all season summer. - Do you deny me justice?” - -But the grandest exhibition of the superiority of democratic personal -royalty of character and inspiration to the conventional royalty of -title and place, the supreme dramatic moment of the play, was the -protection of Julie from the polluting pursuit of the king. Folding the -affrighted girl to his breast with his left arm, he lifted his loaded -right hand, and, with visage of smouldering fire and clarion tone, -cried,— - - “To those who sent you! - And say you found the virtue they would slay, - Here, couched upon this heart, as at an altar, - And sheltered by the wings of sacred Rome. - Begone!” - -Baradas asserts that the king claims her. Then came such a climax of -physical, moral, and artistic power as no man could witness without -being electrified through and through. Forrest prepared and executed -this climax with an exquisite skill that made it seem an unstudied -inspiration. His intellect appeared to have the eager fire that burns -and flashes along a train of thought, gathering speed and glory as it -moves, till at last it strikes with irresistible momentum. At first with -noble repression the low deep voice uttered the portentous words,— - - “Ay, is it so? - Then wakes the power which in the age of iron - Burst forth to curb the great and raise the low.” - -Here the surge of passion began to sweep cumulatively on. The eyes grew -wild, the outstretched hands quivered, the tones swelled and rang, the -expanded and erected figure looked like a transparent mass of fire, and -the climax fell as though the sky had burst with a broadside of -thunders. - - “Mark where she stands! Around her form I draw - The awful circle of our solemn Church. - Set but a foot within that holy ground, - And on thy head, yea, though it wore a crown, - I launch the curse of Rome!” - -The sudden passage of Richelieu from the extreme of tottering feebleness -to the extreme of towering strength, under the stimulus of some -impersonal passion, illustrated a deep and marvellous principle of human -nature. Forrest never forgot how startlingly he had once seen this -exemplified by Andrew Jackson when discussing the expediency of the -annexation of Texas to the United States. A disinterested and universal -sentiment suddenly admitted to the mind, lifting the man out of egotism, -sometimes seems to open the valves of the brain, flood the organism with -supernatural power, and transform a shrivelled skeleton into a glowing -athlete. Richelieu had fainted, and was thought to be dying. The king -repents, and restores his office, saying,— - - “Live, Richelieu, if not for me, for France!” - -In one instant the might of his whole idolized country passes into his -withered frame. - - “My own dear France, I have thee yet, I have saved thee. - All earth shall never pluck thee from my heart, - My mistress France, my wedded wife, sweet France!” - -It was the colossal scale of intellect, imagination, passion, and energy -exposed by Forrest in his representation of Richelieu that made the rôle -to ordinary minds a new revelation of the capacities of human nature. -When, with a tone and inflection whose sweet and long-drawn cadence -almost made the audience hear the melody of the spheres clanging in -endless space, he said,— - - “No, let us own it, there is One above - Sways the harmonious mystery of the world - Even better than prime ministers,”— - -he produced on the stage a religious impression of which Bossuet might -have been proud in the pulpit. And to hear him declaim, with a modest -pomp and solemn glow of elocution befitting the thoughts and imagery, -the following passage, was to receive an influence most ennobling while -most pleasurable: - - “I found France rent asunder; - The rich men despots, and the poor, banditti; - Sloth in the mart, and schism in the temple; - Brawls festering to rebellion, and weak laws - Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths. - I have re-created France, and from the ashes - Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass - Civilization, on her luminous wings, - Soars, phœnix-like, to Jove. What was my art? - Genius, some say; some, fortune; witchcraft, some. - Not so: my art was JUSTICE!” - -It was no wonder that Charles Kean, after beholding this interpretation -of Richelieu by Forrest, said to his wife, “Ellen, this is the greatest -acting we have ever seen or ever shall see.” It was but just that Henry -Sedley, himself an accomplished actor and owned to be one of the best -dramatic critics in the country, should write, “We can imagine a -Richelieu more French than that of Mr. Forrest, but we cannot well -conceive one more full of dramatic passion, of sustained power, or of -the mysterious magnetism that takes captive and sways at will the -average human imagination.” - - - SHAKSPEAREAN CHARACTERS. - -In all the last forty years of his life Forrest was an enthusiastic -reader and student of Shakspeare. As his experience deepened and his -observation enlarged and his familiarity with the works of this -unrivalled genius became more thorough, his love and admiration rose -into wondering reverence, and ended in boundless idolatry. His library -teemed with books illustrative of the plays and poems of the immortal -dramatist. He delighted to pore even over the commentators, and the -original pages were his solace, his joy, and his worship. He relished -the Comedies as much as he did the Tragedies, and in the Sonnets found -inexhaustible beauties entwined with exquisite autobiographic -revelations. Thus he came within the esoteric circle of readers. One of -the latest schemes with which his heart pleased his fancy was a design -to erect in some suitable place in his native city a group of statuary -representing Shakspeare with Heminge and Condell, the two editors whose -pious care collected and gave to posterity the matchless writings which -otherwise might have been lost. - -The personal feelings and the professional pride of Forrest were more -bound up with his representations of Shakspearean characters than with -any others. Of the eight Shakspearean rôles which he played, those of -Shylock and Iago were early dropped, on account of his extreme distaste -for the parts, and his unwillingness to bear the ideal hate and loathing -they awakened in the spectators. But to the remaining six parts—Macbeth, -Richard, Hamlet, Coriolanus, Othello, and Lear—he gave the most -unwearied study, and in their representation showed the extremest -elaboration of his art. He spent an incredible amount of time and pains -in striving to grasp the true types and attributes of these characters, -and in perfecting his portrayals of them according to the intentions of -the author and the realities of nature. And he actually attained -conceptions of them far more comprehensive, accurate, and distinct than -he received credit for. His playing of them, too, was marked not only by -a bold sweep of power and truth, but also by a keenness of insight, a -delicate perception of fitness, a just distribution of light and shade, -a felicity of transition and contrast, which were lost on the average of -an audience. The knowledge that his finest points were not appreciated -by many was one of his trials. In spite of this, however, his own -conviction of the minute truthfulness and merit of his acting of -Shakspearean characters, based on indefatigable study of nature and -honest reproduction of what he saw, was the sweetest satisfaction of his -professional life. He always wished his fame to stand or fall with a -fair estimate of his renderings of these rôles. And one thing is to be -affirmed of him, which the carelessness of miscellaneous assemblies -superficially seeking amusement generally failed to appreciate, namely, -that he felt profoundly the solemn lessons with which those characters -were charged, and conscientiously endeavored to emphasize and enforce -them, making his performance a panorama of living instruction, an -illuminated revelation of human nature and human destiny, and not a mere -series of piques of curiosity or traps for sensation. - -In the ordinary dramatist or novelist a character is manufactured out of -a formula, but in Shakspeare every great character is so deeply true -that it suggests many formulas. In the highest ancient art situations -vary with characters; in average modern art characters vary with -situations; in Shakspeare both these results are shown as they are in -real life, where sometimes characters are moulds for shaping situations, -and sometimes situations are furnaces for testing characters. Of old, -when life was deeper because less complex, the dramatized legend was the -channel of a force or fate; there its interest lay. In Shakspeare the -interest is not to see the supernatural force reflected blazing on a -character, but rather to see it broken up by the faculties of the -character, to see it refracted on his idiosyncrasies. This makes the -task of the player more difficult, because he must seize the unity of -the character in its relations with the plot, and keep it clear, however -modulated in variety of manifestations. This Forrest did in all his -Shakspearean impersonations. Though few who saw him act appreciated it, -the distinctness with which he kept this in view was his crowning merit -as an artist. - -[Illustration: - - D G Thompson - - EDWIN FORREST AS - - SHYLOCK. -] - - - MACBETH. - -Many actors have represented Macbeth as a coward moulded and directed at -will by his stronger wife,—a weakling caught like a leaf in an -irresistible current and hurried helplessly on to his doom. Such is not -the picture painted by Shakspeare. Such was not the interpretation given -by Forrest. Macbeth is a broad, rich, powerful nature, with a poetic -mind, a loving heart, a courageous will. He is also strongly ambitious, -and prone to superstition. To gratify his ambition he is tempted to -commit a dreadful crime, and the temptation is urged on him by what he -holds to be supernatural agencies. After misgivings and struggles with -himself, he yields. The horrid deed being perpetrated, the results -disappoint him. The supernatural prophecies that led him on change to -supernatural terrors, his soul is filled with remorse, his brain reels, -and as the sequel of his guilt thickens darkly around him he rallies his -desperate energies and meets his fate with superb defiance. The struggle -of temptation in a soul richly furnished with good yet fatally -susceptible to evil, the violation of conscience, the overwhelming -retribution,—these points, softened with sunny touches of domestic love -and poetic moral sentiment, compose the lurid substance and movement of -the drama. And these points Forrest embodied in his portraiture with an -emotional intensity and an intellectual clearness which enthralled his -audience. - -As he came over the hills at the back of the stage, accompanied by -Banquo, in his Highland tartan, his plumed Scotch cap, his legs bare -from the knee to the ankle, his pointed targe on his arm, with his free -and commanding air, and his appearance of elastic strength and -freshness, he was a picture of vigorous, breezy manhood. His first words -were addressed to Banquo in an easy tone, such as one would naturally -use in describing the weather: - - “So foul and fair a day I have not seen.” - -The witches hailing him with new titles and a royal prophecy, he -starts,— - - “And seems to fear - Things that do sound so fair.” - -As they concluded, the manner in which, with subdued breathing -eagerness, he said,— - - “Stay, you imperfect speakers; tell me more,”— - -showed what a deep and prepared chord in his soul their greeting had -struck. And when they made themselves vapor and disappeared, he stood -rapt in the wonder of it, and replied to the question of Banquo, -“Whither have they vanished?” with a dissolving whispering voice, in an -attitude of musing suspense and astonishment,— - - “Into the air; and what seemed corporal melted - As breath into the wind. Would they had stayed!” - -When the missives from the king saluted him Glamis and Cawdor, he -attributed more than mortal knowledge to the weird sisters; and at once -the terrible temptation to gratify his ambition by murder seized his -soul, and conscience began to struggle with it. This struggle, in all -its dread import, he pictured forth as he delivered the ensuing -soliloquy with speaking features and in quick low tones of suppressed -questioning eagerness: - - “This supernatural soliciting - Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill, - Why hath it given me earnest of success, - Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor. - If good, why do I yield to that suggestion - Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, - And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, - Against the use of nature? - My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, - Shakes so my single state of man that function - Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is, - But what is not.” - -In uttering these words he painted to eye and ear how temptation divides -the soul into the desiring passion and the forbidding principle and sets -them in deadly contention. Then the apologetic sympathy of his reply to -the expostulation of Banquo,— - - “Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure,”— - -showed the gentle quality of his nature: - - “Give me your favor: my dull brain was wrought - With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains - Are registered where every day I turn - The leaf to read them. Let us toward the king.” - -[Illustration: - - A. Robin. - - EDWIN FORREST AS - - MACBETH. -] - -Macbeth was one originally full of the milk of human kindness, who would -not play false, but would win holily what he wished highly: yet his -ambition was so sharp that the sight of the coveted prize made him wild -to snatch it the nearest way. This conflict Forrest continually -indicated by alternations of geniality towards his comrades and of -lowering gloom in himself, while his brain seemed heaving in the throes -of a moral earthquake. Thus, when Duncan had indicated Malcolm as -successor to the throne, Macbeth betrayed the depths of his soul by -saying, with sinister mien, aside,— - - “The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step - On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, - For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! - Let not light see my black and deep desires.” - -The earnest and tender warmth which Forrest made Macbeth put into his -greeting of his wife after his absence, his dangers in battle, and his -mysterious adventure with the witches, proved how deeply he loved her. -And his first words,— - - “My dearest love, - Duncan comes here to-night,”— - -were spoken with an abstracted and concentrated air that fully revealed -the awful scheme that loomed darkly far back in his mind. Left alone -with himself, the temptation renewed the struggle between his better and -his worse self. In the long and wonderful soliloquy, beginning— - - “If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well,”— - -he painted the gradual victory of reason, honor, conscience, and -affection over the fell ambition that was spurring him to murder, and, -as Lady Macbeth entered, he exclaimed, with a clearing and relieved -look,— - - “We will proceed no further in this business.” - -But the stinging taunts with which she upbraided him, and the frightful -energy of her own resolution with which she eloquently infected him, -worked so strongly on his susceptible nature that he reinstalled his -discarded purpose, and went out saying firmly,— - - “I am settled, and bend up - Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.” - -In this scene he so distinctly exhibited the operation of her influence -on him, the slow change of his innocent determination into uncertain -wavering, and then the change of the irresolute state into guilty -determination, that the spectators could almost see the inspiring -temptress pour her spirits into him, as with the valor of her tongue she -chastised his hesitation away. - -When he next appeared he looked oppressed, bowed, haggard, and pale, as -if the fearful crisis had exerted on him the effect of years of misery. -In half-undress, with semi-distraught air, his hushed and gliding manner -of sinewy stealth, in conjunction with the silence and darkness of the -hour, conveyed a mysterious impression of awe and terror to every soul. -He said to the servant, with an absent look and tone, as if the words -uttered themselves without his heed,— - - “Go; bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, - She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.” - -Then slowly came the appalling climax in the temptation whose influences -had been progressively operating in the automatic strata of his being -deeper than his free consciousness could reach. Those influences were -now ready to produce an illusion, by a reversal of the normal action of -the faculties unconscious ideas reporting themselves outwardly as -objects. Buried in thought, he stands gazing on the floor. Lifting his -head, at last, as if to speak, he sees a dagger floating in the air. He -winks rapidly, then rubs his eyes, to clear his sight and dispel his -doubt. The fatal vision stays. He reasons with himself, and acts the -reasoning out, to decide whether it is a deception of fancy or a -supernatural reality. First he thinks it real, but, failing in his -attempt to clutch it, he holds it to be a false creation of the brain. -Then its persistence drives him insane, and as he sees the blade and -dudgeon covered with gouts of blood he shrieks in a frenzy of horror. -Passing this crisis, he re-seizes possession of his mind, and, with an -air of profound relief, sighs,— - - “There’s no such thing: - It is the bloody business which informs - Thus to mine eyes.” - -Then, changing his voice from a giant whisper to a full sombre vocality, -the next words fell on the ear in their solemn music like thunder -rolling mellowed and softened in the distance: - - “Now o’er the one half world - Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse - The curtained sleep.” - -Gathering his faculties and girding up his resolution for the final -deed, as the bell rang he grasped his dagger and made his exit, saying,— - - “Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell - That summons thee to heaven or to hell.” - -These words he spoke, not with the bellowing declamation many players -had given them, but in a low, firm tone tinged with sadness, a tone -expressive of melancholy mixed with determination. As he came out of the -fatal chamber backwards, with his hands recking, he did not see Lady -Macbeth standing there in an attitude of intense listening, until he -struck against her. They both started and gazed at each other in -terror,—an action so true to nature that it always electrified the -house. - -Then at once began the dread reaction of sorrow, fear, and remorse. -Forrest made the regret and lamentation of Macbeth over the crime and -its irreparable consequences exquisitely piteous and mournful. The -marvellous wail of his description of innocent sleep forfeited -thenceforth, the panic surprise of his - - “How is it with me when every noise appals me?” - -the lacerating distress of his - - “Wake Duncan with thy knocking: I would thou couldst!” - -penetrated the heart of every hearer with commiseration. - -Forrest gave Macbeth, in the first scene of the play, a cheerful and -observant air; after the interview with the witches he was absorbed and -abstracted; pending his direful crime he was agitated, moody, troubled,— - - “Dark thoughts rolling to and fro in his mind - Like thunder-clouds darkening the lucid sky;” - -after the murder he was restless, suspicious, terrified, at times -insane. These alterations of mood and manner were distinctly marked with -the evolution of the plot through its salient stages. Of the pervasive -remorse with which the moral nature of Macbeth afflicted and shook him, -Forrest presented a picture fascinating in its fearful beauty and truth. -When he spoke the following passage, the mournfulness of his voice was -like the sighing of the November wind as it throws its low moan over the -withered leaves: - - “Better be with the dead, - Whom we to gain our peace have sent to peace, - Than on the torture of the mind to lie - In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave: - After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well: - Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison, - Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing - Can touch him farther.” - -Then, seeking sympathy and consolation, he turned to the partner of his -bosom and his greatness with the agonizing outburst,— - - “O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife.” - -Close on the awful remorse and on the pathetic tenderness, with -consummate truth to nature the selfish instincts were shown hardening -the man in his crime, making him resolve to strengthen with further ill -things bad begun: - - “I am in blood - Stept in so far, that, should I wade no more, - Returning were as tedious as go o’er.” - -So unstably poised was his disposition between his good affections and -his wicked desires that the conflict was still repeated, and with each -defeat of conscience the dominion of evil grew completer. As his -remorseful fears translated themselves into outward spectres, Forrest -vividly illustrated the curdling horror human nature experiences when -guilt opens the supernatural world to its apprehension. He made Macbeth -show a proud and lion-mettled courage in human relations, but seem cowed -with abject terror by ghostly visitations. His criminal course collects -momentum till it hurries him headlong to wholesale slaughters and to his -own inevitable ruin. In his mad infatuation of self-entangling crime he -says of his own proposed massacre of the family of Macduff,— - - “No boasting like a fool: - This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool.” - -Relying on the promise of the witches that none of woman born should -harm him, and that he should never be vanquished till Birnam wood came -to Dunsinane, he added crime to crime till the whole land was in arms -for his overthrow. Then, despite his forced faith and bravery, a -profound melancholy sank on him. His vital spirits failed. He grew sick -of life and weary of the sun. To this phase of the character and career -Forrest did conspicuous justice. Nothing of the kind could exceed the -exquisite beauty of his readings of the three famous passages,— - - “I have lived long enough; my way of life - Has fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf:” - - · · · · · - - “Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, - Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow?” - - · · · · · - - She should have died hereafter: - “There would have been a time for such a word.” - -His voice lingered on the melodious melancholy of the words and every -line of his face responded to their mournful and despairing -significance. - -When told that Birnam wood was moving, the sense of supernatural power -turned against him. For a moment he stood, a solid dismay. Then he -staggered as if his brain had received a blow from the words which smote -to its reeling centre. So, when Macduff exposed to him the paltering of -the fiends in a double sense, his boasted charm seemed visibly to melt -from him, and he shrank back as though struck by a withering spell. His -towering form contracted into itself, his knees shook, and his sword -half dropped from his grasp. But the next instant, goaded by the taunts -of his adversary, he rallied on his native heroism, braced himself for -the struggle as if he resolved to rise superior to fate whether natural -or demoniac, and fell at last like a ruined king, with all his blazing -regalia on. The performance left on the mind of the appreciative -beholder, stamped in terrible impress, the eternal moral of temptation -and crime culminating in fatal success and followed by the inevitable -swoop of retribution: - - “Naught’s had, all’s spent, - Where our desire is got without content.” - - - RICHARD. - -Quite early in his histrionic career Forrest wrote to his friend -Leggett, “My notions of the character of Richard the Third do not accord -with those of the players I have seen personate it. They have not made -him gay enough in the earlier scenes, but too sullen, frowning, and -obvious a villain. He was an exulting and dashing, not a moody, villain. -Success followed his schemes too rapidly and gave him too much elation -to make appropriate the haggard and penthouse aspect he is usually made -to wear. Contempt for mankind forms a stronger feature of his character -than hatred; and he has a sort of reckless jollity, a joyous audacity, -which has not been made conspicuous enough.” In general accord with this -conception he afterwards elaborated his portraiture of the deformed -tyrant, the savage humorist, the murderous and brilliant villain. He set -aside the stereotyped idea of Richard as a strutting, ranting, gloomy -plotter, forever cynical and sarcastic and parading his crimes. Not -excluding these traits, Forrest subordinated them to his cunning -hypocrisy, his gleaming intellectuality, his jocose irony, his exulting -self-complacence and fiendish sportiveness. He represented him not only -as ravenously ambitious, but also full of a subtle pride and vanity -which delighted him with the constant display of his mental superiority -to those about him. Above all he was shown to be possessed of a laughing -devil, a witty and sardonic genius, which amused itself with playing on -the faculties of the weaklings he wheedled, scoffing at what they -thought holy, and bluntly utilizing the most sacred things for the most -selfish ends. There can be no doubt that in removing the conventional -stage Richard with this more dashing and versatile one Forrest restored -the genuine conception of Shakspeare, who has painted him as rattling -not brooding, exuberantly complacent even under his own dispraises, an -endlessly inventive and triumphant hypocrite, master of a gorgeous -eloquence whose splendid phrases adorn the ugliness of his schemes -almost out of sight. His mental nature devours his moral nature, and, -swallowing remorse, leaves him free to be gay. The character thus -portrayed was hard, cruel, deceitful, mocking,—less melodramatically -fiendish and electrical than the Richard of Kean, but more true to -nature. The picture was a consistent one. The deformity of the man, -reacting on his matchless intellect and courage and sensual passion, had -made him a bitter cynic. But his genius was too rich to stagnate into an -envenomed gloom of misanthropy. Its exuberance broke out in aspiring -schemes and crimes gilded with philosophy, hypocrisy, laughter, and -irony. Moving alone in a murky atmosphere of sin and sensuality, he knew -himself to the bottom of his soul, and read everybody else through and -through. He believed in no one, and scoffed at truth, because he was -himself without conscience. But his insight and his solid understanding -and glittering wit, making of everything a foil to display his self- -satisfied powers, hid the degradation of his wickedness from his own -eyes, and sometimes almost excused it in the eyes of others. Yet, so -wondrous was the moral genius of Shakspeare, the devilish chuckling with -which he hugged the notion of his own superiority in his exemption from -the standards that rule other men, instead of infecting, shocked and -warned and repelled the auditor: - -[Illustration: - - H B Hall & Sons - - EDWIN FORREST AS - - RICHARD III. -] - - “Come, this conscience is a convenient scarecrow; - It guards the fruit which priests and wise men taste, - Who never set it up to fright themselves.” - -Thus in the impersonation of him by Forrest Richard lost his perpetual -scowl, and took on here and there touches of humor and grim comedy. He -burst upon the stage, cloaked and capped, waving his glove in triumph -over the downfall of the house of Lancaster. Not in frowning gutturals -or with snarling complaint but merrily came the opening words,— - - “Now is the winter of our discontent - Made glorious summer by this sun of York.” - -Gradually as he came to descant upon his own defects and unsuitedness -for peace and love, the tone passed from glee to sarcasm, and ended with -dissembling and vindictive earnestness in the apostrophe,— - - “Dive, thoughts, down to my soul. Here Clarence comes.” - -The scene with Lady Anne, where he overcomes every conceivable kind and -degree of obstacles to her favor by the sheer fascination of his gifted -tongue, was a masterpiece of nature and art. He gave his pleading just -enough semblance of sincerity to make a plausible pathway to the -feminine heart, but not enough to hide the sinister charm of a -consummate hypocrisy availing itself of every secret of persuasion. It -was a fearful unmasking of the weakness of ordinary woman under the -siege of passion. No sermon was ever preached in any pulpit one-half so -terrible in power for those prepared to appreciate all that it meant. -When Lady Anne withdrew, the delighted vanity of Richard, the self- -pampering exultation of the artist in dissimulation, shone out in the -soliloquy wherewith he applauded and caressed himself: - - “Was ever woman in this humor wooed? - Was ever woman in this humor won? - I’ll have her,—but I will not keep her long - To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, - With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, - The bleeding witness of my hatred by; - Having heaven, her conscience, and these bars against me! - And I no friends to back my suit withal, - But the plain devil, and dissembling looks! - And yet to win her,—all the world to nothing!” - -In many places in the play his air of searching and sarcastic -incredulity, and his rich vindictive chuckle of self-applause, were as -artistically fine as they were morally repulsive. As Kean had done -before him, he made an effective point in speaking the line, - - “To shrink my arm up like a withered shrub:” - -he looked at the limb for some time with a sort of bitter discontent, -and struck it back with angry disgust. When the queenly women widowed by -his murderous intervention began to upbraid him with his monstrous -deeds, the cool audacity, the immense aplomb, the half-hidden enjoyment -of the joke, with which he relieved himself from the situation by -calling out,— - - “A flourish, trumpets! strike alarums, drums! - Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women - Rail on the Lord’s Anointed!”— - -were a bit of grotesque satire, a gigantic and serviceable absurdity, -worthy of Rabelais. - -The acting of Forrest in the tent-scene, where Richard in his broken -sleep dreams he sees the successive victims of his murderous hand -approach and threaten him, was original and effective in the highest -degree. He struggled on his couch with horrible phantoms. Ghosts pursued -him. Visions of battle, overthrow, despair, and death convulsed him. -Acting his dreams out he dealt his blows around with frightful and -aimless energy, and with an intense expression of remorse and vengeance -on his face fell apparently cloven to the earth. He then arose like a -man coming out of hell, dragging his dream with him, and, struggling -fiercely to awake, rushed to the footlights, sank on his knee, and spoke -these words, beginning with a shriek and softening down to a shuddering -whisper: - - “Give me another horse! Bind up my wounds! - Have mercy, Jesu! Soft; I did but dream. - O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! - The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. - Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.” - -The merely selfish individual instincts and passions of unregenerate -human nature are kept from breaking out into the crimes which they would -spontaneously commit, by an ethical regulation which consists of a set -of ideal sympathies representing the rights and feelings of other men, -representing the word of God or the collective principles of universal -order. The criminal type of character embodied in Richard throws off or -suppresses this restraining and retributive apparatus, and enthrones a -lawless egotism masked in hypocrisy. Thus, Richard had so obscured, -clogged, and deadened the moral action of conscience, that his egotistic -passions held rampant supremacy, and success made him gay and exultant, -unchecked by any touch of remorse or shame. In his own eyes he clothed -himself in the glimmering mail of his triumphant deeds of wickedness, -and dilated with pride like Lucifer in hell. He could not weep nor -tremble, but he could shake with horrid laughter. In drawing this -terrible outline Shakspeare showed that he knew what was in man. In -painting the audacious picture Forrest proved himself a profound artist. -And the moral for the spectators was complete when the hardened -intellectual monster of depravity, in the culmination of the secret -forces of destiny and his own organism, was stripped of his self- -sufficiency, and, as the supernatural world broke on his vision, he -stood aghast, with curdled blood and stiffened hair, shrieking with -terror and despair. - -Forrest was too large, with too much ingrained justice and heavy -grandeur, to be really suited for this part. He needed, especially in -its scolding contests of wit and spiteful invective, to be smaller, -lighter, swifter, more vixenish. It was just the character for Kean and -Booth, who in their way were unapproachable in it. Yet the conception of -Forrest was far truer on the whole; and his performance was full of -sterling merit. - - - HAMLET. - -The clear good sense, the trained professional skill, and the deep -personal experience of Forrest gave him an accurate perception of the -general character of Hamlet. There will always be room for critical -differences of judgment on the details. But he could not commit the -gross blunders illustrated by so many noted actors who have exhibited -the enigmatical prince either as a petulant, querulous egotist morbidly -brooding over himself and irritable with everybody else, or as a -robustious, periwig-pated fellow always in a roaring passion or on the -verge of it. Forrest saw in the mind and heart of Hamlet sweet and noble -elements of the courtier, the scholar, the philosopher, the poet, and -the lover, but joined with a sensitive organization whose nerves were -too exquisitely strung not to be a little jangled by the harsh contact -of the circumstances into which he was flung. He regarded him as -naturally wise, just, modest, and affectionate, but by his experience of -wrong and fickleness in others, and of disturbed health in himself, led -to an exaggerated self-consciousness profoundly tinged with mournfulness -and easily provoked to sarcasm. In the melancholy young Dane was -embodied the sad malady of the highest natures, the great spiritual -disease of modern life,—an over-excited intellectuality dwelling with -too much eagerness and persistence on the mysteries of things; allured, -perplexed, baffled, vainly trying to solve the problems of existence, -injustice, misery, death, and wearying itself out with the restless -effort. Thus there is produced a tendency of blood to the head, which -leaves the extremities cold, the centres congested, and the surface -anæmic. The fevered and hungry brain devours the juices of the body, the -exhausted organic and animal functions complainingly react on the -spiritual nature or conscious essence with a wretched depression, -everything within is sicklied over with a pale cast of thought, and -everything without becomes a sterile and pestilent burden. The strong -and gentle nature, finely touched for fine issues, but too delicately -poised, is stricken with the disease of introspective inquiry, and, not -content to accept things as they are and wholesomely make the best of -them, keeps forever probing too curiously into the mysterious cause and -import of events, until mental gloom sets in on the lowered physical -tone. Then the opening of the supernatural world upon him, revealing the -murder of his father and imposing the duty of vengeance, hurries him in -his weakened and anxious condition to the edge of lunacy, over which he -sometimes purposely affects to pass, and sometimes, in his sleepless -care or sudden excitement, is really precipitated. Such was the -conception which Forrest strove to represent in his portraiture of -Hamlet. And in rendering it he did all he could to neutralize the ill- -adaptedness of his stalwart person and abounding vigor for the -philosophical and romantic sentimentality of the part by a subdued and -pensive manner and a costume which made his figure appear more tall and -slender. He laid aside the massive hauteur of his port, and walked the -stage and conversed with the interlocutors as a thoughtful scholar would -walk the floor of his library and talk with his friends. Even when he -broke into passionate indignation or scorn a restraining power of -culture and refinement curbed the violence. Still, the incongruity -between his form and that of the ideal Hamlet was felt by the audience; -and it abated from the admiration and enjoyment due to the sound -intelligence, sincere feeling, beautiful elocution, and just acting -which he displayed in the performance. - -[Illustration: - - G H Cushman - - EDWIN FORREST AS - - HAMLET. -] - -Most players of Hamlet, in the scene where he first appears among the -courtiers before the king and queen, have taken a conspicuous position, -drawing all eyes. Forrest, with a delicate perception that the deep -melancholy and suspicion in which he was plunged would make him averse -to ostentation, was seen in the rear, as if avoiding notice, and only -came forward when the king called him by name with the title of son. He -then betrayed his prophetic mislike of his uncle by the dark look and -satirical inflection with which he said, aside,— - - “A little more than kin and less than kind.” - -His reply to the expostulation of his mother against his grief seeming -so particular and persistent,— - - “Seems, madam: nay, it is: I know not seems. - ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, - Nor customary suits of solemn black,”— - -was given with a sincerity, naturalness, and beauty irresistible in -effect. His grief and gloom appeared to embody themselves in a voice -that wailed and quivered the weeping syllables like the tones of a bell -swinging above a city stricken with the plague. The impression thus -produced was continued, modified with new elements of emotion, and -carried to a still higher pitch, when, left alone, he began to commune -with himself and to utter his thoughts and feelings aloud. What an all- -pervasive disheartenment possessed him, how sick he was of life, how -tenderly he loved and mourned his father, how loathingly he shrank from -the shameless speed and facility wherewith his widowed mother had -transferred herself to a second husband,—these phases of his unhappiness -were painted with an earnest truthfulness which seized and held the -sympathies as with a spell. - - “O that this too, too solid flesh would melt, - Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew: - Or that the Everlasting had not fixed - His canon ’gainst self-slaughter. O God! O God! - How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable - Seem to me all the uses of this world!” - -Hamlet had been a deep solitary self-communer, had penetrated the hollow -forms and shows of the conventional world, and with his questioning -spirit touched the very quick of the mystery of the universe. His soul -must have vibrated at least with obscure presentiments of the invisible -state and supernal ranges of being in hidden connection with the scenes -in which he was playing his part. Forrest revealed this by his manner of -listening to Horatio while he described how he and Marcellus and -Bernardo had seen the ghost of the buried majesty of Denmark walking by -them at midnight. This sense of a providential, retributive, -supernatural scheme mysteriously interwoven with our human life was -breathed yet more forcibly in his soliloquizing moods after agreeing to -watch with them that night in hope that the ghost would walk again: - - “My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well; - I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! - Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, - Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.” - -When Hamlet, with Horatio and Marcellus, came upon the platform at -twelve to watch for the ghost, and said,— - - “The air bites shrewdly: it is very cold,”— - -he finely indicated by his absent and preoccupied manner that he was not -thinking about the cold, but was full of the solemn expectation of -something else. He took a position nigh to the entrance of the ghost, -and continued his desultory talk about the custom of carousing in -Denmark, till the spectral figure stalked in, almost touching him. Then -Hamlet turned, with a violent start of amazement and a short cry, and, -while the white face looked down into his own, uttered the most -affecting invocation ever spoken by man, in a subdued and beseeching -tone that seemed freighted with the very soul of bewildered awe and -piteous pleading. His voice was in a high key but husky, the vocality -half dissolved in mysterious breath. His look was that of startled -amazement touched with love and eagerness. The remorseful Macbeth -confronted the ghost of Banquo with petrifying terror. The thunder- -struck Richard saw the ghosts of his victims with wild horror. But -Hamlet was innocent; his spirit was that of truth and filial piety; and -when the marble tomb yawned forth its messenger from the invisible world -to revisit the glimpses of the moon, although his fleshly nature might -tremble at recognizing the manifest supernatural, his soul would indeed -be wonder-thrilled but not unhinged, feeling itself as immortal as that -on which it looked. His figure perfectly still, leaning forward with -intent face, his whole soul concentrated in eye and ear, breathed mute -supplication. And when in reply to the pathetic words of the ghost,— - - “My hour is almost come - When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames - Must render up myself,”— - -he said,— - - “Alas, poor ghost!”— - -his voice was so heart-brokenly expressive of commiseration that the -hearers almost anticipated the response,— - - “Pity me not: but lend thy serious hearing - To what I shall unfold.” - -The harrowing tale finished, the task of revenge enjoined, the ghost -disappears, saying,— - - “Adieu! adieu! Hamlet, remember me.” - -Nothing in dramatic art has ever been conceived more overwhelmingly -affecting and appalling than this scene and speech. A withering spell -seemed to have fallen on Hamlet and instantly aged him. He looked as -pale and shrivelled as the frozen moonlight and the wintry landscape -around him. He spoke the soliloquy that followed with a feeble and slow -laboriousness expressive of terrible pain and anxiety: - - “Hold, hold, my heart; - And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, - But bear me stiffly up! Remember thee? - Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat - In this distracted globe. Remember thee? - Yea, from the table of my memory - I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, - All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, - That youth and observation copied there, - And thy commandment all alone shall live - Within the book and volume of my brain.” - -To these words Forrest imparted an expression loaded with the whole -darkening and dislocating effect which the vision and injunction of his -father had exerted on him and was thenceforth to exert. For he was -changed beyond the power of recovery. He now moves through the mysteries -of the play, himself the densest mystery of all, at once shedding and -absorbing night, his steady purpose drifting through his unstable plans, -and his methodical madness hurrying king, queen, Polonius, Ophelia, -Laertes, and himself to their tragic doom. The load of his supernatural -mission darkens every prospect; yet his royal reason rifts the darkness -with its flashes, the splendor of his imagination flings rainbows around -him, and the native tenderness of his heart contrasts with his hard and -lonely fate like an Alpine rose springing from the crags and pressing -its fragrant petals against the very glacier. He was unhappy before, -because his faculties transcended his conditions, his boundless soul -chafed under the trifles of every-day experience, and his nobleness -revolted from the hollow shams and frivolous routine which he saw so -clearly. But now that the realm of the dead has opened on him, filling -him with distressful doubts and burdening him with distasteful duty, -revealing murder on the throne and making love and joy impossible, his -miserable dejection becomes supreme. He seeks to escape from the -pressure of his doom in thought, conversation, friendship, sportive wit. -Embittered by his knowledge, he turns on the shallow and treacherous -praters about him with a sarcastic humor which seems not part of his -character but elicited from him by accidents and glittering out of his -gloom like lamplight reflected on an ebony caryatid, or like a scattered -rosary of stars burning in a night of solid black. - -Forrest endeavored to represent in their truth the rapid succession of -transitory and contradictory moods of Hamlet and yet never to lose the -central thread of unity on which they were strung. That unity was -imaginative intellectuality, introspective skepticism, profound -unhappiness, and a shrinking yet persistent determination to avenge the -murder of his father. The great intelligence and skill of the actor were -proved by his presenting both the variety and the unity, and never -forgetting that his portraiture was of a refined and scholarly prince -and a satirical humorist who loved solitude and secrecy and would rather -be misunderstood than reveal himself to the crowd. Among the many -delicate shadings of character exemplified in the impersonation one of -the quietest and best was the contrast of his sharp lawyer-like manner -of cross-examining Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and detecting that in -the disguise of friends they were really spies, with the thoughtful and -gracious kindness of his dealing with the players. Seated part of the -time, he spoke to the poor actor like an old friend, and called him -back, when he was retiring, to add another thought, and finally -dismissed him with a sympathetic touch on his shoulder and a smile. - -The closet scene with the queen-mother, as Forrest played it, was a -model of justness. He began in a respectful and sorrowing tone. -Gradually, as he dwelt on her faithlessness to his father, and her -loathsome sensuality, his glowing memory and burning words wrought him -up to vehement indignation, and he appeared on the point of offering -violence, when the ghost reappeared with warning signal and message. The -suddenness of change in his manner—pallor of face, shrunken shoulders, -fixed dilatation of eyes—was electrifying. And when in response to the -queen’s - - “O Hamlet, thou hast rent my heart in twain!” - -he said,— - - “O throw away the worser part of it, - And live the purer with the other half. - Good-night: but go not to my uncle’s bed: - Assume a virtue if you have it not,”— - -he compressed into his utterance, in one indescribable mixture, a world -of entreaty, command, disgust, grief, deference, love, and mournfulness. - -The scene in the church-yard was one full of felicitous design and -execution. Entering slowly with Horatio, he seemed, as he looked about, -invested with a religious reverence. Then he sat down on a tombstone, -and entered easily into conversation in a humorous vein with the clown -who was digging a grave. At the same time he kept up an even flow of -understanding with Horatio. He so bore himself that the audience could -reach no foregone conclusion to withdraw their absorbed attention from -the strange funereal phantasmagoria on which the curtain was soon to -sink like a pall. Over the skull of Yorick, in quick transition from the -bantering with the clown, his reminiscences, not far from mirth, his -profound yet simple moralizing, so heartfelt and natural, were naïve and -solemn and pathetic to the verge of smiles and awe and tears. When he -learned that Ophelia was dead, and that this grave was for her, he -staggered, and bent his head for a moment on the shoulder of his friend -Horatio. Though so quickly done, it told the whole story of his love for -her and his enforced renunciation. - -Of all who have acted the part no one perhaps has ever done such -complete justice to the genius of Hamlet as Forrest did in his noble -delivery of the great speeches and soliloquies, with full observance of -every requirement of measure, accent, inflection, and relative -importance of thought. Some admired actors rattle the words off with no -sense whatever of the fathomless depths of meaning in them. In the -famous description by Hamlet of the disenchanting effect of his heavy- -heartedness the voice of Forrest brought the very objects spoken of -before the hearer,—the goodly frame, the earth; the most excellent -canopy, the air; the brave overhanging firmament; the majestical roof -fretted with golden fire. And when, turning from the beauty of the -material universe to the greater glory and mystery of the divine foster- -child and sovereign of the earth, man, he altered the tone of admiration -to a tone of awe, his speech stirred the soul like the grandest chords -in the Requiem of Mozart, thrilling it with sublime premonitions of its -own infinity. - -Forrest thoroughly understood from the combined lessons of experience -and study the irremediable unhappiness and skepticism of the great, -dark, tender, melancholy soul of Hamlet,—how sick he was at heart, how -nauseated with the faithless shallowness of the hangers-on at court, how -weary of life. He comprehended the misery of the affectionate nature -that had lost all its illusions and was unable to reconcile itself to -the loss,—the unrest of the ardent imagination that could not forego the -search for happiness though constantly finding but emptiness and -desolation. And he made all this so clear that he actually startled and -spell-bound the audience by his interpretation of the wonderful -soliloquy wherein Hamlet debates whether he had not better with his own -hand seize that consummation of death so devoutly to be wished, and -escape - - “The whips and scorns of time, - The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, - The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, - The insolence of office, and the spurns - That patient merit of the unworthy takes.” - -The deep intuition that felt there were more things in heaven and earth -than philosophy had ever dreamed, the sore resentment at the unjust -discriminations of the world, the over-inquisitive intellect of the fool -of nature, horridly shaking his disposition with thoughts beyond the -reaches of his soul, the instinctive shrinking from the undiscovered -country after death, the broken will forever hankering after action but -forever baffled from it, the unfathomable desire for rest, the intense -ennui raising sighs so piteous and profound that they seemed to shatter -all the bulk,—all these were so brought out as to constitute a -revelation of the history of genius diseased by excessive exercise -within itself with no external outlets of wholesome activity. This -lesson has the greatest significance for the present time, when so many -gifted men allow their faculties to spin barrenly in their sockets, -incessantly struggling with abstract desires and doubts, wasting the -health and strength all away because the spiritual mechanism is not -lubricated by outward fruition of its functions, till normal religious -faith is made impossible, and at last, in their sterilized and irritable -exhaustion, they apotheosize despair, like Schopenhauer, and perpetually -toss between the two poles of pessimism and nihilism,—Everything is bad, -Everything is nothing! The true moral of the revelation is, Shut off the -wastes of an ambitious intellect and a rebellious will by humility and -resignation, do the clear duties next your hand, enjoy the simple -pleasures of the day with an innocent heart, trusting in the benignant -order of the universe, and you shall at last find peace in such an -optimistic faith as that illustrated by Leibnitz,—Everything is good, -Everything in the infinite degrees of being from vacuity to plenum is -centred in God! - -It has always been felt that in Hamlet Shakspeare has embodied more of -his own inner life than in any other of his characters. Certainly Hamlet -is the literary father of the prolific modern brood of men of genius who -fail of all satisfactory outward activity because wasting their -spiritual peace and force in the friction of an inane cerebral strife -and worry. Few appreciate the true teaching or importance of this -portrayal. Hamlet said he lacked advancement, and that there was nothing -good or bad but thinking made it so, and that were it not that he had -bad dreams he could be bounded in a nutshell and count himself king of -infinite space. His comments on others were usually contemptuous and -satirical. He despised and mocked Polonius, and treated Osric, -Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern with scorn and sarcasm. And yet, although -he vilifies the general crowd and the drossy age, he is clearly -sensitive to public opinion and really most anxious to appear well, and -unwilling to bear a wounded name. In a word, he represents that class of -select and unhappy spirits whose great imaginative sympathy is -constantly showing to them themselves reflected in others and others -reflected in themselves, the result of the comparisons being personal -complacence and social irritability. For they form an estimate of their -own superiority which they cannot by action justify to others and get -them to ratify. The disparity of their inward power and their outward -production annoys them, fixes itself in chronic consciousness, and in -the consequent spiritual resistance and fret expends all the energy -which if economized and fruitfully directed would remove the evil they -resent and bless them with the good they desire. Then they react from -the world into cynical bitterness and painful solitude. The empty -struggle and misanthropic buzz within exhaust brain and nerves, and -initiate a resentful, desponding, suicidal state made up of discordant -aspiration and despair. Unable to fulfil themselves happily they madly -seek to destroy themselves in order to end their misery. The remedy lies -in a secret at once so deep and so transparent that hardly any of the -victims ever see it. It is simply to think less pamperingly of -themselves and more lovingly of others; cease from resistance, purify -their ambition with humble faith, and in a quiet surrender to the -Universal allow their drained and exasperated individuality leisure to -be replenished and harmonized. Corresponding with a religious attunement -of the soul, nervous tissues divinely filled with equalizing vitality -and power are the physical ground of contentment with self, nature, -mankind, destiny, and God. And the man of genius who has once lost it -can gain this combined moral and physical condition only by a modest -self-conquest, lowering his excessive exactions, and giving him a fair -outlet for his inward desires in productive activity. - -Forrest distinguished the wavering of his Hamlet from the indecision of -his Macbeth and the promptitude of his Richard, and contrasted their -deaths with a luminous marking both fine and bold. Richard, whose -selfish intellect and stony heart had no conscience mediating between -them, with solid equilibrium and ruthless decision swept directly to his -object without pause or question. His death was characterized by -convulsions of impotent rage that closed in paralyzing horror. The -conscience of Macbeth made him hesitate, weigh, and vacillate until -rising passion or foreign influence turned the scale. His death was one -of climacteric bravery and frenzied exertion embraced in reckless -despair. The intellect of Hamlet set his heart and his conscience at -odds, and kept him ever balancing between opposed thoughts and -solicitations. He had lost his stable poise, and was continually tipping -from central sanity now towards dramatic madness, now towards -substantial madness. He died with philosophic resignation and -undemonstrative quietude. While all the mutes and audience to the act -looked pale and trembled at the tragic chance, he bequeathed the -justification of his memory to his dear Horatio, gave his dying voice -for the election of Fortinbras, and slowly, as the potent poison quite -o’ercrowed his spirit, let his head sink on the bosom of his one friend, -and with a long breath faintly whispered,— - - “The rest is silence;”— - -and then all was done. - - “Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince, - And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” - -In the few pages of this tragedy Shakspeare gives perhaps the supremest -existing example of the richness and power of the dramatic art. It sums -up the story of life,—the joy of lovers, the anguish of bereavement, the -trial of friendship, hope and fear, plot and counterplot, lust, hatred, -crime and the remorse that follows, hearty mirth contrasted with sublime -despair, death, and the dark ignorance of what it all means which shuts -around the horizon with impenetrable clouds. Here are expressed an -intensity of passion, a bitter irony, a helpless doubt, a vain struggle, -a saturating melancholy and a bewildered end which would be too -repulsive for endurance were it not for the celestial poetry which plays -over it and permeates it all and makes it appear like a strange and -beautiful dream. - -As to the interpretation by Forrest of the part of Hamlet in the play it -is but fair to quote in close what was said by a severe and unfriendly -anonymous critic who admitted that the intelligence shown was uncommon, -the elocution perfect, the manner discreet, the light and shade -impressive. “Mr. Forrest struggles continually with Mr. Forrest. Mind -wrestles with muscle; and although intellect is manifest, it is plain -that the body with great obstinacy refuses to fulfil the demands of -thought. To conceive bright images is a different thing from portraying -them on the canvas. And when Mr. Forrest, attempting with high ambition -to do that which nature forbids him to do, makes of philosophy a -physical exhibition and reduces mental supremacy to the dominion of -corporeal authority, he must blame that fate which cast him in no common -mould and gave to the body a preponderance which neither study nor -inspiration can overcome.” The critic here indicates the defect of the -actor, unquestionably, but so exaggerated as to dwarf and obscure his -greater merits. - - - CORIOLANUS. - -Not many dramatic contrasts are wider than that between the complex -imaginative character of the melancholy Hamlet, spontaneously betaking -himself to speculation, and the simple passionate character of the proud -Coriolanus, instinctively rushing to action. There was much in the build -and soul of Forrest that closely resembled the haughty patrician, and he -was drawn to the part by a liking for it accordant with his inherent -fitness for it. For several years he played it a great deal and produced -a strong sensation in it. So thoroughly suited were he and the part for -each other, so pervasive and genuine was the identification of his -personal quality with the ideal picture, that his most intimate friend, -and the gifted artist chosen for the work, selected this as the most -appropriate representative character for his portrait-statue in marble. - -The features and contour of the honest, imperious, fiery, scornful, and -heroic Coriolanus, as impersonated by Forrest with immense solidity and -distinctness, were simple but grand in their colossal and unwavering -relief. Kemble had been celebrated in this rôle. He played it as if he -were a symmetrical statue cut out of cold steel and set in motion by -some precise mechanical action. Forrest added to this a blood that -seemed to flame through him and a voice whose ponderous syllables -pulsated with fire. Stern virtue, ambition, deep tenderness, -magnanimity, transcendent daring and pride and scorn,—the man as soldier -and hero in uncorrupt sincerity and haughty defiance of everything wrong -or mean,—these were the favorite attributes which Forrest met in -Coriolanus, and absorbed as by an electric affinity, and made the people -recognize with applauding enthusiasm. He might well utter as his own the -words of his part to Volumnia,— - - “Would you have me - False to my nature? Rather say, I play - The man I am.” - -What unconsciously delighted Forrest in Coriolanus, and what he -represented with consummate felicity and force of nature, was that his -aristocracy was of the true democratic type; that is, it rested on a -consciousness of intrinsic personal worth and superiority, not on -conventional privilege and prescription. He loathed and launched his -scorching invectives against the commonalty not because they were -plebeians and he was a patrician, but because of the revolting -opposition of their baseness to his loftiness, of their sycophancy to -his pride, of their treacherous fickleness to his adamantine -steadfastness. As an antique Roman, he had the resentful haughtiness of -his social caste, but morally as an individual his disdain and sarcasm -were based on the contrast of intrinsically noble qualities in himself -to the contemptible qualities he saw predominating in those beneath him. -And although this is far removed from the beautiful bearing of a -spiritually purified and perfected manhood, yet there is in it a certain -relative historical justification, utility, and even glory, entirely -congenial to the honest vernacular fervor of Forrest. - -Coriolanus, in his utter loathing for the arts of the demagogue, goes to -the other extreme, and makes the people hate him because, as they say, -“For the services he has done he pays himself with being proud.” At his -first appearance in the play he cries to the citizens, with scathing -contempt,— - - “What’s the matter, you dissentient rogues, - That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, - Make yourselves scabs? - He that trusts to you, - Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; - Where foxes, geese. You are no surer, no, - Than is the coal of fire upon the ice, - Or hailstone in the sun. Hang ye! Trust ye? - With every minute you do change a mind; - And call him noble that was now your hate; - Him vile, that was your garland.” - -As his constancy despises their unstableness, so his audacious courage -detests their cowardice: - - “Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight - With hearts more proof than shields.” - -Seeing them driven back by the Volsces, he exclaims,— - - “You souls of geese - That bear the shapes of men, how have you run - From slaves that apes would beat? Pluto and hell! - All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale - With flight and agued fear! Mend, and charge home, - Or, by the fires of heaven, I’ll leave the foe - And make my wars on you.” - -In all these speeches the measureless contempt, the blasting irony, the -huge moral chasm separating the haughty speaker from the cowering -rabble, were deeply relished by Forrest, and received an expression in -his bearing, look, and tone, everyway befitting their intensity and -their dimensions. Particularly in the reply to Sicinius,— - - “Shall remain! - Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you - His absolute ‘shall’?”— - -the width of the gamut of the ironical circumflexes gave one an enlarged -idea of the capacity of the human voice to express contempt. And when -his disdain to beg the votes of the people and his mocking gibes at them -had aggravated them to pronounce his banishment, his superhuman -expression of scornful wrath no witness could ever forget: - - “You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate - As reek o’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize - As the dead carcasses of unburied men - That do corrupt my air, I banish you.” - -His eyes flashed, his form lifted to its loftiest altitude, and the -words were driven home concentrated into hissing bolts. As the enraged -mob pressed yelping at his heels, he turned, and with marvellous -simplicity of purpose calmly looked them reeling backwards, his single -sphere swallowing all theirs and swaying them helplessly at his magnetic -will. - -His farewell, when “the beast with many heads had butted him away,” was -a noble example of manly tenderness and dignity, all the more pathetic -from the self-control which masked his pain in a smiling aspect: - - “Thou old and true Menenius, - Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s, - And venomous to thine eyes. I’ll do well yet. - Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and - My friends of noble touch, when I am forth, - Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come. - While I remain above the ground, you shall - Hear from me still.” - -But his most charming and delightful piece of acting in the whole play -was the interview with his family on his return with Aufidius and the -conquering Volscians before the gates of Rome. The swift-recurring -struggle and alternation of feeling between the opposite extremes of -intense natural affection and revengeful tenacity of pride were painted -in all the vivid lineaments of truth. Fixed in the frozen pomp of his -power and his purpose, he soliloquizes,— - - “My wife comes foremost, then the honored mould - Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand - The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! - All bond and privilege of nature, break! - Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. - What is that curt’sy worth, or those doves’ eyes, - Which can make gods forsworn? I melt and am not - Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows; - As if Olympus to a molehill should - In supplication nod; and my young boy - Hath an aspect of intercession, which - Great nature cries, ‘Deny not.’ Let the Volsces - Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I’ll never - Be such a gosling to obey instinct; but stand - As if a man were author of himself - And knew no other kin.” - -But when Virgilia fixed her eyes on him and said, “My lord and husband!” -his ice flowed quite away, and the exquisite thoughts which followed -were vibrated on the vocal chords as if not his lungs but his heart -supplied the voice: - - “Like a dull actor now, - I have forgot my part, and I am out, - Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, - Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, - For that, ‘Forgive our Romans.’ O, a kiss - Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! - Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss - I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip - Hath virgined it e’er since. You gods! I prate, - And the most noble mother of the world - Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i’ the earth; - Of thy deep duty more impression show - Than that of common sons.” - -Yielding to the prayers of Volumnia, he took her hand with tender -reverence, and said, with upturned look and deprecating tone,— - - “O, mother, mother! - What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, - The gods look down, and this unnatural scene - They laugh at.” - -From the solemn reverence of this scene the change was wonderful to the -frenzied violence of untamable anger and scorn with which he broke on -Aufidius, who had called him “a boy of tears:” - - “Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart - Too great for what contains it. Boy! O slave! - Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, - Stain all your edges on me. Boy! False hound! - If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there, - That, like an eagle in a dovecote, I - Fluttered your Volsces in Corioli: - Alone I did it. Boy!” - -The signalizing memorable mark of the Coriolanus impersonated by Forrest -was the gigantic grandeur of his scale of being and consciousness. He -revealed this in his stand and port and moving and look and voice. The -manner in which he did it was no result of critical analysis, but was -intuitive with him, given to him by nature and inspiration. He exhibited -a gravitating solidity of person, a length of lines, a slowness of -curves, an immensity of orbit, a reverberating sonority of tone, which -illustrated the man who, as Menenius said, “wanted nothing of a god but -eternity, and a heaven to throne in.” They went far to justify the -amazing descriptions given in the play itself of the impressions -produced by him on those who approached him. - - “Being moved, he will not spare to gird the gods. - Marked you his lip, and eyes?” - - “Who is yonder? - O gods! he has the stand of Marcius.” - - “The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor - More than I know the sound of Marcius’ tongue - From every meaner man.” - - “Marcius, - A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, - Were not so rich a jewel. Thou art a soldier - Even to Cato’s wish, not fierce and terrible - Only in strokes; but, with thy grim looks, and - The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds, - Thou mak’st thine enemies shake, as if the world - Were feverous and did tremble.” - - “The man I speak of cannot in the world - Be singly counterpoised.” - -When, after his peerless feats in battle, the army and its leaders would -idolize him with praises, crown him with garlands, and load him with -spoils, he felt his deeds to be their own sufficient pay, and waved all -the rewards peremptorily aside with a mien as imposing as if some god - - “Were slily crept into his human powers - And gave him noble posture.” - -Entering the capital in triumph, the vast and steady imperiality of his -attitude, the tremendous weight of his slightest inclination, as though -the whole earth were the pedestal-slab on which he stood, drew and -fascinated all gaze. - - “Matrons flung gloves, - Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchiefs, - Upon him as he passed; the nobles bended - As to Jove’s statue; and the commons made - A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts.” - -The rare and exalted use of such acting as this is that it invites the -audience to lift their eyes above the vulgar pettinesses to which they -are accustomed and extend their souls with a superior conception of the -dignity of human nature and of the mysterious meanings latent in it. - -The Coriolanus of Forrest was a marble apotheosis of heroic strength, -pride, and scorn. His moral glory was that he asserted himself on the -solid grounds of conscious truth, justice, and merit, and not, as -popular demagogues and the selfish members of the patrician class do, on -hollow grounds of assumption, trickery, and spoliating fraud. There was -great beauty, too, in his reverential love for his mother, his tender -love for his wife, his hearty love for his friend, and his magnanimous -incapacity for any recognized littleness of soul or of deed. The weight -and might of his spirit could give away victories and confer favors, but -could not steal a laurel or endure flattery. His fatal defect was that -he did not know the spirit of forgiveness, and was utterly incompetent -to self-renunciation. He had the repulsive and fatal fault of a crude, -harsh, revengeful temper, that clothed his gigantic indirect egotism in -the glorifying disguise of justice and sacrificed even his country to -his personal passion. Just and true at the roots, his virtues grew -insane from pride. Wrath destroyed his equilibrium, and belched his -grandeur and his life away in incontinent insolence of expression. Like -all the favorite characters of Forrest, however, he was no starveling -fed on verbality and ceremony, no pygmy imitator or empty conformist, -but one who lived in rich power from his own original centres and let -his qualities honestly out with democratic sincerity of self-assertion. -There is indeed a royal lesson in what he says: - - “Should we in all things do what custom wills, - The dust on antique time would lie unswept, - And mountainous error be too highly heaped - For truth to o’er-peer.” - -Still, self-will ought abnegatingly to give way in docile and -disinterested devotion to the public good. The great, strong, fearless -man should conquer himself, render his pride impersonal, renounce -revenge for individual slights or wrongs, and, instead of despising and -insulting the plebeian multitude, labor to abate their vices, remove -their errors, guide their efforts, and build their virtues into a fabric -of popular freedom and happiness. Then the selfish, passional ideal of -the past would give way to the rational, social ideal which is to redeem -the future. For, as a general rule thus far in the history of the world, -power, both private and public, in the proportion of its degree, has -been complacent instead of sympathetic, despotic instead of helpful, -indulging its own passions, despising the needs of others, filling -civilization itself with the spirit of moral murder. The chief -characters of Shakspeare embody this pagan ideal. Is there not a -Christian ideal, long since divinely born, but still waiting to be -nurtured to full growth, to be illustrated by dramatic genius, and to be -glorified in universal realization? - - - OTHELLO. - -There was no character in which Forrest appeared more frequently or with -more effect on those who saw him than in that of Othello. He was pre- -eminently suited to the part by his own nature and experience, as well -as by unwearied observation and study. The play turns on the most vital -and popular of all the passions, love, and its revulsion into the most -cruel and terrible one, jealousy. He devoted incredible pains to the -perfecting of his representation of it; and undoubtedly it was, on the -whole, the most true and powerful of all his performances, though in -single particulars some others equalled and his Lear surpassed it. -Unprejudiced and competent judges agreed that he portrayed Othello in -the great phases of his character,—as a man dignified, clear, generous, -and calm,—as a man ecstatically happy in an all-absorbing love,—as a man -slowly wrought up through the successive degrees of jealousy,—as a man -actually converted into a maniac by the frightful conflict and agony of -his soul,—and, finally, as a man who in the frenzy of despair closes the -scene with murder and suicide;—that he acted all this with an intensity, -an accuracy, a varied naturalness and sweeping power very rarely -paralleled in the history of the stage. The reason why the portraiture -received so much censorious criticism amidst the abundant admiration it -excited was because the scale and fervor of the passions bodied forth in -it were so much beyond the experience of average natures. They were not -exaggerated or false, but seemed so to the cold or petty souls who knew -nothing of the lava-floods of bliss and avalanches of woe that ravage -the sensibilities of the impassioned souls that find complete fulfilment -and lose it. It is a most significant and interesting fact that when the -matchless Salvini played Othello in the principal American cities to -such enthusiastic applause, his conception and performance of the part -were so identical with those of Forrest, and he himself so closely -resembled his deceased compeer, that hundreds of witnesses in different -portions of the country spontaneously exclaimed that it seemed as if -Forrest had risen from the dead and reappeared in his favorite rôle. The -old obstinate prejudices did not interfere; and although Salvini made -the passion more raw and the force more shuddering and carried the -climax one degree farther than the American tragedian had done, actually -sinking the human maniac in the infuriated tiger, he was greeted with -wondering acclaim. If his portraiture of the Moor was a true one,—as it -unquestionably was,—then that of Forrest was equally true and better -moderated. - -[Illustration: - - G R Hall - - EDWIN FORREST AS - - OTHELLO. -] - -In the first speech of Othello, referring to the purpose of Brabantio to -injure him with the Duke, Forrest won all hearts by the impression he -gave of the noble self-possession of a free and generous nature full of -honest affection and manly potency. He alluded to Brabantio without any -touch of anger or scorn, to himself with an air of quiet pride bottomed -on conscious worth and not on any vanity or egotism, and to Desdemona -with a softened tone of effusive warmth which betrayed the precious -freight and direction of his heart: - - “Let him do his spite; - My services, which I have done the seignory, - Shall out-tongue his complaints. My demerits - May speak, unbonneted, to as proud a fortune - As this that I have reached. For know, Iago, - But that I love the gentle Desdemona, - I would not my unhoused, free condition - Put into circumscription and confine - For the sea’s worth.” - -The easy frankness of his look and the rich flowing elocution of his -delivery of these words indicated a nature so ingenuous and honorable -that already the sympathies of every man and woman before him were won -to the Moor. This impression was continued and enhanced when, in -response to the abusive epithet of Brabantio and the threats of his -armed followers, he said, in a tone of unruffled self-command, touched -with a humorous playfulness and with a deprecating respect,— - - “Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.— - Good seignior, you shall more command with years, - Than with your weapons.” - -There was an exquisite moral beauty in the whole attitude and carriage -which Forrest gave Othello in the scene in the council-chamber, where he -replied to the accusations of using spells and medicines to draw -Desdemona to his arms. There was a combination of modest assurance and -picturesque dignity in his bearing, and a simple eloquence in his -pronouncing of the narrative of all his wooing, so artistic in its -seeming artlessness, so full of breathing honesty straight from the -heart of nature, that not a word could be doubted, nor could any hearer -resist the conviction expressed by the Duke,— - - “I think this tale would win my daughter too, - Good Brabantio.” - -To the bewitching power of simple sincerity and glowing truth he put -into this marvellous speech hundreds of testimonies were given like that -of the refined and lovely young lady who was heard saying to her -companion, “If that is the way Moors look and talk and love, give me a -Moor for my husband.” - -When Desdemona entered, while she stayed, as she spoke, as she departed, -all the action of Othello towards her, his motions, looks, words, -inflections, clearly betokened the nature and supremacy of his affection -for her. Through the high and pure character of these signals it was -made obvious that his love was an entrancing possession; not an animal -love bred in the senses alone, but a love born in the soul and flooding -the senses with its divineness. On the keen fires of his high-blooded -organism and the poetic enchantments of his ardent imagination the -exquisite sweetness of this surrendered and gentle Desdemona played a -delicious intoxication, and the enthrallment of his passion made the -very movement of existence a rapture. Everything else faded before the -happiness he felt. Life was too short, the earth too dull, the stars too -dim, for the blissful height of his consciousness. In contrast with this -enchanted possession, day, night, joy, laughter, air, sea, the thrilling -notes of war, victory, fame, and power, were but passing illusions. The -voice of duty could rouse him from his dream, but the moment his task -was done he sank again into its ecstatic depths. All this still -saturation of delight and fulness of expanded being the Othello of -Forrest revealed by his acting and speech on meeting Desdemona in Cyprus -after their separation by his sudden departure to the wars. As, all -eager loveliness, she came in sight, exclaiming, “My dear Othello!” the -sudden brightness of his eyes, the rapturous smile that clothed his -face, his parted lips, his heaving breast and outstretched arms, were so -significant that they worked on the spectators like an incantation. And -when he drew her passionately to his bosom, kissed her on the forehead -and lips, and gazed into her face with unfathomable fondness, it was a -picture not to be surpassed of the exquisite doting of the new-made -husband while the honeymoon yet hung over them full-orbed in the silent -and dewy heaven, its inundation undimmed by the breath of custom. Then -he spoke: - - “O, my soul’s joy! - If after every tempest come such calms, - May the winds blow till they have wakened death; - And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas - Olympus-high, and duck again as low - As hell’s from heaven! If it were now to die, - ’Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear, - My soul hath her content so absolute, - That not another comfort like to this - Succeeds in unknown fate.” - -The last lines he uttered with a restrained, prolonged, murmuring music, -a tremulous mellowness, as if the burden of emotion broke the vocal -breath into quivers. It suggested a tenderness whose very excess made it -timid and mystic with a pathetic presentiment of its own evanescence. -The yearning, aching deliciousness of love filled his breast so more -than full that even while he seemed to strive to hold back all verbal -expression for fear of losing the emotional substance, it broke forth -itself with melodious softness in the syllabled beats of the lingering -words: - - “I cannot speak enough of this content: - It stops me here: it is too much of joy. - Come, let us to the castle. O, my sweet, - I prattle out of fashion, and I dote - In mine own comforts.” - -In the scene of the drunken brawl in Cyprus most actors had made Othello -rush in with drawn sword, crying, with extravagant pose and emphasis, -“Hold, for your lives!” Forrest entered without sword, in haste, his -night-mantle thrown over his shoulders as if just from his bed. He went -through the scene, rebuking the brawlers and restoring order, with an -admirable moderation combined with commanding moral authority. Only -once, when answer to his inquiry was delayed, his volcanic heat burst -out. He spoke rapidly, with surprise rather than anger, and bore down -all with a personal weight that had neither pomp nor offence, yet was -not to be resisted. Throughout the first and second acts Forrest played -Othello as a man of beautiful human nature, noble in honor, rich in -affection, gentle in manners, though, when justly roused, capable of a -terrific headlong wrath: - - “Now, by Heaven, - My blood begins my safer guides to rule; - And passion, having my best judgment collied, - Assays to lead the way. If I once stir - Or do but lift this arm, the best of you - Shall sink in my rebuke.” - -In the third act the diabolical malignity and cunning of Iago begin to -take effect, more and more insinuating poisonous suspicions and doubts -into the naturally open and truthful mind of Othello. The process and -advancement of the horrid struggle found in Forrest a man and an artist -to whose experience of human nature and life no item in the whole dread -catalogue of the courses, symptoms, and consequences of love encroached -on and subdued by jealousy was foreign, and whose skill in expression -was abundantly able to set every feature of the tragedy in distinct -relief. As now the guileless Desdemona shone on him, and anon the -devilish Iago distilled his venom, he was torn between his loving -confidence in his wife and his confiding trust in his tempter: - - “As if two hearts did in one body reign - And urge conflicting streams from vein to vein.” - -When he saw or thought of her a blessed reassurance tranquillized him; -when he heeded the hideous suggestions of his treacherous servant a -frozen shudder ran through him. The waves of tenderness and violence -chased one another over the mimic scene. At one moment he said,— - - “If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself. - I’ll not believe it.” - -At another moment he writhed in excruciating anguish under the fearful -innuendoes which Iago wound about him. The spectacle was like that of an -anaconda winding her tightening coils around a tiger until one can hear -the cracking of the bones in his lordly back. - -When the fiendish suggestions of Iago first took thorough effect the -result startled even him, and he gazed on the awful convulsions in the -face of his victim as one might look into the crater of Vesuvius. That -which had seemed granite proved to be gunpowder. As with the prairie -fire: the traveller lets a spark fall, and the whole earth seems to be -one rushing flame. Then swiftly followed those lacerating alternations -of contradictory excitements which are the essence of jealousy,—the -mixture of intense opposites into an experience of infernal discord. His -love lingers on her and gloats over her, and will not believe any evil -of her. His suspicion makes him shrink into himself with horror: - - “O curse of marriage, - That we can call these delicate creatures ours, - And not their appetites.” - -Now he seeks relief in loathing and hating her, trying to tear her dear -image out from among his heart-strings. From the crazing agony of this -effort he springs wildly into wrath against her traducer. Forrest -expressed these sudden and violent transitions from extreme to extreme -with exact truth to nature, by that constant interchanging of intense -muscles and languid eyes with intense eyes and languid muscles which -corresponds with the successive apprehension of a blessing to be -embraced and an evil to be abhorred. The change in his appearance and -moving too was commensurate with what he had undergone. As he advanced -to meet his wife on her arrival in Cyprus, he walked like one inspired, -weightless and illumined with joy: - - “Treading on air each step the soul displays, - The looks all lighten and the limbs all blaze.” - -But after the dreadful doubt had ruined his peace, he grew so pale and -haggard, wore so startled and dismal a look, was so self-absorbed in -misery, that he appeared an incarnate comment on the descriptive words,— - - “Look where he comes! Not poppy nor mandragora, - Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, - Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep - Which thou ow’dst yesterday.” - -There was an imaginative vastness and unity in the soul of Othello which -aggrandized his experiences and allowed him to do nothing by halves. -Forrest so perceived and exemplified this as to make his performance -come before the audience as a new revelation to them of the colossal and -blazing extremes, the entrancing, maddening, and fatal extremes, to -which human passions can mount. His love, his conflict with doubt, his -melancholy, his wrath, his hate, his revenge, his remorse, his despair, -each in turn absorbingly possesses him and floods the earth with heaven -or hell. - -The unrivalled speech of lamentation over his lost happiness he gave -not, as many a famous actor has, partly in a tone of complaining -vexation and partly with a noisy pomp of declamation. He began with an -exquisite quality of tearful regret and sorrow which was a breathing -requiem over the ruins of his past delights. The mournfulness of it was -so sweet and chill that it seemed perfumed with the roses and moss -growing over the tomb of all his love. - - “I had been happy if the general camp, - Pioneers and all, had tasted her sweet body, - So I had nothing known.” - -Then the voice, still low and plaintive, swelled and quivered with the -glorious words that followed: - - “O, now, forever, - Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! - Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, - That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!” - -And as he ended with the line, - - “Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!” - -his form and limbs drooping, his lips sunken and tremulous, his very -life seemed going out with each word, as if everything had been taken -from him and he was all gone. Suddenly, with one electrifying bound, he -leaped the whole gamut from mortal exhaustion to gigantic rage, his -eyeballs rolling and flashing and his muscles strung, seized the -cowering Iago by the throat, and, with a startling transition of voice -from mellow and mournfully lingering notes to crackling thunderbolts of -articulation, shrieked,— - - “If thou dost slander her, and torture me, - Never pray more; abandon all remorse; - On horror’s head horrors accumulate; - Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed;— - For nothing canst thou to damnation add - Greater than that.” - -The wild inspiration subsided as swiftly as it had risen, and left him -gazing in blank amazement at what he had done. Again his struggling -emotions were carried to a kindred climax when Iago told him the -pretended dream of Cassio. He uttered the sentence, “I will tear her all -to pieces,” in a manner whose force of pathos surprised every heart. His -revenge began furiously, “I will tear her”—when his love came over it, -and he suddenly ended with pitying softness—“all to pieces.” It was as -if an avalanche, sweeping along earth and rocks and trees, were met by a -breath which turned it into a feather. In the next act he gave an -instance just the reverse of this: first he says, with doting fondness, -“O, the world hath not a sweeter creature;” then, the imaginative -associations changing the picture, he screams ferociously, “I will chop -her into messes!” - -Thence onward Othello was painted in a more and more piteous plight. The -great soul was conquered by the remorseless intellect of Iago, leagued -with its own weakness and excess. He grew less massive and more -petulant. He stooped to spies and plots, and compassed the assassination -of Cassio. His misery sapped his mind and toppled down his chivalrous -sentiments until he could unpack his sore and wretched heart in abusive -words and treat Desdemona with unrelenting cruelty. - -Finally his tossing convulsions passed away, and a fixed resolution to -kill the woman who had been false to him settled down in gloomy -calmness. The curtain rose and showed him seated at an open window -looking out on the night sky. Desdemona was asleep in her bed. He sighed -heavily, and in slow tones, loaded with thoughtful and resigned -melancholy, soliloquized,— - - “It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,— - Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!— - It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood, - Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, - And smooth as monumental alabaster. - Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men. - Put out the light, and then put out the light. - If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, - I can again thy former light restore, - Should I repent me. But once put out thy light, - Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, - I know not where is that Promethean heat - That can thy light relume.” - -He permitted the audience to see the vast dimension and intensity of his -love, doubt, agony, sorrow, despair, vengeance,—and the revelation was -appalling in its solemnity. Henceforth even his invective was moderated -and quiet. He seemed to fancy himself not so much revenging his personal -wrong as vindicating himself and executing justice. He did not make a -horror of the killing, as Kean did. He drew the curtains apart,—a slight -struggle,—a choking murmur,—and as Emilia knocked at the door, and he -turned, with the pillow in his hand, his listening attitude and his -bronze face and glistening eyes formed a dramatic picture not to be -forgotten. Then came the final revulsion of his agonizing sorrow: - - “O, insupportable! O, heavy hour! - Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse - Of sun and moon; and that the affrighted globe - Should yawn at alteration.” - -His deadly distress and paralyzing bewilderment now illustrated what he -had before said, that he loved her so with the entirety of his being -that the loss of her, even in thought, brought back chaos: - - “Had she been true, - If heaven would make me such another world - Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, - I’d not have sold her for it.” - -When Emilia revealed the plot by which he had been deceived, and -convinced him of the innocence of his wife, an absolute desolation and -horror of remorse, as if a thunderbolt had burst within his brain, smote -him to the floor. Staggering to the fatal couch, his gaze was riveted on -the marble face there, and a broken heart and a distracted conscience -moaned and sobbed in the syllables,— - - “Now, how dost thou look now? O, ill-starred wench! - Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, - This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, - And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? - Even like thy chastity. - O, cursed, cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, - From the possession of this heavenly sight! - Blow’ me about in winds! roast me in sulphur! - Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! - O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead?” - -The strain had been too great to be borne, and he was himself nearly -dead. He wore the aspect of one who felt that to live was calamity, and -to die the sole happiness left. Collecting himself, he spoke the calm -words of appeal that justice might be done to his memory, nothing -extenuated nor aught set down in malice. He turned towards the -breathless form, once so dear, with a look of tenderness slowly -dissolving and freezing into despair. Then, with one stroke of his -dagger, he fell dead without a groan or a shudder. - - “This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon; - For he was great of heart.” - -Some actors have made Othello feared and disliked; others have caused -him to be regarded with moral curiosity or poetic interest. As Forrest -impersonated him he was first warmly admired, then profoundly pitied. Of -the tragedians most celebrated in the past, according to the best -descriptions which have been given of their representations, it may be -said that the Othello of Quin was a jealous plebeian; the Othello of -Kean, in parts a jealous king, in parts a jealous savage; the Othello of -Vandenhoff, a jealous general; the Othello of Macready, a jealous -theatrical player; the Othello of Brooke, a jealous knight; the Othello -of Salvini, a jealous lover transformed into a jealous tiger; but the -Othello of Forrest was a jealous man carried truthfully through all the -degrees of his passion. One of his predecessors in the rôle had veiled -the woes of the man beneath the dignities of his rank and station as a -martial commander; another had theatricized the part, with wondrous -study and toil, elaborating posture, look, and emphasis, presenting a -correctness of drawing which might secure admiring criticism but could -never move feeling; yet another, fascinated with the romantic -accessories and vicissitudes of the character, made a gorgeous picture -of a gorgeous hero in a gorgeous time. Forrest analyzed away from his -Othello all adventitious circumstances; took him from the picturesque -scenes of Venice, stripped off his official robes, and placed him on the -stage in the glories and tortures of his naked humanity, a living mirror -to every one of the struggles of a master-passion tearing a great heart -asunder, driving a powerful mind into the awful abyss of insanity, -making a generous man a coward, an eavesdropper, a murderer, and a -suicide. - -The explicit contents and teaching of the part as Shakspeare wrote it -and as Forrest acted it are the unspeakable privilege and preciousness -of a supreme human love crowned with fulfilment, and the fearful nature -and results of an ill-grounded jealousy. The deeper implicit meaning and -lesson it bears is the animal degradation, the frightful ugliness and -danger, the intrinsically immoral and murderous character of the passion -of jealousy. This all-important revelation latent in the tragedy of -Othello has not been illumined, emphasized, or brought into relief on -the stage as yet. It ought to be done. The historical traditions of -tyrannical selfishness, almost universally organized in the interests of -the world, which make men feel that in sexual love the lover possesses -the object of his love as an appanage and personal property, all whose -free wishes are merged in his will and whose disloyalty is justly -visited with merciless cruelty and even death itself, have blinded most -persons to the inherent unworthiness and vulgarity, the inherent -ferocity and peril, of the passion of jealousy. It is common among -brutes, and belongs to the brutish stage in man. It cannot be imagined -in heaven among the cherubim and seraphim. Freedom, the self-possession -of each one in equilibrium with all others and in harmony with universal -order, belongs to the divine stage of developed humanity. There can be -no certainty against madness, crime, and self-immolation so long as an -automatic passion in the lower regions of the organism enslaves the -royal reason meant to reign by right from God. Happen what may, self- -poise and the steady aim at progress towards perfection should be kept. -This cannot be when love is degraded to physical pleasure sought as an -end, instead of being consecrated to the fruitful purposes for which it -was ordained. The only absolute pledge of blessedness and peace between -those who love and would hope to love always is an adjustment of conduct -based not on mere feeling, whether low or high, but on feeling as itself -subdued and disciplined by reason, justice, and truth, first developed -in the thinking mind and constituted as it were into the science of the -subject, then appropriated by the sentiments and made habitual in the -individual character. What details of conduct will result, what -innovations on the present social state will be made, when a scientific -morality shall have mastered the subject and formulated its principles -into practical rules, it is premature to say. But it is certain that the -leading of one life in the light and another one in the dark will be -forbidden. It is certain that the discords, the diseases, the -distresses, the crimes, which are now so profuse in this region of -experience will be no longer tolerated. And it is safe to prophesy that -such delirious expressions of hate and revenge as have hitherto usually -been thought tragic and terrible will come to be thought bombastic and -ludicrous: - - “O that the slave had forty thousand lives; - One is too poor, too weak for my revenge! - Now do I see ’tis true. Look here, Iago; - All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. ’Tis gone.— - Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell! - Yield up, O love, thy crown, and hearted throne, - To tyrannous hate! swell, bosom, with thy fraught; - For ’tis of aspics’ tongues! O blood, blood, blood!” - -Othello, like most of the characters of Shakspeare, illustrates the -historic actual, not the prophetic ideal. The present state of society -is so ill adjusted, so full of painful evils, that things cannot always -remain as temporary and local habits and mere empirical authority have -seemingly settled them. To think they can is the sure mark of a narrow -mind, a petty character, and a selfish heart. Nothing is more certain -than continuous change. Nothing is, therefore, more characteristic of -the genuine thinker than his ability to contemplate other modes of -thought, other varieties of sentiment, than those to which he was bred. -With the progress of social evolution the hitherto prevalent ideas of -love and jealousy may undergo changes amounting in some instances, -perhaps, to a reversal. Meanwhile, those who are not prepared to adopt -any new opinions in detail should, with hospitable readiness impartially -to investigate, consider within themselves which is better, an imperial -delicacy and magnanimity in those who love causing them to refuse to -know anything that occurs in absence so long as each preserves self- -respecting personal fidelity to the ideal of progressive perfection? or, -as at present, spiritual mutilation and misery, treacherous concealment, -espionage, detection, disgrace, frenzy, and death? - -One thing at all events is sure, namely, that of him alone whose love -for God, or the universal in himself and others, is superior to his love -for the individual, or the egotistic in himself and others, can it ever -be safely said, as it was once so mistakenly said of the unhappy Moor,— - - “This is a man - Whom passion cannot shake; whose solid virtue - The shock of accident nor dart of chance - Can neither graze nor pierce.” - - - LEAR. - -Nearly every season for more than forty years Forrest played the part of -Lear many times. He never ceased to study it and to improve his -representation, adding new touches here and there, until at last it -became, if not the most elaborately finished and perfect of all his -performances, certainly the sublimest in spiritual power and tragic -pathos. As he grew old, as his experience of the desolating miseries of -the world deepened, as his perception was sharpened of the hollowness -and irony of the pomps and pleasures of human power contrasted with the -solemn drifting of destiny and death, as the massiveness of his physique -was expanded in its mould and loosened in its fibre by the shocks of -time and fate, he seemed ever better fitted, both in faculty and -appearance, to meet the ideal demands of the rôle. He formed his -conception of it directly from the pages of Shakspeare and the dictates -of nature. His elaboration and acting of it were original, the result of -his own inspiration and study. Heeding no traditional authority, copying -no predecessor, but testing each particular by the standard of truth, he -might have proudly protested, like the veritable Lear,— - -[Illustration: - - G H Cushman - - EDWIN FORREST AS - - KING LEAR. -] - - “No, they cannot touch me for coining,— - I am the king himself.” - -No person of common sensibility could witness his impersonation of the -character during his latter years without paying it the tribute of tears -and awe. - -Lear appears in a shape of imposing majesty, but with the authentic -signals of breaking sorrow and ruin already obvious. He is a king in the -native build and furniture of his being, not merely by outward rank. His -scale of passion is gigantic, and always exerted at the extremes. When -deferred to and pleased, his magnanimity is boundless and his love most -tender. But, once crossed, nothing can restrain his petulance, and his -outbursts of anger are terrible to others and dangerously expensive to -himself. His identity is always marked by greatness, like some huge -landmark dwarfing everything near. There is a royal scope and altitude -belonging to the structure of his soul which is never lost. It is seen, -whether he be ruler, outcast, or madman, in the grandeur of his mien, in -the majestic eloquence of his thought and expression, in the towering -swell of his ambition. He is ever insistingly conscious of his -kingliness, and must be bowed to and have his way, as much when with the -poor fool he hides his nakedness from the pelting blast as when in -august plenitude of power he divides his realm among his children. This -central point of unity Forrest firmly seized, and made it everywhere in -his representation abundantly prominent and impressive. - -At the opening of the play Lear is a very old man. Moved by some secret -premonition of failing reason or decay, he is about to abdicate his -crown. He is seen to be an imperial spirit throned in an enfeebled -nature, a power girdled with weakness. An exacting and unbridled spirit -of authority, a splenetic assertion of his kingly will, with the -incessant worries and frictions to which such a habit always gives rise, -have undermined his poise and lowered his strength, and brought his mind -into that state of unstable equilibrium which is the condition of an -explosive irritability fated to issue in madness. He himself, in the -organic strata below his free intelligence, has obscure premonitions of -his crumbling state; but every intimation of it which reaches his -consciousness fills him with an angry resentment that seeks some instant -vent. - -The task to indicate all this, so clearly, with such moving force, with -such combination of overtopping power and piteous weakness, as to fix it -all in the apprehending sympathies of the audience, was marvellously -accomplished by Forrest in the opening scene. The vast frame whose -motions were alternately ponderous and fretful, the pale massive face, -the restless wild eyes, the rich deep voice magnificent in oratoric -phrase and breaking in querulous anger,—these, skilfully managed, -revealed at once the ruining greatness of the royal nature, dowered with -imposing and gracious qualities but fatally cored with irritable self- -love. - - “Know that we have divided - In three our kingdom; and ’tis our fast intent - To shake all cares and business from our age; - Conferring them on younger strengths, while we, - Unburthened, crawl toward death. Tell me, my daughters, - (Since now we will divest us, both of rule, - Interest of territory, cares of state,) - Which of you, shall we say, doth love us most? - That we our largest bounty may extend - Where nature doth with merit challenge.” - -The treacherous Goneril and Regan, whose heartless natures their younger -sister so well knew, made such fulsome protestations as shocked her into -a dumb reliance on her own true affection; and when the yearning and -testy monarch fondly asks what she can say, her whole being of love and -sincerity is behind her words: - - “Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave - My heart into my mouth. I love your majesty - According to my bond.” - -Then broke forth the insane pride and self-will, which, brooking no -appearance of opposition or evasion, were stricken with judicial -blindness and left to prefer evil to good, to embrace the selfishness -which was as false and cruel as hell, and to reject the love which was -as gentle and true as heaven. With a terrible look, and a deep intensely -girded voice, whose rapid accents made his whole chest shake with -muffled reverberations, like a throbbing drum, he cried,— - - “Let it be so: thy truth then be thy dower; - For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, - The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; - By all the operations of the orbs, - From whom we do exist, and cease to be; - Here I disclaim all my paternal care, - Propinquity, and property of blood, - And as a stranger to my heart and me - Hold thee, from this, forever. The barbarous Scythian, - Or he that makes his generation messes - To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom - Be as well neighbored, pitied, and relieved, - As thou, my sometime daughter.” - -And when the noble Kent would have interceded, his frenzied wrong- -headedness peremptorily destroyed the last hope of remedy: - - “Peace, Kent! - Come not between the dragon and his wrath.” - -Then, with the piteous side-revelation,— - - “I loved her most, and thought to set my rest - On her kind nursery,”— - -he subscribed and sealed his hideous fault by harshly driving the poor, -sweet Cordelia from his presence, and banishing from his dominions the -best friend he ever had, honest Kent. - -The disease in the nature of Lear, a morbid self-consciousness that -prevented alike self-rule and self-knowledge, did not let his passion -expire like flaming tinder, but kept it long smouldering. Forrest -pictured to perfection its recurring swells and tardy subsidence. Each -advancing step showed more completely the vice that had cloyed the -kingly nobility and gradually prepared the retributive tempest about to -burst. His injured vanity feeding itself with its own inflaming -deception now made his fancy ascribe to the angelic Cordelia, dismantled -from the folds of his old favor, such foul and ugly features of -character that he called her - - “A wretch whom nature is ashamed - Almost to acknowledge hers,”— - -while, perversely investing the tiger-breasted Goneril and Regan with -imaginary goodness and charm, he said to them,— - - “Ourself, by monthly course - With reservation of an hundred knights, - By you to be sustained, shall our abode - Make with you by due turns. Only we will retain - The name and all the additions to a king.” - -So to combine in the representation of Lear the power and the weakness, -the mental and physical grandeur and irritability, as to compose a -consistent picture true to nature, and to make their manifestations -accurate both in the whirlwinds of passion and in the periods of calm,— -this is what few even of the greatest actors have been able to do. -Forrest did it in a degree which made the most competent judges the most -enthusiastic applauders. The nervous and tottering walk, with its sudden -changes, the quick transitions of his voice from thundering fulness to -querulous shrillness, the illuminated and commanding aspect passing into -sunken pallor and recovering, the straightenings up of the figure into -firm equilibrium, the palsying collapses,—all these he gave with a -precision and entireness which were the transcript and epitome of a -thousand original studies of himself and of grand old men whom he had -watched in different lands, in the streets, in lunatic asylums. - -But the deepest merit of this representation was not its exactness in -mimetic simulation or reproduction of the visible peculiarities of -shattered and irascible age. Its chief merit was the luminous revelation -it gave of the inner history of the character impersonated. He made it a -living exhibition of the justifying causes and the profound moral -lessons of the tragedy of the aged monarch, who, self-hurled both from -his outer and his inner kingdom, was left to gibber with the gales and -the lightnings on the rain-swept and desolate moor. In every fibre of -his frame and every crevice of his soul Forrest felt the tremendous -teachings intrusted by Shakspeare to the tragedy of Lear. It is true the -feeling did not lead him morally to master these teachings for a -redemptive application to himself; and his own experience paid the -bitter penalty of a personal pride too exacting in its ideal estimate of -self and others. But the feeling did enable him dramatically to portray -these lessons, with matchless vividness and power, and a rugged realism -softened and tinted with art. Shakspeare’s own notion of Lear is -remarkably expressed by one of the characters in the play: “He hath ever -but slenderly known himself. Then we must look from his age to receive -not alone the imperfections of long-engrafted condition, but, -therewithal, the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring -with them.” - -The whole history of the world in every part of society abounds with -correspondences to the cruel error, the awful wrong, committed by Lear -in accepting Goneril and Regan and rejecting Cordelia. But there is a -cause for everything that happens. These dread and lamentable injustices -arise from vices in the characters that perpetrate them. Their blindness -is the punishment for their sin. The most inherent and obstinate sin in -every unregenerate soul is excess of egotistic self-love. The strongest -and richest natures are most exposed to this evil disguised in shapes so -subtile as to deceive the very elect, making them unconsciously desire -to subdue the wills of others to their will. This is a proud and fearful -historic inheritance in the automatic depth of man below his free -consciousness. Overcoming it, he is divinely free and peaceful. Yielding -to it, he wears his force away in unhappy repinings and resentments. -Aggravated by indulgence, it blinds his instincts and perverts his -perceptions, makes him praise and clasp the bad who yield and flatter, -denounce and shun the good who faithfully resist and try to bless. This -profound moral truth Shakspeare makes the dim background of the tragedy, -whose foreground blazes with a dreadful example of the penalties visited -on those who violate its commands. He teaches that those who, bound and -blinded by wilful self-love, embrace the designing and corrupt instead -of the honest and pure, are left to the natural consequences of their -choice. These consequences are the avenging Nemesis of divine -providence. The actor who, as Forrest did, worthily illustrates this -conception, becomes for the time the sublimest of preachers; for his -appalling sermon is not an exhortation verbally articulated, it is a -demonstration vitally incarnated. - -The monstrous mistake of Lear soon brought its results to sight. The -poor old monarch, fast weakening, even-paced, in his wits and muscles, -but not abating one jot of his arrogant self-estimate and royal -requiring, was so scolded, thwarted, and badgered by Goneril that he was -quite beside himself with indignation. Then, most pitiably in his -distress, relenting memory turned his regards towards the faithful -gentleness he had spurned: - - “O, most small fault! - How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show, - Which, like an engine, wrenched my frame of nature - From the fixed place, drew from my heart all love, - And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! - Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in, - And thy dear judgment out.” - -Uttering these remorseful words, striking his forehead, Forrest stood, -for a moment, a picture of uncertainty, regret, self-deprecation, and -woe. Then a sense of the insulting disrespect and ingratitude of Goneril -seemed to break on him afresh, and let loose the whole volcanic flood of -his injured selfhood. Anguish, wrath, and helplessness drove him mad. -The blood made path from his heart to his brow, and hung there, a red -cloud, beneath his crown. His eyes flashed and faded and reflashed. He -beat his breast as if not knowing what he did. His hands clutched wildly -at the air as though struggling with something invisible. Then, sinking -on his knees, with upturned look and hands straight outstretched towards -his unnatural daughter, he poured out, in frenzied tones of mingled -shriek and sob, his withering curse, half adjuration, half malediction. -It was a terrible thing, almost too fearful to be gazed at as a work of -art, yet true to the character, the words, and the situation furnished -by Shakspeare. Drawing for the moral world comparisons from the material -world, it was a maelstrom of the conscience, an earthquake of the mind, -a hurricane of the soul, and an avalanche of the heart. By a perfect -gradation his protruded and bloodshot eyeballs, his crimsoned and -swollen features, and his trembling frame subsided from their convulsive -exertion. And with a confidence touching in its groundlessness, he -bethought him,— - - “I have another daughter, - Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable.” - -He went to her, and said, with a distraught air of sorrowful anger, more -pathetic than mere words can describe,— - - “Thy sister’s naught: O Regan! She hath tied - Sharp-toothed unkindness, like a vulture, here: - I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe - With how depraved a quality,—O Regan!” - -Told by her that he was old, that in him nature stood on the verge of -her confine, that he needed guidance, and had best return to Goneril and -ask her forgiveness, he stood an instant in blank amazement, as if not -trusting his ears; a tremor of agony and rage shot through him, fixed -itself in a scornful smile, and, throwing himself on his knees, he -vented his heart with superhuman irony: - - “Dear daughter, I confess that I am old: - Age is unnecessary; on my knees I beg - That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.” - -Goneril entered. Shrinking from her partly with loathing, partly with -fear, he exclaimed, in a tone of mournful and pleading pain befitting -the transcendent pathos of the imagery,— - - “O Heavens! - If you do love old men, if your sweet sway - Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, - Make it your cause: send down, and take my part!” - -As Regan and Goneril chaffered and haggled to reduce the cost of his -entertainment, he revealed in his face and by-play the effect their -conduct had on him. The rising thoughts and emotions suffused his -features in advance of their expression. He stood before the audience -like a stained window that burns with the light of the landscape it -hides. He then began in a low tone of supplicating feebleness and -gradually mounted to a climax of frenzy, where the voice, raised to -screaming shrillness, broke in helplessness, exemplifying that degree of -passion which is impotent from its very intensity. Those critics who -blamed him for this excess as a fault were wrong, not he; for it belongs -to a rage which unseats the reason to have no power of repression, and -so to recoil on itself in exhaustion: - - “You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, - As full of grief as age; wretched in both. - If it be you that stir these daughters’ hearts - Against their father, fool me not so much - To bear it tamely: touch me with noble anger. - O, let not women’s weapons, water-drops, - Stain my man’s cheeks. No, you unnatural hags, - I will have such revenges on you both - That all the world shall—I will do such things— - What they are yet I know not—but they shall be - The terrors of the earth.” - -The elemental storm at that moment heard rumbling in the distance -actually seemed an echo of the more terrible spiritual storm raging in -him. - -The scene by night on the heath, where Lear, discrowned of his reason, -wanders in the tempest,—the earth his floor, the sky his roof, the -elements his comrades,—was sustained by Forrest with a broad strength -and intensity which left nothing wanting. Even the imagination was -satisfied with the scale of acting when the old king was seen, colossal -in his broken decay, exulting as the monarch of a new realm, pelted by -tempests, shrilling with curses, and peopled with wicked daughters! His -eyes aflame, his breast distended, his arms flying, his white hair all -astream in the wind, his voice rolling and crashing like another thunder -below, he seemed some wild spirit in command of the scene; and he -called, as if to his conscious subjects,— - - “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! - You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout, - Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks! - You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, - Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, - Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, - Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! - Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. - I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness: - I never gave you kingdom, called you children; - You owe me no subscription. Then let fall - Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave, - A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man. - But yet I call you servile ministers - That will with two pernicious daughters join - Your high-engendered battles ’gainst a head - So old and white as this. O, O, ’tis foul.” - -These last words, beginning with “_high_-engendered battles,” he -delivered with a down-sweeping cadence as mighty in its swell as one of -the great symphonic swings of Beethoven. The auditor seemed to hear the -peal strike on the mountain-top and its slow reverberations roll through -the valleys. The next speech, commencing with,— - - “Let the great gods, - That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads, - Find out their enemies now,”— - -and ending with,— - - “I am a man - More sinned against than sinning,”— - -he pronounced in a way that emphasized the vast ethical meaning involved -in it, and illustrated the strong humanity of Lear. He seemed to be -saying, “These woes are just; I have been proud, rash, and cruel; but -others have treated me worse than I have treated them.” This unconscious -effort at a halting justification, this disguised appeal for kindly -judgment, was profoundly natural and affecting. Then his brain reeled -under its load of woe, and he sighed, with a piteous bewilderment, “My -wits begin to turn,” bringing back with awful fulfilment his prophetic -prayer long before, “O, let me not be mad, sweet heaven! keep me in -temper: I would not be mad!” - -There was something in the immense outspread of the sorrows of Lear and -the enlacement of their gigantic portrayal with the elemental scenery of -nature, the desolate heath, the blackness of night, the howling gale, -the stabbing flashes of lightning, overwhelmingly pathetic and sublime. -The passion of Othello pours along like a vast river turbulent and -raging, yet with placid eddies. The passion of Lear is like the -continual swell and moan of the ocean, whose limitless expanse, with no -beacon of hope to meet the eye, baffles our comprehension and bewilders -us with its awful mystery. This part of the play, as Forrest represented -it in person and voice, gave one a new measure of the greatness of man -in his glory and in his ruin. And in the subsequent scenes, where the -disease of Lear had progressed and his faculties become more wrecked, he -was so interpreted from the splendid might over which he had exulted to -the mournful decay into which he had sunk, that when he said, in reply -to a request to be allowed to kiss his hand, “Let me wipe it first; it -smells of mortality,” the whole audience felt like exclaiming, with -Gloster,— - - “O ruined piece of nature! This great world - Shall so wear out to naught.” - -The acting of all the closing scenes with Cordelia was something to be -treasured apart in the memories of all who saw it and who were capable -of appreciating its exquisite beauty and its unfathomable pathos. When -he was awakened out of the merciful sleep which had fallen on the -soreness of his soul, and heard her whose voice was ever soft, gentle, -and low, addressing him as she had been wont in happier days, his look -of wondering weariness, his mistaking her for a spirit in bliss, his -kneeling to her, his gradual recognition of her,—all these were executed -with a unity of purpose, a simplicity of means, and an ineffable -tenderness of affection, to which it is impossible for any verbal -description to do justice. Who, that did not carry a stone in his breast -in place of a heart, could refrain from tears when he heard the -exhausted sufferer—his gaze fixed on hers, his hands moving in -unpurposed benediction, a solemn calm wrapping him after the long -tempest, passing from the old arrogance of self-assertion into a supreme -sympathy—murmur,— - - “Where have I been? Where am I?—Fair daylight? - I am mightily abused.—I should even die with pity - To see another thus.” - -Who that saw his instinctive action and heard his broken utterance when -she was dead, and he stood trying with insane perseverance to restore -her, fondling her with his paralyzed hands, can ever forget? With -insistent eagerness he asked,— - - “Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, - And thou no breath at all?” - -With complaining resignation he said,— - - “Thou’lt come no more, - Never, never, never, never, never!—” - -With wild surprise he exclaimed, while his lips parted and a weird and -shrivelling smile stole through his wearied face,— - - “Do you see this?—Look on her,—look,—her lips,— - Look there, look there!” - -He stood erect and still, gazing into vacancy. Not a rustle, not a -breath, could be heard in the house. Slowly the head nodded, the muscles -of the face relaxed, the hands opened, the eyes closed, one long hollow -gasp through the nostrils, then on the worn-out king of grief and pain -fell the last sleep, and his form sank upon the stage, while the parting -salvos of the storm rolled afar. - - -Such were the principal characters represented by Edwin Forrest. So, as -far as an incompetent pen can describe their portraiture, did he -represent them. The work was a dignified and useful one, moralizing the -scene not less than entertaining the crowd. It was full of noble lessons -openly taught. It was still richer, as all acting is, in yet deeper -latent lessons to be gathered and self-applied by the spectators who -were wise enough to pierce to them and earnest enough to profit from -them. - -For every dramatic impersonation of a character in the unravelling of a -plot and the fulfilment of a fate is charged with implicit morals. This -is inevitable because every type of man, every grade of life, every kind -of conduct, every style of manners, embodies those laws of cause and -effect between the soul and its circumstances which constitute the -movement of human destiny, and illustrates the varying standards of -truth and beauty, or of error and sin, in charming examples to be -assimilated, or in repulsive ones to serve as warnings. Thus the stage -is potentially as much more instructive than the pulpit, as life is more -inclusive and contagious than words. The trouble is that its teaching is -so largely disguised and latent. It sorely needs an infusion of the -religious and academic spirit to explicate and drive home its morals. -For instance, when Coriolanus says, with action of immovable -haughtiness,— - - “Let them pull all about mine ears; present me - Death on the wheel, or at wild horses’ heels; - Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, - That the precipitation might down stretch - Below the beam of sight, yet will I still - Be thus to them,—” - -it is a huge and grand personality, filled to bursting with arrogant -pride and indirect vanity, asserting itself obstinately against the mass -of the people. As a piece of power it is imposing; but morally it is -vulgar and odious. The single superior should not assert his egotistic -will defiantly against the wills of the multitude of inferiors and hate -them for their natural resistance. He should modestly modulate his self- -will with the real claims of the collective many, or blend and assert it -through universal right and good, thus representing God with the -strength of truth and the suavity of love. That is the lesson of -Coriolanus,—a great lesson if taught and learned. And, to take an -exactly opposite example, what is it that so pleases and holds everybody -who sees the exquisite Rip Van Winkle of Joseph Jefferson? Analyze the -performance to the bottom, and it is clear that the charm consists in -the absence of self-assertion, the abeyance of all egotistic will. -Against the foil of his wife’s tartar temper, who with arms akimbo and -frowning brow and scolding acidity of voice opposes everything, and -asserts her authority, and, despite her faithful virtues, is as -disagreeable as an incarnated broomstick, Rip, lazy and worthless as he -is, steals into every heart with his yielding movement, soft tones, and -winsome look of unsuspicious innocence. He resists not evil or good, -neither his appetite for drink nor his inclinations to reform. The -spontaneity, the perfect surrender of the man, the unresisted sway of -nature in him, plays on the unconscious sympathies of the spectators -with a charm whose divine sweetness not all the vices of the vagabond -can injure. It is, in this homely and almost unclean disguise, a moral -music strangely wafted out of an unlost paradise of innocence into which -drunkenness has strayed. But the real secret of the fascination is -hidden from most of those who intuitively feel its delicious -fascination. Did the audience but appreciate the graceful spirit of its -spell, and for themselves catch from its influence the same unresisted -spontaneousness of soul in unconscious abnegation of self-will, they -would go home regenerated. - -But beyond the special lessons in the parts played by Forrest, he was, -through his whole professional course, constantly teaching the great -lesson of the beauty and value of the practice of the dramatic art for -the purposes of social life itself. Should the stage decline and -disappear, the art so long practised on it will not cease, but will be -transferred to the ordinary walks of social life. Nothing is so charming -as a just and vivid play of the spiritual faculties through all the -languages of their outer signs, in the friendly intercourse of real -life. But in our day the tendency is to confine expression to the one -language of articulate words. This suppression of the free play of the -organism stiffens and sterilizes human nature, impoverishes the -interchanges of souls makes existence formal and barren. The most -precious relish of conversation and the divinest charm of manners is the -living play of the spirit in the features, and the spontaneous -modulation of the form by the passing experience. A man grooved in -bigotry and glued in awkwardness, with no alert intelligence and -sympathy, is a painful object and a repulsive companion. He moves like a -puppet and talks like a galvanized corpse. But it is delightful and -refreshing to associate with one thoroughly possessed by the dramatic -spirit, who, his articulations all freed and his faculties all earnest, -speaks like an angel and moves like a god. The theatre all the time -offers society this inspiring lesson. For there are seen free and -developed souls lightening and darkening through free and sensitive -faces. If bodies did not answer to spirits nor faces reveal minds, -nature would be a huge charnelhouse and society a brotherhood of the -dead. And if things go on unchecked as they have been going on, we bid -fair to come to that. It is to be hoped, however, that the examples of -universal, liberated expression given on the stage will more and more -take effect in the daily intercourse of all classes. As a guiding hint -and stimulus in that direction, the central law of dramatic expression -may here be explicitly formulated. All emotions that betoken the -exaltation of life, or the recognition of influences that tend to -heighten life, confirm the face, but expand and brighten it. All -emotions that indicate the sinking of life, or the recognition of -influences that threaten to lower life, relax and vacate the face if -these emotions are negative, contract and darken it if they are -positive. In answer to the exalting influences the face either grasps -what it has or opens and smiles to hail and receive what is offered; in -answer to the depressing influences, it either droops under its load or -shuts and frowns to oppose and exclude what is threatened. The eyes -reveal the mental states; the muscles reveal the effects of those states -in the body. In genial states active, the eyes and the muscles are both -intense, but the eyes are smiling. In genial states passive, the eyes -are intense, the muscles languid. In hostile states active, both eyes -and muscles are intense, but the eyes are frowning. In hostile states -passive, the eyes are languid, the muscles intense. In simple or -harmonious states, the eyes and the muscles agree in their excitement or -relaxation. In complex and inconsistent states, the eyes and the muscles -are opposed in their expression. To expound the whole philosophy of -these rules would take a volume. But they formulate with comprehensive -brevity the central law of dramatic expression as a guide for -observation in daily life. - -In filling up the outlines of the majestic characters imperfectly limned -in the preceding pages, exhibiting them in feature and proportion and -color and tone as they were, setting in relief the full dimensions and -quality of their intellect and their passion, living over again their -experiences and laying bare for public appreciation the lessons of their -fate, Forrest found the high and noble joy of his existence, the most -satisfying employment for his faculties, and a deep, unselfish solace -for his afflictions. He reposed on the grand moments of each drama, as -if they were thrones which he was loath to abdicate. He dilated and -glowed in the exciting situations, as if they were no mimic reflections -of the crises of other souls, but original and thrilling incarnations of -his own. He lingered over the nobler utterances, as if he would have -paused to repeat their music, and would willingly let the action wait -that the thought might receive worthy emphasis. Every inspired -conception of eloquence, every delicate beauty of sentiment, every -aggrandizing attitude of man contained in the plays he lifted into a -relief of light and warmth that gave it new attraction and more power. -And to trace the thoughts and feelings that gained heightened expression -through him, echoed and working with contagious sympathy in the hearts -of the crowds who hung on his lips, was a divine pleasure which he would -fain have indefinitely prolonged. But the movement on the stage, that -affecting mirror of life, hurries forward, the business of the world -breaks in upon philosophy, and the dreams of the poet and the player -burst like painted bubbles. - -Meanwhile, not only do the parts played and the scenes amidst which they -are shown vanish and become the prey of oblivion, but those who played -them disappear also, leaving the providential and prophetic Spirit of -Humanity, a sublimer Prospero, to say,— - - “These, our actors, - As I foretold you, were all spirits, and - Are melted into air, into thin air.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII. - CLOSING YEARS AND THE EARTHLY FINALE. - - -When in the fullest glory of his strength and his fame Forrest bought a -farm and quite made up his mind to retire from the stage forever. While -under this impulse he played a parting engagement in New Orleans. Called -out after the play, he said, among other things, “The bell which tolled -the fall of the curtain also announced my final departure from among -you. I have chosen a pursuit congenial to my feelings,—that pursuit -which the immortal Washington pronounced one of the most noble and -useful ever followed by man,—the tilling of the soil. And now, ladies -and gentlemen, I have to say that little word which must so often be -said in this sad, bright world,—farewell.” The purpose, however, passed -away with its now forgotten cause. Again he seriously thought for a -little time, when a nomination to Congress was pressed on him, of -exchanging his dramatic career for a political one. This idea, too, on -careful reflection he rejected. And once more, when depressed and -embittered by his domestic trouble, and sick of appearing before the -public, he was for a season strongly tempted to say he would never again -enter the theatre as a player. With these three brief and fitful -exceptions he never entertained any design of abandoning the practice of -his profession, until a shattering illness in the spring of 1872 -compelled him to take the step. Then he took the step quietly, with no -public announcement. - -Thus the dramatic seasons of the five years preceding his death found -the veteran still in harness, working vigorously as of old in the art of -which he had ever been so fond and so proud. His earnings during each of -these seasons were between twenty-five and forty thousand dollars, and -the applause given to his performances and the friendly and flattering -personal attentions paid him were almost everywhere very marked. He had -no reason to feel that he was lingering superfluous on the stage. Many, -it is true, asked why, with his great wealth, his satiation of fame, his -literary taste, his growing infirmity of lameness, he did not give up -this drudgery and enjoy the luxury of his home in leisure and dignity. -There were two chief reasons why he persisted in his vocation. No doubt -the large sum of ready money he earned by it was welcome to him, because -while his fortune was great it was mostly unproductive and a burden of -taxes. No doubt, also, he well relished the admiration and applause he -drew; for the habit of enjoying this had become a second nature with -him. Neither of these considerations, however, was it which caused him -to undergo the toil and hardship of his profession to the last. His real -motives were stronger. The first was the sincere conviction that it was -better for the preservation of his health and faculties, his interest -and zest in life and the world, to keep at his wonted task. He feared -that a withdrawal of this spur and stimulus would the sooner dull his -powers, stagnate him, and break him down. He often asserted this. For -example, in 1871 he wrote thus, after speaking of what he had suffered -from severe journeyings, extreme cold, poor food, many vexations, and a -fall over a balustrade so terrible that it would have killed him had it -not been for his professional practice in falling: “This is very hard -work; but it is best to do it, as it prevents both physical and mental -rust, which is a sore decayer of body and soul.” - -But the most effectual motive in keeping him on the stage was a real -professional enthusiasm, an intense love of his art for its own sake. He -felt that he was still improving in his best parts, in everything except -mere material power, giving expression to his refining conceptions with -a greater delicacy and subtilty, a more minute truthfulness and finish. -He keenly enjoyed his own applause of his own best performances. This -was a satisfaction to him beyond anything which the critics or the -public could bestow or withhold. It was a luxury he was not willing to -forego. He was a great artist still delighting himself with touching and -tinting his favorite pictures, still loyal to truth and nature, and -feeling the joy of a devotee as he placed now a more delicate shade here -or a more ethereal light there, producing a higher harmony of tone, a -greater convergence of effects in a finer unity of the whole. Even had -this been an illusion with him, it would have been touching and noble. -But it was a reality. His Richelieu and Lear were never rendered by him -with such entire artistic beauty and grandeur as the last times he -played them. In the thoughts of those who knew that as he went over the -country in his later years the plaudits of the audiences and the -approvals of critics were insignificant to him in comparison with his -own judgment and feeling, and that he deeply relished the minutely -earnest and natural truth and power and rounded skill of his own chosen -portrayals of human nature, the fact lent an extreme interest and -dignity to his character. This unaffected enthusiasm of the old artist, -this intrinsic delight in his work, was a sublime reward for his long- -continued conscientious devotion, and an example which his professional -followers in future time should thoughtfully heed. He wrote to a friend -from Washington near the close of his career, “Last night I played Lear -in a cold house, with a wretched support, and to a sparse and -undemonstrative audience. But I think I never in my life more thoroughly -enjoyed any performance of mine, because I really believed, and do -believe so now, that I never before in my life played the part so well. -For forty years I have studied and acted Lear. I have studied the part -in the closet, in the street, on the stage, in lunatic asylums all over -the world, and I hold that next to God, Shakspeare comprehended the mind -of man. Now I would like to have had my representation of the character -last night photographed to the minutest particular. Then next to the -creation of the part I would not barter the fame of its representation.” -This, written to a bosom friend from whom he kept back nothing, when the -shadow of the grave was approaching, was not egotism or vanity. It was -truth and sincerity, and its meaning is glorious. What a man works for -with downright and persevering honesty, that, and the satisfaction or -the retribution of it, he shall at last have. And there is only one -thing of which no artist can ever tire,—merit. The passion for mere fame -grows weak and cold, and, under its prostituted accompaniments, dies out -in disgust; but the zeal and the joy of a passion for excellence keep -fresh and increase to the end. - -Aside from that self-rewarding love of his art and delight in exercising -it and improving in it, of which no invidious influence could rob him, -Forrest continued still to be followed by the same extremes of praise -and abuse to which he had ever been accustomed. But one grateful form of -compliment and eulogy became more frequent towards the close. He was in -the frequent receipt of letters, drawn up and signed by large numbers of -the leading citizens of important towns, urging him to pay them a visit -and gratify them with another, perhaps a final, opportunity of -witnessing some of his most celebrated impersonations. Among his papers -were found, carefully labelled, autograph letters of this description -from New Orleans, Savannah, Cincinnati, Louisville, Detroit, Troy, and -other cities,—flattering testimonials to his celebrity and the interest -felt in him. These dignified and disinterested demonstrations were -fitted to offset and soothe the wounds continually inflicted on his -proud sensibility by many vulgar persons who chanced to have access to -newspapers for the expression of their frivolity, malignity, or envy. -For detraction is the shadow flung before and behind as the sun of fame -journeys through the empyrean. To illustrate the scurrilous treatment -Forrest had to bear, even in his old age, from heartless ribalds, it is -needful only to set a few characteristic examples in contrast with his -real character. His professional and personal character, in the spirit -and aim of his public life, is justly indicated in this brief newspaper -editorial: - -“In the line of heroic characters—such as Brutus, Virginius, Tell—Mr. -Forrest has had no rival in this country. He is himself rich in the -generous, manly qualities fitted for such grand ideal parts. The old- -time favorite plays of the heroic and romantic school, like Damon and -Pythias, are well-nigh banished from the stage. The materialistic -tendencies and aspirations of this intensely practical age disqualify -most audiences for seeing with the zest of their fathers a play so -purely poetic and imaginative as the immortal tale of the Pythagorean -friends. That Mr. Forrest, almost alone among his contemporaries, should -cling to this style of plays with such true enthusiasm is evidence of -the fidelity with which he seeks purity rather than attractiveness in -the models of his art. His name has never been identified with a single -one of the meretricious innovations which have within the past two -decades so lowered the dignity of the drama. Every play associated with -his person has some noble hero as its central figure, and some sublime -moral quality and lesson in the unravelling of its plot. And his -unwavering seriousness of purpose in everything he plays cannot be -questioned, whatever else may be questioned.” - -The above estimate is sustained by the unconscious betrayal, the latent -implications, in the following speech made by Forrest himself when -called out after a performance: - -“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,—For this and for the many tokens of your kind -approbation, I return you my sincere and heartfelt acknowledgments. It -is a source of peculiar gratification to me to perceive that the drama -is yet, with you, a subject of consideration. Permit me to express my -conviction that it is, in one form or another, whether for good or for -evil, intimately blended with our social institutions. It is for you, -then, to give it the necessary and appropriate direction. If it be left -in charge of the bad and the dissolute, the consequences will be -deplorable; but if the fostering protection of the wise and the good be -extended to it, the result cannot but tend to the advancement of morals -and the intellectual improvement of the community. It is indeed the true -province of the drama - - ‘To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, - To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; - To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, - Live o’er each scene, and be what they behold; - For this, the tragic muse first trod the stage, - Commanding tears to stream through every age; - Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, - And foes to virtue wondered how they wept.’” - -What a descent from the above level to the ridicule, insult, and -misrepresentation in notices like the succeeding: - -“Forrest reminded us of the Butcher of Chandos, and his rendition of the -fifth act was reminiscent of the wild madness, the ungovernable -bellowings and fierce snortings of a short-horned bull chased by a score -of terriers. He raved, and rumbled, and snorted, and paused, gathering -wind for a fresh start, as if the ghost of Shakspeare were whispering in -his ear, - - ‘Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe; - Blow, actor, till thy sphered bias cheek - Outswell the colic of puffed Aquilon; - Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood; - Thou blow’st for Hector.’ - -We are fearful that the more he studies and improves his part the worse -it will be.” - -“Last night we went with great expectations to the Academy of Music to -see Forrest. We were never so astonished as to witness there the most -successful practical imposition ever played on the public. Manager Leake -has got Old Brown the hatter there, with his white head blacked, playing -leading parts under the assumed name of Edwin Forrest.” - -“Mr. Forrest dragged his weary performances out to empty boxes last -week. Save in his voice, which still soars, crackles, rumbles, grumbles, -growls and hisses, as in his younger days, this great actor is but a -dreary echo of his former self. Appropriately may he exclaim,— - - ‘Othello’s occupation’s gone!’ - -and it would be well if, like the heroic Moor, he would bid farewell to -the bustling world by an abrupt retirement from the stage, instead of -inflicting nightly stabs upon his high reputation and wounding his old- -time friends by his attempts to soar into the sublime regions of -tragedy.” - -“The interest that still crowds the theatre whenever Mr. Forrest appears -is less admiration of his present power than curiosity to see a gigantic -ruin.” - -“The intellectual portion of the community never thoroughly appreciated -the style of histrionic gymnastics which our great tragedian has -introduced; the ponderous tenderness and gladiatorial grace of his -conceptions, though excellent in their way, had never any charm for -people of delicate nerves, who delight not in viewing experiments in -spasmodic contortion, or delineations of violent death, evidently after -studies from nature in the slaughterhouse! But lately the faithful -themselves are tiring of it.” - -The man with a thin and acid nature who aspires to be an author or an -artist, and cannot succeed, sometimes becomes a spiteful critic. The -only pity is that he should usually find it so easy to get an organ for -his spites. Would-be genius hates and criticises, actual genius loves -and creates. The former enviously despises those who succeed where he -has failed, the latter generously admires all true merit. - -And now it will be a relief to turn from such criticisms to facts. The -season of 1871 was marked by an experience altogether memorable in the -professional history of Forrest, his last engagement in New York, where -he played for twenty nights in February at the Fourteenth Street -Theatre, sustaining only the two roles of Lear and Richelieu. These were -his two best parts, and being characters of old men his cruel sciatica -scarcely interfered with his rendering of them. One or two newspaper -writers complained, as if it were a crime in the actor and a personal -offence to them, that “when Forrest came this season to New York he -neglected, and apparently with a purpose, the usual precautions of -metropolitan managers, and seemed to avoid all the modern appliances of -success, either from a contempt for the appliances or from indifference -as to the result.” They did not seem once to suspect that his scorn for -every species of bribery or meretricious advertising, his frank and -careless trust in simple truth, was, considering the corrupt custom of -the times, in the highest degree honorable to him and exemplary for -others. It was always his way to make a plain announcement of his -appearance, and then let the verdict be what it might, with no -interference of his. - -There was no popular rush to see him now. In the crowd of new -excitements and the quick forgetfulness belonging to our day, the -curiosity about him and the interest in him had largely passed away. But -the old friends who rallied at his name, and the respectable numbers of -cultivated people who were glad of a chance to see the most historic -celebrity of the American stage before it should be too late, were -unanimous in their enthusiastic admiration. They declared with one voice -that his playing was filled with wonderful power in general and with -wonderful felicities in detail. That metropolitan press, too, from which -he had so long received not only unjust depreciation, but wrong and -contumely, spoke of him and his performances now in a very different -tone. Its voice appeared a kindly response to what he had privately -written to his friend Oakes: “Well, I am here, here in New York once -more, and on Monday next begin again my professional labor,—labors begun -more than forty years ago in the same city. What changes since then in -men and things! Will any one of that great and enthusiastic audience -which greeted my efforts as a boy, be here on Monday evening next to -witness the matured performance of the man? If so, how I should like to -hear from his own lips if the promises of spring-time have been entirely -fulfilled by the fruits of the autumn of life!” Without any notable -exception, extreme praise was lavished on his acting, and his name was -treated with a tenderness and a respect akin to reverence. It seemed as -though the writers felt some premonition of the near farewell and the -endless exit, and were moved to be just and kind. The late amends -touched the heart of the old player deeply. It was a comfort to him to -be thus appreciated in the city of his greatest pride ere he ceased -acting, and to have the estimates of his friends endorsed in elaborate -critiques from the pens of the best dramatic censors, William Winter, -Henry Sedley, John S. Moray, and others. It is due to him and to them -that some specimens of these notices be preserved here. Space will allow -but a few extracts from the leading articles: - -“Edwin Forrest, the actor, who is identified with much that is -intellectual, picturesque, and magnificently energetic in the history of -the American stage, is again before the New York public. His -reappearance is deeply interesting upon several accounts. His -reputation, far from being confined to the United States, extends -wherever the language of Shakspeare is spoken, and to a great many -countries where translations have rendered that poet’s meanings known. -His name has grown with the name of the American people, and has -greatened with the increasing greatness of the country. At home and -abroad he is recognized as the superbly unique representative of several -characters whose creators owe their inspiration to the genius of -American history. No other actor has presented Americans with such -powerful and original conceptions of King Lear, Coriolanus, and Macbeth. -No other unites such grand physical forces with such intellectual vigor -and delicacy. His hand has an infinity of tints at its command, and his -tenderest touches are never weak. He is, therefore, deservedly and -almost universally considered as the fair representative of what -Americans have most reason to be proud of in the history of their stage. -He is not a weak copyist of foreign originalities and of schools of the -past. His virtues and his vices, dramatically speaking, are his own. His -genius is thoroughly self-responsible, and his strong, conscious, and -magnificent repose is resplendently suggestive of the degree in which -the great actor rates, and has a right to rate himself.” - -“Mr. Forrest can indeed be now admired more than he ever was before; for -his magnificent and picturesque energies are now chastened and -restrained by great intellectual culture, and softened by the presence -of that tender glow which varied experience is pretty sure to ultimately -lend. One strives in vain to recall the name of any other actor, either -in this country or in England, who possesses such immense physical -energies under such perfect subservience to the intellect. We insist -more particularly upon this point, because it is one upon which even the -admirers of Mr. Forrest are not apt to dwell. There is a very large -class of people who are so absorbed in the generous breadth, the -brilliant coloring, and the large treatment of Mr. Forrest’s favorite -themes, that they neglect to give him credit for intellectual niceties -and delicate emotional distinctions. They vulgarly admire merely the -large style and heroic presence of the man, and the rich reverberations -of a voice that all the demands of the entire gamut of passion have not -yet perceptibly worn, and they omit to give him that intellectual -appreciation which is very decidedly his due. In no other character -which he is fond of playing are all these qualifications so harmoniously -united as in Lear. In no other character are the distinctive qualities -of Mr. Forrest’s genius so beautifully blended and played. Those who -have been familiar with his rendering of this character in the days that -are past will take a curious pleasure in accompanying him from scene to -scene, and from act to act, and in remarking how true he remains to the -ideal of his younger years, and how powerful he is in expressing that -ideal. It is a rare thing for an actor to awaken in a later generation -the same quality and degree of delight that he awoke in his own. It is a -rare thing for him to be as youthful in his maturity as he was mature in -his youth, and to thus succeed in delighting those who measure by a -standard more exacting and severe than the standard was which the -public, in an earlier age of American dramatic art, was fond of -applying. Mr. Forrest has passed these tests. We do not care for the -ignorant sarcasm of those who claim that the ‘school’ he represents is a -‘physical’ school. It is a school wherein Mr. Forrest is supreme master, -and where an unrivalled voice and physique are made absolutely -subservient to intellectual expression.” - -“Never were plaudits better deserved by any actor in any age than those -which have been showered down upon Forrest during the past week. His -conception and his rendering of King Lear were alike magnificent. In his -prime, when theatres were crowded by the brightest and fairest of -America, who listened spell-bound to the favorite of the hour, he never -played this character half so well. The idiosyncrasy of his nature -forbade it. The fierce ungovernable fire within him could not be -restrained within the limits of the rôle. Forrest could never modulate -the transport of his feelings. He leaped at once from a calm and even -tenor to the full violence of frenzied anger. There was no _crescendo_, -no gradation. He was so fully possessed of his rôle that he threw aside -every consideration of different circumstances which the case suggested. -He was for the moment Lear, but not Shakspeare’s old man: he was -Forrest’s Lear. Hence the fire of furious anger and the decrepitude of -age were alike exaggerated. But these things have passed away. Age has -tamed the lion-like excesses of the royal Forrest, and his impersonation -of King Lear is now absolutely faultless. Seeing and hearing him under -the disadvantages of a mangled text, a poor company, a miserable _mise -en scène_, and a thin house, the visitor must still be impressed by the -one grand central figure, so eloquent, so strong, so sweet in gentlest -pathos. There is an unconscious reproach in the manner in which he bows -his head to the shouts of applause. He is the King Lear of the American -stage; he gave to his children, the public, all that he had, and now -they have deserted him. They have crowned a new king before whom they -bow, and the old man eloquent is cheered by few voices. The -consciousness of his royal nature supports him. He knows that while he -lives there can be no other head of the American stage; but still he is -deserted and alone. That some such feeling overpowered him when the -flats parted, and the audience, seeing the king on his throne, cheered -him, there can be little doubt. He bowed his head slightly in response -to the acclamations of those scantily-filled seats. But throughout the -play there was an added dignity of sorrow, which showed that the neglect -of the public had wounded him. He knew his fate. He recognized that he -was a discrowned king, and that the fickle public had crowned another -not worthy of sovereignty and having no sceptre of true genius. The play -went on and he became absorbed in his rôle, forgetting in the delirium -of his art that his house was nearly empty. Had there been but five -there, he would have played it. For to him acting is existence, and the -histrionic fire in his bosom can never be quenched save with life. -Actors may come and actors may go, but it will be centuries before a -Lear arises like unto this man Forrest, whom the public seems to have so -nearly forgotten.” - -“The curtain rose a few minutes after eight, and the cold air issuing -from the stage threw a chill over the audience. But when at last the -scene opened and revealed Lear on his throne, the old form in its Jove- -like grandeur, the quiet eye that spoke of worlds of reserved power, -brought back the memories of old, and round after round of applause -stopped the utterance of the opening words. There was such a heartiness -of admiring welcome about the thing, so much of the old feeling of -theatrical enthusiasm, that Forrest felt for once compelled to stand up, -and, with a bend of his leonine head, acknowledge the welcome. He tested -the love of his daughters; he gave away his kingdom, taking, as he gave -it, the sympathies of the audience. He called on the eldest, and was -taunted; he lost his ill-controlled temper, and finally, goaded till his -whole frame seemed about to shatter, he invoked the curse of heaven. As -he spoke, you could hear all over the house that hissing of breath drawn -through the teeth which sudden pain causes, and when the curtain fell -people looked into each other’s eyes in silence. Then you would hear, -‘That is acting.’ ‘It is awful!’ Then suddenly rose bravos, not your -petty clapping of hands, but shouts from boxes and orchestra, and they -came in volleys. The old king tottered calmly out before the curtain, -looked around slowly, and bowed back. But there was now in that quiet -eye a suppressed gleam in which those nearest the stage could read as in -a book the pride and gratification of genius enjoying the effect of its -power.” - -“With the drawbacks of ordinary scenery and a wretched support, Forrest -gives us a Richelieu which at the close of the fourth act nightly draws -forth a perfect whirlwind of applause, and brings the veteran before the -curtain amidst a wild cry of enthusiasm which must stir old memories in -his bosom. His genius spreads an electric glow through the house and -carries the sympathies by storm.” - -“Mr. Forrest’s reading of Richelieu is remarkable for its firmness and -intelligibility of purpose, for its singular pathos, for its often -unaffected melody of elocution, and—in this point approaching his Lear— -for its revelation, at intervals, of unmistakable subtlety of thought. -Like his Lear, too, the part is embroidered over with those swift -touches of electricity that gild and enrich the underlying fabric which -might otherwise appear too weighty and sombre.” - -“The actor who would vitalize this part has no common work to perform. -It is incumbent upon him to make martial heroism visible through a veil -of intellectual finesse, and to indicate the natural soldier-like -qualities of the man projecting through that smoothness and -dissimulation which the ambition of the statesman rendered expedient. It -is necessary for him to develop so that they may be perceived by the -audience those characteristics which Bulwer has unfolded in the play -through the instrumentality of long soliloquies that are necessarily -omitted upon the stage, and unless this is done by the actor the -character is deprived of that subtlety and force and that human -complexity of motive which Bulwer, in spite of his artificiality and -conceits, contrives to make apparent.” - -“This, however, is the task which Mr. Forrest performs to perfection. -Not being a purely intellectual character, Richelieu demands in the -delineation all those aids which are desirable from Mr. Forrest’s august -physique and wonderfully rich voice. A just discrimination compels us to -own that beside this representation that of Mr. Booth appears faint and -pale. A film seems to cover it; whereas the representation of Mr. -Forrest gathers color and strength from the contrast. As a piece of mere -elocution Mr. Forrest’s reading is exquisitely beautiful, the ear -floating upon the profound and varied music of its cadences. But, -flawlessly exquisite as are these graces of enunciation, they are, after -all, merely channels in which the spirit of the entire interpretation -runs. The most cultured man in the audience which last night filled the -Fourteenth Street Theatre might have closely followed every line which -the actor enunciated, without being able to perceive wherein it could be -more heavily freighted with significance.” - -But perhaps the most gratifying testimony borne at this time to the -natural power and artistic genius and skill of Forrest was the following -eloquent article by Mr. Winter, whose repeated previous notices of the -actor had been unfavorable and severe, but who, irresistibly moved, now -showed himself as magnanimous as he was conscientious: - -“Probably the public does not quite yet appreciate either the value of -its opportunity or the importance of improving it. Two facts, therefore, -ought to be strongly stated: one, that Mr. Forrest’s personation of Lear -is an extraordinary work of art; the other, that, in the natural order -of things, it must soon pass forever away from the stage. Those who see -it now will enjoy a luxury and a benefit. Those who miss seeing it now -will sow the seed of a possible future regret. We have not in times past -been accustomed to extol, without considerable qualification, the acting -of Mr. Forrest. This was natural, and it was right. An unpleasant -physical element—the substitution of muscle for brain and of force for -feeling—has usually tainted his performances. That element has been -substantially discarded from his Lear. We have seen him play the part -when he was no more than a strong, resolute, robustious man in a state -of inconsequent delirium. The form of the work, of course, was always -definite. Strength of purpose in Mr. Forrest’s acting always went hand -in hand with strength of person. He was never vague. He knew his intent, -and he was absolutely master of the means that were needful to fulfil -it. Precision, directness, culminating movement, and physical magnetism -were his weapons; and he used them with a firm hand. Self-distrust never -depressed him. Vacillation never defeated his purpose. It was the -triumph of enormous and overwhelming individuality. Lear could not be -seen, because Mr. Forrest stood before him and eclipsed him. - -“All that is greatly modified. Time and suffering seem to have done -their work. It is no secret that Mr. Forrest has passed through a great -deal of trouble. It is no secret that he is an old man. We do not touch -upon these facts in a spirit of heartlessness or flippancy. But what we -wish to indicate is that natural causes have wrought a remarkable change -in Mr. Forrest’s acting, judged, as we now have the opportunity of -judging it, by his thrilling delineation of the tremendous agonies and -the ineffably pathetic madness of Shakspeare’s Lear. In form his -performance is neither more nor less distinct than it was of old. Almost -every condition of symmetry is satisfied in this respect. The port is -kingly; the movement is grand; the transitions are natural; the delivery -is resonant; the intellect is potential; the manifestations of madness -are accurate; the method is precise. But, beyond all this, there is now -a spiritual quality such as we have not seen before in this extremely -familiar work. Here and there, indeed, the actor uses his ancient snort, -or mouths a line for the sake of certain words that intoxicate his -imagination by their sound and movement. Here and there, also, he -becomes suddenly and inexplicably prosaic in his rendering of meanings. -But these defects are slight in contrast with the numberless beauties -that surround and overshadow them. We have paid to this personation the -involuntary and sincere tribute of tears. We cannot, and would not -desire to, withhold from it the merited recognition of critical praise. -Description it can scarcely be said to require. Were we to describe it -in detail, however, we should dwell, with some prolixity of remark, upon -the altitude of imaginative abstraction which Mr. Forrest attains in the -mad scenes. Shakspeare’s Lear is a person with the most tremulously -tender heart and the most delicately sensitive and poetical mind -possible to mortal man, and his true grandeur appears in his overthrow, -which is pathetic for that reason. The shattered fragments of the column -reveal its past magnificence. No man can play Lear in these scenes so as -to satisfy, even approximately, the ideal inspired by Shakspeare’s text -unless he knows, whether by intuition or by experience, the vanity, the -mutability, the hollowness of this world. The deepest deep of philosophy -is sounded here, and the loftiest height of pathos is attained. It is -high praise to say that Mr. Forrest, whether consciously or -unconsciously, interprets these portions of the tragedy in such a manner -as frequently to enthrall the imagination and melt the heart. The -miserable desolation of a noble and tender nature scathed and blasted by -physical decay and by unnatural cruelty looks out of his eyes and speaks -in his voice. This may be only the successful simulation of practised -art; but, whatever it be, its power and beauty and emotional influence -are signal and irresistible.” - -The New York “Courier” said, in a striking editorial, “The engagement of -Edwin Forrest at the Fourteenth Street Theatre, and the praises lavished -on him by the whole press of this city, afford us an opportunity to make -a little contribution to the truth of history.” The “Courier,” after -maintaining that Forrest had always been a great actor, and that the -total change of tone in the press was not so much owing to his -improvement as to the fact that time had softened and removed the -prejudices of his judges, continues,— - -“When Edwin Forrest, who might have been called at the time the American -boy tragedian, was playing at the Old Bowery, and Edmund Kean at the Old -Park, there was a little society of gentlemen in this city, who were -passionate admirers of the drama. Young in years, they were already ripe -in scholarship and profound as well as independent critics. Amongst -them, and constantly associating together, were Anthony L. Robertson, -afterwards Vice-Chancellor; John Nathan, afterwards law partner with -Secretary Fish; John Lawrence; John K. Keese, better known as ‘Kinney -Keese,’ the wittiest and most learned of book auctioneers, whose mind -was a Bodleian Library and whose tongue a telegraph battery of joke and -repartee, and a dozen others,—all since eminent at the bar, in -literature, or in national politics. Their little semi-social, semi- -literary society was known as ‘The Column,’ and subsisted for many -years. During the rival engagements of Kean and Forrest these gentlemen -went backwards and forwards between the ‘Park’ and the ‘Bowery,’ and -after witnessing the ‘Lear’ of the greatest of English actors since -Garrick, and the Lear of Forrest, unanimously decided, upon the most -careful and critical discussion, that, great as Kean was, Forrest was -THE Lear. Unhappily he was only an American boy, and American actors -were not then the fashion. It was in the days of Anglomania, and the -fashion was to pooh-pooh everything that had not graduated at Covent -Garden or Drury Lane and lacked the full diploma of cockney approbation. -Forrest, both as man and actor, was a full-blooded American and a sturdy -Democrat,—two fearful crimes at a time when art was measured wholly by -an English standard and politics reduced criticism to almost as -despicable servility as they do now. Happily for the impartiality of -discussion in art we have outlived the period of Anglomania, and are -rather virtuously proud than otherwise of anything genuinely American. -And this Edwin Forrest is. His career, too, is a fine example at once of -personal devotion to art, and of ‘the sober second thought of the -people,’ which all the critics failed to alter. For, even when the -latter were most mad against him, he always drew crowds, and we may say -safely, by the power of native genius, supported only by an iron will, -he has shone for fifty years, with increasing lustre, as a star in the -dramatic firmament. William Leggett of the Evening _Post_, who was a -power in New York politics and loved Forrest as a brother, tried to draw -him, in his early manhood, into politics. Had the latter consented to -abandon his profession, he might have commanded, at that time, any -nomination in the gift of the New York Democracy, and risen to the -highest political employments in the State. But he had chosen art as a -mistress, and refused to abandon her for the colder but equally exacting -idol of the mind,—political ambition. It is to this refusal we owe the -fact that our stage is still graced by the greatest actor America has -ever produced.” - -The dramatic season of 1871–72 gave an astonishing proof of the vital -endurance and popular attractiveness of the veteran player, then in his -sixty-sixth year. Between October 1st and April 4th he travelled over -seven thousand miles, acted in fifty-two different places, one hundred -and twenty-eight nights, and received the sum of $39,675.47. He began at -the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, proceeded to Columbus and -Cincinnati, and then appeared in regular succession at New Orleans, -Galveston, Houston, Nashville, Omaha, and Kansas City. At Kansas City -excursionists were brought by railroad from the distance of a hundred -and fifty miles, at three dollars each the round trip. From this place -his series of engagements took him to Saint Louis, Quincy, Pittsburg, -Cleveland, Buffalo, Detroit, Rochester, Syracuse, Utica, Troy, and -Albany. From Albany he journeyed to Boston, where he opened an -engagement at the Globe Theatre with Lear, before an audience of great -brilliancy completely crowding the house. He had a triumph in every way -flattering, although the herculean toils of the season behind him had -most severely taxed his strength. How he played may be imagined from the -following report, made by a distinguished author in a private letter. “I -went last night to see Forrest. I saw Lear himself; and never can I -forget him, the poor, discrowned, wandering king, whose every look and -tone went to the heart. Though mimic sorrows latterly have little power -over me, I could not suppress my tears in the last scene. The tones of -the heart-broken father linger in my ear like the echo of a distant -strain of sad sweet music, inexpressibly mournful, yet sublime. The -whole picture will stay in my memory so long as soul and body hang -together.” - -On the Monday and Tuesday evenings of the second week, he appeared as -Richelieu. He had taken a severe cold, and was suffering so badly from -congestion and hoarseness that Oakes tried to persuade him not to act. -He could not be induced, he said, to disappoint the audience by failing -to keep his appointment. Oakes accompanied him to his dressing-room, -helped him on with his costume, and, when the bell rang, led his -tottering steps to the stage entrance. The instant the foot of the -veteran touched the stage and his eye caught the footlights and the -circling expanse of expectant faces, he straightened up as if from an -electric shock and was all himself. At the end of each scene Oakes was -waiting at the wing to receive him and almost carry him to a chair. -Besought to take some stimulant, he replied, “No: if I die to-night, -they shall find no liquor in me. My mind shall be clear.” And so he -struggled on, playing by sheer dint of will, with fully his wonted -spirit and energy, but the moment he left the eyes of the audience -seeming almost in a state of collapse. The play was drawing near its -end. And this, though no one thought of it, this was to be the last -appearance of Edwin Forrest on the stage. Débût, Rosalia de Borgia,— -interval of fifty-five years with slow illumination of the continent by -his fame,—exit, Richelieu! Oakes stood at the wing, all anxiety, peering -in and listening intently. The characters were grouped in the final -tableau. He stood central, resting on his left foot, his right slightly -advanced and at ease, his right arm lifted and his venerable face -upturned. Then his massive and solemn voice, breaking clear from any -impediment, was heard articulating with a mournful beauty the last words -of the play: - - “There is ONE above - Sways the harmonious mystery of the world - Even better than prime ministers. Alas! - Our glories float between the earth and heaven - Like clouds that seem pavilions of the sun - And are the playthings of the casual wind. - Still, like the cloud which drops on unseen crags - The dews the wild-flower feeds on, our ambition - May from its airy height drop gladness down - On unsuspected virtue; and the flower - May bless the cloud when it hath passed away.” - -Then, instead of inclining for the rise of the audience and the fall of -the curtain, he gazed for an instant musingly into vacancy, and, as if -some strange intuition or prophetic spirit had raised the veil of fate, -uttered from his own mind the significant words, “_And so it ends_.” - -He slept little that night, and, the next day, was clearly so much worse -that Oakes insisted resolutely that he should not act at any rate. He -was announced for Virginius, and was so set on going that his friend had -almost to use force to restrain him. Dr. S. W. Langmaid, so justly -eminent for his faithful skill, was called. He said, positively, “If you -undertake to act to-night, Mr. Forrest, you will in all likelihood die -upon the stage.” He replied, pointing to Oakes, “Then I owe my life to -that dear old fellow yonder; for if he had not obstinately resisted I -should certainly have gone.” Pneumonia set in, and for more than a week -a fatal result was feared. During all this time Oakes was his constant -nurse, catching a few moments of sleep when he could, but for the whole -period of danger never taking off his clothes except for a daily bath. -Unwearied and incessant in attentions, he left not his station until his -friend was so far recovered as to be able to start for Philadelphia. The -day after the convalescent reached home he wrote a letter of -affectionate acknowledgment to Oakes for all the services rendered with -such a loving fidelity. Here is an extract from it: “The air is sunny, -warm, and delicious, and I am pervaded by a feeling of rest which -belongs only to home. How marvellously I was spared from death’s -effacing fingers, and permitted for a little longer time to worship God -in the glad sunshine of his eternal temple. To your tender care and -solicitude during my illness I owe everything.” And thus the old tie of -friendship between the pair received another degree of depth and was -cemented with a new seal. - -Here it is fit to pause awhile in the narrative, go back a little to -gather up a few interesting things not yet mentioned, and supplement the -account previously given of his inner life by some further description -of the kind of man he was in social intercourse and in the privacy of -his home during his last years. - -His home was always a charmed and happy place to him, although -sorrowfully vacant of wife and children. He took great delight in the -works of art he had collected. In his picture-gallery he had paintings -of which he really made friends; and often of a night when he was -restless he would rise, go to them, light the gas, and gaze on them as -if they had a living sympathy to soothe and bless his spirit. But his -library was the favorite haunt where he felt himself indeed at ease and -supplied with just the ministration and companionship he craved. It -opened in the rear upon a spacious garden. Mr. Rees once asked him why -he did not clear up this garden and beautify it with more flower-beds. -He answered, “I prefer the trees. When I sit here alone the whistling of -the wind through their branches sounds like a voice from another world.” -He always went away with regret and came back with pleasure. Nor was his -satisfaction altogether solitary. Writing to Oakes once he says, “Yes, -my friend, I am indeed happy once more to reach this sweet haven of -rest, my own dear home. My sisters received me with the greatest joy, -the servants with unaffected gladness, and the two dogs actually went -into ecstasies over me. It was a welcome fit for an emperor.” - -The loss of his three sisters one by one struck heavy blows on his -heart, and left his house darker each time than it had been before. In -1863 he writes,— - - “DEAR FRIEND OAKES,—I cannot sufficiently thank you for the kind - words of sympathy you have expressed for me in my late unhappy - bereavement—the loss of my dear sister Henrietta, who on the death - of my beloved mother devoted her whole life to me. Her wisdom was - indeed a lamp to my feet, and her love a joy to my heart. Ah, my - friend, we cannot but remember such things were that were most dear - to us. Do we love our friends more as we advance in life, that our - loss of them is so poignant, while in youth we see them fall around - us like leaves in winter weather as though the next spring would - once more restore them? I read your letter to my remaining sisters, - and they thanked you with their tears. You may remember that once - under a severe affliction of your own—the death of a loved friend—I - endeavored to console you with the hope of immortality. That fails - me now.” - -In 1869 he wrote again, “My sister Caroline died last night. We have a -sad house. Why under such bereavements has God not given us some -comforting reasonable hope in the future, where these severed ties of -friendship and love may be again united? Man’s vanity and self-love have -betrayed him into such a belief; but who knows that the fact -substantiates it?” And in 1871 once more he wrote, “My sister Eleanora -is dead, and there is now no one on earth whose veins bear blood like -mine. My heart is desolate.” This obituary notice appeared at the time: - -“The death of Eleanora Forrest, sister of Mr. Edwin Forrest the -tragedian, has cast a gloom over the large circle of her acquaintances, -which time alone can dispel; but the gloom which rests over the -household in which her gentle sway and influence brought peace and -happiness no change of time or season can ever remove. To one, at least, -the light of home went out with her life. To one, now the last of his -race, his splendid mansion will be as some stately hall deserted. Its -light has gone out; the garlands which her hands twined are dead; ‘the -eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone,’ will only appear again to him in -memory. Memory, however, - - “‘Is but a gift - Within a ruined temple left, - Recalling what its beauties were - And then painting what they are.’ - -“There was something so mild, so pure, so Christian-like, in this lady, -that her passing away from us is but a translation from earth to Heaven, -like a flower blooming here for awhile to find eternal blossom there. - -“Kind, gentle, with a hand open to charity, she did not remain at home -awaiting the call of the destitute and suffering, but when the storms -and the tempests of winter came and the poor were suffering, bearing -their poverty and wretchedness in silence, she came forth unsolicited to -aid them. We could name many instances of this; but she, who while -living did not wish her charities known, receives her reward from One -who reads the human heart and sways the destinies of mankind. The writer -of this speaks feelingly of one whom it was a pleasure and a happiness -to know. If ever a pure spirit left its earthly tenement to follow -father, mother, brothers, and sisters to the home ‘eternal in the -skies,’ it was that of Eleanora Forrest. There are many left to mourn -her loss, but only one of kindred remains to grieve. To him the -knowledge of her many virtues, sisterly affection, and the bright -hereafter, must bring that peace no friendly aid can effect. Let us -remember, in our hours of affliction, that - - “‘Life’s a debtor to the grave, - Dark lattice, letting in eternal day.’” - -The revolutions of his tempestuous blood, the resentful memory of -wrongs, the keen perception of insincerity, shallowness, and -evanescence, and the want of any grounded faith in a future life gave -Forrest many hours of melancholy, of bitterness, and almost of despair. -But he never, not even in the darkest hour, became a misanthrope or an -atheist. In one of his commonplace books he had copied these lines which -he was often heard to quote: - - “The weariness, the wildness, the unrest, - Like an awakened tempest, would not cease; - And I said in my sorrow, Who is blessed? - What is good? What is truth? Where is peace?” - -A few of his characteristic expressions in his depressed moods may have -interest for the reader: - -“Is there then no rest but in the grave? Rest without the consciousness -of rest? The rest of annihilation?” - -“I am very sad and disheartened at the iniquitous decisions of these -juries and judges. I could willingly die now with an utter contempt for -this world and a perfect indifference to my fate in the next.” - -“I wish the great Day of Doom were not a chimera. What a solace it would -be to all those whom man has so deeply wronged!” - -“This human life is a wretched failure, and the sooner annihilation -comes to it the better.” - -While these impulsive phrases reveal his intense and unstable -sensibility, they must be taken with great allowance, or they will do -injustice to his better nature. They are transitory phases of experience -betraying his weakness. In his deeper and clearer moods he felt a -strange and profound presentiment of immortality, and surmised that this -life was neither the first nor the last of us. But living as he did -mostly for this material world and its prizes, he could not hold his -mind steadily to the sublime height of belief in the eternal life of the -soul. And so all sorts of doubts came in and were recklessly -entertained. Had his spirituality equalled his sensibility and -intelligence, and had he aimed at personal perfection as zealously as he -aimed at professional excellence, his faith in immortality would have -been as unshakable as was his faith in God. Also could he have filled -his soul with the spirit of forgiveness and charity instead of harboring -tenacious instincts of hate and disgust, he would have been a serene and -benignant man. His complaining irritability would have vanished in a -devout contentment; for he would have seen a plan of exact compensations -everywhere threading the maze of human life. - -But then he would not have been Edwin Forrest. Inconsistent extremes, -unregulated impulsiveness, unsubdued passion, some moral incongruity of -character and conduct, of intuition and thought, belonged to his type of -being. It is only required that those who assume to judge him shall be -just, and not be misled by any superficial or partial appearance of good -or evil to give an unfair verdict. His defects were twofold, and he had -to pay the full penalty for them. First, no man can lead a really happy -and noble life, in the high and true sense of the words, who is infested -with feelings of hate and loathing towards persons who have injured him -or shown themselves detestable. He must refuse to entertain such -emotions, and with a magnanimous and loving heart contemplate the fairer -side of society. For almost all our experience, whether we know it or -not, is strained through and tested and measured by our emotional -estimates of our fellow-men. It is chiefly in them, or in ourselves as -affected by our thoughts of them, that God reveals himself to us or -hides himself from us. Second, Forrest not only dwelt too much on mean -or hostile persons and on real or fancied wrongs, but he did not live -chiefly for the only ends which are worthy to be the supreme aim of man. -The genuine ends of a man in this world are to glorify God, to serve -humanity, and to perfect himself. And these three are inseparably -conjoined, a triune unity. The man who faithfully lives for these -religious ends will surely attain peace of mind and unwavering faith in -a Providence which orders everything and cannot err. The highest -conscious ends of Forrest were not religious, but were to glorify his -art, to perfect his strength and skill, and to win the ordinary prizes -of society,—wealth, fame, and pleasure. Elements of the superior aims -indeed entered largely into his spirit and conduct, but were not his -proposed and consecrating aim. This, as now frankly set forth, was his -failure, and the lesson it has for other men. - -But, on the other hand, he had his praiseworthy success. If he was -inferior to the best men, he was greatly superior to most men. For he -was no hypocrite, parasite, profligate, squanderer of his own resources, -or usurper of the rights of others. After every abatement it will be -said of him, by all who knew the man through and through, that he was -great and original in personality, honest in every fibre, truthful and -upright according to the standard of his own conscience, tender and -sweet and generous in the inmost impulses of his soul. On the other -hand, it must be admitted that he was often the obstinate victim of -injurious and unworthy prejudices, and abundantly capable of a profanity -that was vulgar and of animosities that were ferocious. This is written -in the very spirit which he himself inculcated on his biographer, to -whom he addressed these words with his own hand in 1870: “Having -revealed myself and my history to you without disguise or affectation, I -say, Tell the blunt truth in every particular you touch, no matter where -it hits or what effect it may have. To make it easier for you, I could -well wish that my whole life, moral and mental, professional and social, -could have been photographed for your use in this biographical -undertaking. And then, ‘though all occasions should inform against me,’ -though I might have too much cause to sigh over my many weaknesses and -follies, no single act of mine, I am sure, should ever make me blush -with shame. I always admired the spirit of Cromwell, who said sternly, -when an artist in taking his portrait would have omitted the disfiguring -wart on his face, ‘Paint me as I am!’” - -Forrest was one of those elemental men who want always to live in direct -contact with great realities, and cannot endure to accept petty -substitutes for them, or pale phantoms of them at several removes. He -craved to taste the substantial goods of the earth in their own -freshness, and refused to be put off with mere social symbols of them. -He loved the grass, the wind, the sun, the rain, the sky, the mountains, -the thunder, the democracy. He loved his country earnestly, truth -sincerely, his art profoundly, men and women passionately and made them -love him passionately,—the last too often and too much. For these -reasons he is an interesting and contagious character, and, as his -figure is destined to loom in history, it is important that his best -traits be appreciated at their full worth. - -It is but justice, as an offset to his occasional fits of the blues and -to the lugubrious sentiments he then expressed, some of which were -quoted a page or two back, to affirm the truth that if he suffered more -than most people he likewise enjoyed much more. Prevailingly he loved -the world, and set a high value on life and took uncommon pains to -secure longevity. As a general thing his spirit of enjoyment was sharp -and strong. One illustration of this was the pronounced activity of the -element of humor in him. This humor was sometimes grim, almost sardonic, -and bordering on irony and satire, but often breathed itself out in a -sunny playfulness. This lubricated the joints and sockets of the soul, -so to speak, and made the mechanism of experience move smoothly when -otherwise it would have gritted harshly with great frictional waste in -unhappy resistances. It is difficult to give in words due illustration -of this quality, of its genial manifestations in his manner, and of its -happy influence on his inner life. But all his intimate friends know -that the trait was prominent in him and of great importance. When on -board the steamer bound for California, sick and wretched, he sent for -the captain, and with great earnestness demanded, “For how much will you -sell this ship and cargo?” After giving a rough estimate of the value, -the captain asked, “But why do you wish to know this?” Forrest answered, -“I want to scuttle her and end this detestable business by sinking the -whole concern to the bottom of the sea!” A soft-spoken clergyman, who -occupied the next state-room, overheard him giving energetic expression -to his discontent, and called on him to expostulate on the duty of -forbearance and patience, saying, “Our Saviour, you know, was always -patient.” “Yes,” retorted the actor, grimly, “but our Saviour went to -sea only once, and then he disliked it so much that he got out and -walked. Unfortunately, we cannot do that.” - -At another time a Calvinistic divine had been trying to convince him of -the punitive character of death, arguing that death was not the original -destiny of man, but a penalty imposed for sin. “What,” said Forrest, “do -you mean to say that if it had not been for that unlucky apple we should -have seen old Adam hobbling around here still?” - -Even to the end of his life he had the heart of a boy, and when with -trusted friends it was ever and anon breaking forth in a playfulness and -a jocosity which would have astonished those who deemed him so stern and -lugubrious a recluse. One day he went into a druggist’s shop where he -was familiar, for some little article. The druggist chanced to be alone -and stooping very low behind his counter pouring something from a jug. -Forrest slipped up and leaning over him thundered in his ear with full -pomp of declamation, “An ounce of civet, good apothecary!” The poor -trader revealed his comic fright by a bound from the floor which would -not have disgraced a gymnast. - -On arriving at the places where he was to act he was often annoyed by -strangers who pressed about him with pestering importunity merely from a -vulgar curiosity. On these occasions he would sometimes, as he reached -the hotel and saw the crowd, leap out of the carriage, say with a low -bow to his agent, “Please keep your seat, Mr. Forrest, and I will -inquire about a room,” and then vanish, laughing in his sleeve, and -leaving the embarrassed McArdle to sustain the situation as best he -might. - -His just and complacent pride in his work, too, kept him from being -chronically any such disappointed and grouty complainer as he might -sometimes appear. It is a sublime joy for a man of genius, a great -artist, to feel, as the reward of heroic labor engrafted on great -endowment, that his rank is at the top of the world; that in some -particulars he is superior to all the twelve hundred millions of men -that are alive. There were passages in the acting of Forrest, besides -the terrific burst of passion in the curse of Lear, which he might well -believe no other man on earth could equal. - -The knowledge and culture of Forrest were in no sense limited to the -range of his profession. He was uncommonly well educated, not only by a -wide acquaintance with books, but also by a remarkably varied -observation and experience of the world. Whenever he spoke or wrote, -some proof appeared of his reading and reflection. Speaking of Humboldt, -he said, “Humboldt was a man open to truth without a prejudice. He was -to the tangible and physical world what Shakspeare was to the mind and -heart of man.” Characterizing a religious discourse which much pleased -him, he said, “Its logic is incontrovertible, its philosophy -unexceptionable, and its humanity most admirable,—quite different from -those homilies which people earth with demons, heaven with slaves, and -hell with men.” On one occasion, alluding to the facts that Shakspeare -when over forty attended the funeral of his mother, and that his boy -Hamnet died at the age of twelve, he regretted that the peerless poet -had not written out what he must then have felt, and given it to the -world. His genius under such an inspiration might have produced -something which would have made thenceforth to the end of time all -parents who read it treat their children more tenderly, all children -love and honor their parents more religiously. But, he added, it seemed -contrary to the genius of Shakspeare to utilize his own experience for -any didactic purpose. At another time he said, “Shakspeare is the most -eloquent preacher that ever taught humanity to man. The sermons he -uttered will be repeated again and again with renewed and unceasing -interest not only in his own immortal pages, but from the inspired lips -of great tragedians through all the coming ages of the world.” - -A touching thing in Forrest in his last years was the unpurposed organic -revelation in his voice of what he had suffered in the battle of life. -What he had experienced of injustice and harshness, of selfishness and -treachery, of beautiful things relentlessly snatched away by time and -death, had left a permanent memorial in the unstudied tones and cadences -of his speech. As he narrated or quoted or read, his utterance was -varied in close keeping with what was to be expressed. But the moment he -fell back on himself, and gave spontaneous utterance from within, there -was a perpetual recurrence of a minor cadence, a half-veiled sigh, a -strangely plaintive tone, sweet and mournful as the wail of a dying wind -in a hemlock grove. - -A trait of Forrest, to which all his friends will testify, was the -perfect freedom of his usual manner in private life from all -theatricality or affectation. His bearing was natural and honest, -varying truthfully with his impulses. With an actor so powerfully marked -as he this is not common. Most great actors carry from their -professional into their daily life some fixed strut of attitude or -chronic stilt of elocution or pompous trick of quotation. It was not so -with Forrest, and his detachment from all such habits, his straight-on -simplicity, were an honor to him and a charm to those who could -appreciate the suppression of the shop in the manly assertion of dignity -and rectitude. He had no swagger, though he had a swing which belonged -to his heavy equilibrium. His speech attracted attention only from its -uncommon ease and finish, not from any ostentation. The actor, it has -been justly said, is so far contemptible who keeps his mock grandeur on -when his buskins are off, and orders a coffee-boy with the air of a -Roman general commanding an army. He seems ever to say by his manner, It -is easier to be a hero than to act one. Charles Lamb relates that a -friend one day said to Elliston, “I like Wrench because he is the same -natural easy creature on the stage that he is off.” Elliston replied, -with charming unconsciousness, “My case exactly. I am the same person -off the stage that I am on.” The inference instead of being identical -was opposite. The one was never acting, the other always. Mrs. Siddons, -it is said, used to stab the potatoes, and call for a teaspoon in a tone -that curdled the blood of the waiter. Once when she was buying a piece -of calico at a shop in Bath, she interrupted the voluble trader by -inquiring, Will it wash? with an accent that made him start back from -the counter. John Philip Kemble, dissatisfied with Sheridan’s management -and resolved to free himself from all engagements with him, rose in the -greenroom like a slow pillar of state, and said to that astonished -individual, “I am an eagle whose wings have long been bound down by -frosts and snows; but now I shake my pinions and cleave into the general -air unto which I am born.” Sheridan looked into the heart of the eagle, -and with a few wheedling words smoothed his ruffled plumage and made him -coo like a dove in response to new proposals. Greatness of soul is -necessary for a great actor, quick detachableness, and facility of -transitions, with full understanding, sensibility, and fire; but cold -counterfeits of these, empty forms of them swollen out with mechanic -pomp, are as odious as they are frequent. Some are great only when -inspired and set off by grand adjuncts; others are great by the native -build of their being. Forrest was of this latter class. He knew how to -act in the theatre, and to be simple and sincere in the parlor. - -But, when all is said, the greatest quality and charm of Forrest, the -deepest hiding of his magnetism, was his softness and truth of heart, -the quickness, strength, and beauty of his affection. Bitter experience -had taught him, before he was an old man, not to wear his heart on his -sleeve for the heartless to peck at it. But how shallow the observation -which, not seeing his heart on his sleeve, incontinently concluded that -he had none! The reverential gratitude with which he delighted to dwell -on the memory of his mother, the yearning fondness with which he was -wont to recall the names of his early benefactors and dwell on the -thought of the few living friends who had been ever kind and true to -him, amply demonstrated the strong grasp of his affection. “My mother,” -he one day said to him who now copies his words, “was weeping on a -certain occasion in my early childhood when she was hard pressed by -poverty and care. My father, in his grave, almost awful way, said to -her, ‘Do not weep, Rebecca. It will do no good. I know it is very dark -here. But it is all right. Above the clouds the sun is still shining.’ I -remember it made a great impression on my young mind; and many a time in -afterlife it came up and was a comfort to me. Ah, what, what would I not -give if I could really believe that when that dear good soul left the -earth my father met her ‘on a happier shore,’ and said, ‘Rebecca, you -will weep no more now. Did I not tell you it was all right?’” After the -death of Forrest, nigh a quarter of a century after it was written, was -found among his papers a faded and tear-stained letter, enclosing two -withered leaves, which read thus: - - “EDWIN FORREST, ESQ., FONTHILL: - - “These leaves were taken from your mother’s grave, on Sunday, August - 5th, 1849, and are presented as a humble but sacred memorial by your - friend, - - “W. H. M.” - -There is no surer proof of plentifulness of love within than is shown by -its finding vent in endearments lavished on lower creatures and on -inanimate things,—flowers, books, pictures, birds, dogs, horses. All -these were copiously loved by Forrest. All his life he had some dog for -a friend, and for the last twenty years he kept two or more. In the -summer of 1870 a little turkey in his garden, only a week old, by some -accident got its leg broken. He saw it, and commiserately picked up the -poor thing, carefully set its leg, laid it in a basket of wool, hung it -in a tree in the sunshine, and tenderly nursed and fed it till it was -whole. This and the succeeding incidents occurred under the observation -of his biographer, who was then paying him a visit. - -He used to go into his stable and pat and fondle his horses and talk -with them, looking in their eyes and smoothing their necks, as if they -had full intelligence and sympathy with him. “Why, Brownie, poor -Brownie, handsome Brownie, are you not happy to come out to-day?” he -said, as we rode along the Wissahickon, in a tone so tender and sad that -it moistened the eyes of his human hearer. It was his custom to go up -the river-side to a secluded place, and there get out and feed the horse -with apples. One day he had forgotten his supply, and, as he dismounted -and walked along in front of Brownie, he was touched to find the -intelligent creature following him, smelling at his pockets and nudging -him for her apples. - -In one aspect it was beautiful, in another it was mournful, to see him -going about his house, lonely, lonely, solacing himself for what was -absent with humble substitutes. He had a mocking-bird wonderfully gifted -and a great favorite with him and his sister. It bore the nickname of -Bob. In moulting it fell sick, lost both voice and sight, and seemed to -be dying. The great soft-hearted tragedian, thought by many to be so -gruff and savage, was overheard, as he stood before the cage, talking to -the sick bird, “Ah, poor Bob, poor Bob! Your myriad-voiced throat has -filled my house with wondrous melodies these years past. Why must this -cruel affliction come to you? You are a sinless creature. You cannot do -any harm. It perplexes my philosophy to know why you should have to -suffer in this way. Ah, little Bob, where now are all your sweet -mockeries? Blind? Dumb? It cuts me to the very soul to think of it. Ah, -well, well!” And he tottered slowly away, musing, quite as his Lear used -to do on the stage when unkindness had broken the old royal heart. - -Another characteristic incident is worth relating. He had a chamber at -the Metropolitan Hotel fronting on Broadway. Oakes and the present -writer were in a rear room. He sent for us to come to him and see the -funeral-procession of Farragut pass. He sank on his knees at the open -window as the sacred corse went by, and we saw the tears streaming down -his cheeks. The bands played a dirge, and the soldiers and marines -marched on, visible masses of music in blue and gold, as the sailors -proudly carried their dead admiral through the central artery of the -nation, and every heart seemed vibrating with reverence and grief. “The -grandest thing about this,” said Forrest, “is that he was a good man, -worthy of all the honor he receives. He whose modesty kept his bosom -from ever swelling with complacency while he was alive may now well -exult in death, as the sailors, unwilling to confide their commander to -any catafalque, lovingly bear him on their shoulders to his grave.” - -The love which Forrest had for children was one of the deepest traits of -his disposition. This tenderness was the same all through his career, -except that it seemed to grow more profound and pensive in his age. Two -anecdotes selected from among many will set this quality in an -interesting light. When he was in the fullest strength of his manhood -and was acting in Boston at the old National Theatre, there was at his -hotel a very sick child whose mother was quite worn out with nursing it. -Forrest begged permission to take care of the little sufferer through -the succeeding night, that the mother might sleep. The mother, fearing -that the terrible Metamora would prove rather a repulsive nurse for her -darling, hesitated, but at length gave consent. At the close of the play -he hurried back with so much haste that half the paint was left on one -of his cheeks. Through the whole night, hour after hour, he paced up and -down the room, tenderly soothing the fevered babe, which lay on his -great chest with nothing but a silk shirt between its face and his skin. -The mother slept, and so did the child. And when the doctor came in the -morning, he said that the care of Forrest and the vitality the infant -drew from his body during the long hours had saved its life. - - All night long the baby-voice - Wailed pitiful and low; - All night long the mother paced - Wearily to and fro, - Striving to woo to those dim eyes - Health-giving slumbers deep; - Striving to stay the fluttering life - With heavenly balm of sleep. - - Three nights have passed—the fourth has come; - O weary, weary feet! - That still must wander to and fro— - Relief and rest were sweet. - But still the pain-wrung, ceaseless moan - Breaks from the baby-breast, - And still the mother strives to soothe - The suffering child to rest. - - Lo, at the door a giant form - Stands sullen, grand, and vast! - Over that broad brow every storm - Life’s clouds can send has passed. - Those features of heroic mould - Can waken awe or fear; - Those eyes have known Othello’s scowl, - The maniac glare of Lear. - - The deep, full voice, whose tones can sweep - In thunder to the ear, - Has learned such softness that the babe - Can only smile to hear. - The strong arms fold the little form - Upon the massive breast. - “Go, mother, _I_ will watch your child,” - He whispers; “go and rest!” - - All night long the giant form - Treads gently to and fro; - All night long the deep voice speaks - In murmured soothings low, - Until the rose-light of the morn - Flushes the far-off skies: - In slumber sweet on Forrest’s breast - At last the baby lies. - - O Saviour, Thou didst bid one day - The children come to Thee! - He who has served Thy little ones, - Hath he not, too, served Thee? - Low lies the actor now at rest - Beneath the summer light; - Sweet be his sleep as that he gave - The suffering child that night! - - LUCY H. HOOPER. - -The other anecdote, though less dramatic, is of still deeper -significance as a revelation of his soul. During the last ten or twelve -years of his life, when he was fulfilling his engagements in the -different cities, he used so to time and direct his walks that he might -be near some great public school at the hour when the children were -dismissed. There he would stand—the grim-looking, lonely old man, whose -surface might be hard, but whose heart was very soft—and gaze with a -thoughtful and loving regard on the throng of boys and girls as they -rushed out bubbling over with delight, variously sorting and grouping -themselves on their way home. This was a great enjoyment to him, though -not unmixed with an attractive pain. It soothed his childless soul with -ideal parentage, gave him a bright glad life in reflected sympathy with -the dancing shouters he saw, and stirred in his imagination a thousand -dreams, now of the irrevocable past, now of the mysterious future. - -Resuming the narrative with the opening of June, 1872, Forrest is lying -in his bed in a woeful state, brought on him by a nostrum called -“Jenkins’s cure for gout.” A doctor Jenkins of New Orleans told him if -he would take it, it would produce an excruciating attack of the -disease, but would then eradicate it from the system and effect a -permanent cure. He took it. He experienced the excruciating attack. The -permanent cure did not follow. As soon as Oakes learned of his -situation, body racked with torture, limbs palsied, mind at times -unhinged and wandering, he started for the scene. His own words will -best describe their meeting. “When I entered his chamber he was in a -doze, and I stood at his bedside until he awoke. Opening his eyes, he -gazed steadily into my face for about a minute. He knew me then, and -said, in the most touching manner, ‘My friend, I am always glad to see -you, but never in my life so much so as now.’ Again looking steadily at -me for about a minute, he said, ‘Oakes, put my hand in yours: it is -paralyzed but true.’ I took his hand tenderly from the bed and placed it -in mine. He could not move the fingers, but I felt his noble heart throb -through them. At once I began organizing my hospital. I had him washed, -his flannel and the bed-linen changed, the doors and windows flung wide -open, and gave him all he could take of the best of nourishment,— -strawberries, fresh buttermilk, and beef tea strong enough to draw four -hundred pounds the whole length of the house. Already he is greatly -improved. I keep him perfectly quiet, allowing no one on any excuse -whatever to see him.” Under this style of doctoring and nursing, all -impregnated with the magnetism of friendship, it was natural that in -three weeks he should be comfortably about his house, as he was. - -One morning in the midst of his illness, but when he had passed a night -free from pain, and his mind was in a most serene state yet marked by -great exaltation of thought and language, he began relating to Oakes, in -the most eloquent manner, his recollections of old Joseph Jefferson, the -great comedian. He told how when a boy he had visited that beautiful and -gifted old man; what poverty and what purity and high morality were in -his household; how he had educated his children; and how at last he had -died among strangers, heart-broken by ingratitude. He told how he had -seen him act Dogberry in a way that out-topped all comparison; how at a -later time he had again seen him play the part of the Fool in Lear so as -to set up an idol in the memory of the beholders, for he insinuated into -the words such wonderful contrasts of the greatness and misery and -mystery of life with the seeming ignorant and innocent simplicity of the -comments on them, that comedy became wiser and stronger than tragedy. - -His listener afterwards said, “We two were alone. Never had I seen him -so deeply and so loftily stirred in his very soul as he was then about -Jefferson. His eulogy had more moral dignity and intense religious -feeling than any sermon I ever heard from the pulpit. It was as grand -and fine as anything said by Cicero. This was especially true of his -closing words. When he seemed to have emptied his heart in admiring -praises on the old player, he ended thus, querying with himself as if -soliloquizing: ‘Is it possible that all of such a man can go into the -ground and rot, and nothing of him at all be left forever? If he is not -immortal, he ought to be. It must be that he is, though our philosophy -cannot find it out.’” - -It is a curious proof of how his moods shaped and colored his beliefs to -read in connection with the above the following extract from a letter he -wrote in 1866. “There is great consolation in the sincere belief of the -immortality of the soul. If I could honestly and reasonably entertain -such a faith, that the love and friendship of to-day will extend through -all time with renewed devotion, death would have no sting and the grave -no victory. I quite envied the closing hours of Senator Foote the other -day. He was so serenely confident of seeing all his friends again, that -by the perishing light of his fervid brain he seemed for a moment to -realize the illusion of his earth-taught faith.” - -It was now September. The semi-paralyzed condition of his limbs forbade -every thought of returning to the stage that season; though, with a -self-flattery singular in one of so experienced and clear a head, he -fondly hoped to recover in time, and to act for years yet. His interest -in everything connected with his profession knew no abatement, and he -always took the most cheerful view of the future of the drama. He did -not yield to that common fallacy which glorifies the past at the expense -of the present and holds that everything glorious is always in decline -and sure ere long to perish. Sheridan said, while surrounded by Johnson, -Burke, Hume, Robertson, Gibbon, Pitt, and Fox, “The days of little men -have arrived.” The trouble is that we see the foibles and feel the -faults of our contemporaries, but not those of our predecessors who sit, -afar and still, aggrandized into Olympians in historic memory. Mrs. -Siddons often saw before her, sitting together in the orchestra, all in -tears, Burke, Reynolds, Fox, Gibbon, Windham, and Sheridan. Yet in her -day as now the constant talk was of the failing glory of the theatre. -Also in the time of Talma, in 1807, Cailhava presented a memoir to the -Institute of France, “Sur les Causes de la Décadence du Théâtre.” The -fact is, the theatres of the world were never so numerous, so splendid, -so largely attended, as now; the playing as a whole was never so good, -the morality of the pieces never so high, and the behavior of the -audiences never so orderly and refined. In spite of everything that can -be said on the other side, this is the truth. The former advantage of -the drama was simply that it stood out in more solitary and conspicuous -relief, occupied a larger relative space, and made therefore a greater -and more talked-of sensation. Its rule is now divided with a swarm of -other claimants. Still, intrinsically its worth and rank must increase -in the future, and not diminish. Forrest always clearly held to this -faith, and was much cheered by it. His conviction that the drama was -charged with a sacred and indestructible mission, and his enthusiastic -love for the personal practice of its art,—these were thoughts and -feelings - - “In him which though all others should decay, - Would be the last that time could bear away.” - -Accordingly, he would withdraw from the worship of his life, if withdraw -he must, only piecemeal and as compelled. His voice was unimpaired, and -he had for years been solicited to give readings. And so he resolved, -since he could not play Hamlet and Othello on the stage, he would read -them in the lecture-room. - -Therefore he read these two plays in Philadelphia, Wilmington, Brooklyn, -New York, and Boston. Although the rich mellow fulness, ease, and force -of his elocution were highly enjoyable, and there were many beauties of -characterization in his readings, his physique was so deeply shattered, -and his vital forces so depressed, that the vivacity, the magnetism, the -spirited variety of power necessary to draw and to hold a miscellaneous -crowd were wanting. The experiment was comparatively a failure. The -large halls were so thinly seated that, though the marks of approval -were strong, the result was not inspiring. He felt somewhat -disheartened, much wearied, and sighed for a good long period of rest in -his own quiet home. And so on Saturday afternoon, December 7, 1872, in -Tremont Temple, Boston, he read Othello, and made unconsciously his last -bow on earth to a public assembly, with the apt words of the unhappy -Moor, whose character much resembled his own: - - “I kissed thee ere I killed thee: no way but this,— - Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.” - -Oakes went with him to the train, saw him comfortably installed in the -car, and bade him an affectionate good-bye. “Another parting, my -friend!” said Forrest: “the last one must come some time. I shall -probably be the first to die.” Arriving at the hotel in New York, he -ordered a room and a fire, and went to bed, “and lay there thinking,” as -he said, “what a pleasant time he was indebted to his friend for in -Boston.” He reached home safely on the 9th. Two days he passed in rest, -lounging about his library, reading a little, and attending only to a -few necessary matters of business. “The time glided away like an -ecstatic dream, without any let or hindrance,” he wrote on the 11th to -Oakes,—the last letter he ever penned,—closing with the words, “God -bless you ever, my dear and much valued friend.” - -The earthly finale was at hand. Twenty years before this, in 1852, he -wrote to one of his early friends: - - “I thank you for your kindness in drinking my health in company with - my sisters to-day, the anniversary of my birth. The weather here is - gloomy and wears an aspect in accordance with the color of my fate. - There is a destiny in this strange world which often decrees an - undeserved doom. The ways of Providence are truly mysterious. From - boyhood to the present time I have endeavored to walk the paths of - honor and honesty with a kindly and benevolent spirit towards all - men. And I am not unwilling that my whole course of life should be - scrutinized with justice and impartiality. When it shall be so all - weighed together I have no fear of the result. And yet I have been - fearfully wronged, maligned, and persecuted. I do not, however, lose - my faith and trust in that God who will one day hold all men to a - strict and sure account. Kind regards to all, and believe me, - - “Ever yours, - “EDWIN FORREST.” - -On the eighth recurrence of the same anniversary after the date of the -above sombre epistle—that is, in 1860—he wrote these words: “Friendship -is as much prostituted as love. My heart is sick, and I grow aweary of -life.” And once more, on the 9th of March, 1871, he set down his feeling -in the melancholy sentence, “This is my birthday, another funeral -procession in my sad life, and the end not far off.” These expressions -reveal the gloomier side of a soul which had its sunny side as well, and -the more painful aspect of a life which was also abundantly blessed with -wealth, triumphs, and pleasures. But be the outward lot of any man what -it may, unless he has communion with God, a love for his fellows that -swallows up every hatred, and a firm faith in immortality, the burden of -the song of his unsatisfied soul will ever be, “Vanity of vanities, all -is vanity.” - -But sooner or later there is an hour for every earthly vanity to cease. -Nothing mortal can escape or be denied the universal fate and boon of -death. Its meaning is the same for all, however diverse its disguises or -varied its forms. A slave and prisoner, starved and festered in his -chains, groaned, as the sweet and strange release came, “How welcome is -this deliverance! Farewell, painful world and cruel men!” A Sultan, -stricken and sinking on his throne, cried, “O God, I am passing away in -the hand of the wind!” A fool, in his painted costume, with his grinning -bauble in his hand, said, as he too vanished into the hospitable -Unknown, “Alackaday, poor Tom is a dying, and nobody cares. O me! was -there ever such a pitiful to-do?” And a Pope, the crucifix lifted before -his eyes and the tiara trembling from his brow, breathed his life out in -the words, “Now I surrender my soul to Him who gave it!” - -The death of a player is particularly suggestive and impressive from the -sharp contrast of its perfect reality and sincerity with all the -fictitious assumptions and scenery of his professional life. The last -drop-scene is the lowering of the eyelid on that emptied ocular stage -which in its time has held so many acts and actors. The deaths of many -players have been marked by mysterious coincidences. Powell, starting -from the bed on which he lay ill, cried, “Is this a dagger which I see -before me? O God!”—and instantly expired. Peterson, playing the Duke in -Measure for Measure, said,— - - “Reason thus with life: - If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing - That none but fools would keep; a breath thou art”— - -and fell into the arms of the Friar to whom he was speaking; and these -were his last words. Cummings had just spoken the words of Dumont in -Jane Shore— - - “Be witness for me, ye celestial hosts, - Such mercy and such pardon as my soul - Accords to thee and begs of heaven to show thee, - May such befall me at my latest hour”— - -when he suddenly gasped, and was dead. Palmer, while enacting the part -of the Stranger, having uttered the sentence in his rôle, “There is -another and a better world,” dropped lifeless on the stage. In such -instances Fate interpolates in the stereotyped performance a dread -impromptu which must make us all feel what mysteries we are and by what -mysteries enshrouded. - -The morning of the 12th came, and the death of Edwin Forrest was at -hand. In the early light, solitary in the privacy of his chamber, he who -had no blood relative on earth, the last of his race, was summoned to -give up his soul and take the unreturning road into the voiceless -mystery. He who in the mimic scene had so often acted death was now to -perform it in reality. Now he who in all his theatrical impersonations -had been so democratic, was to be, in his closing and unwitnessed human -impersonation, supremely democratic, both in the substance and in the -manner of his performing. For this severing of the spirit from the -flesh, this shrouded and mystic farewell of the soul to the world, is a -part cast inevitably for every member of the family of man, and enacted -under conditions essentially identical by all, from the emperor to the -pauper. Perform or omit whatever else he may, every one must go through -with this. Furthermore, in the enactment of it all artificial dialects -of expression, all caste peculiarities of behavior, fall away; the -profoundest vernacular language of universal nature alone comes to the -surface, and the pallor of the face, the tremor of the limbs, the -glazing of the eye, the gasp, the rattle, the long sigh, and the -unbreakable silence,—are the same for all. Death knows neither -politeness nor impoliteness, only truth. Now the hour was at hand whose -coming and method had been foresignalled years ago, when, at Washington, -an apoplectic clot hung the warning of its black flag in his brain. No -visible spectators gathered to the sight, whatever invisible ones may -have come. No lights were kindled, no music played, no bell rang, no -curtain rose, no prompter spoke. But the august theatre of nature, -crowded with the circulating ranks of existence, stood open for the -performance of the most critical and solemn portion of a mortal destiny. -And suddenly the startling command came. With a shudder of all the -terrified instincts of the organism he sprang to the action. There was a -sanguinary rush through the proscenium of the senses. The cerebral stage -deluged in blood, the will instantly surrendered its private functions, -all fleshly consciousness vanished, and that automatic procedure of -nature, which, when not meddled with by individual volition, is -infallible, took up the task. Then, step by step, point for point, phase -on phase, he went through the enactment of his own death, in the -minutest particulars from beginning to end, with a precision that was -absolutely perfect, and a completeness that could never admit of a -repetition. It was the greatest part, filled with the most boundless -meaning, of all that he had ever sustained; and no critic could detect -the slightest flaw in its representation. - -The appalling performance was done, the actor disrobed, transformed, and -vanished, when the servants, concerned at his delay to appear, and -alarmed at obtaining no answer to their knocking, entered the chamber. -The body, dressed excepting as to the outer coat, lay facing upwards on -the bed, with the hands grasping a pair of light dumb-bells, and a livid -streak across the right temple. A near friend and a physician were -immediately called. But it was vain. The fatal acting was finished, and -the player gone beyond recall. - - The curtain falls. The drama of a life - Is ended. One who trod the mimic stage - As if the crown, the sceptre, and the robe - Were his by birthright—worn from youth to age— - “Ay, every inch a king,” with voiceless lips, - Lies in the shadow of Death’s cold eclipse. - - _Valete et plaudite!_ Well might he - Have used the Roman’s language of farewell - Who was “the noblest Roman of them all;” - For Brutus spoke, and Coriolanus fell, - And Spartacus defied the she-wolf’s power, - In the great actor’s high meridian hour. - - How as the noble Moor he wooed and wed - His bride of Venice; how his o’erwrought soul, - Tortured and racked and wildly passion-tossed, - Was whirled, resisting, to the fatal goal, - Doting, yet dooming! Every trait was true; - He lived the being that the poet drew. - - Room for the aged Cardinal! Once more - The greatest statesman France has ever known - Waked from the grave and wove his subtle spells; - A power behind, but greater than, the throne. - Is Richelieu gone? It seems but yesterday - We heard his voice and watched his features’ play. - - Greatest of all in high creative skill - Was Lear, poor discrowned king and hapless sire. - What varied music in the actor’s voice! - The sigh of grief, the trumpet-tone of ire. - Now both are hushed; we ne’er shall hear that strain - Of well-remembered melody again. - - No fading laurels did his genius reap; - With Shakspeare’s best interpreters full high - His name is graven on Fame’s temple-front, - With Kean’s and Kemble’s, names that will not die - While memory venerates the poet’s shrine - And holds his music more than half divine. - - FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE. - -Before noon Oakes received the shock of this portentous telegram from -Dougherty: “Forrest died this morning; nothing will be done until you -arrive.” He started at once, and reached Philadelphia in the bitter cold -of the next morning at four o’clock. Describing the scene, at a later -period, he writes, “I went directly into his bedchamber. There he lay, -white and pulseless as a man of marble. For a few minutes it seemed to -me that my body was as cold as his and my heart as still. The little -while I stood at his side, speechless, almost lifeless, seemed an age. -No language can express the agony of that hour, and even now I cannot -bear to turn my mind back to it.” - -Arrangements were made for a simple and unostentatious funeral; a modest -card of invitation being sent to only about sixty of his nearest friends -or associates in private and professional life. But it was found -necessary to forego the design of a reserved and quiet burial on account -of the multitudes who felt so deep an interest in the occasion, and -expressed so strong a desire to be present at the last services that -they could not be refused admission. When the hour arrived, on that dark -and rainy December day, the heavens muffled in black and weeping as if -they felt with the human gloom below, the streets were blocked with the -crowd, all anxious to see once more, ere it was borne forever from -sight, the memorable form and face. The doors were thrown open to them, -and it was estimated that nearly two thousand people in steady stream -flowed in and out, each one in turn taking his final gaze. The house was -draped in mourning and profusely filled with flowers. In a casket -covered with a black cloth, silver mounted, and with six silver handles, -clothed in a black dress suit, reposed the dead actor. Every trace of -passion and of pain was gone from the firm and fair countenance, looking -startlingly like life, whose placid repose nothing could ever disturb -again. All over the body and the casket and around it were heaped floral -tributes in every form, sent from far and near,—crosses, wreaths, -crowns, and careless clusters. From four actresses in four different -cities came a cross of red and white roses, a basket of evergreens, a -wreath of japonicas, and a crown of white camelias. Delegations from -various dramatic associations were present. A large deputation of the -Lotus Club came from New York with the mayor of that city at their head. -All classes were there, from the most distinguished to the most humble. -Many of the old steadfast friends of other days passed the coffin, and -looked their last on its occupant, with dripping eyes. One, a life-long -professional coadjutor, stooped and kissed the clay-cold brow. Several -poor men and women who had been blessed by his silent charities touched -every heart by the deep grief they showed. And the household servants -wept aloud at parting from the old master who had made himself earnestly -loved by them. - -The only inscription on the coffin-lid was the words, - - EDWIN FORREST. - - _Born March 9, 1806. Died December 12, 1872._ - -The pall-bearers were James Oakes, James Lawson, Daniel Dougherty, John -W. Forney, Jesse R. Burden, Samuel D. Gross, George W. Childs, and James -Page. The funeral cortége, consisting of some sixty carriages, moved -through throngs of people lining the sidewalk along the way to Saint -Paul’s Church, where the crowd was so great, notwithstanding the rain, -as to cause some delay. It seemed as though the very reserve and -retiracy of the man in his last years had increased the latent popular -curiosity about him, investing him with a kind of mystery. A simple -prayer was read; and then, in the family vault, with the coffined and -mouldering forms of his father and mother and brother and sisters around -him, loving hands placed all that was mortal of the greatest tragedian -that ever lived in America. - -The announcement of the sudden and solitary death of Forrest produced a -marked sensation throughout the country. In the chief cities meetings of -the members of the dramatic profession were called, and resolutions -passed in honor and lamentation for the great man and player, “whose -remarkable originality, indomitable will, and unswerving fidelity,” they -asserted, “made him an honor to the walk of life he had chosen,” and -“whose lasting monument will be the memory of his sublime delineations -of the highest types of character on the modern stage.” - -For a long time the newspapers abounded with biographic and obituary -notices of him, with criticisms, anecdotes, personal reminiscences. In a -very few instances the bitterness of ancient grudges still pursued him -and spoke in unkindness and detraction. There are men in whose meanness -so much malignity mixes that they cannot forgive or forget even the -dead. But in nearly every case the tone of remark on him was highly -honorable, appreciative, and even generous. Two brief examples of this -style may be cited. - -“One thing must be said of Edwin Forrest, now that he lies cold in the -tomb—he never courted popularity; he never flattered power. Importuned a -thousand times to enter society, he rather avoided it. The few -friendships he had were sincere. He never boasted of his charities; and -yet we think, when the secrets of his life are unsealed, this solitary -man, who dies without leaving a single known person of his own blood, -will prove that he had a heart that could throb for all humanity. Having -known him and loved him through his tribulations and his triumphs for -more than a generation, we feel that in what we say we speak the truth -of one who was a sincere friend, an honest citizen, and a benevolent -man.” - -“In our view Edwin Forrest was a great man; the one genius, perhaps, -that the American stage has given to history. The conditions of his -youth, the rough-and-tumble struggle of a life fired by a grand purpose, -the loves, hates, triumphs, and failures that preceded the placing of -the bays upon his brow, and the long reign that no new-comer ventured to -disturb, all point to a nature that could do nothing by halves and bore -the ineffaceable imprint of positive greatness. He was, essentially, a -self-made man. All the angularities that result from a culture confined -by the very conditions of its existence to a few of the many directions -in which men need to grow were his. His genius developed itself -irresistibly,—even as a spire of corn will shoot up despite encumbering -stones,—gnarled, rugged, and perhaps disproportioned. His art was -acquired not in the scholar’s closet or under the careful eye of learned -tradition, but from demonstrative American audiences. Therefore such -errors of performance as jumped with the easily excited emotions of an -unskilled auditory were made a part of his education and his creed by a -law which not even genius can surmount. So Forrest grew to giant -stature, a one-sided man. Experience and a liberal culture in later life -worked for him all that opportunity can do for greatness. That these did -not wholly remove the faults of his early training was inevitable, but -they so broadened his life and power that men of wisest censure saw in -him the greatest actor of his time, and a man who under favorable early -conditions would have stood, perhaps, peerless in the history of his -art. Such a man, bearing a life flooded with the sunshine of glory, but -often clouded with storm and almost wrecked by the pain that is born of -passion, needs from the nation that produced and honored him, not -fulsome adulation or biased praise, but dispassionate analysis and -intelligent appreciation.” - -One elaborate sketch of his life and character was published—by far the -ablest and boldest that appeared—whose most condemnatory portion and -moral gist ought to be quoted here, for two reasons. First, on account -of its incisive power, honesty, and splendid eloquence. Second, that -what is unjust in it may be seen and qualified: - -“The death of this remarkable man is an incident which seems to prompt -more of indefinite emotion than of definite thought. The sense that is -uppermost is the sense that a great vitality, an enormous individuality -of character, a boundless ambition, a tempestuous spirit, a life of rude -warfare and often of harsh injustice, an embittered mind, and an age -laden with disappointment and pain, are all at rest. Mr. Forrest, partly -from natural bias to the wrong and partly from the force of -circumstances and the inexorable action of time, had made shipwreck of -his happiness; had cast away many golden opportunities; had outlived his -fame; had outlived many of his friends and alienated others; had seen -the fabric of his popularity begin to crumble; had seen the growth of -new tastes and the rise of new idols; had found his claims as an actor, -if accepted by many among the multitude, rejected by many among the -judicious; and, in wintry age, broken in health, dejected in spirit, and -thwarted in ambition, had come to the ‘last scene of all’ with great -wealth, indeed, but with very little of either love or peace or hope. -Death, at almost all times a blessing, must, in ending such an -experience as this, be viewed as a tender mercy. His nature—which should -have been noble, for it contained elements of greatness and beauty—was -diseased with arrogance, passion, and cruelty. It warred with itself, -and it made him desolate. He has long been a wreck. There was nothing -before him here but an arid waste of suffering; and, since we understand -him thus, we cannot but think with a tender gratitude that at last he is -beyond the reach of all trouble, and where neither care, sorrow, self- -rebuke, unreasoning passion, resentment against the world, nor physical -pain can any more torment him. His intellect was not broad enough to -afford him consolation under the wounds that his vanity so often -received. All his resource was to shut himself up in a kind of feudal -retreat and grim seclusion, where he brooded upon himself as a great -genius misunderstood and upon the rest of the world as a sort of -animated scum. This was an unlovely nature; but, mingled in it, were the -comprehension and the incipient love of goodness, sweetness, beauty, -great imaginings, and beneficent ideas. He knew what he had missed, -whether of intellectual grandeur, moral excellence, or the happiness of -the affections, and in the solitude of his spirit he brooded upon his -misery. The sense of this commended him to our sympathy when he was -living, and it commends his memory to our respect in death.” - -The writer of the powerful article from which the above extract is -taken, in another part of it, said of Forrest, “He was utterly selfish. -He did not love dramatic art for itself, but because it was tributary to -him.” - -Now, although the brave and sincere spirit of the article is as clear as -its masterly ability, something is to be said in protest against the -sweeping verdict it gives and in vindication of the man so terribly -censured. That there is some truth in the charges made is not denied. -All of them—except the two last, which are wholly baseless—have been -illustrated and commented on in this biography, but, as is hoped, in a -tone and with a proportion and emphasis more accordant with the facts of -the whole case. The charges, as above made, of sourness, ferocity, -arrogance, cynicism, wretchedness, wreck, and despair, are greatly -unjust in their overcharged statement of the sinister and sad, -profoundly unfair in their omission of the sunny and smiling, features -and qualities in the life and character with which they deal. The writer -must have taken his cue either from inadequate and unfortunate personal -knowledge of the man or from representations made by prejudiced parties. -Ample data certainly are afforded in preceding pages of this volume to -neutralize the extravagance in the accusations while leaving the truth -that is also in them with its proper weight. - -One fact alone scatters the entire theory that the social and moral -condition of the tragedian was so fearfully dismal, forlorn, and -execrable,—the fact that he had high and precious friendships with -women, tenderly cherished and sacredly maintained. These were the -foremost joy and solace of his life. They were kept up by unfailing -attentions, epistolary and personal, to the last of his days. Into these -relations he carried a fervor of affection, a poetry of sentiment, a -considerate delicacy and refinement of speech and manner, which secured -the amplest return for all he gave, and drew from the survivors, when he -was gone, tributes which if they were published would cover him with the -lustre of a romantic interest. But it is forbidden to spread such -matters before the common gaze. They have a sacred right of privacy -which must be no further violated than is needed to refute the absurd -belief that the experience of Edwin Forrest was one of such unfathomable -desolation and unhappiness. - -No, a portrait in which he is shown as a man whose all-ruling motives -were cruel egotism, pride, vanity, and avarice, a man “whose nature -fulfilled itself,” and for that reason made his life a half-ignominious -and half-pathetic “failure,” will be repudiated by his countrymen. At -the same time his genuine portrait will reveal the truth that while he -loved the good in this world well, he hated the evil too much,—the truth -that while he sought success by honorable means, he too rancorously -loathed those who opposed him with dishonorable means,—and the truth -that while he won many of the solid prizes of existence and enjoyed them -with a more than average measure of happiness, he missed the very -highest and best prizes from lack of spirituality, serene equilibrium of -soul, and religious consecration. - -His literary agent for three years and intimate theatrical confrère for -a much longer period, Mr. C. G. Rosenberg, moved by the injurious things -said of him, published an article admitting his explosive irritability, -but affirming his justice and kindness and fund of genial humor and -denying the charges of an oppressive temper and arrogant selfishness. -His business manager and constant companion for a great many years loved -him as a brother, and always testified to his high rectitude of soul and -his many endearing qualities. In one of his latest years, when this -faithful servant lost a pocket-book containing over three thousand -dollars of his money, and was in excessive distress about it, Forrest, -without one sign of anger or peevishness or regret, simply said, in a -gentle tone, “Do not blame yourself, McArdle. Accidents will happen. We -can make it all up in a few nights. So let it go and never mind.” John -McCullough, who for six years had every condition requisite for reading -his character to the very bottom, bore witness to his rare nobility and -social charm, saying, “In heart he was a prince, and would do anything -for a friend. A thorough student of human nature, gifted with intensity, -he applied himself to the heart, and ever reached it. He was essentially -an autocrat. His personal magnetism was great, and he could draw -everything to him. Wherever he might be, men recognized him as king, and -he reigned without resistance, also without imposition.” For six years, -after the close of the War, he gave a one-armed soldier, as a vegetable -garden, the free use of a piece of land worth twenty-five thousand -dollars. This is an extract from one of his letters: “Notice has been -sent me that the price of the picture by Tom Gaylord is one hundred and -fifty dollars, but that if I think this too much I may fix my own price. -No doubt it is more than the painting is worth, but as the young man is -just beginning, and needs to be cheered on, I shall gladly give it to -encourage him for his long career of art.” When a certain poor man of -his acquaintance had died, and his widow knew not where to bury him, he -gave her a space for this purpose in his own lot in the cemetery. And -every winter he gave private orders to his grocer to supply such -suffering, worthy families as he knew, with what they needed, and charge -the bills to him. Surely these are not the kind of deeds done by, these -not the kind of tributes paid to, a misanthropic old tyrant, -discontented with himself, sick of the world, and breathing scorn and -wrath against everybody who approached him. - -The following letter, addressed by one of the oldest and choicest -friends of Forrest to another one, speaks for itself: - - “NEWPORT, KY., December 30, 1872. - - “S. S. SMITH, ESQ.,— - - “MY DEAR FRIEND,—Our old and distinguished friend is no more. It is - a great sorrow to us and to his country. The papers show that all - mourn his loss, for he and his fame belonged to the public. I knew - Forrest well; except yourself, no man knew him better than I did. He - was a man of genius, of great will and energy, and, without much - education, by his own untiring efforts raised himself to the very - highest pinnacle of fame in his profession. There was a grandeur in - the man, in every thing he did and said, and hence the great - admiration his friends had for him. He was a truly noble and - generous man, one who loved his friends with devotion, and despised - his enemies. I first made his acquaintance at Lexington, Kentucky, - in the fall of 1822. He came there with Collins & Jones as one of - their theatrical corps. He was then between sixteen and seventeen, - and was the pet of us college boys. He made his first appearance as - Young Norval, and the boys were so much taken with him that after - the play was over we went to the greenroom, and took him, dressed as - he was in character, to a supper. That night he slept with me in my - boarding-house. We had breakfast in my room, and it was late before - he left. I wanted to lend him a suit to go home in; but no, he would - go in his Highland costume, a feather in his hat, straight down Main - Street, with a crowd of boys following him to his hotel. He played - all that winter in Lexington, and when the Medical and Law Colleges - broke up in the spring he went to Cincinnati. That was in March or - April, and he boarded at Mrs. Bryson’s, on Main Street. In the - summer of 1823 he came to Newport with Mrs. Riddle and her daughter - and two or three actors, and rented a house on the bank of the - river. I assisted him in fixing up a small theatre in the old frame - buildings of the United States barracks at the Point of Licking, and - we had plays there until October. My brother-in-law, Major Harris, - played Iago to his Othello. I was to have played Damon to his - Pythias, but some difficulty occurred which prevented it. Forrest - was then very poor, but kept up his spirits, and spent many nights - with me in my father’s old office. His great delight was to get in a - boat and sail for hours on the river when the wind was high. In the - fall of 1823 he returned with Collins & Jones to Lexington, the - Drakes, I think, uniting, and played the winter of 1823-24. He - played with Pelby and his wife, and Pemberton, an actor from - Nashville. He improved rapidly in his profession, and had always one - of the most prominent characters cast to him. In fact, he would play - second to no man. I was very intimate with him that whole winter, - and on the first day of January, 1824, Tom Clay and several of us - gave a fine dinner at Ayers’s Hotel, and he was the _distinguished - guest_. We all made speeches and recitations, and before we had - finished the entertainment we had an extensive audience. Forrest had - many intimate friends among the students, and he often attended the - college declamations. He had a great admiration for the eloquence of - Doctor Holley, our President, and has often told me of the benefit - he derived from the style of this remarkable orator. In March of - 1824 I returned home, after the breaking up of the Law School, and - played Zanga, in Young’s Revenge, at the Columbia Street Theatre, - for the benefit of old Colonel John Cleve Symmes. We had a crowded - house. Sallie Riddle played in the same piece. It was to enable Mr. - Symmes to get to his Hole at the North Pole; but, poor man, he never - got further than New York. I think Mr. Forrest went that spring to - New Orleans. I am very certain he was not in Cincinnati when I - played in the Revenge, otherwise he would have performed in the same - play. It has been published in the papers that Forrest was once a - circus rider and tumbler. No such thing. The only time he was ever - connected with a circus was when with the circus company in - Lexington he played Timour the Tartar. Mrs. Pelby and others were in - the same piece. He looked Grandeur itself when mounted on Pepin’s - famous cream-colored horse. After March, 1824, I did not meet Mr. - Forrest again until the spring of 1828. He was then playing in New - York, and I saw him in his great character of Othello. His star had - then begun to rise, and it continued to rise until it reached its - zenith, and there it continued to shine until the last hour of his - life. His place cannot be filled in this country. Great actors are - born, and not made. To be a great tragedian a man must possess the - soul, the passion, and the eloquence to delineate the character he - represents. Forrest had that beyond most men. - - “I thank you for the paper containing his will and other - reminiscences of him. My wife has been since his death clipping from - the newspapers all that has been written about him, and has put the - notices in her scrap-book. Some of the journals have done him - justice, others have not; but posterity will cherish his memory and - feel proud of the man. In 1870 I had a copy made of my portrait of - George Frederick Cooke by Sully, and sent it to him. I think you saw - it. He wrote me at Fire Island, New York, a long and affectionate - letter acknowledging the receipt of the portrait and pressing me to - spend a week with him at his house. My daughter, Mrs. Jones, has the - letter, and has copied it in her book of original letters written to - my father by Henry Clay and many other distinguished men of our - country. The last time Mr. Forrest was in Cincinnati he walked over - one morning to see me and the family. We took him back in my - carriage to his hotel, and as he parted from my daughter Martha and - myself his eyes were filled with tears, and he exclaimed, ‘God bless - you!’ and left us. This was the last time I ever saw our - distinguished and much beloved friend. My daughter, only last night, - was speaking of this event of our parting, and how much affected Mr. - Forrest seemed to be. - - “Forrest was a great favorite with my wife. She knew him in 1823 and - 1824, and, before our marriage, had often witnessed his performances - at Lexington when a girl. She well knew the great friendship that - united us: hence in referring to our boy and girl days in Lexington, - Kentucky, she often speaks of Forrest, and how much he was respected - and his company sought by the college boys at Old Transylvania. I - have a very fine daguerreotype picture of our friend, and two quite - large photographs he sent me through you several years ago. They - will be faithfully preserved and handed down to my children and to - their children as the picture of a man concerning whom it may well - be said, ‘Take him for all in all, we shall not look upon his like - again.’ - - “All we have left to us, my friend, is to meet and talk over the - pleasure we once enjoyed in the company of our friend. He was so - full of wit and humor! And how well he told a story! I remember the - day, some years back, he and you spent at my house. All my family - were present, together with several friends, and he fascinated us - all at dinner by his eloquence, and his incidents of foreign travel. - How heartily we laughed at the anecdotes which he told with such - fine effect! Then we had music at night, and he recited the ‘Idiot - Boy,’ to the delight of every one, and it was the ‘witching time of - night’ when the company broke up. - - “I am very truly your friend and obedient servant, - “JAMES TAYLOR.” - -Alas, how easy it is, and how congenial it seems to be to many, to let -down and tarnish the memory of a great man by an estimate in which his -vices are magnified and his virtues omitted! So did old Macklin say of -David Garrick, “He had a narrow mind, bounded on one side by suspicion, -by envy on the other, by avarice in front, by fear in the rear, and with -self in the centre.” But against every unkind or demeaning word spoken -of the departed Forrest a multitude of facts protest. Two of these may -be cited to show the genius he had to make himself loved and admired and -remembered. - -On receiving intelligence of the death of his benefactor, a literary -gentleman who had been tried by severe misfortunes of poverty and -blindness and paralysis, and had experienced extreme kindness as well as -generous aid at the hands of Forrest, wrote to Oakes a long letter, -eloquent with gratitude and admiration, and closing with the poetic -acrostic which follows. The writer thoroughly knew and loved the actor -both personally and professionally,—a fact that adds value to his -eulogistic appreciation: - - Ever foremost in histrionic fame, - Death cannot dim the lustre of thy name. - Wondrously bright the record of thy life, - In spite of wrongs that drove thee into strife. - Nobler by far than titled lord or peer! - - Friend of thy race, philanthropist sincere, - On earth esteemed for charms of intellect, - Renowned as well for manhood most erect; - Reserved, but kind, from ostentation free, - Envying no one of high or low degree, - Scorning all tricks of meretricious kind, - Thy course is run, thy glory left behind! - - LOUIS F. TASISTRO. - -On the first anniversary of his death a company of gentlemen, actuated -by purely disinterested motives, met in New York and organized the Edwin -Forrest Club, with a president, vice-president, and seven directors. -“The primary object of the club shall be to foster the memory of the -great actor, to erect a statue of him in the Central Park, and to -collect criticisms, pictures, and all things relating to him, for the -purpose of forming a Forrest Museum.” After the memory of Forrest had -been drunk standing, Mr. G. W. Metlar, a friend from his earliest -boyhood, paid an affectionate eulogy to his worth. Others offered -similar tributes. And the corresponding secretary of the club, Mr. -Harrison, said, “Gentlemen, however well the world may know Mr. Forrest -as an actor, it knows comparatively nothing of him as a man. A kinder -heart never beat in the bosom of a human being. In the finer sympathies -of our nature he was more like a child than one who had felt an undue -share of the rude buffets of ingratitude. When speaking with him of the -troubles of others I have often seen his eyes suffused with tears. The -beggar never knocked at his door and went away unladen. And many is the -charity that fell from his manly hand and the relieved knew not whence -it came; but - - ‘Like the song of the lone nightingale, - Which answereth with her most soothing song - Out of the ivy bower, it came and blessed.’ - -And I may say with conscientious pride that however much any of the -great actors may have done for their national stage, Mr. Forrest, equal -to any of them, has done as much for the theatre of his country, and -will remain a recognized peer in the everlasting group. - - ‘He stands serene amid the actors old, - Like Chimborazo when the setting sun - Has left his hundred mountains dark and dun, - Sole object visible, the imperial one - In purple robe and diadem of gold. - Immortal Forrest, who can hope to tell, - With tongue less gifted, of the pleasing sadness - Wrought in your deepest scenes of woe and madness? - Who hope by words to paint your Damon and your Lear? - Their noble forms before me pass, - Like breathing things of a living class.’ - -The longer I allude to the tragedian the stronger becomes the sadness -that tinctures my feelings to think that he is no more, and that the -existence of the gifts Nature had so liberally bestowed on him had to -cease with the cessation of his pulse.” - -Everything set down by the biographer in this volume has been stated in -the simple spirit of truth. And if the pen that writes has distilled -along the pages such a spirit of love for their subject as makes the -reader suspect the writer possessed with a fond partiality, he asks, Why -is it so? His love is but a response to the love he received, and to the -grand and beautiful qualities he saw. A dried-up and malignant heart -does not breathe such effusive words in such a sincere tone as those -which, in 1869, Forrest wrote to Oakes: “The good news you send of the -restored health of our dear friend Alger gives me inexpressible relief. -Now I go into the country with abounding joy.” - -The fortune Forrest had laboriously amassed would amount, it was -thought, when it should all be made available, to upwards of a million -dollars. It was found that in his will he had left the whole of it— -excepting a few personal bequests—to found, on his beautiful estate of -“Spring Brook,” about eight miles from the heart of Philadelphia, the -EDWIN FORREST HOME, for the support of actors and actresses decayed by -age or disabled by infirmity. - -The trustees and executors have arranged the grounds and prepared the -buildings, removed thither all the relics of the testator, his books, -pictures, and statues, and made public announcement that the home is -ready for occupation. Thus the greatest charity ever bequeathed in the -sole interest of his own profession by any actor since the world began -is already in active operation, and promises to carry the name it wears -through unlimited ages. It pleasantly allies its American founder with -the old tragedian Edward Alleyn, the friend of Shakspeare, who two -hundred and fifty years ago established munificent institutions of -knowledge and mercy, which have been growing ever since and are now one -of the princeliest endowments in England. - -Those who loved Forrest best had hoped for him that, reposing on his -laurels, pointed out in the streets as the veteran of a hundred battles, -the vexations and resentments of earlier years outgrown and forgotten, -enjoying the calls of his friends, luxuriating in bookish leisure, -overseeing with paternal fondness the progress of the home he had -planned for the aged and needy of his profession, taking a proud joy in -the prosperity and glory of his country and in the belief that his -idolized art has before it here amidst the democratic institutions of -America a destiny whose splendor and usefulness shall surpass everything -it has yet known,—the days of his mellow and vigorous old age should -glide pleasantly towards the end where waits the strange Shadow with the -key and the seal. Then, they trusted, nothing in his life should have -become him better than the leaving of it would. For, receding step by -step from the stage and the struggle, he should fade out in a broadening -illumination from behind the scenes, the murmur of applause reaching him -until his ear closed to every sound of earth. - -It would have been so had he been all that he should have been. It was -ordained not to be so. Shattered and bowed, he was snatched untimely -from his not properly perfected career. But all that he was and did will -not be forgotten in consequence of what he was not and did not do. - -He will live as a great tradition in the history of the stage. He will -live as a personal image in the magnificent Coriolanus statue. He will -live as a learned and versatile histrionist in the exact photographic -embodiments of his costumed and breathing characters. He will live as a -diffused presence in the retreat he has founded for his less fortunate -brethren. Perhaps he will live, in some degree, as a friend in the -hearts of those who perusing these pages shall appreciate the story of -his toils, his trials, his triumphs, and his disappearance from the eyes -of men. He will certainly live in the innumerable and untraceable but -momentous influences of his deeds and effluences of his powerful -personality and exhibitions caught up by sensitive organisms and -transmitted in their posterity to the end of our race. And, still -further, if, as Swedenborg teaches, there are theatres in heaven, and -all sorts of plays represented there, those who in succeeding ages shall -recall his memory amidst the shades of time may think of him still as -acting some better part before angelic spectators within the unknown -scenery of eternity. - -Here the pen of the writer drops from his hand in the conclusion of its -task, and, with the same words with which it began, ends the story of -EDWIN FORREST. - - - - - APPENDIX. - - - I. - THE WILL OF EDWIN FORREST. - -I, EDWIN FORREST, of the city of Philadelphia, State of Pennsylvania, do -make and publish this my last Will and Testament. - -I give, bequeath and devise unto my friends JAMES OAKES, Esquire, of -Boston, JAMES LAWSON, Esquire, of New York, and DANIEL DOUGHERTY, -Esquire, of Philadelphia, all my property and estate, real and personal, -of whatsoever description and wheresoever situated, upon the trusts and -confidences hereinafter expressed; and I also appoint them my executors -to administer my personal estate and bring it into the hands of said -trustees; that is to say, upon trust, - -_First._ That they the said trustees, the survivors and survivor of -them, shall be authorized to sell all my real estate, at public or -private sale, at such times as in their judgment shall appear to be for -the best advantage of my estate, excepting from this power my country -place, in the Twenty-third Ward of the city of Philadelphia, called -“Springbrook,” and to convey to purchasers thereof a good title, in fee -simple, discharged of all trusts and obligation to see to the -application of the purchase moneys; and such purchase moneys, and the -proceeds of all the personal estate, shall be invested in such -securities and loans as are made lawful investments by the laws of -Pennsylvania, and shall be in the joint names of the trustees under my -Will. The investments which I shall have made my executors or trustees -may retain or change as they may think for the best advantage of my -estate. - -_Secondly._ Upon trust, to pay to my two sisters, Caroline and Eleanora, -jointly, while both remain single, and to the survivor of them until her -marriage or death, which shall first happen, an annuity of six thousand -dollars, in equal quarterly payments, in advance, from the date of my -decease; and should one marry, then to pay the said annuity of six -thousand dollars unto the other until marriage or death, whichever event -shall first happen; said annuity, however, not to be a charge upon any -real estate which shall be sold, but only upon the proceeds, and upon -trust to permit my said sisters, and the survivor of them, to use and -occupy my country place called Springbrook, with the necessary furniture -and utensils, and stock, until marriage or death as aforesaid, free of -all charge for rent, and to take the income and profits thereof; and the -said trustees shall pay the taxes thereon, and keep the same in repair. - -_Thirdly._ To take and hold all said property and estate in trust for an -institution, which they will call “THE EDWIN FORREST HOME,” to embrace -the purposes of which I hereinafter give the outlines; which institution -shall be established at my country place called Springbrook, certainly -within twenty-one years after the decease of the survivor of my said -sisters, and sooner if found judiciously practicable. - -The following is an _Outline of my Plan_ for said Home, which may be -filled out in more detail by the Charter and By-Laws. - -ARTICLE 1st. The said Institution shall be for the support and -maintenance of Actors and Actresses, decayed by age, or disabled by -infirmity, who if natives of the United States shall have served at -least five years in the Theatrical profession; and if of foreign birth -shall have served in that profession at least ten years, whereof three -years, next previous to the application, shall have been in the United -States; and who shall in all things comply with the laws and regulations -of the Home, otherwise be subject to be discharged by the Managers, -whose decision shall be final. - -ARTICLE 2d. The number of inmates in the Home shall never exceed the -annual net rent and revenue of the Institution; and after the number of -inmates therein shall exceed twelve, others to be admitted shall be such -only as shall receive the approval of the majority of the inmates as -well as of the Managers. - -ARTICLE 3d. The said corporation shall be managed by a Board of -Managers, seven in number, who shall in the first instance be chosen by -the said Trustees, and shall include themselves so long as any of them -shall be living, and also the Mayor of the city of Philadelphia for the -time being; and as vacancies shall occur, the existing Managers shall, -from time to time, fill them, so that, if practicable, only one vacancy -shall ever exist at a time. - -ARTICLE 4th. The Managers shall elect one of their number to be the -President of the Institution; appoint a Treasurer and Secretary, -Steward, and Matron, and, if needed, a Clerk; the said Treasurer, -Secretary, Steward, Matron, and Clerk subject to be at any time -discharged by the Managers; except the Treasurer, the said officers may -be chosen from the inmates of the Home; and the Treasurer shall not be a -Manager, nor either of his sureties. The Managers shall also appoint a -Physician for the Home. - -ARTICLE 5th. Should there be any failure of the Managers to fill any -vacancy which may occur in their board for three months, or should they -in any respect fail to fulfil their trust according to the intent of my -Will and the Charter of the Institution, it is my will, that upon the -petition of any two or more of said Managers, or of the Mayor of the -City, the Orphans’ Court of Philadelphia county shall make such -appointments to fill any vacancy or vacancies, and all orders and -decrees necessary to correct any failure or breach of trust, which shall -appear to said court to be required, as in case of any other -testamentary trust, so that the purposes of this charity may never fail -or be abused. - -ARTICLE 6th. The purposes of the said “Edwin Forrest Home” are intended -to be partly educational and self-sustaining, as well as eleemosynary, -and never to encourage idleness or thriftlessness in any who are capable -of any useful exertion. My library shall be placed therein in precise -manner as now it exists in my house in Broad Street, Philadelphia. There -shall be a neat and pleasant theatre for private exhibitions and -histrionic culture. There shall be a picture gallery for the -preservation and exhibition of my collection of engravings, pictures, -statuary, and other works of art, to which additions may be made from -time to time, if the revenues of the Institution shall suffice. These -objects are not only intended to improve the taste, but to promote the -health and happiness of the inmates, and such visitors as may be -admitted. - -ARTICLE 7th. Also as a means of preserving health, and consequently the -happiness, of the inmates, as well as to aid in sustaining the Home, -there shall be lectures and readings therein, upon oratory and the -histrionic art, to which pupils shall be admitted upon such terms and -under such regulations as the Managers may prescribe. The garden and -grounds are to be made productive of profit as well as of health and -pleasure, and, so far as capable, the inmates not otherwise profitably -occupied, shall assist in farming, horticulture, and the cultivation of -flowers in the garden and conservatory. - -ARTICLE 8th. “The Edwin Forrest Home” may also, if the revenues shall -suffice, embrace in its plan, lectures on science, literature and the -arts; but preferably oratory and the histrionic art, in manner to -prepare the American citizen for the more creditable and effective -discharge of his public duties, and to raise the education and -intellectual and moral tone and character of actors, that thereby they -may elevate the drama, and cause it to subserve its true and great -mission to mankind, as their profoundest teacher of virtue and morality. - -ARTICLE 9th. The “Edwin Forrest Home” shall also be made to promote the -love of liberty, our country and her institutions, to hold in honor the -name of the great Dramatic Bard, as well as to cultivate a taste and -afford opportunity for the enjoyment of social rural pleasures. -Therefore there shall be read therein, to the inmates and public, by an -inmate or pupil thereof, the immortal Declaration of Independence, as -written by Thomas Jefferson, without expurgation, on every Fourth day of -July, to be followed by an oration under the folds of our National flag. -There shall be prepared and read therein before the like assemblage, on -the birthday of Shakspeare, the twenty-third of April in every year, an -eulogy upon his character and writings, and one of his plays, or scenes -from his plays, shall, on that day, be represented in the theatre. And -on the first Mondays of every June and October the “Edwin Forrest Home” -and grounds shall be opened for the admission of ladies and gentlemen of -the theatrical profession, and their friends, in the manner of social -picnics, when all shall provide their own entertainments. - -The foregoing general outline of my plan of the Institution I desire to -establish, has been sketched during my preparations for a long voyage by -sea and land, and should God spare my life, it is my purpose to be more -full and definite; but should I leave no later Will or Codicil, my -friends, who sympathize in my purposes, will execute them in the best -and fullest manner possible, understanding that they have been long -meditated by me and are very dear to my heart. - -They will also remember that my professional brothers and sisters are -often unfortunate, and that little has been done for them either to -elevate them in their profession or to provide for their necessities -under sickness or other misfortunes. God has favored my efforts and -given me great success, and I would make my fortune the means to elevate -the education of others, and promote their success and to alleviate -their sufferings, and smooth the pillows of the unfortunate in sickness, -or other disability, or the decay of declining years. - -These are the grounds upon which I would appeal to the Legislature of my -Native State, to the Chief Magistrate of my Native City, to the Courts -and my Fellow-Citizens to assist my purposes, which I believe to be -demanded by the just claims of humanity, and by that civilization and -refinement which spring from intellectual and moral culture. - -I, therefore, lay it as a duty on my Trustees to frame a bill which the -Legislature may enact as and for the Charter of said Institution, which -shall ratify the Articles in said Outline of Plan, shall authorize the -Mayor of the City to act as one of its Managers, and the said Court to -exercise the visitatorial jurisdiction invoked; and prevent streets from -being run through so much of the Springbrook grounds as shall include -the buildings and sixty acres of ground. Such a Charter being obtained, -the corporation shall be authorized, at a future period, to sell the -grounds outside said space, the proceeds to be applied to increase the -endowment and usefulness of the Home. And so far as I shall not have -built to carry out my views, I authorize the said Managers, with consent -of my sisters, or survivor of them, having a right to reside at -Springbrook, to proceed to erect and build the buildings required by my -outline of plan, and towards their erection apply the income, -accumulated or current, of my estate. And should my sisters consent, or -the survivor of them consent, in case of readiness to open the Home, to -remove therefrom, a comfortable house shall be procured for them -elsewhere, furnished, and rent and taxes paid, as required in respect to -Springbrook, at the cost and charge of my estate, or of the said -corporation, if then in possession thereof. Whensoever the requisite -Charter shall be obtained, and the corporation be organized and ready to -proceed to carry out its design, then it shall be the duty of said -Trustees to assign and convey all my said property and estate unto the -said “Edwin Forrest Home,” their successors and assigns forever; and for -the latter to execute and deliver, under the corporate seal, a full and -absolute discharge and acquittance forever, with or without auditing of -accounts by an auditor of the court as they may think proper, unto the -said Executors and Trustees. - -In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal, this fifth -day of April, eighteen hundred and sixty-six. - - EDWIN FORREST, [SEAL.] - - Signed, sealed, declared and published as and for his last Will and - Testament by Edwin Forrest, in our presence, who at his request and - in his presence, and in presence of each other, have hereunto set - our hands as witnesses thereto. - - ELI K. PRICE, - H. C. TOWNSEND, - J. SERGEANT PRICE. - -Whereas I, EDWIN FORREST, of the city of Philadelphia, State of -Pennsylvania, having made and duly executed my last Will and Testament -in writing, bearing date the fifth day of April, eighteen hundred and -sixty-six. Now I do hereby declare this present writing to be as a -Codicil to my said Will, and direct the same to be annexed thereto, and -taken as a part thereof. - -And I do hereby give and bequeath unto my friend James Lawson, Esq., of -the city of New York, the sum of five thousand dollars. - -And, also, to my friend Daniel Dougherty, Esq., the sum of five thousand -dollars. - -And, also, to my beloved friend Miss Elizabeth, sometimes called Lillie -Welsh, eldest daughter of John R. Welsh, broker, of Philadelphia, the -sum of five thousand dollars. - -And, also, to my friend S. S. Smith, Esq., of Cincinnati, Ohio, the sum -of two thousand dollars. - -And, also, to the benevolent society called the Actors’ Order of -Friendship, “the first one of that name established in Philadelphia,” I -will and bequeath the like sum of two thousand dollars. - -In witness whereof, I, the said Edwin Forrest, have to this Codicil set -my hand and seal, this fifth day of April, eighteen hundred and sixty- -six. - - EDWIN FORREST, [SEAL.] - - Published and declared as a Codicil to his Will in our presence, by - E. Forrest, who in his presence and at his request have signed as - witnesses in presence of each other. - - ELI K. PRICE, - H. C. TOWNSEND, - J. SERGEANT PRICE. - -Whereas I have this day, October 18th, 1871, provided my friend James -Oakes with an annuity of twenty-five hundred dollars during his life, I -have erased from this Codicil and do revoke the five thousand dollars’ -legacy to him, and now do bequeath the said sum of five thousand dollars -intended for James Oakes, to my beloved friend Miss Elizabeth, sometimes -called Lillie Welsh, eldest daughter of John R. Welsh, broker, of -Philadelphia. This five thousand dollars is to be given in addition to -the sum of five thousand dollars already bequeathed to the said Miss -Welsh, making in all to her the gift of ten thousand dollars ($10,000). - -In witness hereof I set my hand and seal. - - EDWIN FORREST, [SEAL.] - - Witnesses present at signing: - - GEO. C. THOMAS, - J. PAUL DIVER. - -[Illustration: - - FORREST MEDALS. -] - - - II. - THE FORREST MEDALS. - -The duplicate of the first medal in gold was presented by Mr. Forrest to -the New York Historical Society, at a meeting held June 22d, 1868, -through the hands of James Lawson. It was accepted, with a vote of -thanks to the donor, and placed in the archives of the Society. - -The legend or motto on the second medal is from a sonnet by James Lawson -“To Andrew Jackson,” which may be found in Duyckinck’s Cyclopædia of -American Literature, vol. ii. p. 280, New York edition, 1855. - -The tokens were issued by tradesmen as a mode of advertisement. They are -an interesting proof of the great popularity of the tragedian. - - - I. - - _Ob._—A profile head of Forrest, facing to the left. Below the head - engraver’s initials, “C. C. W., Sc.” - - _Leg._—“Histrioni optimo Eduino Forrest, viro præstanti, MDCCC. - XXXIV.” - - _Rev._—The muse of Tragedy seated, holding in one hand a wreath, the - other holding a dagger, and resting on her lap. A mask resting - beside her. - - _Leg._—“Great in mouths of wisest censure.” - - _Ex._—“C. INGHAM, Del.” - - Metal, silver; size, 1–11/16 inch; edge plain. Two struck in - gold, twenty-six in silver. - - - II. - - _Ob._—A profile bust of Forrest, facing to the left. - - _Leg._—“Edwin Forrest.” - - _Ex._—In small letters, “_A. W. Jones, Del._ F. B. Smith & Hartmann, - N. Y., fecit.” - - _Rev._—A wreath bound with a ribbon, on which are inscribed the names - of Mr. Forrest’s celebrated characters. Within the wreath, “Born - in the City of Philadelphia, Pa., March 9, 1806.” “Just to - opposers, and to friends sincere.” - - Metal, copper; size, 3 inches; edge plain. Two struck in - silver; also struck in tin. - - - III. - - _Ob._—A profile head of Forrest, facing to the left. Below the head - the engraver’s name, “Merriam, Boston.” - - _Leg._—“Edwin Forrest, born March 9, 1806.” - - _Rev._—An olive wreath, enclosing the words, “Rose by his own - efforts,” also engraver’s name, “Merriam, Boston.” Outside of - the wreath, “Just to opposers, and to friends sincere.” - - Metal, copper; size, 1⅕ inch; edge plain. Also struck in - tin. - - - THE FORREST TOKENS. - - - I. - - _Ob._—A profile bust of Forrest enclosed with laurel branches, and - facing to the right. - - _Rev._—“E. Hill, Dealer in Coins, Medals, Minerals, Autographs, - Engravings, Old Curiosities, &c., No. 6 Bleecker St., N. York, - 1860.” - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - II. - - _Ob._—Same as last. - - _Rev._—Half-length figure of a man smoking. Legend, “No pleasure can - exceed the smoking of the weed.” - - Metal, tin; edge milled; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - III. - - _Ob._—Same as No. I. - - _Rev._—A box of cigars (regalias), two pipes crossed above the box. - Legend, “Levick, 904 Broadway, New York, 1860.” - - Metal, tin; edge milled; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - IV. - - _Ob._—Same as No. I. - - _Rev._—“F. C. Key & Sons, Die Sinkers and Medalists, 123 Arch St., - Phila.,” enclosed within a circle of thirty-two stars. - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - V. - - _Ob._—A profile bust of Forrest, facing to the right. Legend, “Edwin - Forrest.” - - _Rev._—Same as Rev. IX., last. - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - VI. - - _Ob._— Same as No. V. - - _Rev._—Profile bust of Webster, facing to the right. Legend, “Daniel - Webster.” - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - VII. - - _Ob._—Same as No. V. - - _Rev._—“Dedicated to Coin and Medal Collectors,” enclosed by two palm - branches crossed. Ex., “1860.” - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - VIII. - - _Ob._—Same as No. V. - - _Rev._—A race-horse standing, and facing to the left. “Mobile Jockey - Club.” “Member’s Medal.” - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - IX. - - _Ob._—Same as No. V. - - _Rev._—A witch riding on a broomstick. “We all have our hobbies.” “G. - H. L.” - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - X. - - _Ob._—Same as No. V. - - _Rev._—The name “Key” in large letters occupying the entire centre of - the field; within the name are enclosed in small letters the - following, “Ornamental Medal and Seal Die Sinkers, &c., &c., 329 - Arch St., Phila.” The whole surrounded by a constellation of - stars. - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - XI. - - _Ob._—Same as No. V. - - _Rev._—“Not transferable, 1853.” - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - XII. - - _Ob._—Same as No. V. - - _Rev._—Cupid on a dolphin. Ex., “1860.” - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - XIII. - - _Ob._—Same as No. V. - - _Rev._—“F. C. Key & Sons, Die Sinkers and Medalists, 123 Arch St., - Philadelphia.” - - Metal, tin; edge plain; size, 1⅛ inch. - - - - - INDEX. - - - Acrostic on Forrest, 845. - - Actions, the ninth dramatic language, 467. - - Actor, fame of, not perishable, 338. - - Actors, generosity of, 526. - lives of, 20. - - Adams, Samuel, 24. - - Æsthetic gymnastic, 659. - - Albany, speech of Forrest there in 1864, 559. - - Alger, William R., 846. - - Allen, Caridora, 324. - - Alleyn, Edward, 847. - - America, characteristic faults of, 49. - composite of races in, 47-52. - future of drama in, 547. - idea and genius and destiny of, 40-44. - lessons for, from the East, 48. - - American Drama, 421. - - American School of Acting, 17. - - Americanism, intense, of Forrest, 39, 40. - - Angelo, Michael, 480. - - Animal magnetism, 468, 469. - - Animals, societies for preventing cruelty to, 86. - - Aristocratic code of manners, 669. - - Artistic School of Acting, 646, 658-662. - - Asp, hisses the Cleopatra of Marmontel, 479. - - Asses, Feast of, in the Church, 685. - - Astor Place Opera-House Riot, 430-432. - - Atheists, 576. - - Athletic development, its glory, 251. - - Attitudes, the second dramatic language, 464. - - Auld Lang Syne, 422. - - - Ball, Thomas, sculptor, his Coriolanus statue, 631-633. - - Bannister, John, Forrest’s admiration of, 30. - his retort on the jealous actors, 480. - his vast popularity, 585. - - Barnwell, George, moral power of the play, 703. - - Baron, the French actor, 643. - - Barrett, Mrs. George, 533. - - Barry, Thomas, 527. - - Bath, Russian, Forrest’s first one, 283. - - Battle of the Theatre and the Church, 682-695. - - Beecher, Henry Ward, on theatre, 693. - - Bertinazzi, the pantomimist, 544. - - Betty, Master, the Infant Roscius, 595. - - Biddle, Nicholas, 325. - - Bird, Robert M., 169. - - Black, Colonel Samuel, 574. - - Blake, William R., his Jesse Rural, 545. - - Bob, Forrest’s mocking-bird, 824. - - Bogota, Broker of, 350. - - Bohemians, dramatic critics, 438, 549. - - Bonaparte, Jerome, Forrest’s interview with, 413. - - Booth, Edwin, abusive criticism of, 457. - the elder, 540. - Wilkes, affecting anecdote of, 546. - - Borgia, Rosalia de, Forrest appears as, 60. - - Bowie, Colonel James, 118-120. - - Bozzaris, Marco, 192, 289. - - Brady, James T., 618. - - Breeding, animals and human species, laws of, 46. - - Broker of Bogota, 350. - - Brooke, Gustavus Vasa, plays Iago to Forrest’s Othello, 401. - - Brownie, Forrest’s horse, 823. - - Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 563. - - Brutus, 220. - - Bryant, William Cullen, 338. - speech at Forrest Banquet, 417. - - Bryson, Mrs., Forrest boards with, 105. - - Burns, Robert, birthday festival in memory of, 403. - - Burton, W. G., his toast, 339. - - - Cade, Jack, by R. T. Conrad, 360. - - Caldwell, James H., 71, 111, 116, 137. - - California, official honors to Forrest, 555. - visit of Forrest there, 570. - - Cass, Lewis, gives a banquet in honor of Forrest, 593. - - Catullus, his threnody, 624. - - Chamouni, Forrest reads Coleridge’s hymn there, 281. - - Chandler, Joseph R., 333. - verses on Forrest, 67. - - Channing, William Ellery, 563. - - Character, three types of, in every man, 460. - - Charm, fourteen-fold, of the theatre, 688. - - Children, Forrest’s love for, 581, 824-826. - - Childs, George W., 836. - - Chinese Drama, 683. - - Choate, Rufus, death of, 573. - - Church and Theatre reconciled, 718. - - Circus, Forrest engages as a rider in, 112. - - Claqueurs, hired, 594. - - Classic School of Acting, 640. - - Clay, Henry, anecdote of, 593. - - Clown, secret of the vulgar delight in, 698. - - Club, the Edwin Forrest, 845. - - Coleridge, 24. - - Columbine and Harlequin, 697. - - Columbus, 698. - - Comer, Thomas, subjected to priestly bigotry, 694. - - Comparisons, personal, uses of, 673. - - Conrad, Robert T., 169, 332, 615, 616. - - Consuelo letter, the, 486. - - Contradictory accounts of Forrest’s Claude Melnotte, 458. - - Conway, the ill-fated actor, 136. - - Cooke, George Frederick, 456. - - Cooper, J. Fenimore, tribute to, 601. - - Cooper, Thomas A., interview of Forrest with, 68, 533. - - Coriolanus, as played by Forrest, 762-769. - Leggett on, 324. - - Criticism, dramatic, in newspapers, 458. - need of, for the critics, 439. - - Critics, Forrest grateful to three classes of, 434-436. - - Cushman, Charlotte, her Nancy Sykes, 457. - - - Damon, 211. - - Davenport, E. L., 540. - his tribute to Forrest, 541. - - Dawson, Moses, 104. - - Death always essentially the same, 831. - and immortality, Forrest on, 814. - of actors, 831. - of Forrest, 832. - - Definition of the Drama, 22, 459. - - Delsarte, François, 657-662. - - Democracy, ideal of, in Forrest, 53. - - Democratic code of manners, 669. - - Democratic Review on Forrest’s second reception in England, 399. - - Dewey, Rev. Orville, his eloquence, 339. - - Dougherty, Daniel, 16, 577, 834, 836. - - Drake, the theatrical manager, 536. - - Drama, definition of, 22, 459. - - Dramatic Art, definition of, 87. - illustrated in fables, 84. - in animals, 78-80. - in children, 83, 84. - in savages, 80-82. - - Dramatic Art, in society and in the theatre, 90. - varieties and levels of the, 95. - - Dramatic literature, American, patronized by Forrest, 167-170. - - Duane, William, first criticism on Forrest, 66. - - Dunlap, William, letter of, 336. - - Durang, Charles, 149. - - Durivage, F. A., letter by, 620. - poem by, 833. - - - Elssler, Fanny, 563. - - Emperor, the American, 634. - - England, Forrest’s first appearance in, 298. - American actors in, 296. - - Envy, 173. - vanity, and jealousy among actors, 387. - - Eshcol, grapes of, 62, 278. - - Evans, Platt, and the Distressed Tailor, 109. - - Expression, laws of, 463. - - - Facial expression, the fifth dramatic language, 465. - - Fame defined, 583. - not to be despised, 582. - - Farragut, Admiral, funeral of, 823. - - Feast of Asses, 685. - of Fools, 685. - - Febro, Richelieu, and Lear, as represented by Forrest, 354. - - Fennell, James, 532. - - Five classes of censorious critics, 436-439. - - Focal points in society where human nature is revealed, 674-680. - - Fonthill Castle, 484, 485. - - Fools of Shakspeare, 540. - - Forgiveness of enemies, beauty and wisdom of, 605. - - Forms, the first dramatic language, 464. - - Formula of central law of dramatic expression, 793. - - Forney, John W., 577, 593, 836. - - Forrest, Mrs. Catherine N., 483. - letters by her, 382, 493, 506. - - Forrest, Edwin, the author’s first interview with, 15. - misrepresentations of him, 26, 27. - his father, 33. - his mother, 35. - his brothers and sisters, 36-39. - intended for Christian ministry, 56. - first appearance on the stage, 60, 61. - takes nitrous oxide in the Tivoli Garden, 63. - his spirit of revenge, 64, 65. - his early practice of gymnastics, 96. - sickness of, in New Orleans, 130. - chased by a shark, 139. - his gymnastics, 141. - forswears gambling, 147. - his débût in New York, 150. - pays his father’s debts, 167. - makes his mother and sisters independent, 167. - attacks on, and enmity to, 173-179. - public dinner to, in New York, 181. - disliked to impersonate ignoble characters, 259. - visits the grave of Talma, 266. - public dinner to, in Philadelphia, 325. - nominated for Congress, 348. - his letter on the giving of benefits by actors, 378. - hisses Macready, 410. - anecdotes of, at Edinburgh, 412. - his limitations as an actor, 472. - flings off his wig on the stage, 478. - tribute to, by James E. Murdoch, 480. - his jealousy of his wife, 488-490. - first appearance on the stage after divorce, 502. - his tremendous strength, 539. - portraits of, at different ages, 586, 587. - originality of, 664. - thrice thought of leaving the stage, 795. - his letter on Lear, 797. - his last appearance in New York, 801-810. - last appearance on the stage, 811. - defects in character of, 816. - his love of his mother, 822. - estimates of, after his death, 836-840. - his lasting memory, 847, 848. - - Fourth-of-July celebration, oration by Forrest, 339. - in London, 413. - - French notice of Forrest in Parisian journal, 398. - - Friendship, its rarity, its nature, its meaning, 606-609. - - Future of the Drama in America, 547. - - - Gallagher, William D., 101, 105, 614. - - Gambling, its fearful power, 147. - - Garrick, 455. - and Lekain in Paris, 546. - his couplet on Nature and Art, 667. - tomb of, 189. - - Garrick Club, banquet to Forrest by, 316. - - Gaylord, Tom, 841. - - Gazonac, the gambler and duellist, 122-124. - - Genealogy, its interest and importance, 32. - - Genius of the Drama in Shakspeare, 524. - - Genoa, Forrest boards an American man-of-war at, 277. - - Georges, Mademoiselle, 264. - - Gestures, the fourth dramatic language, 465. - - Gilfert, Charles, the manager, 147, 150, 154, 155. - - Gospel and Drama have the same end, 682. - - Government, the ideal of, 51. - - Graham, Captain, 126, 131. - - Graham, John, 618. - - Grant, General, 610. - - Great men, 23, 24. - - Greek Drama, 683. - - Greene, Charles Gordon, 614. - - Gymnastic, æsthetic system, 563-566. - ecclesiastic contempt for, 561. - the Greek, 560. - training of Forrest, 564. - - - Hackett, James H., 191. - the American Falstaff, 540. - - Halleck, Fitz-Greene, 192, 403. - - Hamlet, as played by Forrest, 751-762. - - Harlequin and Columbine, 697. - - Harrison, Gabriel, 542. - acknowledgments to, 31. - speech by, 845, 846. - - Harrison, William Henry, his kindness to Forrest, 105. - - Heenan, John C., 563. - - Henry Clay, burning of the steamer, 554. - - Hereditary qualities in Forrest, 45. - - Heredity, law of, 44, 45. - - Hernizer, George, teaches Forrest to spar, 160, 161. - - Heywood, Thomas, lines to, 524. - - Hissing justified by Forrest, 411. - - Holland, George, 531. - subject of priestly bigotry, 694. - - Holley, President Horace, 101, 102, 842. - - Home, the Edwin Forrest, for Decayed Actors, 847. - - Hooper, Lucy H., poem by, 825. - - Hospital, secrets of human nature discovered in, 676. - - Humboldt, Forrest’s tribute to, 820. - - Humor, a happy attribute, 818. - - Humorous anecdotes of Forrest, 819. - - Hunter, James, a valuable critic of Forrest, 434. - - - Iago, the canal-boatman on Forrest’s, 477. - - Idea, the American, Asiatic, and European, 54. - - Ideal of life, the ecclesiastic and the dramatic, 689. - - Ideals expressed in acting, 195, 196. - - Immigration to America, 40, 41. - - Indian summer, 575. - - Ingersoll, Charles, his speech at the Forrest banquet in Philadelphia, - 336. - - Ingersoll, Joseph R., 327. - - Ingham, C. C., the artist, 182. - - Ingraham, D. P., 166. - - Irving, Washington, 338. - - - Jackson, Andrew, Forrest’s visit to, 384. - - Jamieson, George W., 486, 610. - - Japanese Drama, 683. - - Jealousy, its different levels, 513-522. - the, of Forrest, 488-490. - - Jefferson, Joseph, his letter to Forrest, 544. - - Jefferson, Joseph, the elder, 456, 534-536. - Forrest’s tribute to, 827. - - Jefferson, Thomas, tribute to, by Forrest, 343. - - Johnson, Dr. Samuel, on Garrick, 585. - - Jones, the theatrical manager, 537. - - Juliet, actress in, first awakened love in Forrest, 532. - - - Kean, Edmund, 141-146. - belittling and insulting critiques on, 456. - - Kellogg, Miss Gertrude, 537. - - Kemble, Charles, presents two swords to Forrest, 317. - - Kemble, John Philip, 456. - - Kennedy, John P., 338. - - King, Starr, tree in Mammoth Grove, 571. - - Kingship and priesthood of man, 53. - - Kneller, Sir Godfrey, on Addison, 678. - - Knowles, James Sheridan, 275. - his anecdote of Siddons, 545. - - - Lablache, his facial picture of a thunder-storm, 657. - - Labor and Cost, 682. - - La Fayette, Forrest sees him, 133. - - Lafitte, the pirate, 125. - - Landor, Walter Savage, 577. - - Languages, the nine dramatic, 464. - - Laughter, abuse of, 702. - - Laws of dramatic expression, 793. - - Lawson, James, 152, 491, 506, 836. - a great friend of Forrest, 613, 645. - - Lawyer, a New York, taught love of nature by Forrest, 576. - - Lear, as played by Forrest, 781-792. - Forrest’s letter on, 797. - - Leggett, William, 152, 192. - anecdotes of, 373. - desires to write a play on Jack Cade, 325. - his death in 1838, 372. - letter of Forrest to, 316. - letter of, to mother of Forrest, 297. - speech in Philadelphia, 337. - toast in memory of, 422. - - Leggett, William, tributes to, by Bryant and Whittier, 374. - - Lekain, the French actor, 643. - and Garrick in the Champs Elysées, 546. - - Lesson of Coriolanus, 791. - of Rip Van Winkle, 792. - - Lessons in the acting of Forrest, 792, 793. - - Library, the, of Forrest, 578. - - Lillie, Miss, 537. - - Limitations of Forrest as an actor, 472. - - Love, in human life and in dramatic art, 508-510. - the six tragedies of, 510-513. - - - Macbeth, as played by Forrest, 737-746. - - Mackaye, James Steele, 567. - - Mackenzie, Dr. R. Shelton, 448. - - Macklin, Charles, 455. - on Garrick, 844. - - Macready, William Charles, 389-391. - - Magnetism, human, 26, 118. - personal, its power, its grades and law, 721-726. - - Magoon, Rev. E. L., 556. - - Man, his inherent kingship and priesthood, 53. - his nine dramatic languages, 464. - - Manliness of Forrest as an actor, 664. - - Manners, index of souls, 667. - the art of, seen on the stage, 706. - the four codes of, 668. - - Marionette-play, or a puppet-show, 699. - - Marriage of Forrest and Miss Sinclair, 321. - - Mars, Mademoiselle, Forrest’s introduction to, 270. - - Marshall, Chief-Justice, Forrest sees him, 132. - - Mazurier, the famous Punchinello, 699. - - McArdle, Joseph, 819, 840. - - McCoun, Chancellor, his speech at the Forrest Banquet, 1855, 185-187. - - McCullough, John, 527, 542, 840. - - McMichael, Morton, 331. - - Melnotte, Claude, by Lord Lytton, 356. - - Melodrama, defined, 696. - - Melodramatic acting, 543, 643. - justified, 250. - - Memory, the, of Forrest, 847, 848. - - Metamora, 237. - London Times on, 476. - - Miles, George H., 169. - - Millennial state, how to be secured, 682. - - Mills, John F., his report of Forrest’s talk at Cohasset, 579, 580. - - Milman, Henry Hart, 321. - - Mob, the Forrest-Macready, dispersed by military, 431. - - Mohammed, 697. - - Money, evils of the intense struggle for, 682. - Forrest’s alleged love of, 552, 553. - ingratitude of borrowers of, 530. - - Moralities and Mysteries, 686. - - Moray, John S., 802. - - Morrell, T. H., a friend of Forrest, 31. - - Mossop, 455. - - Mother, Forrest’s love for his, 423-428, 822. - - Motions, tend to produce the emotions they express, 568. - - Movements, automatic, the third dramatic language, 464. - - Murdoch, James E., his tribute to Forrest, 480. - - Music, revelation of characters by, 695. - - Mysteries and Moralities, 686. - - - Napoleon, Louis, 698. - - Natural School of Acting, 643. - - Nature and art in acting, 648, 663. - - Negro, Forrest the earliest impersonator of, on the stage, 108, 109. - - New Orleans, characteristics of, 113, 114. - - Newspapers, their good and evil, 432. - - Nine dramatic languages of man, the, 464. - - Noises, inarticulate, the sixth dramatic language, 466. - - - Oakes, James, at the bier of Forrest, 833. - causes this biography to be written, 14-16. - his description of Forrest in Virginius, 650. - his first meeting with Forrest, 164. - his friendship with Forrest, 624-638. - his impression of Mrs. Wheatley, 533. - letters of Forrest to, 571, 573, 813, 814. - nurses Forrest, 812, 826, 830. - sketch of him, 619-624. - - Oblivion speedily overtakes most men, 34. - - O’Conor, Charles, his attack on Forrest, 486. - - Originality has to buffet detraction, 475. - - Othello, as played by Forrest, 769-781. - - - Padishah, Forrest’s adventure with, 288. - - Page, William, his portrait of Forrest as Spartacus, 586. - - Paine, Thomas, letter of, to Washington, 574. - - Palace of king, secrets of human nature discovered in, 675. - - Paralysis, Forrest attacked by, 569. - - Parasites, 595. - - Passions, the great dramatic, 463. - - Paulding, James K., his advice to Forrest, 238. - - Penalties of fame, 594. - - Personal criticism, two evils of, 672. - - Physical training, 158, 159. - - Pike, Albert, 623, 624. - - Pilmore, Dr. Joseph, 56. - - Placide, Henry, 282. - - Placide, Miss Jane, 137, 291. - - Player, the perfect, his requirements, 472. - - Plebeian code of manners, 669. - - Politeness, principle of, 667. - - Popularity, formerly and now, 172. - - Porter, Charles S., the manager, 59, 147. - - Prentiss, Sargent S., 24. - - Press, its abuses in America, 432, 433. - - Pride and vanity, 388. - - Priest and player, their hostility, 689-695. - - Priesthood and kingship of man, 53. - - Prison, secrets of human nature discovered in, 676. - - Prizes and penalties of fame, 594. - - Profanity a safety-valve sometimes, 580. - - Professional habits, 523. - - Professions, the, 674-682. - the academic, 681. - the artistic, 678. - the dramatic, 679. - the imperial, 675. - the legal, 676. - the medical, 676. - the military, 675. - the priestly, 667. - - Puppet-show, 699. - - Push-ma-ta-ha, the young Choctaw chief, 125, 128, 138. - - - Quaker, cruelty of, to young Forrest, 65. - - Quarrel, the Macready and Forrest, 422, 428-431. - - Quin, 455. - - - Rachel, Forrest’s early prophecy of her greatness, 266. - her astonishing power, 707. - - Readings, dramatic, by Forrest, 829. - - Rees, James, 577, 813. - anecdote by, 478. - - Richard, as played by Forrest, 746-751. - - Richelieu, as played by Forrest, 728-737. - - Riddle, Mrs., 99, 106, 110, 537. - - Riot, Astor Place Opera-House, 430-432. - - Robson, William, his “Old Play-Goer,” 456. - - Rolla, 199. - - Roman Drama, 684. - - Romantic School of Acting, 641. - - Royal code of manners, 668. - - Russian Bath, Forrest’s, at Hamburg, 283. - - - Salvini, his La Civile Morte, 354. - his Othello compared with Forrest’s, 769. - inconsistent judgments on, 458. - - San Francisco, Forrest’s first appearance there, 570. - - Sarcasm, contradiction of tone and word, 470. - - Satire of priests by players, 692, 693. - - Saul, representation of, by Salvini, 712-718. - - Sayers, Thomas, the pugilist, his funeral, 583. - - Schools of Acting, 630-670. - - Scoggan, the fool, 698. - - Sedley, Henry, 439, 802. - - Servility to the newspaper press an American vice, 600, 601. - - Shakspeare, 524. - Forrest’s tribute to, 820. - remarkable tribute to, 578. - - Shakspearean characters, interest of Forrest in, 737-739. - - Shark, a, chases Forrest, 139. - - Siddons, Mrs. Sarah, 456, 523, 525. - verses by, 596. - - Sinclair, Catherine Norton, Forrest first meets, 320. - - Sinclair, Mrs. C. N., 650. - - Sinister and benign aspects of the four codes of manners, 668-670. - - Smith, Sol, 104, 112, 618. - - Sonnet to Forrest, 406. - - Spartacus, 249. - - Spinoza, Benedict, his Ethics, 578. - - Standard, true, of criticism, 459, 469. - - Standards for judging men, primary and secondary, 672. - - Steevens, George, satirizes Mrs. Siddons, 456. - - Stone, John A., 169. - - Stratford-upon-Avon, Forrest’s visit there, 291. - - Stuart, Gilbert, his last portrait one of Forrest, 586. - - Studio, secrets of human nature discovered in, 676. - - Sunshine, Forrest’s love of, 564. - - Swift, Colonel John, 63, 333. - - - Talfourd, Thomas Noon, 316. - - Talma, 189, 266, 317, 455. - - Tartuffe, 692. - - Tasistro, Louis F., acrostic on Forrest by, 845. - - Taylor, James, 101, 616-618. - letter by, 841-844. - - Tell, 204. - - Temperaments, the chief varieties enumerated, 461. - - Temple, secrets of human nature discovered in, 667. - - Tent of general, secrets of human nature discovered in, 675. - - Terrible fall from a balustrade, 796. - - Theatre, alleged decline of, 828. - a nation in itself, 19. - fourteen-fold charm of, 688. - its future, 19. - its relation to church and state, 52. - secrets of human nature discovered in, 679. - the whole universe a divine one, 77. - - Theatres of Greece and Rome, 639. - - Theatricality, Forrest’s freedom from, off the stage, 821, 822. - - Timon and parasitic friendship, 611. - - Tivoli Garden, 329. - - Tones, inflected, the seventh dramatic language, 466. - - Tragedy, melodrama, and comedy compared, 91-93. - - Training, physical, 158, 159, 161. - - Tree, Ellen, 324. - - Trowbridge, J. T., his “Darius Green,” 629. - - - Union, the American, Forrest on, 573. - - Uses, social, of the dramatic art, 695. - - - Verses written by Forrest, 134-136. - - Vincent, Mount Saint, Catholic sisterhood, 554. - - Virginius, 230. - - Voice of Braham, 655. - of Henry Russell, 653. - - Voice, the perfection of, 653-656. - - Voyage to Europe, 263. - - - Wagner, James V., 614. - - Wallace, William Ross, poem on Forrest, 558. - - Walpole, Horace, 455. - - Walsh, Mike, his attack on Forrest, 375. - - Webster, Daniel, 25, 388. - - Wetmore, Prosper M., verses by, 156. - - Wheatley, Mrs. Sarah, 538. - - Wheatley, William, 538, 545. - - Willis, N. P., 498. - - Wilson, Alexander, the ornithologist, 57, 58. - - Winter, William, 712, 651, 802. - - Woffington, Peg, 459. - - Woodhull, the actor, Forrest plays for his benefit, 149. - - Words, articulated, the eighth dramatic language, 467. - - Wright, C. C., the artist, 182. - - Wright, Silas, and Daniel Webster, 610. - - Wyman, Col. Powell T., 574, 622. - - - Zoroaster, 564. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as - printed. - 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Life of Edwin Forrest, the American -Tragedian. 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