During this trip in Virginia, Forrest saw Chief-Justice Marshall in a scene which always remained as a distinct picture in his memory. The illustrious magistrate was stopping at a country inn in the course of his circuit. The landlady was trying to
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catch a hen to roast for dinner. The feat proving rather difficult for the aged and corpulent hostess, the Chief Justice came forth to aid her. There he stood, bare-headed, his vast silver shoe-buckles shining in the sun, a close body-coat and a pair of tight velvet breeches revealing his spare and sinewy form, striving to scare the refractory fowls into the hen-coop, awkwardly waving his hands towards them and crying, "Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!"
A few weeks later, Marshall went to the theatre in Richmond. It was the only time he had ever visited such a place. On invitation of Manager Caldwell, he went behind the scenes, examined the machinery and properties with great interest, and revealed his curiosity and naïveté in such questions, Forrest said, as a bright and innocent boy of sixteen might have asked. In recalling the incident when forty-five years had passed, Forrest remarked that nearly every great man had a good deal of the boy in him, but that Marshall showed the most of it, in his child-like simplicity and frankness, of all the great men he had ever known. Yes, those were simple times, times of high character and modest living, the purity of the early Republic. And if the above anecdote makes us smile, it also makes us love the stainless friend of Washington, the great Justice whose ermine was never soiled even by so much as a speck of suspicion.
While at Richmond, and again subsequently at New Orleans, Forrest had the felicity of seeing La Fayette, also of playing before him and winning his applause. The triumphal progress through America of this beloved hero of two hemispheres was a proud recollection to all who shared in it. It was a thrilling poem in action instead of words. The enthusiasm was something which we in our more broken and cynical times can hardly conceive. From town to town, from city to city, from State to State, whole populations turned out to meet him, with bells, guns, popular songs, garlands of flowers in the hands of school-children; and he moved on beneath a canopy of banners amidst swelling music, accompanied by the prayers and tears of the grateful people whom he had befriended in the midnight of their struggle, and who idolized him now that he had come back to bask in the noonday of their glory. It was one of the most charming episodes in history, and one which no American heart can afford to forget. Yet in this mixed world the sublime and the
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ridiculous are usually near together. It was so in this case in an incident which came under the personal observation of Forrest. He stood near to La Fayette on one occasion when a long series of citizens were introduced to him. Of course it became a wearisome formality to the illustrious guest, who bore it with smiling fortitude by dint of converting it into an automatic performance. As he shook hands first with one, then with another, he would say, "Are you married?" If the reply was "Yes," he would add, "Happy man!" If the reply was "No," still he would add, as before, "Happy man!"
Caldwell re-opened at the American Theatre January 3d, 1825, in The Soldier's Daughter, Forrest taking the rôle of Malfort Junior. During the month he played, among other parts, Adrian in the comedy of Adrian and Orilla, Master of Ceremonies in Tom and Jerry, Joseph Surface in the School for Scandal. The "Louisiana Advertiser" says, in a notice of The Falls of Clyde, "Nothing could be more to our taste than the wild music and dramatized legends of Scotland. Mr. E. Forrest never appeared to so much advantage. Every person applauded him." Some weeks later the same paper remarks, "Mr. Forrest's Almanza is well conceived, and displays great genius."
At this period of his life Forrest was in the habit of writing verses whenever his heart was particularly touched. Quite a number of his effusions, mostly of an amatory cast, were published in the corner of a New Orleans newspaper. A diligent search has brought them to light, together with the fact that the lady to whom the most of them were addressed is yet living in that city, the widow of one of its most influential and wealthy merchants, and that she remembers well her girlish admiration for the handsome young tragedian, and still preserves in manuscript several letters and poems sent to her by him. In his latter days he himself gave the following account of this slight literary episode. "In my youth," he said, "I used to write poetry; that is, as I should say, doggerel. The editor of the 'Louisiana Advertiser' printed it, and encouraged me to compose more. I used to read it over and think it very fine. But after a few years I looked at the pieces again, and was mortified at their worthlessness. Glancing around furtively to see if any one was observing me, I rushed the whole collection into the fire. Oh, it
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was wretched stuff, infernally poor stuff! Moses Y. Scott satirized my poetry in some lines beginning,—
'With paces long and sometimes scanty,
Thus he rides on with Rosinante!'"
A selection of three of the better among these pieces will suffice to satisfy curiosity; and it is to be feared that after perusing them the judgment of the reader will accord with that of Moses Y. Scott.
TO ——.
"Thy spell, O Love, is elysium to my soul;
Freely I yield me to thy sweet control;
For other joys let folly's fools contend,
Whether to pomp or luxury they tend.
Let sages tell us, what they ne'er believe,
That love must ever give us cause to grieve;
Mine be the bliss C——'s love to prove,
To love her still, and still to have her love.
If without her of countless worlds possessed,
I still should mourn, I still should be unblest.
For her I'd yield whole worlds of richest ore,—
Possessed of her, the gods could give no more.
For her, though Paradise itself were given,
I'd love her still, nor seek another heaven."
TO MISS S—— ON HER LEAVING TOWN.
"Ah, go not hence, light of my saddened soul!
Nor leave me in this absence to lament;
Thy going sheds dark chaos o'er the whole,—
A noonday night from angry Heaven sent.
"Ah, go not where, now tow'ring to the skies,
Malignant hills to separate us rise;
For should those smiling eyes, attemp'ring every ray,
That now shine sweetly, lambent with celestial day,
Averted from me e'er on distant objects roll,
Melancholy's deep shade would shroud my lifeless soul.
"Oh, stay thine eyes,—diffuse their animating ray,—
And with their smiling pleasures brighten all the day.
But if relentless 'gainst me with the fates you join,
Then go! though still my heart, my soul, is thine.
And when from me so distant thou art gone,
Oh, yield one sigh responsive to mine own!"
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The third piece was composed on occasion of the military funeral of Henry K. Bunting, an intimate friend of Forrest, a young man of most estimable character, whose early death was lamented by the whole community:
"How slow they marched! each youthful face was pale,
And downcast eyes disclosed the mournful tale;
Grief was depicted on each manly brow,
And gloomy tears abundantly did flow
From each sad heart. For he whose breath had fled
Was loved by all,—in honor's path was bred.
I knew him well; his heart was pure and kind,
A noble spirit, and a lofty mind.
Virtue cast round his head her smiling wreath,
Which did not leave him on his bed of death.
His image lives, and from my grief-worn heart,
While life remains, will never, never part.
Weep, soldiers, weep! with tears of sadness lave
Your friend and brother's drear, untimely grave!"
In March the celebrated and ill-starred Conway filled an engagement in New Orleans. The witnessing of his performances formed one of the epochs in the development of Forrest's dramatic power. He played Malcolm to the Macbeth of the tall and over-impassioned tragedian, and caught some valuable suggestions from his idiomatic individuality and style. But it was the Othello of this powerful and unhappy actor which most impressed him. He played this part with a sweetness and a majestic and frenzied energy which no audience could resist. The whole truth of the course of the ambition, love, jealousy, madness, vengeance, desperation, remorse, and death of the noble but barbaric Moor was painted in volcanic and statuesque outlines. Nothing escaped the apt pupil, who with lynx-eyed observation fastened on every original point, every electric stroke, and at this adolescent period drank in the significance of the fully-developed passions of unbridled human nature. It was not long after these mimic presentments when the real passions in the darkly-tangled plot of his own existence wrought so convulsively on poor Conway, the friction sunk so profoundly into the sockets and vital seats of his being, that he went mad, threw himself overboard, and all his griefs and fears at once in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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Early in May, Forrest's benefit was announced, and he was underlined for Lear, "the first time in New Orleans." On account of bad weather the benefit was postponed, and, when it did occur, instead of Lear he performed Octavian, in Coleman's Mountaineers. The season closed with the end of the month, when he played Carwin, the leading rôle in the drama of Therese, by John Howard Payne.
The first actress in the company of the American Theatre at New Orleans for the season of 1825 was Miss Jane Placide. She was born at Charleston, and was then, in her twentieth year, deservedly a great favorite with the Southern public. She was extremely beautiful in her person, sweet in her disposition, piquant in her manners, and artistically natural in her rôles. Among the many private suppliants for her smiles rumor included both Caldwell and Forrest. Where the tinder of such rivalry is lying about, flashes of jealousy, easily provoked, may at any time elicit an explosion of wrath. So it happened here, and the two men had a sharp quarrel. The young actor challenged the calmer manager. He refused to accept it, saying their altercation was an inconsiderate effervescence which had better be forgotten by them both. But the temper of Forrest, aggravated by his hot associates and the local code, was not so cheaply to be assuaged. He had the following card printed and affixed in several conspicuous places: "Whereas James H. Caldwell has wronged and insulted me, and refused me the satisfaction of a gentleman, I hereby denounce him as a scoundrel and post him as a coward. Edwin Forrest."
Caldwell, so far from being enraged at this sonorous manifesto, laughed at it, quietly adding, "Like the Parthian, he wounds me as he flies." For in the afternoon of the very day of his issuing the ominous placard, Forrest had accepted an invitation from his friend Push-ma-ta-ha to spend a month with him in the wigwams and hunting-grounds of his tribe; and already, side by side, on horseback, each with a little pack at his saddle, they were scampering away towards the tents of the Choctaws, a hundred miles distant. Three reasons urged him to this interesting adventure. First, he loved his friend, the young Indian chief, and longed to see him in his glory at the head of his people. Secondly, he was poor, and there it would cost him nothing for food and lodgings.
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And thirdly, he desired to make a personal study of Indian character, life, and manners.
The red men treated him, as the friend and guest of their chief, with marked distinction, making him quickly feel himself at home. He adapted himself to their habits, dressed in their costume, and, as far as he could, took part in all their doings, their smokes, their dances, their hunts, their songs. Their rude customs were not offensive but rather attractive to him, and he was happy, feeling that it would not be hard for him to relapse from civilization and stay permanently with these wild stepchildren of nature. He seemed to come into contact with the unwritten traditions of the prehistoric time, and to taste the simple freedom that prevailed before so many artificial luxuries, toils, and laws had made such slaves of us all. The fine chance here offered him of getting an accurate knowledge of the American Indian, alike in his exterior and his interior personality, he carefully improved, and when he came to enact the part of Metamora it stood him in good stead.
One night Push-ma-ta-ha and Forrest were lying on the ground before a big fire which they had kindled a little way out from the village. They had been conversing for hours, recalling stories and legends for their mutual entertainment. The shadows of the wood lay here and there like so many dark ghosts of trees prostrate and intangible on the earth. The pale smoke from their burning heap of brush floated towards heaven in spectral volumes and slowly faded out afar. In the unapproachable blue over their heads hung the full moon, and in the pauses of their talk nothing but the lonely notes of a night-bird broke the silence. Like an artist, or like an antique Greek, Forrest had a keen delight in the naked form of man, feeling that the best image of God we have is nude humanity in its perfection, which our fashionable dresses so travesty and degrade. Push-ma-ta-ha, then twenty-four years old, brought up from his birth in the open air and in almost incessant action of sport and command, was from head to foot a faultless model of a human being. Forrest asked him to strip himself and walk to and fro before him between the moonlight and the firelight, that he might feast his eyes and his soul on so complete a physical type of what man should be. The young chief, without a word, cast aside his
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Choctaw garb and stepped forth with dainty tread, a living statue of Apollo in glowing bronze. "Push-ma-ta-ha," said Forrest, in wondering admiration, "who were your grandparents?" His nostrils curled with a superbly beautiful disdain, and, stretching forth his arm with a lofty grace which the proudest Roman orator could not have surpassed, he replied, "My father was never born. The Great Spirit shivered an oak with one of his thunderbolts, and my father came out, a perfect man, with his bow and arrows in his hand!"
Whether this was superstitious inspiration or theatrical brag on the part of the Indian, certainly the scene was a weird and wonderful one, and the speech extremely poetic. Forrest used in after-years to say, "My God, what a contrast he was to some fashionable men I have since seen, half made up of false teeth, false hair, padding, gloves, and spectacles!"
