Kean, both as a man and as an actor, made a fascinating impression on the imagination and heart as well as on the memory of his youthful supporter in the Albany theatre. What he had himself experienced under the influence of this marvellous player, in the profound stirring of his wonder and affection, remained to exalt his estimate of the rank of his professional art and to stimulate still further his personal ambition. This is the way the sensitive soul of genius grows, by assimilating something from every superior ideal exhibited to it. Kean himself, at a public dinner given him in Philadelphia on his return thither from Albany, generously said that he had met one actor in this country, a young man named Edwin Forrest, who gave proofs of a decided genius for his profession, and who would, as he believed, rise to great eminence. This kind act on the part of the veteran was reported to the novice, and sank gratefully into his heart. To be praised by one we admire is such a delight to the affections and such a spur to endeavor that it is a pity the successful are not more ready to give it to the aspiring. Ah, what a heaven this world would be if all the men and women in it were only what in our better hours we dream and wish!
One incident occurred during this season at Albany showing extraordinary character in so young a man. The fearful power of the passion for gaming has been well known in all ages. It has prevailed with equal violence and evil among the rudest savages and in the most luxurious phases of civilization. Every year, at the present time, in the capital centres of Christendom it
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explodes in forgeries, murder, and suicides. And we read in the Mahabharata, the great Sanscrit epic written we know not how many centuries before the Christian era, that king Yudishthira was so desperately addicted to gambling that on one occasion he staked his empire, and lost it; then his wife, and lost; finally, his own body, lost that, and became the slave of the winner. In New Orleans Forrest had felt something of the horrid fascination of this passion. He had not, however, indulged much in it, although his friend Gazonac, who stood at the head of the profession, had initiated him pretty thoroughly into the secret tricks of the art.
The company of actors and actresses used often to stay after the play was over and engage in games of chance. Forrest joined them several times. He then steadily refused to do so any more; for he felt that the gambling spirit was getting hold of him. But on a certain evening they urged him so strongly that he consented,—determined to give them a lesson. He said it was a base business, full of dishonest arts by which all but the sharpest adepts could be cheated. They maintained that there were among them neither decoys nor dupes, and they challenged fraud. They played all night, and Forrest at last had won every cent they had with them. He then rose to his feet, and denounced the habit of gaming for profit as utterly pernicious. He recited some examples of the horrors he had known to result from it. He said it demoralized the characters of those who practised it, and, producing nothing, was a robbery, stealing the time, thought, and feeling which might so much better be devoted to something useful. With these words he swept the implements of play into the fire, strewed the money he had won on the floor, left the room, and went home in the gray light of the morning,—and never gambled again from that hour unto the day of his death.
May 16th, 1826, Forrest made his first re-appearance on the stage of his native city. It was on the occasion of a benefit given to his old friend Charles S. Porter, manager of the theatre, it will be remembered, in which he made his début as Rosalia de Borgia. He took the part of Jaffier in Venice Preserved. His success was flattering and complete. The leading journal of the city said, "He left us a boy, and has returned a man. The talents he then exhibited, improved by attention and study, now display
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themselves in the excellence of his delineation. He is by no means what he was when he left us. His delivery, attitudes, and gesture are similar to those of Conway; and he could not have chosen a better model. Just in his conception of his part, clear and correct in his utterance, graceful in his action, he never offends us by unmeaning rant. When one so young relies more on his own judgment than on the flattery of partial friends, we cannot expect too much from him. We doubt if any aspirant at the same age has ever equalled him. No performer, perhaps, ever was received and continued to play with so much applause. On the dropping of the curtain at the end of the fourth act, he was rewarded with nine rounds of cheers."
His unmistakable triumph was crowned by such loud and general calls for an engagement that the manager came forward and announced that he had secured the services of Mr. Forrest for two nights, and that he would appear, on the evening after the next, in the character of Rolla. This, on the whole, was the most signal and important victory he had ever achieved. It consoled him and it spurred him. He slept sweetly that night under his mother's roof, and in his dreams saw himself decked with wreath and crown, time after time, through a long vista of brightening successes.
The Bowery Theatre, in New York, now nearly finished, was to be opened in the autumn, and its proprietors were on the watch to secure the best talent for the company. They had heard favorable reports of the acting of Forrest in Albany. Prosper M. Wetmore and another of the directors of the new theatre made a journey to that city on purpose to see a specimen of his performance and decide whether or not it would be expedient to engage him. They were so much pleased with his playing that they earnestly urged Gilfert, who was already engaged as manager, to close with him at once. He did so, bargaining with him to play leading parts for the first season at a salary of twenty-eight dollars a week. Wetmore, who was a cultivated gentleman of literary habits, afterwards Navy Agent at New York, became a fast friend of Forrest for life, and half a century later was fond of recalling the incidents of this journey, so interesting in the adventure and so pleasant in the results.
Gilfert had lost money at Albany, and, when he closed, his
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company were dismissed unpaid, some of them utterly destitute. Forrest himself was forced to leave his wardrobe with his hostess as security for arrearages. He took passage down the Hudson to New York, and, securing lodgings at a tavern in Cortlandt Street, began as best he could to fill the time until the opening of the Bowery. He was a stranger in the city. He was without money, without friends, his wardrobe in pawn, with no stated employment to occupy his attention and pass the hours. Naturally, life seemed dull and the days grew heavy. First he felt homesick, then he felt sick of himself and sick of the world. His faculties turned in on themselves, and made him so morbidly melancholy that he thought of ending his existence. He actually went to an apothecary and got some arsenic on pretence that he wanted to kill rats. This revulsive and dismal state of feeling, however, did not last long. An event occurred which brought him relief and caused him to fling away the poison and resume his natural tone of cheerful fortitude and readiness for enjoyment.
The propitious event referred to was this. An actor at the Park Theatre, by the name of Woodhull, was about having a benefit, and experienced much difficulty in deciding on something attractive for the occasion. Walking in the street with Charles Durang, of Philadelphia, who had recently seen Forrest act in that city, and expressing his anxiety to him, Durang replied, "If I were you, I would try and get Forrest to act for me. And there he is now, sitting under the awning in front of the hotel. I will introduce you." The deed suited the word, and in a moment Woodhull had made his request. At first Forrest somewhat moodily declined, saying that he was penniless, friendless, spiritless, and could do nothing. "But," the poor actor urged, "I have a large family dependent on me, and this benefit is my chief reliance." "Is that so?" asked Forrest. "It is, indeed," was the reply. "Then," said the generous tragedian, mounting out of his unhappiness, "I will play Othello for you, and do my best." The new acquaintances parted with hearty greetings, Woodhull to finish the arrangements for his benefit, Forrest to prepare for his arduous task. For he felt that this his first appearance in the chief metropolitan theatre of the country was an ordeal that might make him or undo him quite.
He shut himself up in his room with his Shakspeare. He
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studied the part with all the earnestness of his soul, over and over, with every light he could bring to bear upon it, carefully perfected himself in it according to his best ideal, and impatiently awaited the evening. It came, and found a house poor in numbers, which disheartened him not a whit. Durang was there, and has described the scene. The audience, though neither fashionable nor large, was eager and susceptible. As the actor came on, his careful costume, superb form, and reposeful bearing made a strong sensation on the expectant auditory. And when the sweet, resonant tones of his deep, rich voice broke forth in the eloquence of an unaffected manliness, the charm was obviously deepened. His remarkable self-possession and deliberate way of doing just what he intended to do were very impressive, and, combined with his terrible earnestness growing with the thickening plot, took hold of the sympathies of the house more and more powerfully. In the middle of the pit sat Gilfert, energetically plying his snuff-box and inspecting alternately the player and the spectators. And when, in the fourth act, as the pent flood of passion in the breast of the tortured Othello burst in fearful explosion on Iago in one resplendent climax of attitude, look, voice and gesture, and the whole audience rose to their feet and gave vent to their unprecedented excitement in round after round of cheering, the little Dutchman let his snuff-box mechanically slip through his fingers, and cried, "By heaven, he has made a hit!" The popular verdict was one of unqualified enthusiasm, and the directors and manager of the Bowery felt that they had underrated their prize. Gilfert hurried behind the scenes, lavishing congratulations on his protégé, and promising the next day to pay his debts and supply him with some pocket-money. In doing a kind thing for a needy fellow-actor, Forrest found that he had also done an exceedingly good thing for himself.
With the means he had wrung from the delinquent and doubtful but now sanguine Gilfert, he proceeded to Albany and redeemed his wardrobe. He then went to Washington, and played Rolla for the benefit of his brother William. He next fulfilled an engagement as a Star for six nights in Baltimore, and then paid a visit to his home in Philadelphia. He was able from the remnant of his earnings to carry four hundred dollars to his mother. And when he gave it to her, sitting happy at her feet, and told her of
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his trials, and of his struggles against them, as he felt her hand on his head and saw her fond eyes looking approval, the sweetness of the satisfaction seemed to sink into his very bones. So he himself said, and added, "The applause I had won before the foot-lights? Yes, it was most welcome and precious to me; but, compared with this, it was nothing, less than nothing!"
The Bowery was opened with great display and success the last week in October. On the following Monday Forrest made his first appearance there. Othello was the play. The house was thronged in all parts, everything was fresh and new, eager expectation filled the air, and he came forward encouraged by the memory of his decisive triumph at the benefit of Woodhull, and nerved with determination now to outdo it. Yet, in spite of all the favoring conditions, so much depended on the result of his performance this night, and his sensitiveness was still so little hardened by custom, that his nervousness and trepidation were quite apparent to critical eyes. But as the play progressed this wore off, and his acting became so sincere, so varied and vigorous, he set his best points in such clean-cut relief, and his elocution was so full of natural passion, that he carried the sympathies of the audience with him ascendingly to the close. The ovation he then received left no doubt as to the place he was thenceforth to hold in the theatrical world of New York and the country. By unanimous consent, admitting errors and faults both positive and negative, he had shown an extraordinary breadth and raciness of original individuality, and an extraordinary power of painting the character he had pictured in his imagination so vividly that it should also live in the imaginations of the beholders and kindle their sensibilities. This is the one test of the true actor, that he can transmit his thoughts and passions into others, causing his ideal so to move before them that they recognize it and react on it with the play of their souls accordant with his. This given, all defects are pardoned; this denied, all merits are ineffectual. Forrest had this from first to last, whenever appeal was made from dialect cliques to the great vernacular of human nature.
At the close of the performance Forrest was personally congratulated by the stockholders of the theatre in the committee-room. Their chairman said to him, "We are all very much
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more than gratified. You have made a great hit; but, if you are willing, we would like to cancel our engagement with you at twenty-eight dollars a week, and——" Here Forrest interrupted him by saying, "Certainly, gentlemen; just as you please; for I am confident I can readily command those terms almost anywhere I feel disposed to play." "We have no doubt of it," replied the chairman; "but we propose to cancel the engagement made with you at twenty-eight dollars a week, and to draw an agreement giving you forty dollars a week instead." This of course was very agreeable to him, and accordingly it was so arranged.
With this night his histrionic probation was at an end, and fame and fortune were secure. It was now that he made the acquaintance of James Lawson, who was so enraptured with his playing that he sought an introduction on the spot, and then went home and wrote for one of the morning papers a glowing eulogium on the performance. Lawson remained through life one of his most trusted and useful friends, especially in his business concerns, never wavering in his loyalty to him for one moment in all the succeeding years, and surviving to be one of the trustees of his estate. Here, also, at the same time, and under the identical circumstances, began his friendship with Leggett, one of the most important and valued attachments he ever formed. Leggett, at that time associated with Bryant in the editorship of the New York "Evening Post," was a man of a high-strung, chivalrous nature, possessed of uncommon talents and of immense force of character. Among his fine tastes was a sincere passion for the drama. He was the elder by four years, and had enjoyed far superior educational advantages. He loved Forrest devotedly as soon as he knew him, and his affection was as ardently returned. In their manly truth and generous sympathy, which knew no taint of affectation or mean design, they were a great comfort to each other. In the fourteen years that passed before death came between them they rendered invaluable services to each other in many ways.
