"The houses are small, and generally built," he writes, "of stone, with flat roofs made of logs covered with dirt and clay, smoothed so as to form a comfortable floor to dry tobacco or grain upon. I asked permission to enter one of the huts, which was immediately granted. I found the clay floor scrupulously clean, the fire-place nicely swept, and some woollen cloths spread upon raised surfaces on the sides of the room, which seemed to serve as beds. The woman had a silver belt about her, which, when I admired it, she took off and handed to me. I put it
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around my waist. At this the children laughed. I gave them some money, and mounted my horse and rode to the village church,—or mosque, as they are Mohammedans. It was an old building of wood and stone, with a ruinous wooden tower by its side, from which they cry to prayers. I entered it. No one was there. There was a small wooden gallery at one end, to which they ascend by a ladder. It was a shabby and dismal place, and I hurried out of it back to the hotel."
On the following day, with his friend Wikoff, Forrest dined with the Count Woronzoff. "At five o'clock a cannon is fired as a signal to dress for dinner. In a half an hour a second gun is fired, and the guests are seated. Soon after the first gun we started for the castle. I saw there for the first time the Countess Sabanska. I paid my respects to her and retired to another part of the room, as she was talking with several gentlemen. She was very animated in her conversation, with particularly vivid gesticulation and expression of face. The Count's Tartar interpreter was playing billiards with one of the attendants. In a few minutes the Count and Countess entered, followed by a train of ladies and gentlemen. He introduced me to his lady, also to Madame Nerisken and the Princess Gallitzin and her daughter. I led Madame Nerisken to the table, and sat between her and the Countess Woronzoff, whom I found to be a most agreeable and interesting woman. Count Woronzoff sat opposite, with the Princess Gallitzin on one side and the Countess Sabanska on the other. The conversation, conducted in French, was anything but intellectual, as the growth of the prince's vines seemed the all-absorbing topic. The Countess Sabanska had now changed her whole manner from the extreme vivacity and gayety she first evinced, and had become silent and melancholy. Her thoughts seemed to be far away. How I should have liked to read the depths of her soul and know what was moving there! After dinner some of the ladies smoked cigarettes, and others played cards."
Constantinople opened to Forrest a fascinating glimpse of the civilization of the East, with its ancient races of men, its strange architecture and religious rites, its poetic costumes, its impressive manners, and that glamour of mystery over all which makes Oriental life seem to the Western traveller such a contrast to
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everything he has been wonted to at home. He made the most of his time here in visiting the historic monuments and trying to penetrate the open secrets of Moslem habits and Turkish character; and he brought away with him, on his departure for Greece, a crowd of mental pictures which never lost their clearness or their interest. For the history of the city of Constantine has been most rich in romance; and the scene unveiled to the voyager who approaches it by daylight or by moonlight is a vision of enchantment,—a wilderness of mosques, domes, cupolas, solemn cypresses, and spouting fountains. On a beautiful day, when not a cloud was in the sky nor a ripple on the Bosphorus, Forrest was surveying the city and its environs from a boat in the midst of the bay, when he saw, slowly approaching, a sumptuous barge, with awnings of silk and gold, a banner with the crescent and inscriptions in Arabic floating above, and a group of turbaned guards, with scimitars in their hands, half surrounding a man reclined on a purple divan. "Who is that?" asked Forrest of the guide. "That is the Padishah," was the reply. Forrest, ignorant of this title of "the Shah of Shahs" for the Sultan of Turkey, understood the guide to say, Paddy Shaw! and, supposing it to be some rich Irishman who was cutting such a figure in the Golden Horn, was so struck by the absurdity that he laughed aloud. The measured strokes of the rowers, regular as a piece of solemn music, meanwhile had brought the imperial freight nearly alongside. The guards looked at the laughing tragedian as if they would have liked to chop his head off, or bowstring him and sink him in a sack. The Sultan looked slowly at the audacious American, without the slightest change of expression in his sad, dark, impassive face,—and the two striking figures, so unlike, were soon out of sight of each other forever!
Passing over the notes of his tour in Greece, as covering matters now hackneyed from the descriptions given by hundreds of more recent travellers and published in every kind of literary form, a single extract from a letter to his mother is perhaps worthy of citation:
"From Constantinople I went to Smyrna, and thence into Greece. Here I am now, at last, in the city of Athens, the glorious home not only of the Drama, but also of so much else that has passed into the life of mankind. Alas, how changed!
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With all the power of imagination which I can conjure up, I am hardly able to convince myself that this was the once proud city of Pericles, Plato, Æschylus, Demosthenes, and the other men whose names have sounded so grand in the mouths of posterity. Looking on the tumbled temples and desolate walls, I have exclaimed with Byron,—
'Ancient of days! august Athena, where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone,—glimmering through the dream of things that were.
First in the race that led to Glory's goal,—
They're sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower,
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.'"
A personal adventure, also, that befell him at Athens, must not be omitted. One beautiful afternoon, he had been inspecting the Parthenon and what remained of its sculptured ornaments. Near where he stood, a heap of skulls lay on the ground, skulls of some of the victims of the last revolution, who had fallen in a battle of the Greeks and Turks. His attention was drawn to the phrenological developments of several of these skulls. Chancing at that moment to look down towards the temple of Theseus, he saw, only a short distance from him, a man glide from behind a column and walk away. The man was clad in the costume of an Albanian, one of the most picturesque costumes in the world, and looked as if he had freshly stepped out of a painting,—so beautiful was the combination of symmetry in his form, grace in his motion, and beauty in his dress. Perfectly fascinated, Forrest hastened forward and addressed the stranger in English, in French, in Spanish; but vain was every attempt to make himself understood. Just then Hill, the American missionary for many years at Athens, came along. Forrest accosted him with the inquiry, "Do you know who that man is yonder?" and, as much to his amazement as to his delight, received the answer, "Why, do you not know him? That is the son of Marco Bozzaris!" The lines of his friend Halleck,—
"And she, the mother of thy boys.
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die,"—
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these lines, and his own parting scene with their author in New York harbor, flashed into his mind, and he felt as if this incident alone were enough to repay him for his whole journey.
On his return once more to Paris, in a letter to his friend Leggett he sketches in epitome the ground he has been over. An extract follows:
"Since I saw you, I have indeed been in strange lands, and seen strange sights. I have traversed the Baltic and the wide dominions of the ambitious Autocrat,—crossed the Euxine and dipped into Asia and European Turkey,—'kept due onwards to the Propontic and Hellespont,'—wandered amid the faultless fragments of the 'bright clime of battle and of song,'—sailed by the Ionian Isles,—visited the chief towns of the Germanic Confederation,—and here I am at last, safe and sound, in the ever-gay capital of France. I thank Heaven my travelling in the 'far East' is at an end. One is badly accommodated there in railroads and steamers. However, take it for all in all, I have every reason to be satisfied with the voyage, for there is no kind of information but must be purchased with some painstaking, and one day I shall fully enjoy all this in calm retrospection from the bosom of the unpruned woods of my own country. Yes, the sight of the city of Moscow alone would amply repay one for all risks and fatigues at sea. Never shall I forget my sensations when, from the great tower of the Kremlin, one bright, sunny day, I looked down upon that beautiful city. The numberless domes, beaming with azure and with gold, the checkered roofs, the terraces, the garden slopes, the mingling of all the styles and systems of architectural construction, now massive and heavy, now brilliant and light, and everywhere fresh and original, enchanted me. I am free to confess Russia astonished me. I have sailed down the mighty Mississippi,—I have been in the dark and silent bosom of our own forest homes,—I have been under the eye of Mont Blanc and Olympus,—I grew familiar with Rome and with London,—without experiencing the same degree of wonder which fastened upon me in Russia. I thought there to have encountered with hordes of semi-barbarians, yet I found a people raised, as it were, at once from a state of nature to our level of civilization. Nor have they apparently, in their rapid onward course, neglected the means to render their progress sure. And then,
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what an army,—a million of men! and the best forms of men,—the best disciplined, and able to endure the 'labored battle sweat' by their constant activity, the rigor of their climate, and their ignorance of all pleasures which serve to effeminate. The navy, too, though in an imperfect state compared with the army (in sailors, not ships), will doubtless soon hold a distinguished rank. Only think of such a power, increasing every day,—stretching out wider and wider, and all confessing one duty,—obedience to the will of the absolute sovereign!"
About this time two significant entries are found in his diary. The first one is: "Received intelligence of the death of Edwin Forrest Goodman, the infant son of a friend.
'All his innocent thoughts
Like rose-leaves scattered.'"
The second is this: "And so Jane Placide is dead. The theatrical people of New Orleans then have lost much. She imparted a grace and a force and dignity to her rôle which few actresses have been able so admirably to combine. She excelled in a profession in the arduous sphere of which even to succeed requires uncommon gifts, both mental and physical. Her disposition was as lovely as her person. Heaven lodge and rest her fair soul!"
The reader will recollect Miss Placide as the friend about whom young Forrest quarrelled with Caldwell and withdrew from his service. How strangely the millions of influences or spirits that weave our fate fly to and fro with the threads of the weft and woof! While he was writing the above words in the capital of France, her remains were sleeping in a quiet cemetery of the far South, on the other side of the world, with the inscription on the slab above her,—
"There's not an hour
Of day or dreamy night but I am with thee;
There's not a wind but whispers o'er thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon
But in its hues of fragrance tells a tale
Of thee."
He passed over to England again, to visit a few spots sacred in his imagination which he had not seen in his former journey there. Chief among these were the house and grave of Shakspeare, at Stratford-upon-Avon. With the eagerness and devotion arising
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from the lifelong enthusiasm of all his professional studies and experience, reinforced by the feeling of the accumulated homage paid at that shrine by mankind at large, he wandered and mused in the places once so familiar with the living presence of the poet, and still seeming to be suffused with his invisible presence. In the day he had made a careful exploration of the church where the unapproachable dramatist lies sepulchred. Late in the evening, when the moon was riding half-way up the heaven, he clambered over the fence, and, while the gentle current of Avon was lapping the sedges on its shore almost at his feet, gazed in at the window and saw the moonbeams silvering the bust of the dead master on the wall, and the carved letters of the quaint and dread inscription on his tomb,—
"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear
To dig the dust encloséd here.
Blessed be he who spares these stones,
And cursed be he who moves my bones."
What a contrast the picture of him in this night-scene at the church-window would have made for those familiar with his appearance on the stage in the wrath of Coriolanus, the remorse of Macbeth, the sneer of Richard, the horror of Othello, or the tempest of Lear!
It now lacked but a few days of being two years since Forrest left America, and he began to feel powerfully drawn homewards. It had been a period of unalloyed satisfaction, and he had much improved in many ways, from his intercourse with different forms and classes of society, from his contemplation of natural scenery in many lands, from his study of the masterpieces of art, from his criticism of the performances of the distinguished actors and actresses whom he saw, and from his reading of many valuable books, including, among lighter volumes, such works as those of Locke and Spinoza. In this long tour and deliberate tarry abroad, wisely chosen in his early manhood, before his nature had hardened in routine, with plenty of money, leisure, health, freedom, and aspiration, he had drunk his fill of joy. His brain and spine and ganglia saturated with an amorous drench of elemental force, drunk with every kind of potency, he swayed on his centres in revelling fulness of life. He had been in these two exempted years like Hercules in Olympus, with abundance of ambrosia
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and nectar and Hebe on his knee. But now his heart cried out for home, and the sense of duty urged him to gird up his loins for work again. Something of his feeling may be guessed from the fact that he had copied into his journal these lines of Byron:
"What singular emotions fill
Their bosoms who have been induced to roam,
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill,
With love for many and with tears for some;
