All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost,
And bring our hearts back to the starting-post."
He took passage in the Poland, and, with no notable adventure on the voyage, arrived at New York on the 5th of August, 1836, to be received with cheers into the open arms of a crowd of his friends as he stepped ashore, prouder than ever of his birthright of American citizenship.
CHAPTER XI.
PROFESSIONAL TOUR IN GREAT BRITAIN.
Two weeks of rest in his Philadelphia home, in delightful reunion with his mother and sisters, and two weeks more devoted to the banquets and parties with which his rejoicing friends there and in New York celebrated his return, passed quickly. He had now to prepare to say good-bye again. For overtures of such a flattering character had been made to him while in England to return and give a series of performances in the principal British theatres, that he had accepted them, and was engaged to be there early in October. The desire, however, after his long absence, to see him on the stage was so general, and was urged so eagerly, that he determined to appear for a few nights. Accordingly, he played the parts of Damon, Othello, and Spartacus for five nights in the Chestnut Street Theatre, in Philadelphia, and the same parts, with the addition of Lear, in the Park Theatre, in New York. The crowd and the excitement on the opening night were almost unprecedented, all the passages to the house being blocked with applicants two hours before the rising of the curtain. At the first glimpse of the actor in his stately senatorial garb, the multitude that filled the entire auditorium with a packed mass of faces rose as by one impulse and hailed him with deafening applause, kept up until it seemed as if it was not to end. He had never played better, by general consent, than he did this night. And when the play closed, and the enthusiastic ovation which had saluted his entrance was repeated, he certainly had every reason to feel in truth what he expressed in words:
"Ladies and gentlemen, for this warm peal of hands and hearts I have only strength in my present exhausted state to say, I thank you. It convinces me that neither time nor distance has been able to alienate from me your kind regards. I am unable
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to speak what I wish; but I can sincerely say that you make me proud this evening. And the remembrance of the cordial greeting, after no common absence, given me here in this city of my birth and my affection, will go down with me to my latest hour as one of the happiest scenes of my professional life."
A similar reception, only, if possible, still more flattering in the vastness of the throng and the fervor of the tributes, awaited him in New York. Box tickets were sold at auction for twenty-five dollars each,—a fact to which there had not at that time been anything like a parallel known in this country. For his six performances he received three thousand dollars, and the profit of the manager was estimated at six thousand dollars. The public greeted his strong points with a warmth which seemed to show that their admiration had grown during his absence, and the critics spoke of an evident improvement in his acting,—that it was less boisterous and more thoughtful than formerly. Called out at the conclusion of the play, Othello, on the occasion of his farewell, he alluded with deep emotions to the night, some ten years before, when he had made his first appearance before a New York audience. Then, a mere youth, just emerging from severe hardships, and still oppressed by poverty and a dark prospect, with scarcely a friend, he had tremblingly ventured to enact the part of Othello for the benefit of a distressed brother-actor. The generous approbation then given him had lent a new zeal to his ambition and a new strength to his motives. From that hour his course had been one of unbroken prosperity, for which he desired to return his most heartfelt thanks to his countrymen, and to assure them that he would do his best not to dishonor them in the mother-country, to which he was then bound. "I shall carry with me," he added, "an indelible remembrance of your kindness; and I hope that the recollection will be mutual, so that I may say, with the divine Shakspeare,—
'Our separation so abides and flies
That yon, remaining here, yet go with me,
And I, hence fleeting, still remain with you.'"
The audience responded to his speech with tempestuous huzzas, and he withdrew, carrying this flattering scene fresh in his memory as he set sail for his courageous enterprise on the other side of the sea.
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It was a courageous and somewhat ominous adventure. For it is to be remembered that the relationships of England and the United States were very different in 1836 from what they are in our day. The memories of the Revolutionary war and of the war of 1812 were still keen and bitter; and the feelings of intellectual inferiority and literary vassalage to the mother-country among the Americans engendered a sense of wounded pride or irritable jealousy excessively sensitive to British criticism, which, on the other hand, was generally marked by a tone of complacent arrogance or condescending patronage. No American actor, at least none of any note, had yet appeared on the boards in England. All such international favors were on the other side,—and they had been most numerous and long-continued. The illustrious Cooper, an Englishman by birth and education, though so long domesticated in this country both as citizen and actor as to be almost considered an American, had been ignominiously hooted down on the most famous stage in London amidst opprobrious cries of "Away with the Yankee! Send him back!" What reception now would be vouchsafed to an American tragedian, fresh from nature and the woods of the West, and all untrained in the methods of the schools, who should dare essay to rival the glorious traditions of old Drury Lane within her own walls?—this was a question which caused many wise heads to shake with misgivings, and might well have deterred any less fearless spirit than that of Forrest from putting it to the test. But he believed, obvious as the antipathies and jealousies between the two countries were, that the fellow-feeling and the love of fair play were far stronger. In a speech delivered in his native city the evening before his departure, he expressed himself thus:
"The engagement which I am about to fulfil in London was not of my seeking. While I was in England I was repeatedly importuned with solicitations, and the most liberal offers were made to me. I finally consented, not for my own sake, for my ambition is satisfied with the applauses of my own countrymen, but partly in compliance with the wishes of a number of American friends, and partly to solve a doubt which is entertained by many of our citizens, whether Englishmen would receive an American actor with the same favor which is here extended to them. This doubt, so far as I have had an opportunity of
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judging, is, I think, without foundation. During my residence in England, I found among the English people the most unbounded hospitality, and the warmest affection for my beloved country and her institutions. With this impression, I have resolved to present to them an American tragedy, supported by the humble efforts of the individual who stands before you. If I fail—I fail. But, whatever may be the result, the approbation of that public which first stamped the native dramatist and actor will ever be my proudest recollection."
Of all the friends to whom Forrest bade adieu, not one beside was so dear to him as Leggett. The heart-ties between them had been multiplied, enriched, and tightened by unwearied mutual acts of kindness and service, and a thousand congenial interchanges of soul in intimate hours when the world was shut out and their bosoms were opened to each other without disguise or reserve. The letter here added speaks for itself:
"Office of the Evening Post,
"New York, Sept. 19th, 1836.
"Dear Madam,—I had the pleasure of accompanying your son Edwin yesterday as far as Sandy Hook, and seeing him safely on his way for Liverpool, with a fine breeze, in a fine ship, and with a fine set of fellow-passengers. He was accompanied down the bay by a large number of his friends, who, on the steamboat parting from the ship, expressed their warm feelings for him in many rounds of loud and hearty cheers. We kept in sight of the vessel till near sundown, by which time she had made a good offing. Andrew Allen had gone on board with his baggage the day previous, and everything was prepared for him in the most comfortable manner. While we were on board the vessel with him, we were invited by the captain to sit down to a collation prepared for the occasion, and had the satisfaction of drinking to his health and prosperous voyage, not only across the Atlantic Ocean, but across the ocean of life also, in a glass of sparkling champagne. It would have given me the most unbounded happiness to have been able to accompany him to Europe, as he desired; but circumstances rendered it impossible for me to gratify that wish. I am with him in heart, however, and shall look most eagerly for the tidings of his safe arrival and triumphant reception.
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Whatever news I get concerning him which I think may be of interest to you, I shall take pleasure in immediately communicating. Mrs. Leggett bade me remember her most affectionately to you and your daughters, and to say that, should you visit New York at any time during your son's absence, she shall expect you to make her house your home. In this wish I most fully concur. Allow me to assure you, madam, that
"With great respect,
"I am your obed't serv't,
"Wm. Leggett.
"Mrs. Rebecca Forrest."
James K. Paulding, a close and dear friend of Forrest, met him one sunshiny day in New York at the corner of Nassau and Ann Streets, and expostulated with him against going across the sea to play. "Washington," he said, "never went to Europe to gain an immortality. Jackson never went there to extend his fame. Many others of our greatest and most original men never visited the other hemisphere to add lustre to their names. And why should you? Stay here, and build yourself an enduring place in the mind of your own country alone. That is enough for any man!" He spoke with extreme eloquence, heedless of the busy throng who hurried by absorbed in so different a world from that whose prospects kindled the idealistic and ambitious friends. When Forrest was sailing out of the harbor, he recalled these words with strong emotion, and felt for a moment as if he were guilty of a sort of treachery to his own land in thus leaving it. Though the whole incident, as here set down, may appear overstrained, it is a true glimpse of life.
Forrest made his first professional appearance in England in Drury Lane Theatre, on the evening of the 17th of October, 1836, in the rôle of Spartacus, before an audience which crowded the house in every part to its utmost capacity. His great American fame had preceded him, and there was an intense curiosity felt as to the result of his experiment. The solicitude was especially keen among the two or three hundred of his countrymen who were present, and who knew the extreme democratic quality of the play of the Gladiator. The tremendous bursts of applause which his entrance called out soon put an end to all doubt or
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anxiety. The favor in advance certified by the unanimous and long-continued cheers he confirmed at every step of the performance, and wrought to an extraordinary pitch at the close, when he was recalled before the curtain and greeted with overwhelming plaudits. He returned his thanks for the honor done him, and was loudly applauded when he said he was sure that England and America were joined by the closest good-will, and that the more enlightened portion of their population were superior to any feeling of national jealousy. But on attempting to include the author of the Gladiator in the approving verdict which the audience had given himself, he was interrupted by numerous protests and repeated cries, "Let us see you in some of Shakspeare's characters!"
The Courier of the next morning said,—
"America has at length vindicated her capability of producing a native dramatist of the highest order, whose claims should be unequivocally acknowledged by the Mother Country; and has rendered back some portion of the dramatic debt so long due to us in return for the Cookes, the Keans, the Macreadys, the Knowleses, and the Kembles, whom she has, through a long series of years, seduced, at various times, to her shores,—the so long doubted problem being happily solved by Mr. Edwin Forrest, the American tragedian, who made his first appearance last night on these boards, with a success as triumphant as could have been desired by his most enthusiastic admirers on the other side of the Atlantic. Of the numerous striking situations and touching passages in the play, Mr. Forrest availed himself with great tact, discrimination, and effect; now astounding all eyes and ears by the overwhelming energy of his physical powers, and now subduing all hearts by the pathos of his voice, manner, and expression. The whole weight of the piece rests upon him alone, and nobly does he sustain it. His action is easy, graceful, and varied; and his declamation is perfectly free from the usual stage chant, catchings, and points. Indeed, nature alone seems to have been his only model."
The "Sun" of the same date said,—
"Mr. Edwin Forrest, who has long held the first rank as a tragic actor in America, made his first appearance here last night in a new drama, also of American growth, entitled the Gladiator.
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The acting of Mr. Forrest as Spartacus was throughout admirable. His very figure and voice were in his favor, the one being strongly muscular, the other replete with a rough music befitting one who in his youth has dwelt, a free barbarian, among the mountains. He electrified his audience; indeed, we have not heard more enthusiastic bursts of applause shake the walls of an English theatre since Othello expired with poor Kean. The great recommendations of Mr. Forrest as a tragedian we take to be strong passion, and equally strong judgment. In the whirlwind of his emotions he never loses sight of self-control. He is the master, not the slave, of his feelings. He appeals to no fastidious coterie for applause; he is not remarkable for the delivery of this or that pretty tinkling poetic passage; still less is he burdened with refined sensibility, which none but the select few can understand; far otherwise; he gives free play to those rough natural passions which are intelligible all the world over. His pathos is equally sincere and unsophisticated. His delivery of the passage,—
'And one day hence,
My darling boy, too, may be fatherless,'—
