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began at once to make allusions to conspiracies, to enemies, to a certain class in the community,—allusions which were but too quickly caught up and applied and resented. And so the virus worked.
Place must here be found for a tender and tragic passage in the life of Forrest, whose date remained thenceforth a sacred and solemn mark in his memory,—the death of his mother.
Dear Lawson,
My Mother is dead.
That little sentence speaks
all I can say, and more
—much more.
Yours truly
Edwin Forrest.
James Lawson.
June 25. 1847.
Philadelphia
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This event occurred, after a brief and not painful illness, on the twenty fourth of June, 1847, in the seventy-third year of her age. The preceding fac-simile of the announcement of the sad event to one of his oldest and dearest friends is expressive in its Spartan brevity.
The day after the burial, one of the papers said, "The funeral of the mother of Edwin Forrest, the great American tragedian, took place yesterday. She was buried in St. Paul's churchyard. The emotions of the actor on taking his last look at the parent who had always loved and cherished him so tenderly were far more keen than any he had ever feigned on the stage. We regard the mother of a man of fame and genius with an involuntary feeling of reverence. We think of her care and tutoring of her child in his earliest years."
The grief of Forrest when the form of his mother sank from his sight into the grave was indeed sharp and profound. His friend Forney said to him afterwards, "I did not suppose you were so sensitive. I saw how hard you had to struggle to control your feelings; and I think all the more of you for it."
The loss of his mother was a great misfortune to Forrest, not only in the sorrow and the sense of impoverishment it gave his heart, but also in removing the strong restraint she had exerted upon his growing distaste for society, his deepening resentment at the insincerity and injustice around him, and his consequent tendency to shut himself up in himself. If few men ever had a better mother, it may truly be said few men ever were more faithful in repaying their filial indebtedness. The love which Forrest cherished for his mother was a charming quality in his character, and the generous devotedness of his conduct to her was one of the finest features of his life. He used often to say that he owed to the early lessons she had taught him everything that was good in him. "Many and many a time," he said, "when I was tempted to do wrong, thoughts of my mother, of her love for me, of her faith and character, of what she would wish me to do and to be, came and drove the offending temptation away."
We can see something, much, indeed, of her character, by reflection, in the following letter written to her by Edwin from New Orleans in 1834, on receipt of the tidings of the death of his brother William:
MOTHER OF EDWIN FORREST.
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"My dear Mother,—We have experienced a deep and irreparable loss. You are deprived of a dutiful and affectionate son, my dear sisters of a most loving and devoted brother, and I have now none on earth to call by that tender and endearing name. The intelligence of William's death was a severe shock to me, so sudden, so unexpected. It seems but yesterday that I beheld him in the pride of his strength and manhood; and I can scarcely credit that his 'sensible warm motion has become a kneaded clod, doomed to lie in cold abstraction and to rot.' Yet is it a too sad reality, and we must try to bear our affliction as we ought. After the dreadful impression of the blow, my first thought was of you, my mother. I knew how truly and tenderly you loved him, and with great anxiety I have felt how deeply you must deplore the loss of him now. But for my sake, dear mother, for the sake of all your children, whose chief study in life is to make you happy, do not give way to grief, lest it impair your health and deprive you of the enjoyment of the many happy years through which it is our prayer that you may yet live to bless us. Whatever befalls any of your children, you must have the great consolation of knowing that in all your conduct towards them you have always been as faithful and kind and exemplary as any parent could possibly be.
"I have received letters from my friends Wetherill, Duffy, and Goodman. When you next see those kind gentlemen, thank them in my name for their grateful attention.
"I shall be with you in about three weeks, and I long for the time to come, that I may talk with you face to face about our dear William, and try, by my redoubled devotion, to make up to you for his departure. Give my love to Henrietta, Caroline, and Eleanora.
"My dear mother, that your years may be long and increase in comforts is the sincere prayer of your truly affectionate son,
"Edwin."
From Vienna, under date of December 10th, 1835, he wrote thus to her:
"My dear Mother,—You express a wish that it may not be long before I am restored to you. You cannot wish this more
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sincerely than I do. For, to speak truth, I am weary with this wandering, and sigh for the sincere and tranquil joys of home. I hope, with the pleasure and instruction I have received from my journeyings, to entertain you during some long and friendly winter evenings, when we shall be cosily seated together in that snug little room of yours by a good coal-fire. How happy we shall be, dear mother! Then shall I see in those dark and expressive eyes of yours some occasional symptoms of doubt at my strange narrations, which, of course, I shall render both clear and probable by an abundance of testimony. Thus shall our evenings pass with calm reflection on my 'travel's history,' and you shall banish all regrets that I have stayed away from you so long. It will be a melancholy pleasure to contemplate the relics of our poor Lorman. Time, time, how fleeting and momentary is man's existence when compared with thy eternal march!"
In another letter to her during this same absence, he says, "Mother, do you sometimes wish to see your wandering boy and take him to your arms again? Why do I ask such a question? I know you do. Though all the world should forget me, I shall still be cherished in your heart; and your love is worth to me all the admiration of the world besides."
At a later time he wrote, "Beloved mother, it has been so long since I have heard from you, that I grow anxious to know that you are well and in the tranquil enjoyment of the blessings of this life. If ever any one deserved life's peaceful evening,—do not think I flatter,—that person is yourself. When I reflect upon the trials of poverty you have endured, how, under the most trying afflictions, you have sustained yourself with such becoming dignity, I cannot withhold the unfeigned homage which prompts me to say that I am as proud of you, who gave me birth, as you can ever have been of me in the choicest hours of my existence."
And in the latest year of her life he wrote, "Dearly beloved mother, is there not something I can send you which will give you pleasure? Anything in the world which it is in my power to obtain you have only to ask for in order to receive. You know I cannot experience a keener happiness than in gratifying any desire of yours, to whom I owe everything."
In the diary he kept during his first visit to Europe, this quo
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tation from Lavater was copied, with the appended verses: "'I require nothing of thee,' said a mother to her innocent son, when bidding him farewell, 'but that you bring me back your present countenance.'
"'What shall I bring thee, mother mine?
What shall I bring to thee?
Shall I bring thee jewels that shine
In the depths of the shadowy sea?'
"'Bring me that innocent brow, my boy!
Bring me that shadowless eye!
Bring me the tone of tender joy
That breathes in thy last good-bye!'"
His mother ever remained in his memory a hallowed image of authority and benignity, a presence associated with everything dear and holy. In an hour of effusion, near the end of his own life, he said, "When I saw her great dark eyes fixed on me, beaming with satisfied affection, and listened to words of approval from her lips, O it was more to me than all the public plaudits in the world! My God, what a joy it would be to me now to kneel at her feet and worship her! And they say there are such meetings hereafter. I know not, I know not. I hope it is so." He had her portrait over the foot of his bed, that her face, as in his childhood, might be the last sight he saw ere falling asleep, and the first to greet him when he awoke. And among the papers left at his death the following lines were found in his handwriting, either composed by him or copied by him from some unnamed source:
"MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
"Here is my mother's grave. Dear hallowed spot,
The flight of these long years has changed thee not,
Though all things else have changed; e'en this sad heart,
In all, save thoughts of thee, which will not start,
But, woven in my being, burn again
With fires the torch of memory kindles still.
Though I have wandered far in distant spheres,
And mixed in many scenes of joy and tears,
And found in all, perchance, some friends, and loved
One who was even more, I ne'er have roved
From thee, my mother, and thy sacred grave.
I could forget, albeit a task severe,
All forms, all faces, all that love e'er gave,
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Save thine, my mother,—that no time can wear.
I have but one sad wish when life is o'er,—
Whatever fate is mine, on sea or shore,
Whoe'er may claim my ashes for a trust,
They still may come to mingle with thy dust.
'Tis fit this troubled heart, when spent with care,
Again should turn to that unfailing breast,
And find at last the home my childhood shared,—
The quiet chamber of my mother's rest."
The wish has been fulfilled, and the forms of mother and son sleep side by side where no pain, no harsh word, ever comes.
In the September of 1848 Macready had made his reappearance on the American stage. Some of the friends of Forrest, democrats who had potent influence with the Bowery Boys, or the muscular multitude of New York, called on him, and proposed to have the English tragedian driven from the theatre. Forrest felt that such a course would be unworthy of him, and, instead of giving him revenge, would dishonor his name, and make his enemy of increased importance. He refused to have anything to do with such an attempt, and urged his friends to drop the matter entirely. They did so. When, however, Macready, taking advantage of a call before the curtain to make a speech, told the public that he had been assured that he was to be met by an organized opposition, and thanked them for the flattering reception which had "defeated the plan," "baffled his unprovoked antagonists, and rebuked his would-be-assailants," fresh indignation was stirred, and a great deal of bad blood kindled. In Philadelphia he was saluted with some hissing amidst the great applause. He then took occasion to say of Forrest, directly, "He did towards me what I am sure no English actor would have done towards him,—he openly hissed me." This caused an intense excitement in the house, with several personal collisions. The next day Forrest published a letter in the "Pennsylvanian," replying to Macready's speech, and arraigning his conduct and his character in very severe terms. The statements in the letter may all have been true and just, but it was written in an angry temper, and had better not have been written. It was not in good taste, and, spreading the contagion of an inflamed individual quarrel among the community, was of bad influence. Where his passions were concerned, good taste was not the motto of Forrest. Downright honesty and justice, rather
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than the delicate standards of politeness, were his aim. Macready retorted in a published card, to which Forrest responded indirectly in several long letters to a friend. Thus the controversy waxed hotter, and excited wider and angrier interest. And when the English actor was ready to begin his closing engagement in New York, in May, 1849, the elements for a storm were all ready.
We can see the straight hitting from the shoulder of Forrest in every sentence of his "Card." "I most solemnly aver and do believe that Mr. Macready, instigated by his narrow, envious mind and his selfish fears, did secretly suborn several writers for the English press to write me down." We can see the wounded colossal arrogance of Macready in the allusion to his antagonist entered in his diary at the time. "The Baltimore papers characterize the performances of Forrest as equal, if not superior, to mine, and speak of him as of an artist and a gentleman. And I am to dwell in this country!" In the quarrel Macready appears as a vain and fretful aristocrat, observant of the fashionable code of courtesy, but capable of falsehood; Forrest as a proud and revengeful democrat, scornful of the exactions of squeamish society, and quite capable of bad taste. In both is visible the resentful and morbid egotism of their profession in a blameworthy and repulsive form. And the whole affair, on both sides, was undignified and ignoble in its character; and in its public result—though, of course, neither of them was directly responsible for this—it proved a murderous crime. It reflects deep and lasting discredit both on the Englishman and on the American. It may be of some use if it serves to illustrate the contemptible and wicked nature of the vice of professional jealousy, and to teach succeeding players whenever in their rivalry they meet malignant envy or opposition, magnanimously to overlook and forget it.
On the evening of May 7th, Macready was to appear in Macbeth at the Astor Place Opera House. The entire auditorium was crowded with an assembly of the most formidable character, resolved that the actor should not be suffered to play his part. There were comparatively few of the friends of Macready present, most of the seats being secured by the hard-handed multitude, who had made the strife an affair of classes and were bent on putting down the favorite of what they called the kid-gloved and silk-stockinged gentry. It is disagreeable thus to recall these
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odious distinctions, but the truth of history necessitates it. Suffice it to say that the tragedian was overwhelmed with hisses, yells, derisive cries, followed by all kinds of missiles. Chairs were hurled from the gallery, smashing on the stage. When it was found that life was in danger, the curtain was lowered and the performance abandoned. Macready proposed to break his engagement and return to England. But the press condemned in the most scorching terms the outrage which had been done him, and insisted that he should appear again, and should be upheld at any cost. A letter was also sent him, signed by forty-eight gentlemen, including many of the most eminent and influential names in the city, urging him to continue his performances, and promising him the support of the community. He consented to repeat the trial.
