The good democratic priest, Lacy, whose loving care and instructions had largely moulded the mind of young Cade, says to the poor yeoman,—

The wretched hut of the lonely widow Cade is shown. She soliloquizes,—

She sighs for the return of her boy, who, when he fled from his tyrants to seek a land where his heart might throb without the leave of a master, had promised that he would come back some day in honor to avenge her and to redeem his class. Meanwhile, he has become a stalwart and experienced man. Under the name of Aylmere, he has won distinction in the armies of Italy, and delved in the lore of the schools, but never lost sight of his origin and his early hatred of the oppressors of the poor. He now, disguised, enters the cot of his mother with his wife, Mariamne, and their child. He is unrecognized. Lacy, with fatherly pride, tells him of the brave boy missed so long, and proceeds to describe how he had behaved when Lord Say had insulted his mother:

Here Aylmere, with sudden impulse, springs up, throws off his cloak, and cries, with an exulting laugh,—

This affecting scene was made to thrill every beholder to tears. As the poor widow sank fainting under the shock of surprise and joy, and her son knelt at her feet, all his own mother used to rise in his heart, and his acting was no simulation, but the breathing truth itself.

The ruminations of the exiled Cade in Italy, whose altars, unwarmed for a thousand years, were then lit up with the rekindled fires of free-born Rome,—how he remembered his pale mother, and burned to redeem his brethren, the herded and toil-worn bondmen,—this was described in a speech of amazing eloquence, whose delivery was so imaginative and natural in its free fervor that the images seemed visibly presented while the tones palpitated among the pulses of their hearers:

Domestic scenes occur, where the stern revolutionist, burning to avenge the hoarded injuries of his class, unbends in tender endearments. These two phases of his character heightened each other as the ivy sets off the oak or the flower the rock. Both aspects were equally planted in his nature, and so were equally spontaneous and truthful in his playing. In one mood he says to Mariamne, with fond murmuring inflections of voice, the very music of caressing love,—

New associations ruffling this mood away, the spirit of his fierce mission sweeps through his soul, and his voice has the sonorous accents of a clarion:

When they bring him accounts of the sufferings heaped on the poor by their lords, he rejoices that the day of their deliverance is hastened thus; for, he philosophizes,

One scene of the play which he made wonderfully exciting was where the licentious Lord Clifford steals into his cottage and offers violence to Mariamne. Unexpectedly, as if he sprang up out of the earth just in time to save his wife, Cade appears. He seemed an avatar of avenging Providence as, hurling the base lord back, he loomed above him, with uplifted dagger, his grand physical and moral superiority saying, as plainly as speech,

With a fierce laugh he hisses out the words in a staccato of stinging sarcasm,—

At the urgent solicitation of Mariamne, he spares the recreant noble; but, before letting him go, he utters this speech in a manner which appears to melt wonder, musing, scorn, and threatening into one simultaneous expression:

Left alone with himself, he soliloquizes,—

Another magnificent passage was the reply of Cade to the question of the insurrectionists, what they should demand if they rose. He replied,—mien, voice, and words, soul, face, and tongue, all conspiring to one electric result of eloquence,—

The meeting of Aylmere and Lord Say in the lonely wood was rendered in a way that formed a picture of retributive and awful sublimity. Say was the lord who long years before had caused the elder Cade to be tortured and murdered. And more recently he had ordered the burning of the widow Cade's cottage and forced her to perish in the flames. The avenger confronts this man, but is ignorant of his name and person:

Before the glorious insurrection of the toilsmen against their tyrants is fairly afoot. Cade is entrapped into the power of his foes and doomed to execution. Heart-sick of the cruelty of the rich and strong, the unhappiness of the poor and weak, the failure of the generous aspirants who would fain set things right, he said,—and his voice had the sound of a consoling psalm swelling and fading along funeral vaults,—

But by a fortunate turn of affairs he escapes from his prison in season to head the decisive battle.

The peasants are victorious, and bring in a rabble of nobles and priests as prisoners. They now have the sinister luxury of turning the tables on their masters. This was done with a sarcasm whose relish seemed to smack to the very bones and marrow.

The triumphant insurgents compel from the king the promise of a charter declaring the bondmen free. But, at the height of his success and glory, Cade is stabbed by a nobleman whom he has condemned to be executed for his insufferable crimes. As he lies in a dying state, a cry is heard without, declaring the proclamation of the charter. Mowbray rushes in, bearing it unrolled, and displaying the royal seal. Cade starts up with a wild burst of joy, seizes the charter, kisses it, clasps it to his bosom, sinks to the floor with one slow, expiring sigh,—and the curtain falls on the dead Liberator of the Bondmen of England.

It is a terrible play, full of the ravage of fearful passions, but it is also full of that truth and that justice which are attributes of God, and work their retributive results in hurricanes of hatred and battle, as well as sow their blessings in milder forms. The chronic political and social experience of mankind has always been terrible; and the drama, to be true to its full function, must sometimes teach terrible lessons terribly. The implacable animosity of Cade, his vendetta-hunt for revenge, his frenzied curse on the murderous noble who had mixed the blood and gray hairs of his mother with the ashes of her cottage, his gloating satiation of his vengeance at last, are not beautiful, but may be edifying. Provoked by such frightful wrongs as he had known, and enlarged by connection with a whole race similarly treated for ages, they appeal to the deepest instinct that sleeps in the crude blood of human nature,—the wild tooth-for-tooth and eye-for-eye justice of equivalent reprisals taken nakedly man to man. This indomitable basis of barbaric manhood, with all its dread traditions of even-handed retribution, was powerful in Forrest. He believed in it as a natural revelation of the divine justice, and he delighted in a part on the stage in which he could make its ominous signals blaze against those who could wrong the poor or trample on the weak; for thus he glorified the democrat he was by nature through the democrat he displayed in his art. It is obvious that such a performance must be extremely offensive to several classes of persons, and give rise to expressions of censure and disgust. And here is a key to considerable of the vindictive and contemptuous criticism levelled against Forrest. But all such criticism is incompetent and unfair, because springing from personal tastes and moods, and not from standard principles. Unquestionably, those types of man representing the moral ideals which tend to woo towards us the better future they prophesy, are more lovely and benignant than the types representing the real products and makers of history in the past, with all their merits and faults. But judgment must not be pronounced on the dramatic impersonation of a character from negative considerations of its æsthetic or ethical inferiority to other forms of character. It is to be rightly judged from its truth and power in its own kind and range; for that is all that the player professes to exhibit. And, furthermore, this is to be said in behalf of the moral influence of a character represented on the stage whose energies spurn hypocrisy and mean compromises, whose passions flame straight to their marks without cowardice or disguise,—that such a character is far more noble and wholesome than any of those common types of men who have no originality of nature, no spontaneous power, but are made up of timid imitations and a conventional worship of custom and appearance. One is often tempted to say, Better the free impulses of that stronger and franker time when the passions of men broke out through their muscles in deeds of genuine love, righteous wrath, and lurid crime, than the pale, envious, and sneaking vices that thrive under a civilization of money, law, and luxury. Better express a hostile feeling through its legitimate channels than secrete it to rankle in the soul. This was the thought of Forrest; and there is, no doubt, some truth in it. But it is to be said, on the other side, that the cultivated suppression of antipathies weakens them, and it is by this method chiefly that the world moves in its slow progress from the barbarisms of revenge to the refinements of forgiveness.

It remains, in conclusion, also to be said, that whatever exceptions the religious moralist or the fastidious critic may take to Cade, as delineated by the author and as incarnated by the actor, he was never the assassin, but always the judge,—his vengeance never the blow of caprice, but always of Nemesis. Nor did he ever play the selfish demagogue. His heart was pure, his hands were clean, his soul was magnanimous, and his tongue was eloquent:

So far from being a vulgar agitator, catering to the prejudices of the mob, he strives to restrain them from every extravagance, teaching them their duty in golden words:

Certainly such a dramatic rôle has ample moral justification in what it is from all fault-finding based on what it is not. The writer and the player might join hands and say, in the language of their own hero,—

The performance was no mere strutting piece of empty histrionics, but the carefully-studied and conscientious condensation into three hours of a whole vigorous and effective life, devoted in a spirit of profound justice to the avenging of wrongs and the disinterested service of the needy. And in a world where the lives of most men are absorbed in the gratification of pecuniary greed, sensual desire, or social vanity, such a representation must be ennobling in its legitimate influence. If in any instance its exhibition fed class-hatred or personal ferocity, the blame lay with the spectator, not with the player any more than it is a fault in the sunshine that it makes vinegar sourer. The true moral result of the artistic portrayal of condign punishment is not to cultivate the spirit of vengeance, but to dissuade from that primary infliction of wrong which breeds punishment.

Leggett died in 1838, just as he had received an appointment to Guatemala, a late and reluctant tribute from the triumphant political party of which he was one of the noblest ornaments. He had been too true to the principles of democracy to be popular with the partisan leaders. They feared and disliked him for his incorruptible integrity and his uncompromising devotion to impartial humanity and justice. He perished before he was forty years old, in the midst of his chivalrous warfare against slavery, a sacrifice to his heroic toils and the over-generous fire of his enthusiasm. He had felt, as Forrest said in his Fourth of July Oration, "If in any respect the great experiment which America has been trying before the world has failed to accomplish the true end of government,—the greatest good of the greatest number,—it is only where she herself has proved recreant to the fundamental article of her creed." Accordingly, reckless of his selfish interests, he toiled to reform his party and bring its practice up to its theory. His stern earnestness made enemies and held him back from patronage. Forrest found in him a congenial spirit, and loved him better than a brother. He furnished him first and last in his two literary enterprises, the "Critic" and the "Plaindealer," about fifteen thousand dollars, all of which was lost. After this, when the unfortunate struggler was in extreme pecuniary and mental distress, the two friends one evening were supping together in a private compartment in a restaurant. The gloom, despondency, and haggard air of Leggett alarmed his friend. "Has anything dreadful happened? What is the meaning of this?" said Forrest. "Ah, my good friend," answered Leggett, "it means that I am in absolute despair, and I am going to end the miserable conflict now and here." He snatched the carving-knife from the table and was on the point of thrusting it into his heart, when Forrest seized his arm, exclaiming, "Good God, Leggett, be reasonable, be calm! This is not just to your family or to your friends." "But," replied the unhappy man, "I am overwhelmed with debts: in another week I shall have no roof over my head; and I see no prospect of better days." The actor was deeply moved, and his voice faltered a little. "Come, come," he said, "I have abundance, and am piling up more. Why should you not share in it? I will relieve you of your worst embarrassments with cash; and I have a nice house at New Rochelle, just vacated by its tenant. I will give it to you freely, gladly. You are still a young man; you have great talents and reputation; and there is glorious work for you in the world yet. Come, cheer up, my good fellow." And he took his friend by the arm, and did not leave him until he received from him at his own door a hearty "God bless you, my dear friend, and good-night!"

Forrest kept his word to the amount of about six thousand dollars more. It was an act of impulsive love and aid to a noble man who deserved it, and to whom the giver felt greatly indebted for his ever-faithful friendship and sound counsels and the inspiring example of his character. It was a secret which he never betrayed to the world at all. It is now told for the first time by the biographer, to whom it was reluctantly narrated in the course of those confidential communications which reserved nothing.

Reputations fade out so fast, and the worthiest are forgotten so soon, in our hurrying land and day, that the average reader can hardly be supposed to know much, if anything, of this earliest and best friend of Forrest. His quality of manhood is to be seen in the tribute of his political and literary associate, William Cullen Bryant:

And his moral portrait is still more firmly drawn in prose in this extract from the memorial of him by John G. Whittier: "William Leggett! Let our right hand forget its cunning when that name shall fail to awaken generous emotions and aspirations for a higher and worthier manhood. True man and true democrat; faithful always to liberty, following wherever she led, whether the storm beat in his face or on his back; unhesitatingly counting her enemies his own; poor, yet incorruptible; dependent upon party favor as a party editor, yet risking all in condemnation of that party when in the wrong; a man of the people, yet never stooping to flatter the people's prejudices; he is the politician of all others whom we would hold up to the admiration and imitation of the young men of our country. What Fletcher of Saltoun is to Scotland, and the brave spirits of the old Commonwealth time are to England, should Leggett be to America."

Forrest sorrowed deeply and long over the death of this brave man and devoted friend. He never forgot him, nor ceased, in unbent and affectionate hours, to recall his memory, with pleasing incidents of their intercourse in those earlier days which wore romantic hues when old age had stolen on the retrospective survivor.

A good example now occurs of those numerous bitter and cruel newspaper attacks on Forrest, elicited by his great professional success, his prominence before the public, and his brusque individuality. A paper, fitly called "The Subterranean,"—edited by a brawling politician named Mike Walsh,—whose motto was "Independent in everything, neutral in nothing," published an article, a column in length, the substance of which was as follows:

"William Leggett.—His Widow.—Disgraceful Conduct of Ned Forrest.—Ingratitude of the Democracy.

"Leggett, like ourselves, battled boldly against all the power and corruption of the Democratic party, and untiringly strove to achieve a radical reform in its abuses. The purity of his principles proved fatal to him. He was hunted and baited while living, the same as we have been since his death, by every paltry and polluted scoundrel whose grasping avarice is likely to be affected by the elevation of the destitute and forlorn portion of their fellow-men.

"If battling for the oppressed and degraded portion of the human family is to subject a man, while living, to want, misery, ingratitude, and persecution, and to embitter his dying moments with the knowledge that when dead his family will be left destitute in a selfish world,—receiving the sneers of his enemies and the neglect of his friends,—you will find but few possessed of sufficient courage to tread so thorny, cheerless, and disheartening a path.

"We know not how to characterize the conduct of Ned Forrest in this matter. Leggett found him in an obscurity from which he never could have emerged by any effort of his own. With a magnanimous generosity peculiar to men of great minds, he tendered the use of his intellect and purse. Forrest gladly accepted it; and to that aid is he chiefly indebted for the immense fortune which he has subsequently acquired. Mrs. Leggett called on him the other day, and with a cold, heartless, hell-born ingratitude, which we would have scarcely expected from the most irredeemable hunker in existence, he treated her as though she were the greatest stranger on earth,—refusing the common civility due even to a stranger."

The purpose of this outrageous libel was a political one. It was designed to break down the popularity of the favorite actor with the New York Democracy, who were then again talking of bringing him into official life. Walsh wished to make him unavailable as a candidate, so as to keep the way open for another. In accordance with the programme, means were taken to stir up indignation and excitement to mobocratic pitch. It was noised abroad that there would be a riot. The theatre, for the first time in years when he played, was but half full, and with very few ladies. But Mrs. Forrest, with Mrs. Leggett at her side, and a few other lady friends, were in a front box. When the player came forward as the curtain rose, there was dead silence. Instead of beginning the performance, he addressed the audience:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,—Allow me to say a few words to you in vindication of myself from a slanderous attack which has been made upon me by an obscene paper called 'The Subterranean,' and repeated by the 'Herald,' the characteristics of which print I will not shock your feelings by naming. To those who know me personally, I trust it is unnecessary for me to repel such foul aspersions, but to those who do not know me, I beg leave to submit the following very short letter:

"'New York, October 30th, 1843.

"'My dear Friend,—I have seen with surprise and astonishment in the 'New York Herald' of to-day an article which purports to be an extract from a certain print published in this city, and said to be edited by a Mr. Walsh; and I have no hesitation in declaring every charge contained therein, so far as regards yourself, to be entirely false. Yours,

"'Elmira Leggett.'

"Ladies and Gentlemen,—I am sorry to be obliged to intrude upon you even for these few minutes, but, however small my pretensions may be as an actor, you must allow me to say that I value my character as a man and a citizen far higher than I should all the fame ever acquired by all the actors that ever lived, from the days of Roscius down to our own."

At the conclusion of this pithy speech the audience rose and applauded with enthusiasm, amidst which Forrest retired for a few seconds, and then re-appeared as the Cardinal Richelieu.

The "Herald" of the next morning said:

"He evidently suffered from considerable nervous excitement; but that passed away gradually, and in the closing scenes he was great,—worthy of himself,—worthy of the warmest applause of the most judicious of his audience. Had it not been for the timely publication in yesterday's 'Herald,' we would have had materials for a much more exciting paragraph. A formidable band of rowdies had been organized; a riot would undoubtedly have taken place had not the information given by us led to the publication of Mrs. Leggett's letter in the 'Evening Post,' and to judicious proceedings on the part of two worthy citizens who are engaged in collecting a subscription for her benefit.

"It was an interesting scene:—the living vindicating his conduct to the dead, whose arm while in life had so well sustained him, and in the presence of that witness."

Another instance of that personal abuse, of that annoying public interference with private affairs, from which eminent artists, particularly of the dramatic profession, suffer so much, was given in connection with the proposition for a theatrical benefit for the poor in Philadelphia. Forrest met this impertinence with a spirit of resolute independence and common sense so characteristic that it is worth while to relate the circumstances. In our country, subserviency to public opinion is so common, a cowardly conformity to what fashion commands or one's neighbors expect is so much the rule, that vigorous assertions of individuality are wholesome, and every resolute rejection on good grounds of the dictation of meddlers is exemplary. With all his democracy, Forrest was ever a man quite competent to this style. When the aforesaid benefit had been for some time officiously urged, and Forrest did not see fit to volunteer his services, a great many articles were printed reflecting on him for his backwardness, and virtually demanding that he should come forward. He took advantage of his great popularity, and risked it in so doing, to rebuke this kind of procedure and to assert for himself and his professional associates the right to dispose of their time and earnings as they themselves should choose. This letter speaks for itself:

"Dear Sir,—Your letter has just been received, in which you are signified as the organ of several philanthropic gentlemen of this city, desirous of obtaining my sentiments in relation to the much-talked-of 'Benefit for the Poor.'

"You, sir, in common with my fellow-citizens with whom I have the honor to be personally acquainted, will do me the justice to think that I am not altogether void of 'tear-falling pity,' or that my sympathies are entirely shut against the sufferings of the poor. So far from this, sir, I am disposed to do all in my power to alleviate their distresses, and will most cheerfully give two hundred dollars (my price for one night's performance), or five hundred, nay, one thousand, if any one of your numerous anonymous correspondents, who display so much anxiety for the relief of the poor, will 'go and do likewise.' An act like this will argue a greater sincerity to serve their fellow-creatures than the officious disposal of the time and exertions of others (which costs them nothing), or their boasted philanthropy through the medium of the public press.

"From the numerous applications made to me to perform for charities in almost every city that I visit, in my own defence I have found it necessary to make a rule which prevents the exertion of my professional services in behalf of any charity, excepting that of the Theatrical Fund for the relief of decayed or indigent actors. The necessity of making such a rule will at once be obvious to you. For if I performed for one and denied another, I must give offence; and if I answered all the demands of this nature made upon me, my time and energies must be thrown away upon others, to the total neglect of myself and those who have the most immediate claims upon me. The actor's profession 'is the means whereby he lives;' and who shall dictate to him the disposal of his hard-earned gains, any more than to the mechanic, the merchant, or the advocate?

"I thank you, sir, for the opportunity which you have afforded me of vindicating myself in regard to this matter, and of making known my reasons for declining to perform on the occasion referred to.

"Very respectfully,

"Your ob't servant,

"Edwin Forrest."

"Robert Morris, Esq.

The editor of the paper in which the letter was published added, "Now let us see whether the benevolent souls who have been egging him on to the execution of their purposes will show a generosity like his own!"

Travelling over the country amidst all kinds of people and scenes, as he did in his avocation, Forrest naturally had many adventures. Two or three of these may be narrated as having intrinsic interest or throwing light on his character. He was once on board a Mississippi steamer when a passenger, whose name and destination were unknown, was attacked by the cholera in its most violent form. He was a dark, stalwart man, who had been promenading the deck, showily dressed, a pistol projecting from his left breast-pocket, a bowie-knife dangling under his right arm. The unknown man felt that he was doomed, and had only just time and strength to say that he had some money on his person, before sinking back dead in the presence of the horror-struck throng. The captain took from around the waist of the unfortunate man a quilted belt, a foot in width, in which were packed thirteen thousand dollars in gold eagles. As there was no known claimant for the money, it was agreed that it should be given to a hospital in New Orleans. The boat was anchored, and they hurriedly wrapped the body in a long roll of canvas and placed it in a rude box, and went on shore to bury it. It was a still, starlight night in August; and as the company landed on their sombre errand, the wide waters of the river gleamed between its dark shores. A continuous wood of gigantic cotton-wood trees stretched from the bank, their trunks and boughs clasped by great vines, which looked, among the fantastic shadows flung by the pitch-pine torches, like so many serpents crawling in every direction. Digging a trench, they lowered the box into it, with no other service than the muttered words, "In the name of God we commit this body to the ground," threw the earth over it, and returned and proceeded on their way. The experience was a most impressive and dramatic one, the circumstances of the scene combining to color and frame it into a vivid natural cartoon.

The following anecdote was published many years ago in the "Sunday Courier," under his own signature, by Charles T. Heiner, of Baltimore, and the narrative is known to be strictly authentic. It is given here in his words, abbreviated:

"After a long absence, I found myself sailing up the Mississippi River, bound for home. One morning, as I left my state-room, I saw the passengers gathered on the forward deck. Inquiring the cause, I was told that a man had just died who had left, without protection, two children, a boy of seven years and a girl of five. The wife of the man, I was also told, had recently died, and the children were now orphans, and friendless and destitute. My informant had scarcely ceased speaking, when I observed a gentleman of herculean mould and dignified air, who possessed great personal beauty, pass by where I was sitting, having on his arm the little daughter of the deceased, who was sobbing bitterly, her little face nestled close to his breast. The boy, who was also sobbing, the stranger led by the hand, and, while his lips quivered and tears stood in his eyes, he was soothing the little mourners with words of hope and kindness, his full, rich voice being modulated to the tender tones of a woman. Much moved by the scene, I followed them and a large number of passengers into the cabin, where I found the two orphans standing in the centre of the group, their arms around each other's necks, mingling their tears and sobs.

"'Come, come, be a little man,' said the stranger to the boy; 'don't cry. I will take care of you,—I will be your father.' And he drew the little girl to him and wiped the tears from her eyes, regardless that his own were also overflowing, while the members of the group around showed no less feeling than he.

"One of the number called the assembly to order by nominating a chairman, a Mr. Jones, a planter, whose estate was about thirty miles farther up the river. He accepted the office, and said that, with the assent of the company, he would take charge of the orphans and rear and educate them. This proposition was well received by all the passengers except the stranger, who, during these proceedings, had been sitting apart in conversation with the little waifs that the act of God had cast upon the stream of charity. Hastily loosening the arms of the little girl from about his neck, he stepped forward and addressed the group.

"'I have been forestalled,' said he, 'by the gentleman who has made the proposal to which you have just listened. He has children,—I have none. I will take one of these children, and here pledge my honor to rear it with the same tenderness that I would exercise if it were my own. Let me divide with your chairman these gifts of Providence, and I will give him the privilege of electing which to take.'

"The silence which followed these remarks was broken by the voice of the little boy, who was old enough to comprehend the nature of what was passing, and who had been an eager listener to the words of the stranger, and whose hand he now seized in both his own. 'Oh, don't take me from my sister!' said he. 'When father died, he told me I must never leave her. Let us both go with you; she loves me very much, and father said that in a little while I should be strong enough to work for her. Don't take her away from me!' And the little fellow's voice trembled, and he looked imploringly into the stranger's face, who was melted to tears by this appeal.

"'You shall not be separated, my little hero,' replied the stranger, 'but shall remain together.' Then, turning to the group, he said,—

"'I will relinquish my claim to your chairman; but it must be on two conditions. The first is, that he shall draw on me annually for one-half of all the expenses which may be incurred in the rearing and educating of these orphans; and here is the first instalment of one hundred dollars.'

"'I cheerfully assent to that,' replied Mr. Jones. 'What is the other?'

"'That if you should die, or circumstances should prevent your continuing their protector, they shall be sent to me.'

"'I also agree to that.'

"'Take them, then, and may God bless them and you!' said the stranger, as he kissed the weeping orphans, who, in that brief space of time, with the quick instincts of children, had learned how much he was their friend.

"The bell rang, planks were taken in, and, ten minutes after the scene I have described, the steamer was once again puffing on her course, leaving the little ones and their new friend standing on the bank of the river waving us their sorrowful adieu.

"'Who is that gentleman?' said I to one of the passengers, whom I had drawn apart.

"'Why, don't you know him? That is Forrest, the tragedian!'"

A letter written by Mrs. Forrest to her youngest sister-in-law, Eleanora, while absent with Edwin on one of his distant theatrical engagements, may find a fitting place here, for the interest of its domestic allusions and of its description of the scenery on their journey:

"Buffalo, August 29th, 1843.

"My dear Eleanora,—According to the promise made in Philadelphia, I will endeavor to give you some account of our travels in the Far West. From New York we went first to Detroit, where Edwin was engaged to perform for six nights; but the business was so good that he was induced to remain eleven.

"On leaving Detroit, we took the railroad to Jackson, the capital of Michigan, and then proceeded by stage to a village called Battle Creek, in all a journey of about one hundred and thirty miles. There we remained overnight. After this we abandoned the public conveyances so long as we travelled in Michigan,—the routes taken by the stages being generally through the most uninteresting portions of the country, and the additional expense of a private conveyance being small, and the additional comfort great. Leaving Battle Creek, our road lay through one of the most beautiful portions of the State. For nearly twenty miles we rode through magnificent forests of huge old oaks, unencumbered by any undergrowth, and surrounded on all sides by wild flowers of every form and hue, roses, lilies, and the vivid scarlet lobelia everywhere growing up in the richest luxuriance. Occasionally we proceeded for a mile or two along the banks of the Kalamazoo River, a most picturesque stream, but so shallow that it may be easily forded almost anywhere. Sometimes we came to a natural meadow hundreds of acres in extent, on which apparently no tree or shrub has ever grown. These meadows are universally surrounded by high banks and immense trees, the growth of ages, which leads one naturally to suppose that they may have been the beds of lakes, of which there are a great number in this part of the country. These meadows are of infinite advantage to the farmer, yielding him fine crops of hay and saving him the labor of at least one generation, which would otherwise be employed in clearing away the trees. We spent some portion of a day in the village of Kalamazoo in walking about the place in search of Edwin's lots, which eventually we found. As the railroad will be completed to this place next year, these lots will in all probability be worth something. At Kalamazoo we remained one night, and started the next morning for Prairie Ronde. Here we saw one of the wonders of the western country, a magnificent prairie, fifteen miles across, the greater portion of it in a high state of cultivation, the soil very fine, and the farms in a flourishing condition, with a neat little village in the centre. Those prairies, however, which are wholly uncultivated present a much finer prospect to the traveller, being an immense sea of wild flowers, stretching as far as the eye can reach, without a tree or a shrub to interrupt the view. We remained one night at a village on White Pigeon Prairie, about thirty miles from the last one I named, and the next day proceeded to Niles. Our road, during the greater portion of the morning, was through the woods, and by the side of the St. Joseph River. The scenery is very beautiful. On entering the village of Niles, Goodman, who was standing at the door of his store, immediately recognized Edwin and stopped the carriage. He insisted on our going to his house, which Edwin at first refused, but Goodman said he had been expecting us all the week, and seemed so anxious about the matter that Edwin finally consented to go. I am sure you will be glad to hear that Edwin settled all his business with Goodman, and is satisfied that he has acted honestly. We remained there two days and a half, and he and Mrs. Goodman made us very comfortable. They have a neat little cottage, and two acres of land adjoining it, and apparently every comfort which they can require. On leaving Niles, we went to St. Joseph, and there took the boat to Chicago, a very pretty town finely situated on Lake Michigan. After remaining here a day, we took a steamboat for the Upper Lakes, and in two days reached Mackinaw, a most beautiful little island, where there is an annual meeting of most of the Indian tribes, who gather there to receive their pay from the Government. We at first purposed remaining a few days there; but finding that there were no accommodations for us, and that the boat would remain long enough to allow of our seeing all that we wished, we walked on shore, saw a sufficient number of Indians to satisfy all reasonable curiosity, and in a condition which tends to destroy the romantic ideas we are apt to form of them. We returned to our boat, which, after stopping at several places, brought us in three days more to Buffalo. I must not omit to tell you that on Sunday we had a sermon from an Episcopal minister, and, there being no time the same day for any other, on Monday we had a long discourse from a Mormon preacher; but, my paper being so nearly full, I must not attempt to describe him. Edwin is going to play ten or twelve nights here, and then we go to New York. I think this trip has been of service to him; and he is of the same opinion. He is now in excellent health. I have but little room left to make the many inquiries I would wish concerning you and all in Tenth Street. I hope your dear mother is fast recovering the use of her arm, and that her health in other respects is good. We should like much to hear how she is, and should be very glad to receive a few lines from you. I trust that you and your sisters are all well, and that you escaped the influenza. Edwin desires his love to mother, Henrietta, Caroline, and yourself. In this I beg most heartily to join, and remain ever,

"Yours, affectionately,

"Catharine Forrest."

Forrest, after playing in Nashville in 1842 or 1843, visited Jackson at the Hermitage, in Tennessee, where the venerable ex-President was passing in peaceful retirement the last days of his stormy life. Jackson, who was himself one of the greatest actors who ever appeared off the stage, had often seen him act, knew him well, and not only made him welcome, but insisted on his staying with him as his guest. Forrest did so, and extremely enjoyed the intercourse with the celebrated man for whom he had always cherished the greatest political and personal admiration. It was in the height of the agitation about the annexation of Texas to the United States. While there, Forrest broached this topic. In an instant the stooped and faltering sage was all alive, for he felt a passionate interest in the subject. In a few minutes, warming with his own action, he rose to his feet, seized a map in his left hand, and entered vehemently into the whole argument in behalf of the project on political, commercial, and social grounds. As his eyes glanced from point to point on the map, they glowed like two gray balls of fire. His right hand followed the direction of his eyes, and the pitch of his voice obeyed the inflections of his hand. His cheeks flushed, his white hair flew back like the mane of an aged lion, his head rose on his lifted and dilated neck, the motions of his limbs and torse were made straight from their joints, and he inveighed with the mien of an angry prophet. Forrest was actually startled by the spectacle of so sudden a change from drooping decrepitude to sublime power. He never forgot it as the best unintentional lesson he had ever received in dramatic expression. He afterwards bore in mind this proof of the electric capacity of feeble old age to be suddenly charged and emit lightnings and thunders, when he modelled the great explosions of his Richelieu.

Year on year now passed by with the fortunes of the player still wearing an aspect nearly all smiles. Though liberal, he was prudent, and the investments of his large income were always marked by shrewd foresight. His strength was enormous, his health and spirits for the most part were unvarying, his popularity was unabated, caps tossed for him in the theatre and eyes turned after him in the street, his home was blessed with love and peace, and his mother and sisters gave him the pleasure of seeing their steady happiness in the honorable repose and comfort he had provided for them. Well might he be an agreeable and cheerful man, genial with his friends, delighting in his profession, proud of his country and his countrymen, unpoisoned and undepressed as yet by misjudgment and abuse. So things were with him when, in 1845, attracted by a handsome managerial offer, moved by the desire of his wife to revisit her early home, and encouraged by the recollection of his flattering success before, with a strong hope of enhancing it in repetition, he resolved to cross the sea once more, and, in a selection of his favorite characters, present himself anew on the British Stage.

There was at this time one ominous element working in him which had been the cause of considerable irritation to him already, and which was to be unexpectedly aggravated in the experience now immediately before him. In his twenty years of professional life with its waxing celebrity he had encountered so many jealousies and slanders, so much envy, meanness, and treachery,—in his intimacy with artists, politicians, and other ambitious men his sharp discernment had seen so much base plotting and backbiting, so much pushing of the unworthy into prominence by dishonorable methods, and so much sacrificing of the meritorious and modest by falsehoods and shameless tricks of superior address,—that his early estimate of the average of human nature had been lowered and some degree of distrust and reserve developed. The change was not conspicuous, but it had begun, and it foreboded further evil. He had an open, truthful nature, especially characterized by love of justice and detestation of all double-faced or underhanded dealings. He was also a man of a deep and sensitive pride. Finding himself assailed continually with incompetent and acrimonious criticism, and in some cases pursued with malignant libels, he was naturally nettled and angered. With a man of his warm and tenacious temper the experience was a dangerous one, which tended to feed itself and to grow by what it fed on. Had he been gifted with that saintly spirit which bears wrong and insult with meek or magnanimous forgiveness, he would have escaped a world of strife and suffering. But in regard to injuries he was an Indian rather than a saint. Accordingly, the interested opposition and coarse abuse he met put him on probation for misanthropy. Fortunately, his reason and sympathy were too strong to yield to the temptation. But in his later career we shall see what was originally his generous outward struggle with adversity and the social conditions of success partially changed into a bitter inward conflict with men.