On his farewell night he acted Macbeth to a brilliant house. As the drop-scene fell at the close of the last act, deafening shouts re-echoed through the house, with calls for Forrest, which, on his coming in front of the curtain to acknowledge them, were renewed and kept up for a considerable time, the people rising en masse, and paying the most marked tribute of their estimation. On silence being restored, he said,—

"Ladies and Gentlemen,—Exhausted as I must necessarily feel, owing to the character I have sustained, I cannot find language adequate to express the sentiments that fill my bosom, neither am I able to return suitable acknowledgments for the kindness which you are pleased to evince towards me. I beg to thank you sincerely for the cordiality and courtesy which I have experienced from the hospitable citizens of Cork during my short sojourn in this 'beautiful city.' Long shall I remember it, and in returning to my native country I shall bear with me the grateful recollection of that courtesy and hospitality; and, when there, I shall often think with pleasure and pride on the flattering reception you were pleased to honor me with. I wish you all adieu, and hope that the dark cloud that overhangs this fair country will soon pass away; that a happier and brighter day will beam on her, and that Ireland and her people will long enjoy the prosperity and happiness they are so eminently entitled to, and which are so much to be desired."

He was quite as triumphant in Dublin as in Cork. The notice of his opening in Othello shows this:

"Mr. Forrest, the American tragedian, made his first appearance on Monday night, as Othello. The selection of the character was, for an actor of great power, most judicious; for in all the glorious range of Shakspeare's immortal plays there is not one so powerful in its appeal to the sympathies of our nature, so masterly in its anatomy of the human heart, or so highly-wrought and yet so beautiful a picture of passion,—nor, for the actor, is there any character requiring more delicacy of perception and personation in its details, nor so much of terrible energy of the wrung heart and stormy soul in its bursts of frenzied passion. An actor without a heart to feel and an energy to express the fearful passion of the gallant Moor, whose free and open nature was craftily abused to madness, could give no idea of the character, and must needs leave the audience as cold and unmoved as himself.

"But, to one glowing with the divine fire of genius, that wonderful electricity by which the inmost nature of man is moved, and masses are swayed as if by the wand of an enchanter, Othello is a noble character for the display of his power,—a resistless spell, by which the eye and ear and soul of the audience are held and moved and swayed. We must admit that such an actor is Mr. Forrest, and that such is the effect which his personation of the loving, tender, gentle, duped, abused, maddened Moor produced upon us, and seemed to produce upon his audience. From the rising to the falling of the curtain the house was hushed in stilled, almost breathless, attention; and it was not until stirred by some electrifying burst of passion that the pent-up feeling of his listeners vented itself in such applause, such recognition of the justness and naturalness of the passion, as man gives to man in real life, and when, as it were, the interests of the actor and the spectators are one. This species of involuntary homage to the genius of his personation arose not only from the power which a consummate actor acquires over the feelings of others, but from the entire absence of all those contemptible tricks of the stage, those affectations of originality, of individuality,—that is, stamping the counterfeit manner of the actor upon the sterling ore of the author,—those false readings and exaggerated declamations, which call down injudicious but degrading approbation. Mr. Forrest is free from all these defects. And yet his 'reading' is singularly telling. Not one passage—nay, not one word—of the vivid, picturesque, nervous, wondrous eloquence of the poet is lost upon the audience. What might puzzle in the closet is transparent on the stage. The quaint form in which the divine philosophy of Shakspeare clothes itself seems, by his reading, its fit and apposite garb,—as if none other could so well indicate its keen and subtile meaning. And all this is done without aiming at 'points,' or striving after 'effects.' Then his tenderness is tenderness—his passion, passion. Possessing a noble voice, running from the richest base to the sweetest tenor,—if we might so describe it,—full of flexibility, and capable of every modulation, from the hurricane of savage fury to the melting tenderness of love, Mr. Forrest can express all those varied and oftentimes opposite emotions which agitate our nature, and which Shakspeare, as its most masterly delineator, represents in all its phases in his immortal creations, and not least in Othello. We were much struck with the beautiful fidelity with which Mr. Forrest's look, gesture, tone, and manner painted the gradual growth of jealousy, from the first faint, vague doubt, to its full and terrible confirmation, and the change of Othello's nature, from the frank soldier and the doting husband to the relentless fury of the avenger. To our mind it was a noble picture,—bold, beautiful, and delicate."

An event illustrative of the spirit of Forrest occurred on his last evening in Dublin. The play was "Damon and Pythias." The Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland entered the theatre with a noble party, escorted by a military company with martial music. The audience rose with the curtain, and joined the whole dramatic corps in singing "God save the Queen." Forrest never once during the play looked towards the vice-regal box; and in the bows with which he acknowledged an honorary call from the audience at the close, he studiously avoided seeing the group of titularly-illustrious visitors. He was a democrat; he liked the Irish and disliked their English rulers, and he would not in his own eyes appear a snob. His taste and delicacy in the act were questionable,—his sturdy honesty unquestionable. It reminds one of Goethe and Beethoven standing together when the victorious Napoleon passed in his pomp on the way to Berlin. Both were men of genius and of nobleness; but the one was socially freed by cosmopolitan culture and health, the other socially enslaved by natural inheritance and morbidity. They acted with equal honesty, but in a very different way, as Napoleon went by. Goethe made a low bow, and stood with inclined front; Beethoven crushed his hat over his brows, and thrust himself more stiffly up. Neither he nor Forrest could play the courtier. They could not in social relations abnegate self and react impersonally on others. They must assert that they were themselves, and were democratically willing to allow everybody else the same privilege.

The reception of Forrest in Scotland, notably at Glasgow and Edinburgh, was all that he could have asked. The first literary organ of Edinburgh pronounced its judgment thus: "The three leading characteristics of Mr. Forrest's acting appear to us to be, a bold intellectual grasp of the written soul of his author; a remarkably vigorous and striking execution, accompanied by an apparent contempt for mere conventional rules or customs; and a rare faculty of expressing by the face what neither pen can write nor tongue tell."

It was at Edinburgh that the actor performed what may perhaps be called the most unfortunate and ill-omened deed in his life. Attending the theatre to see Macready play Hamlet, he had applauded several good points made by his rival. But in the scene where the court are about assembling to witness the play within the play, and Hamlet says to Horatio,—

Macready gallopaded two or three times across the stage, swinging his handkerchief in rapid flourishes above his head. As he was affecting to be mad, it does not seem that the action was in any extreme out of character. But it struck Forrest as inexcusably unworthy, and a desecration of the author. Accordingly, with his usual unpausing forthrightness and reckless disregard of appearances, he gave vent to his disgust in a loud hiss. Macready glowered at him and waved his handkerchief towards him with an air of contemptuous defiance, and repeated his movement. The right of a spectator to express his condemnation of an actor by hissing is unquestioned. Had not Forrest been himself a brother actor, and in unfriendly relations with the performer, his hiss would not have been much noticed or long remembered. But the special circumstances of the case gave it an indelicacy and a bad taste which aggravated its import and led to lasting consequences of hatred and violence. The following letter addressed by Forrest to the editor of the London Times explains the occasion which called it forth, and furnishes the reasons which in the mind of its writer justified his primary deed, though they will hardly be sufficient to justify it in the minds of impartial readers:

"Sir,—Having seen in your journal of the 12th inst. an article headed 'Professional Jealousy,' a part of which originally appeared in the 'Scotsman,' published in Edinburgh, I beg leave, through the medium of your columns, to state that at the time of its publication I addressed a letter to the editor of the 'Scotsman' upon the subject, which, as I then was in Dumfries, I sent to a friend in Edinburgh, requesting him to obtain its insertion; but, as I was informed, the 'Scotsman' refused to receive any communication upon the subject. I need say nothing of the injustice of this refusal. Here, then, I was disposed to let the matter rest, as upon more mature reflection I did not deem it worth further attention: but now, as the matter has assumed a 'questionable shape,' by the appearance of the article in your journal, I feel called upon, though reluctantly, to answer it.

"There are two legitimate modes of evincing approbation and disapprobation in the theatre,—one expressive of approval by the clapping of hands, and the other by hisses to mark dissent; and, as well-timed and hearty applause is the just meed of the actor who deserves well, so also is hissing a salutary and wholesome corrective of the abuses of the stage; and it was against one of these abuses that my dissent was expressed, and not, as was stated, 'with a view of expressing his (my) disapproval of the manner in which Mr. Macready gave effect to a particular passage.' The truth is, Mr. Macready thought fit to introduce a fancy dance into his performance of Hamlet, which I thought, and still think, a desecration of the scene, and at which I evinced that disapprobation for which the pseudo-critic is pleased to term me an 'offender'; and this was the only time during the performance that I did so, although the writer evidently seeks, in the article alluded to, to convey a different impression. It must be observed, also, that I was by no means 'solitary' in this expression of opinion.

"That a man may manifest his pleasure or displeasure after the recognized mode, according to the best of his judgment, actuated by proper motives, and for justifiable ends, is a right which, until now, I have never once heard questioned; and I contend that that right extends equally to an actor, in his capacity as a spectator, as to any other man. Besides, from the nature of his studies, he is much more competent to judge of a theatrical performance than any soi-disant critic who has never himself been an actor.

"The writer of the article in the 'Scotsman,' who has most unwarrantably singled me out for public animadversion, has carefully omitted to notice the fact that I warmly applauded several points of Mr. Macready's performance, and more than once I regretted that the audience did not second me in so doing.

"As to the pitiful charge of 'professional jealousy' preferred against me, I dismiss it with the contempt it merits, confidently relying upon all those of the profession with whom I have been associated for a refutation of the slander.

"Yours respectfully,

"Edwin Forrest."

March, 1846.

On the appearance in an Edinburgh paper of the severe letter alluded to in the foregoing, the indignation of Forrest was so intense that he resolved to inflict summary punishment on its cause. In the early evening he made an elaborate toilet, donning his best dress-suit, putting on an elegant pair of kid gloves, carefully sprinkling himself with cologne, and sought the dramatic critic, whom he supposed to be the offender, in his customary seat in the upper tier of boxes. Confronting the writer, he fixed his eyes on him, and through his set teeth, in the deadliest monotone of suppressed passion, this question glided like a serpent of speech: "Are you the author of the letter in the 'Scotsman' relative to my hissing Macready?" The man shrunk a little, and replied, "I am not." "It is fortunate for you that you are not; for had you been, by the living God I would have flung you over the balcony into the pit!" said Forrest, and left the box.

Besides this frightful instance of his angered state of mind, an amusing one occurred while he was at Edinburgh. He was rehearsing, when the proprietor and manager of the theatre, a diminutive and foppish man, with a mincing squeak of a voice, came into the front and disturbed the actors. Forrest did not recognize him, and cried out, "Stop that noise!" The intruder retorted, with injured dignity, "This is my theatre, sir; and I shall make as much noise in it as I please, and when I please!" The explosive tragedian towered down upon him and blazed out, in thunder-tones, "Damn you and your theatre! If you ever dare to interrupt me again in this way when I am rehearsing, I will knock your damned head off from your damned shoulders!" The terrified proprietor shrunk away, and did not show himself in the house again till the day after the tragedian's engagement had ended. Then Forrest was in the dressing-room, packing his things, when he saw the manager enter the adjoining room, where the treasurer was sitting. The dapper little man advanced with nimble step, rubbing his hands briskly, and asked, in his dapper little voice, "Has the great American pugilist left town?" Forrest broke into hearty laughter at the ludicrous contrast, and came forward with both hands extended, and they parted as very good friends.

On the Fourth of July, Forrest presided at the celebration of the anniversary of their national independence held by the Americans in London, at the Lyceum Tavern. The building was decorated with American flags, and the intellectual exercises after the dinner, introduced by the chairman with an effective speech in defence and eulogy of republican institutions, were sustained till a late hour with much enthusiasm.

While in London—it may possibly be that the adventure occurred during his previous visit—Forrest called, by invitation, on Jerome Bonaparte, who was then residing there, and who had seen several of his impersonations, and had expressed a high opinion of their merits. In the course of their conversation, Forrest asked Jerome if he had been personally acquainted with Talma. Smiles broke over the face of the ex-king like sunny couriers from a hive of sweet memories, as he replied, in an exquisitely-modulated voice, "I had the honor of knowing that distinguished man well, and I esteemed him for his character as much as I admired him for his art. He was an honest patriot, who regarded not the fashions of the day. When Napoleon was a poor corporal, Talma was his friend, and gave him free passes to the theatre. He was equally the friend of the emperor, but asked no preferment or gift from him. He was a republican at the first, and he remained a republican to the last. His soul, sir, was as sublime off the stage as his acting was on it." As he spoke these words, Forrest says, a beam of reminiscent joy seemed at once to light up his countenance and brighten his voice.

It was the end of August that the player, sore and weary of his exile, ardently longing for home, sailed for his beloved America, where he well knew a welcome of no ordinary character would greet him. And so it proved. The current tone of the press breathed a hearty friendliness. It assured him that his countrymen had followed his career from his boyhood to his present proud position with a growing interest, and that his recent experience abroad had deepened their attachment to him. Whatever bars had from time to time presented themselves, he had readily overpassed or brushed away, and he was congratulated on having always made good his position with the decisive energy characteristic of his country. He was told that he had secured the affections of the masses of the people to such a degree that his name was a proverb among them, and they would now spring to welcome him home as very few are welcomed.

He waited but four days before appearing as Lear at the Park Theatre. The New York Mirror says, "The house was crowded to excess. The pit rose in mass, and long and loud was the applause, clapping of hands, thumping of canes, waving of hats and handkerchiefs, ending with nine cheers for Edwin Forrest, given with heart and soul. The recipient evidently felt it all. Long may this relation between actor and people be unbroken! It is for the good of both that it should exist. As a man, Mr. Forrest is worthy of this confidence; as the representative of Lear and the greatest nobleness of Shakspeare, and the loftiest minds of the drama, he is trebly worthy of it, for he stands the representative of an heroic truth and dignity. It is impossible that the people should witness such a performance as that of King Lear without elevation and purification of character. On Mr. Forrest's part such a reception must recall to him, more forcibly than the language of any critic, the responsibility that rests upon him as one of the chief representatives of the American stage, an institution which, being yet in its infancy, has capacity for good or evil, the development of which rests upon the present generation. Those who look upon the stage now with any interest regard it with respect to the future, and demand in any actor or dramatic author a reverence for the theatre, and some services in its cause. If we thought the theatre would always remain in its present condition in this country, we should abandon it in despair. But it cannot so remain, any more than our literature can remain merely imitative, or our political life low and pestilent as it is. The stage must rise. No one can render more aid to the cause than Mr. Forrest."

At the close of the play he was honored with the same enthusiastic greeting as at his entrance, and he said, "Ladies and Gentlemen,—I have not words fitly to acknowledge a reception so kind, so cordial, so unexpected. It has so overpowered me that I cannot convey to you the grateful emotions of my heart. Yet, while a pulse beats here or memory continues, I shall ever remember the emotions of my soul at this reception. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you."

The marked advance in the taste and finish of his performance was owned by all. The Albion said, "He is infinitely more subdued and quiet in his acting; his readings are more elaborated and studied. His action and attitudes are more classic in their character; and a dignified repose, rendered majestic at times by his imposing figure, gives a tone to his performances wholly unlike the unrepressed energy and overwhelming physical power that formerly were the prominent characteristics of his style. As an instance of the beauty of his present subdued style we would instance the passage in Lear commencing at

"The whole of this passage was given in a strain of subdued, heart-broken pathos, exquisitely natural and effective. Similar touches of genuine feeling are now thrown into his Othello,—which are perfect triumphs of the art,—as are likewise those well-known bursts of intense passion, given with a force of physical power unapproachable perhaps by any living actor.

"Mr. Forrest occupies so prominent a position in his own country, as the greatest living American actor, as the founder of a school,—for he has literally founded a school, as may be seen from his numerous imitators,—and from the influence of his high name,—that we mark these changes in his style as especially worthy the attention of his younger and less experienced cotemporaries."

On his benefit night, in response to the call of the auditory, he made a brief speech, whose tenor showed that he fully felt the responsibility of his position and meant to be faithful to it. Returning his thanks, he added, "And, in the hope that you may continue to approve my efforts, they shall henceforth be employed, most strenuously, to bring the American stage within the influence of a progressive movement, to call forth and encourage American dramatic letters, to advance the just claims of our own meritorious and deserving actors. Yet, while I shall endeavor to exert an influence favorable to American actors, you will do me the justice to believe that I am animated by no ungenerous motives towards the really deserving of any other country; for I should blush to imitate that narrow, exclusive, prejudiced, and, I may add, anti-American feeling which prescribes geographical limits to the growth of genius and talent. True worth is the birthright of no country, but is the common property of all. And, ladies and gentlemen, if it pleases you to applaud and to second, in this endeavor, my humble efforts, I will say to you, in the language of the old Cardinal in the play,—

Amidst the cheers elicited by these words, as he made his bow, a garland, enclosing a copy of verses addressed to him, fell at his feet. He raised it and retired, while the orchestra struck up "Home, Sweet Home!"

He then received another flattering compliment from many of the most prominent of his fellow-citizens:

"New York, Oct. 10th, 1846.

"Edwin Forrest, Esq.

"Dear Sir,—The undersigned, your friends and fellow-citizens, desirous of expressing to you personally the high estimation they entertain for your public and private character, avail themselves of the occasion of your return from Europe to invite you to a public dinner, and request that you will set apart one of the few days you are to remain with us, that may be most convenient to you, to accept of this slight tribute to your professional excellence and private worth.

"We are, with great respect,

"Your obedient servants,

To this letter he thus replied:

"New York, Oct. 12th, 1846.

"Gentlemen,—I have had the honor to receive your very kind letter of the 10th inst., in behalf of a number of my friends and fellow-citizens, inviting me to a public dinner, and requesting me to name a day most convenient to myself for its acceptance.

"It did not need this additional testimony to the many already conferred upon me by my fellow-citizens of New York, to assure me of their kind regard, and I feel for this, as well as for other tokens of esteem, that I am indebted more to their kindness than to any deserving upon my part.

"I accept, however, with pleasure, the invitation you have conveyed to me in such flattering terms, and, with permission, appoint Friday next, the 16th instant, as the day to meet my friends as they propose.

"I remain, gentlemen, yours, with sentiments of the highest respect and regard,

"Edwin Forrest.

"To Messrs. Wm. C. Bryant, C. A. Clinton, etc."

Accordingly, the committee of arrangements proceeded to prepare for the proposed welcome, and selected the New York Hotel as the place. A large and distinguished company sat down to the banquet. William Cullen Bryant presided, assisted by David Graham, Jr., James T. Brady, Charles M. Leupp, and Egbert Benson, as Vice-Presidents.

The first toast was "Our Country."

The next—"The American Stage. Its brilliant morning gives promise of a glorious day."

In introducing the third toast, Mr. Bryant said, "It is with great pleasure, gentlemen, that I proceed to fulfil a duty which your kindness has laid upon me, that of proposing the health of the distinguished man whom we are assembled to honor. A great actor, gentlemen, is not merely an interpreter of the dramatic poet to the sense of mankind; he is something more and greater: he is, in his province, the creator of the character he represents. It is true that, from the hints given by the framer of the drama, he constructs the personage whom he would set before us; but he fills up an outline often faint, shadowy, and imperfect, and gives it distinctness, light and shade, and color; he clothes a skeleton with muscles, and infuses it in the blood and breath of life, and places it in our midst, a being of soul and thought and moved by the perpetual play of human passions. Those who have seen the restorations of ancient statues by Michael Angelo have admired the exquisite art, I should rather say the power above art, with which the great Florentine—a genius, if ever one lived—entered into the spirit of the old sculptors, and with what faithful conformity to the manner of the original work, yet with what freedom of creative skill, he supplied those parts which were wanting, and animated modern marble with all the life of the antique. It is thus with the artist of the stage: he supplies what the dramatist does not give,—supplies it from the stores of his own genius, though always in harmony with the suggestions of his author. He often goes far beyond this: he sees in those suggestions features of character which the author failed to perceive, or perceived but imperfectly, and depths of passion of which he had no conception. With these he deals like a skilful landscape painter, who from a few outlines in pencil, which to the common eye appear confused and purposeless, brings out upon the canvas a glorious scene of valley and mountain and dark woods and glittering waters. Those who have read the Richelieu of Bulwer in the closet and seen the Richelieu of Forrest on the stage will easily comprehend what I mean; they have seen the sketch of the dramatist matured and enriched, and wrought into consistence and strength, and filled with power and passion, by the consummate art of the actor. How well our friend has acquitted himself in what is justly esteemed the highest effect of the histrionic art, that of personating the great characters of Shakspeare's dramas, it is hardly necessary for me to say, so ample and so universal is the testimony borne to his success by intent and crowded audiences. The style of that divine poet is so suggestive, the glimpses of character he casually but profusely gives, are of such deep significance that he tasks the powers of the stage more severely than any other author. To follow out all these suggestions, to combine all these delicate and sometimes perplexing traits of character into one consistent, natural, and impressive whole, requires scarcely less a philosopher than an actor. And well has Mr. F. sustained this difficult test. Never was the helpless and pathetic yet majestic old age of Lear more nobly given, or in a manner to draw forth deeper sympathies; never the struggle between love and suspicion in the breast of Othello, his jealousy in its highest frenzy, and his fine agony of remorse, more powerfully represented. After having placed himself at the summit of his art by the successful representation of these and other characters of Shakspeare in his own country, he has lately returned to us with honors gathered in another hemisphere. It is a source of satisfaction to the friends of Mr. Forrest that he has not fallen a prey to the follies which so strongly tempt men of his profession. He has given us another instance of the truth that a great actor may be an irreproachable man; his private life has been an example of those virtues which compel the respect even of that class least disposed to look with favor on the profession of an actor,—such an example as in the last century made Hannah More the personal friend of David Garrick. In the intense competitions of the stage, Mr. Forrest has obeyed a native instinct in treating his rivals with generosity, and, when beset by calumny and intrigue, has known how to preserve the magnanimous silence of conscious greatness. Genius may command our admiration; but when we see the man of genius occupied only in the endeavor to deserve renown, and looking beyond the obstacles which envy or malevolence lays in his path to the final and impartial verdict of his fellow-men, our admiration rises to a higher feeling. Gentlemen, I will no longer withhold from you the toast,—I give a name, without a sentiment,—a name which suggests a volume of them,—I give you 'Our guest, Edwin Forrest.'"

The toast was drunk amidst a tempest of demonstrations.

Mr. Forrest, manifestly agitated by the warmth of these tokens of good will, replied in a speech which was interrupted with frequent applause. He said, "Mr. President and gentlemen, I wish I could in adequate language express my acknowledgments for the distinguished favor you have conferred upon me this day. But the words which I endeavor to summon to my lips seem poor and empty offerings in return for those honors, deep and broad, with which your kindness loads me. The sounds and sights that meet me here to bid me welcome,—the old familiar voices that were raised in kind approval of my early efforts,—faces whose smiles of sweet encouragement gave vigor to my heart to mount the ladder of my young ambition,—this munificent banquet, spread with no party views, the generous offering of my fellow-citizens of each political faith,—the flattering sentiments so eloquently couched by the distinguished man selected to impart them,—all these have stirred my bosom with so many mingled feelings that, in the grateful tumult of my thoughts, I cannot choose words to speak my thanks. A scene like this is no fleeting pageant of the mimic art, to be forgotten with the hour; but it is to me one of those sweet realities of life that fill the heart and vibrate on the memory forever. Among the gratifying tributes, both professional and personal, which you have paid me, you have alluded in flattering terms to the silence I have ever observed when assaulted by calumny or circumvented by intrigue. You will pardon me, I am sure, if upon this occasion I break that silence for a moment by referring to the opposition I encountered during my late reappearance upon the London stage. An eminent English writer, in the 'North British Review,' makes these very just remarks: 'Our countrymen in general have treated the Americans unkindly and unfairly, and have been too much disposed to exaggerate their faults and to depreciate their excellencies.' Here, then, we have an honest and candid avowal of an indisputable fact. With regard to my own case, even before I had appeared I was threatened with critical castigation, and some of the very journals which, upon my former appearance in London, applauded me to the echo, now assailed me with bitterest denunciations. Criticism was degraded from its high office,—degraded into mere cavilling, accompanied by very pertinent allusions to Pennsylvania bonds, repudiation, and democracy.

Relying implicitly upon the verity of this proposition, I quietly awaited the expression of the 'sober second thought of the people;' and I am happy to say I was not disappointed in the result. Their approving hands rebuked the malice of the hireling scribblers, and defeated the machinations of theatrical cliques by whom these scribblers were suborned. But enough of this. I now turn to contemplate with pride and satisfaction my reception elsewhere. In Edinburgh,—the most beautiful and picturesque city in Europe, where learning is a delight and not an ostentation,—my reception professionally was gratifying in the extreme, while nothing could exceed the friendly hospitalities of private life, presented, as they were, by those who to the highest intellectual culture unite the equally estimable qualities of the heart. And as for Ireland, I need scarcely tell you that in the land of the warm-hearted Irishman an American is always at home. There, from the humblest as from the most exalted man he finds a smile of welcome and a friendly grasp. How could it be otherwise among a people so full of sensibility and impulse, of unselfishness and magnanimity,—a people in whom misrule and tyranny have failed to quench one spark of generous spirit, or to curdle one drop of the milk of human kindness in their hearts? And now a word touching American dramatic letters. One of the wishes nearest my heart has ever been that our country should one day boast a Drama of her own,—a Drama that shall have for its object the improvement of the heart, the refinement of the mind,—a Drama whose lofty and ennobling sentiments shall be worthy a free people,—a Drama whose eloquent and impressive teaching shall promote the cause of virtue and justice, for on such foundations must we rely for the perpetuity of our institutions. And what is to prevent us from having such a Drama? Have we not in our country all the materials, have we not the capacity for invention and construction, and have we not pens (turning to Mr. Bryant) already skilled in the sweet harmonies of immortal verse? In connection with the cultivation and support of a National Drama, the friends of the stage will not be unmindful of the claims of our own deserving actors, among whom, I am proud to say, there are some may challenge successful comparison with any of the 'Stars' that twinkle on us from abroad, and, unlike most of those 'Stars,' they shine with their own and not with a borrowed lustre. One of those actors, to whom I allude, is now seated among you,—one who, in the just delineation of the characters he represents, has now no equal upon the stage." (At this allusion to Mr. Henry Placide, the applause was very enthusiastic.) "In conclusion, Mr. President and gentlemen, permit me to offer as my sentiment, 'The Citizens of New York, distinguished for a bounty in which is no winter,—an autumn 'tis that grows the more by reaping.'" (Drunk with all the honors.)

Mr. Forrest's toast was responded to by the following, by Mr. Mickle, the Mayor: "The Drama,—it teaches us to honor virtue and talent. We follow its dictates in rendering honor to our guest to-night."

Mr. Mathews proposed the next toast: "American Nationality. In the fusion of all its elements in a generous union under the influence of a noble National Literature lies the best (if not the only) hope of perpetuity for the American Confederacy."

General Wetmore rose and alluded to an eminent man who was present at the last public dinner given to Mr. Forrest in New York, one of his dearest friends, and who was now in his grave, and gave "The Memory of William Leggett," which was drunk standing, and in solemn silence.

Other toasts were proposed, letters were read, speeches made, songs sung, and every one seemed thoroughly to enjoy the occasion, which closed by the whole company joining hands and singing "Auld Lang Syne."

Yet, amidst all these honoring and most enjoyable experiences at home, Forrest had brought back with him from abroad a burning grudge. Shut up in his bones, it gnawed upon his comfort and peace. The different theatrical and social parties knew of his grievances through the press. Among his friends, of course, he conversed freely of them; and there was a multitude of his admirers among the populace who were as loyal to him as clansmen to their chief. Their passions exaggeratingly took up what their intelligence knew little about, and they were ripe for mischief whenever an opportunity and the slightest provocation should be afforded them. This, it should be understood, without any purposed stimulus or overt hint from him. Such was the state of things when Macready once more came to America. The ingredients were ready for a popular explosion if a spark should be blown on them. Had the English tragedian kept silent, the latent storm might not have burst; but, unhappily, he 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

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:

"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 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 quotation 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.'