I am cold myself....
Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee.'
This beautiful passage is extremely touching, and Mr. Forrest fully felt and adequately illustrated its pathos and its beauty."
Another of the authorities in British journalism, whose title the writer cannot recover, wrote thus:
"If Mr. Forrest is great in Othello, we do not hesitate to say he is much greater in Lear. Here the verisimilitude is perfect. From the moment of his entrance to the finely-portrayed death, every passion which rages in that brain—the love, the madness, the ambition, the despair—is given the more forcibly that it flashes through the feebleness of age. In that powerful scene where the bereaved monarch laments over his dead daughter, Mr. Forrest acted pre-eminently well. He bears in her lifeless body and makes such a moan over it as would force tears from a Stoic. None, we think, who heard him put the plaintive but powerful interrogatory,—
'Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all?'—
followed by the bitter and melancholy reflection,—
'O! thou wilt come no more,