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
'You see me here, you gods, a poor old man'—