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.
'All, all but truth falls still-born from the press.'
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."