We can see the straight hitting from the shoulder of Forrest in every sentence of his "Card." "I most solemnly aver and do believe that Mr. Macready, instigated by his narrow, envious mind and his selfish fears, did secretly suborn several writers for the English press to write me down." We can see the wounded colossal arrogance of Macready in the allusion to his antagonist entered in his diary at the time. "The Baltimore papers characterize the performances of Forrest as equal, if not superior, to mine, and speak of him as of an artist and a gentleman. And I am to dwell in this country!" In the quarrel Macready appears as a vain and fretful aristocrat, observant of the fashionable code of courtesy, but capable of falsehood; Forrest as a proud and revengeful democrat, scornful of the exactions of squeamish society, and quite capable of bad taste. In both is visible the resentful and morbid egotism of their profession in a blameworthy and repulsive form. And the whole affair, on both sides, was undignified and ignoble in its character; and in its public result—though, of course, neither of them was directly responsible for this—it proved a murderous crime. It reflects deep and lasting discredit both on the Englishman and on the American. It may be of some use if it serves to illustrate the contemptible and wicked nature of the vice of professional jealousy, and to teach succeeding players whenever in their rivalry they meet malignant envy or opposition, magnanimously to overlook and forget it.
On the evening of May 7th, Macready was to appear in Macbeth at the Astor Place Opera House. The entire auditorium was crowded with an assembly of the most formidable character, resolved that the actor should not be suffered to play his part. There were comparatively few of the friends of Macready present, most of the seats being secured by the hard-handed multitude, who had made the strife an affair of classes and were bent on putting down the favorite of what they called the kid-gloved and silk-stockinged gentry. It is disagreeable thus to recall these odious distinctions, but the truth of history necessitates it. Suffice it to say that the tragedian was overwhelmed with hisses, yells, derisive cries, followed by all kinds of missiles. Chairs were hurled from the gallery, smashing on the stage. When it was found that life was in danger, the curtain was lowered and the performance abandoned. Macready proposed to break his engagement and return to England. But the press condemned in the most scorching terms the outrage which had been done him, and insisted that he should appear again, and should be upheld at any cost. A letter was also sent him, signed by forty-eight gentlemen, including many of the most eminent and influential names in the city, urging him to continue his performances, and promising him the support of the community. He consented to repeat the trial.
In the mean time, the "Courier and Inquirer" had openly accused Forrest of being the author of the violent scenes on the evening of the seventh, but, convinced of its error, and threatened with a suit for libel, had immediately retracted, and amply apologized for the slander. Forrest had no share of any kind in any of these proceedings. The worst that can be said of him is that he refused to interfere to prevent the threatened violence. He sternly refused to interfere in the slightest degree with the strife which had now detached itself from him and fastened itself on the community and was raging between its top and bottom. The defiant and scornful tone of the press towards those whom it called rabble rowdies, lower classes, greatly incensed them, and called forth the counter-epithets,—lordlings, English clique, codfish-aristocracy. It was perfectly plain that a fearful tempest was brewing. Both parties made preparations accordingly. The enemies of the Englishman placarded the city with inflammatory handbills; and, on the other hand, the civic authorities detailed three hundred policemen to the scene of trial, and ordered two regiments of soldiers to be under arms at their quarters.
On the evening of the 10th of May, Forrest was acting the Gladiator in the Broadway Theatre when Macready attempted to act Macbeth in the Astor Place Opera House. The latter house had been so well packed by its friends with stalwart men that the Bowery Boys who were able to get seats found themselves in a most decided minority. Still, they were numerous enough to make a chaos of diabolical noises when the curtain rose, whereupon the most of them found themselves incontinently hustled out into the street. But their party was too strong and filled now with too terrible a temper to be thus easily circumvented. The mob instantly assailed the theatre in front and rear. The thundering plunges with which they rushed against the doors shook the building, and volleys of stones shattered the barricaded windows, while the shouts and yells of the crowd might be heard a half a mile away. Meanwhile, the Seventh Regiment and the National Guards were marching to the spot. They were received with scoffs and hoots, clubs and paving-stones. The officers, both civil and military, used every exertion to quiet the rioters and avoid the final alternative of shooting upon them. All was vain. The more they harangued, expostulated, entreated, warned, threatened, the madder the mob seemed to grow. Already a large number of the soldiers were disabled by severe wounds, and it appeared as if soon their thronging assailants might wrench their weapons from them. At last the reluctant order was given by General Hall, "Fire!" A single musket replied. The mob laughed in derision, and pressed forward. General Sandford repeated, "Fire!" Only three shots followed the word. Colonel Duryea shouted, "Guards, fire!" The whole volley instantly flashed forth with that sharper and heavier report which distinguishes the service-charge from the mere powder and paper of field-day. The glare lit up a sea of angry faces. For an instant were clearly seen the human forms clustered on the steps and roofs of the adjacent buildings, the broken lamps and windows in front, the billowing multitude spread through the square and streets,—and then all was dark. The mob broke and fled, leaving thirty dead bodies on the ground, and as many severely wounded. The law by its armed force vindicated its authority at the cost of this frightful tragedy, and taught the passionate and thoughtless populace a lesson which it is to be hoped no similar circumstances will ever call for again.
Transcriber's Note:
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Punctuation has been retained as published.
The tables of contents and steel plates reflect future volumes.