THE DRAMATIC APPRENTICE AND STROLLING PLAYER.
When Edwin was nine years old, he was thin, pale, and had a slight forward stoop of the chest and shoulders. He was full of fire, courage, impulsive force, but had a quick pulse, a nervous habit, a sensitive brain and skin. The tears came easily to his eyes, and under severe exertion his endurance quickly gave out. At that time he seemed a fair candidate for consumption and an early grave. His father is known, on several occasions, to have expressed fears that he should not be able to raise him.
A fortunate occurrence set the boy at work just at the right time and in the right direction. Wherever a Circus travels through the country, its performances take powerful effect on the impressible sympathies of energetic and ambitious youths. As it departs, it often leaves behind it a line of emulous lads, in mimic repetition of its scenes, climbing ropes, leaping bars, walking on their hands, standing on their heads, throwing somersaults, or posturing, balancing, and wrestling. Such an experience befell Edwin, and his physical improvement under it was rapid. It deepened his breathing, invigorated the circulation of his blood, and straightened him up, bringing out his breast and throwing back his shoulders. And in his seventeenth year, the period which we have now reached, he was as fine a specimen of a manly youth as one might wish to see. He had a free, open bearing, with steadily-confronting eyes, and a clear, deep voice. He had never been bashful; neither was he ever impudent or shameless. He was at once self-possessed and modest, combining an air of sincerity and justice with an expression of democratic independence. Such was the result, in his outward appearance, of his character, his parental inheritance and training, his dramatic practice, and his gymnastic exercises.
Accordingly, when, early in the September of 1822, it was announced that the proprietors of the three theatres at Pittsburg, Lexington, and Cincinnati had come to Philadelphia for the purpose of engaging a company to perform alternately in those cities, and young Forrest, depressed and impatient from the failure of his previous attempts to secure a regular engagement, made personal application to manager Jones, that gentleman was so much pleased with his words and his bearing that he at once struck a bargain with him. The agreement was that for a compensation of eight dollars a week he should play, without a question, whatever parts he was cast in, no matter how high or how low the parts were. He was willing now, despite his precocious starring experiences, to take this humble position and hold himself ready for anything at the beck and call of his superior, because he had come keenly to feel how little he knew and how much he had to learn. And his sound sense, with the good advice he had received, taught him that there offered no other way so thoroughly and rapidly to master his profession as by submitting to a regular drill in the miscellaneous parts of the working stage, from top to bottom. He saw his path to the dramatic throne through the steps of a docile and patient apprenticeship.
It was always a characteristic of him that he was unwilling to utter words while ignorant of their meaning. He studied what he was to speak, that he might speak it with intelligence and propriety. Whether right or wrong, he would, as a rule, always know what he meant to do, and why and how. In illustration of this teachable spirit an incident may be adduced which he ever gratefully remembered as one of the most influential in his life.
When he was but fourteen, he was one evening in front of one of the Philadelphia theatres, when his attention was fixed on two large statues, or mythological figures, each carved from a single block of wood, pedestal and all, placed in niches at each side of the entrance. Under them were inscribed the names Thalia and Melpomene. "Who are Thallea and Melpomeen?" he asked of an elder comrade with whom he was wont to practise histrionics in the Thespian Club. "Oh, I don't know; a couple of Grecian queens, I guess," was the reply. A gentleman, handsomely dressed, with a benignant face and graceful mien, who had overheard the question and the answer, stepped forward, took Edwin by the hand, and said, "My lad, these figures, whose names you have not pronounced correctly, represent two characters in the old Greek mythology. This one, with the mask and the mirror, is Thalia, the Muse of Comedy. That one, with the dagger and the bowl, is Melpomene, the Muse of Tragedy. They are appropriately painted here, because the theatre is the home of the drama, where both comedies and tragedies are performed. Now, my boy, if you like to learn, there is a book, which you can get at any book-store, called Walker's Classical Pronouncing Dictionary, to which on all such occasions you can refer and find just what you want to know." It was a beautiful action. And it fell on good soil. Edwin bought the volume, and he never ceased to practise the lesson or to be thankful to him who gave it, and on whose unknown head, even to the end of life, his grateful heart showered benedictions. When, many years later, that theatre was taken down, Forrest, in memory of the incident above related, had the two statues purchased for him, intending to set them up in his own private theatre.
Edwin was an affectionate boy, who won affection from others notwithstanding his somewhat reckless spirit of adventure, frequent coarseness of speech, and violence of temper. He was sympathetic, as dramatic genius perforce must be, quick in intelligence, keen and eager in observation, and of an honest manner and make throughout. He was throbbing with hope and aspiration before the new prospect opened to him as he went around to say farewell to those he loved, his favorite companions among the amateur Thespians, and his benefactors. As he took the hand of one after another and said good-bye, the cuff of his sleeve repeatedly went to his eyes, and he felt those bitter twinges of pain familiar to boyish bosoms on such partings in all generations and all over the world. He went to the tannery, where, on the old stone table, his declamations as a proud and happy child had been applauded by Lorman and his fellow-workmen. He visited the tomb of his father, and the house of his kind old pastor. Then came the last and severest trial of his fortitude, the taking leave of his sisters, and, above all, of his mother, who was always enshrined in his inmost soul as an object of the most tender and sacred love. He girded himself up and got through with it, he hardly knew how.
One small and humble trunk held all his effects,—a very scant wardrobe, a few trifling keepsakes, a Bible the gift of his mother, an edition of Shakspeare in one cheap volume, Walker's Classical Pronouncing Dictionary, and a little collection of plays in pamphlet form. Joining the company which Collins and Jones had gathered, consisting of about a dozen persons, male and female, they regarded one another with mutual interest; and, with that intuitive reading of character which their professional art bestows, they in an amazingly short time were intimately acquainted, and quite prepared to share adventures, confidences, and lives. Besides Collins and Jones, there were Groshorn, Scott, Eberle, leader of the orchestra, Lucas, scene-painter, Henderson, stage manager, Davis, Mrs. Pelby, Mrs. Riddle, Miss Fenton, Miss Sallie Riddle, and Miss Eliza Riddle. Several of these not only had varied and ripe experience of the stage, but were also highly distinguished for their talents and accomplishments. This was especially the case with Mrs. Pelby and Mrs. Riddle.
The magnetic personality, the inexperienced youth, the attractive ingenuousness, and the enthusiastic ambition of Forrest made him at once a prominent object of attention in the company, all of whom were ready to give him such instructions and aids as were in their power. But, above all the rest, to the constant generous kindness and teaching of Mrs. Riddle he always expressed himself as deeply indebted for services rendered at the most critical period of his life, and whose record remained as fresh in his latest memory as their results were indelible in his being.