“Hoping you are in the enjoyment of good health, and that you still prosper in the ‘good work,’ which to you I know is a labor of love,
“I am your friend,
“Edwin Forrest.”
At length, rested in mind and body, chastened in taste, sobered and polished in style, but with no abatement of fire or energy, sought by the public, solicited by friends, urged by managers, and impelled by his own feelings, he broke from his long repose, and reappeared in New York under circumstances as flattering as any that had ever crowned his ambition. Niblo’s Garden was packed to its remotest corners with an auditory whose upturned expanse of eager faces lighted with smiles and burst into cheers as he slowly advanced and received a welcome whose earnestness and unity might well have thrilled him with pride and joy. The following lines, strong and eloquent as their theme, written for the occasion by William Ross Wallace, contain perhaps the most truthful and characteristic tribute ever paid to his genius, drawing the real contour and breathing the express spirit of the man and the player.
EDWIN FORREST.
Welcome to his look of grandeur, welcome to his stately mien,
Always shedding native glory o’er the wondrous mimic scene,
Always like a mighty mirror glassing Vice or Virtue’s star,
Giving Time his very pressure, showing Nations as they are!
Once again old Rome—the awful—rears her red imperial crest,