Rider, horse, and child seemed to fall away from him into the night. He scrambled out, and snatching the crutch, ran along the brink, staring at their black shadows. By and by the shadows came to a standstill. He heard the mare panting, the creaking of saddle-leather came across the nine or ten feet of dark water.
"It's no go," said George's voice; then to the mare, "Sally, my dear, it's no go." A moment later he asked more sharply,
"How far can you reach?"
Taffy stepped in until the waves ran by his knees. The sand held his feet, but beyond this he could not stand against the current. He reached forward, holding the crutch at arm's length.
"Can you catch hold?"
"All right." Both knew that swimming would be useless now; they were too near the upper apex of the sand-bank.
"The child first. Here, Joey, my son, reach out and catch hold for your life!"
Taffy felt the child's grip on the crutch-head, and drawing it steadily toward him, hauled the poor child through. The light from the cliff sank and rose on his scared face.
"Got him?"
"Yes." The sand was closing around Taffy's legs, but he managed to shift his footing a little.
"Quick, then; the bank's breaking up."
George was sinking, knee-deep and deeper. But his outstretched fingers managed to reach and hook themselves around the crutch-head.
"Steady, now ... must work you loose first. Get hold of the shaft if you can; the head isn't firm. Work your legs ... that's it."
George wrenched his left foot loose and planted it against the mare's flank. Hitherto the brute had trusted her master. The thrust of his heel drove home her sentence, and with scream after scream—the sand holding her past hope—she plunged and fought for her life. Still as she screamed, George, silent and panting, thrust against her, thrust savagely against the quivering body, once his pride for beauty and fleetness.
"Pull!" he gasped, freeing his other foot with a wrench which left its heavy riding-boot deep in the sucking mud; and catching a new grip on the crutch-head, flung himself forward.
Taffy felt the sudden weight and pulled—and while he pulled felt in a moment no grip, no weight at all. Between two hateful screams a face slid by him, out of reach, silent, with parted lips; and as it slipped away he fell back staggering, grasping the useless, headless crutch.
The mare went on screaming. He turned his back on her, and catching Joey by the hand, dragged him away across the melting island. At the sixth step the child, hauled off his crippled foot, swung blundering across his legs. He paused, lifted him in his arms, and plunged forward again.
The flares on the cliff were growing in number. They cast long shadows before him. On the far side of the island the tide flowed swift and steady—a stream about fourteen yards wide—cutting him from the sand-bank on which, not fifty yards above, lay the wreck. He whispered to Joey, and plunged into it straight, turning as the water swept him off his legs, and giving his back to it, his hands slipped under the child's armpits, his feet thrusting against the tide in slow rhythmical strokes.
The child after the first gasp lay still, his head obediently thrown back on Taffy's breast. The mare had ceased to scream. The water rippled in the ears as each leg-thrust drove them little by little across the current.
If George had but listened! It was so easy, after all. The sand-bank still slid past them, but less rapidly. They were close to it now and had only to lie still and be drifted against the leaning stanchions of the wreck. Taffy flung an arm about one and checked his way quietly, as a man brings a boat alongside a quay. He hoisted Joey first upon the stanchion, then up the tilted deck to the gap of the main hatchway. Within this, with their feet on the steps and their chests leaning on the side panel of the companion, they rested and took breath.
"Cold, sonny?"
The child burst into tears.
Taffy dragged off his own coat and wrapped him in it. The small body crept close, sobbing against his side.
Across, on the shore, voices were calling, blue eyes moving. A pair of yellow lights came toward these, travelling swiftly upon the hill-side. Taffy guessed what they were.
The yellow lights moved more slowly. They joined the blue ones, and halted. Taffy listened. But the voices were still now; he heard nothing but the hiss of the black water across which those two lamps sought and questioned him like eyes.
"God help her!"
He bowed his face on his arms. A little while, and the sands would be covered, the boats would put off; a little while.... Crouching from those eyes he prayed God to lengthen it.
She was sitting there rigid, cold as a statue, when the rescuers brought them ashore and helped them up the slope. A small crowd surrounded the carriage. In the rays of their moving lanterns her face altered nothing, to all their furtive glances of sympathy opposing the same white mask. Someone said, "There's only two, then!" Another with a nudge and a nod at the carriage, told him to hold his peace. She heard. Her lips hardened.
Lizzie Pezzack had rushed down to the shore to meet the boat. She was bringing her child along with a fond wild babble of tender names and sobs and cries of thankfulness. In pauses, choked and overcome, she caught him to her, felt his limbs, pressed his wet face against her neck and bosom. Taffy, supported by strong arms and hurried in her wake, had a hideous sense of being paraded in her triumph. The men around him who had raised a faint cheer, sank their voices as they neared the carriage; but the woman went forward, jubilant and ruthless, flaunting her joy as it were a flag blown in her eyes and blindfolding them to the grief she insulted.
"Stay!"
It was Honoria's voice, cold, incisive, not to be disobeyed. He had prayed in vain. The procession halted; Lizzie checked her babble and stood staring, with an arm about Joey's neck.
"Let me see the child."
Lizzie stared, broke into a silly triumphant laugh, and thrust the child forward against the carriage-step. The poor waif, drenched, dazed, tottering without his crutch, caught at the plated handle for support. Honoria gazed down on him with eyes which took slow and pitiless account of the deformed little body, the shrunken, puny limbs.
"Thank you. So—this—is what my husband died for. Drive on, please."
Her eyes, as she lifted them to give the order, rested for a moment on Taffy—with how much scorn he cared not, could he have leapt and intercepted Lizzie's retort.
"And why not? A son's a son—curse you!—though he was your man!"
It seemed she did not hear; or hearing, did not understand. Her eyes hardened; their fire on Taffy and he, lapped in their scorn, thanked God she had not understood.
"Drive on, please."
The coachman lowered his whip. The horses moved forward at a slow walk; the carriage rolled silently away into the darkness. She had not understood. Taffy glanced at the faces about him.
"Ah, poor lady!" said someone. But no one had understood.
They found George's body next morning on the sands a little below the footbridge. He lay there in the morning sunshine as though asleep, with an arm flung above his head and on his face the easy smile for which men and women had liked him throughout his careless life.
The inquest was held next day, in the library at Carwithiel. Sir Harry insisted on being present and sat beside the coroner. During Taffy's examination his lips were pursed up as though whistling a silent tune. Once or twice he nodded his head.
Taffy gave his evidence discreetly. The child had been lost; had been found in a perilous position. He and deceased had gone together to the rescue. On reachingthe child, deceased—against advice—had attempted to return across the sands and had fallen into difficulties. In these his first thought had been for the child, whom he had passed to witness to drag out of danger. When it came to deceased's turn, the crutch, on which all depended, had parted in two and he had been swept away by the tide.
At the conclusion of the story Sir Harry took snuff and nodded twice. Taffy wondered how much he knew. The jury, under the coroner's direction, brought in a verdict of "death by misadventure," and added a word or two in praise of the dead man's gallantry. The coroner complimented Taffy warmly and promised to refer the case to the Royal Humane Society for public recognition. The jury nodded and one or two said, "Hear, hear!" Taffy hoped fervently he would do nothing of the sort.
The funeral took place on the fourth day, at nine o'clock in the morning. Such—in the days I write of—was the custom of the country. Friends who lived at a distance rose and shaved by candle-light, and daybreak found them horsed and well on way toward the house of mourning, their errand announced by the long black streamers tied about their hats. Their sad business over and done with, these guests returned to the house, where, until noon, a mighty breakfast lasted and all were welcome. Their black habiliments' and lowered voices alone marked the difference between it and a hunting-breakfast.
And indeed this morning Squire Willyams, who had taken over the hounds after Squire Moyle's death, had given secret orders to his huntsman; and the pack was waiting at Three-barrow Turnpike, a couple of miles inland from Carwithiel. At half-past ten the mourners drained their glasses, shook the crumbs off their riding-breeches, and took leave; and after halting outside Carwithiel gates to unpin and pocket their hatbands, headed for the meet with one accord.
A few minutes before noon Squire Willyams, seated on his gray by the edge of Three-barrow Brake and listening to every sound within the covert, happened to glance an eye across the valley, and let out a low whistle.
"Well!" said one of a near group of horsemen catching sight of the rider pricking toward them down the farther slope, "I knew en for an unbeliever; but this beats all."
"And his awnly son not three hours under the mould! Brought up in France as a youngster he was, and this I s'pose is what comes of reading Voltaire. My lord for manners and no more heart than a wormed nut—that's Sir Harry and always was."
Squire Willyams slewed himself round in his saddle. He spoke quietly at fifteen yards' distance, but each word reached the group of horsemen as clear as a bell.
"Rablin," he said, "as a damned fool oblige me during the next few minutes by keeping your mouth shut."
With this he resumed his old attitude and his business of watching the covert side; removing his eyes for a moment to nod as Sir Harry rode up and passed on to join the group behind him.
He had scarcely done so when deep in the undergrowth of blackthorn a hound challenged.
"Spendigo for a fiver!—and well found, by the tune of it. See that patch of gray wall, Rablin—there in a line beyond the Master's elbow? I lay you an even guinea that's where my gentleman comes over, and inside of sixty seconds."
But honest reprobation mottled the face of Mr. Rablin, squireen; and as an honest man he must speak out. Let it go to his credit, because as a rule he was a snob and inclined to cringe.
"I did not expect"—he cleared his throat—"to see you out to-day, Sir Harry."
Sir Harry winced, and turned on them all a gray, woeful face.
"That's it," he said. "I can't bide home. I can't bide home."
Honoria bided home with her child and mourned for the dead. As a clever woman—far cleverer than her husband—she had seen his faults while he lived; yet had liked him enough to forgive without difficulty. But now these faults faded, and by degrees memory reared an altar to him as a man little short of divine. At the worst he had been amiable. A kinder husband never lived. She reproachedherself bitterly with the half-heartedness of her response to his love; to his love while it dwelt beside her, unvarying in cheerful kindness. For (it was the truth alas! and a worm that gnawed continually) passionate love she had never rendered him. She had been content; but how poor a thing was contentment! She had never divined his worth, had never given her worship. And all the while he had been a hero, and in the end had died as a hero. Ah, for one chance to redeem the wrong! for one moment to bow herself at his feet and acknowledge her blindness! Her prayer was ancient as widowhood, and Heaven, folding away the irreparable time, returned its first and last and only solace—a dream for the groping arms; waking and darkness, and an empty pillow for her tears.
From the first her child had been dear to her; dearer (so her memory accused her now) than his father; more demonstratively beloved, at any rate. But in those miserable months she grew to love him with a double strength. He bore George's name, and was (as Sir Harry proclaimed) a very miniature of George; repeated his shapeliness of limb, his firm shoulders, his long lean thighs—the thighs of a born horseman; learned to walk, and lo! within a week walked with his father's gait; had smiles for the whole of his small world, and for his mother a memory in each.
And yet—this was the strange part of it, a mystery she could not explain, because she dared not even acknowledge it—though she loved him for being like his father, she regarded the likeness with a growing dread; nay, caught herself correcting him stealthily when he developed some trivial trait which she, and she alone, recognized as part of his father's legacy. It was what in the old days she would have called "contradictious;" but there it was, and she could not help it; the nearer George in her memory approached to faultlessness, the more obstinately her instinct fought against her child's imitation of him; and yet, because the child was obstinately George's, she loved him with a double love.
There came a day when he told her a childish falsehood. She did not whip him, but stood him in front of her and began to reason with him and explain the wickedness of an untruth. By and by she broke off in the midst of a sentence, appalled by the shrillness of her own voice. From argument she had passed to furious scolding. And the little fellow quailed before her, his contrition beaten down under the storm of words that whistled about his ears without meaning, his small faculties disabled before this spectacle of wrath. Her fingers were closing and unclosing. They wanted a riding-switch; they wanted to grip this small body they had served and fondled, and to cut out what? The lie? Honoria hated a lie. But while she paused and shook, a light flashed, and her eyes were open, and saw—that it was not the lie.
She turned and ran, ran upstairs to her own room, flung herself on her knees beside the bed, dragged a locket from her bosom and fell to kissing George's portrait, passionately crying it for pardon. She was wicked, base; while he lived she had misprized him; and this was her abiding punishment, that even repentance could purge her heart of dishonoring thoughts, that her love for him now could never be stainless though washed with daily tears. "'He that is unjust let him be unjust still'—Mustthat be true, Father of all mercies? I misjudged him, and it is too late for atonement. But I repent and am afflicted. Though the dead know nothing—though it can never reach or avail him—give me back the power to be just!"
Late that afternoon Honoria passed an hour piously in turning over the dead man's wardrobe, shaking out and brushing the treasured garments and folding them, against moth and dust, in fresh tissue-paper. It was a morbid task, perhaps, but it kept George's image constantly before her, and this was what her remorseful mood demanded. Her nerves were unstrung and her limbs languid after the recent tempest. By and by she locked the doors of the wardrobe, and passing into her own bedroom, flung herself on a couch with a bundle of papers—old bills, soiled and folded memoranda, sporting paragraphs cut from the newspapers—scraps found in his pockets months ago and religiously tied by her with a silken ribbon. They were mementoes of a sort,and George had written few letters while wooing—not half a dozen, first and last.
Two or three receipted bills lay together in the middle of the packet—one a saddler's, a second a nurseryman's for pot-plants (kept for the sake of its queer spelling), a third the reckoning for a hotel luncheon. She was running over them carelessly when the date at the head of this last one caught her eye. "August 3d"—it fixed her attention because it happened to be the day before her birthday.
August 3d—such and such a year—the August before his death; and the hotel a well-known one in Plymouth—the hotel, in fact, at which he had usually put up.... Without a prompting of suspicion she turned back and ran her eye over the bill. A steak, a pint of claret, vegetables, cheese, and attendance—never was a more innocent bill.
Suddenly her attention stiffened on the date. George was in Plymouth the day before her birthday. But no; as it happened, George had been in Truro on that day. She remembered, because he had brought her a diamond pendant, having written beforehand to the Truro jeweller to get a dozen down from London to choose from. Yes, she remembered it clearly, and how he had described his day in Truro. And the next morning—her birthday morning—he had produced the pendant, wrapped in silver paper. "He had thrown away the case; it was ugly, and he would get her another...."
But the bill? She had stayed once or twice at this hotel with George, and recognized the handwriting. The book-keeper, in compliment perhaps to a customer of standing, had written "George Vyell, Esq.," in full on the bill-head; a formality omitted as a rule in luncheon-reckonings. And if this scrap of paper told the truth—whythen George had lied!
But why? Ah, if he had done this thing, nothing else mattered; neither the how nor the why! If George had lied.... And the pendant, had that been bought in Plymouth and not (as he had asserted) in Truro? He had thrown away the case. Jewellers print their names inside such cases. The pendant was a handsome one. Perhaps his check-book would tell.
She arose; stepped half-way to the door; but came back and flung herself again upon the couch. No; she could not ... this was the second time to-day ... she could not face the torture again.
Yet ... if Georgehadlied!
She sat up; sat up with both hands pressed to her ears, to shut out a sudden voice clamoring through them—
"And why not? A son's a son—curse you—though he was your man!"
(To be concluded in November.)
There is a race from eld descent,Of heaven by earth in joyous mood,Before the world grew wise and bentIn sad, decadent attitude.To these each waking is a birthThat makes them heir to all the earth,Singing, for pure abandoned mirth,Non nonny non, hey nonny no.Perchance ye meet them in the mart,In fashion's toil or folly's throe,And yet their souls are far apartWhere primrose winds from uplands blow.At heart on oaten pipes they playThro' meadows green and gold with May,Affined to bird and brook and brae.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.Their gage they win in fame's despite,While lyric alms to life they fling;Children of laughter, sons of light,With equal heart to starve or sing.Counting no human creature vile,They find the good old world worth while;Care cannot rob them of a smile.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.For creed, the up-reach of a spire,An arching elm-tree's leafy spread,A song that lifts the spirit higherTo star or sunshine overhead.Misfortune they but deem God's jestTo prove His children at their best,Who, dauntless, rise to His attest.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.Successful ones will brush these by,Calling them failure as they pass.What reck they this who claim the skyFor roof, for bed the cosmic grass!When, failures all, we come to lie,The grass betwixt us and the sky,The gift of gladness will not die!Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
There is a race from eld descent,Of heaven by earth in joyous mood,Before the world grew wise and bentIn sad, decadent attitude.To these each waking is a birthThat makes them heir to all the earth,Singing, for pure abandoned mirth,Non nonny non, hey nonny no.Perchance ye meet them in the mart,In fashion's toil or folly's throe,And yet their souls are far apartWhere primrose winds from uplands blow.At heart on oaten pipes they playThro' meadows green and gold with May,Affined to bird and brook and brae.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.Their gage they win in fame's despite,While lyric alms to life they fling;Children of laughter, sons of light,With equal heart to starve or sing.Counting no human creature vile,They find the good old world worth while;Care cannot rob them of a smile.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.For creed, the up-reach of a spire,An arching elm-tree's leafy spread,A song that lifts the spirit higherTo star or sunshine overhead.Misfortune they but deem God's jestTo prove His children at their best,Who, dauntless, rise to His attest.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.Successful ones will brush these by,Calling them failure as they pass.What reck they this who claim the skyFor roof, for bed the cosmic grass!When, failures all, we come to lie,The grass betwixt us and the sky,The gift of gladness will not die!Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
There is a race from eld descent,Of heaven by earth in joyous mood,Before the world grew wise and bentIn sad, decadent attitude.To these each waking is a birthThat makes them heir to all the earth,Singing, for pure abandoned mirth,Non nonny non, hey nonny no.
There is a race from eld descent,
Of heaven by earth in joyous mood,
Before the world grew wise and bent
In sad, decadent attitude.
To these each waking is a birth
That makes them heir to all the earth,
Singing, for pure abandoned mirth,
Non nonny non, hey nonny no.
Perchance ye meet them in the mart,In fashion's toil or folly's throe,And yet their souls are far apartWhere primrose winds from uplands blow.At heart on oaten pipes they playThro' meadows green and gold with May,Affined to bird and brook and brae.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
Perchance ye meet them in the mart,
In fashion's toil or folly's throe,
And yet their souls are far apart
Where primrose winds from uplands blow.
At heart on oaten pipes they play
Thro' meadows green and gold with May,
Affined to bird and brook and brae.
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
Their gage they win in fame's despite,While lyric alms to life they fling;Children of laughter, sons of light,With equal heart to starve or sing.Counting no human creature vile,They find the good old world worth while;Care cannot rob them of a smile.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
Their gage they win in fame's despite,
While lyric alms to life they fling;
Children of laughter, sons of light,
With equal heart to starve or sing.
Counting no human creature vile,
They find the good old world worth while;
Care cannot rob them of a smile.
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
For creed, the up-reach of a spire,An arching elm-tree's leafy spread,A song that lifts the spirit higherTo star or sunshine overhead.Misfortune they but deem God's jestTo prove His children at their best,Who, dauntless, rise to His attest.Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
For creed, the up-reach of a spire,
An arching elm-tree's leafy spread,
A song that lifts the spirit higher
To star or sunshine overhead.
Misfortune they but deem God's jest
To prove His children at their best,
Who, dauntless, rise to His attest.
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
Successful ones will brush these by,Calling them failure as they pass.What reck they this who claim the skyFor roof, for bed the cosmic grass!When, failures all, we come to lie,The grass betwixt us and the sky,The gift of gladness will not die!Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
Successful ones will brush these by,
Calling them failure as they pass.
What reck they this who claim the sky
For roof, for bed the cosmic grass!
When, failures all, we come to lie,
The grass betwixt us and the sky,
The gift of gladness will not die!
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
[The notes accompanying the illustrations are by Douglas Taylor, Esq.]
[The notes accompanying the illustrations are by Douglas Taylor, Esq.]
[The notes accompanying the illustrations are by Douglas Taylor, Esq.]
T
THE following retrospect of a life well spent in the pursuit of the most exacting of professions was written down for the immediate delectation and edification of the children and grandchildren of the gifted woman who penned it.
I think, however, that when such an example may teach so much; where the life of an actress has been so full of incident and accident, and all resulting—through force of character and absolute intrinsic worth—in ultimate personal and professional regard and reverence, I think that the record of such a life, reaching over seventy years of the dramatic history of our country, cannot be without interest to all who have at heart the development of art at its best.
It would ill become me, here, to more than touch upon the domestic side of her character, but I may be permitted to say, that when to artistic perfection she added discipline tempered with gentleness and loving-kindness as a mother, and when to her other attributes and excellences was joined the organizing ability and perfect control of a theatrical stock company for many years, surely it is no assumption to say of her to-day, as was said of Maria Theresa, of Austria, "sexua femina ingenio vir." Such a character and personality must be salient in any time or age, and cannot but serve as an exemplar. And perhaps the fact of four generations of this same family having engaged in the profession of acting—with credit to their calling, and honor to themselves—may still further emphasize the real worth of that calling, both to the individuals engaged therein and the world at large.
And now, without further proem, I beg the public's acceptance of these present recollections of a woman pre-eminent in the profession she so long adorned.
John Drew.
Thomas Potter Cooke.[A]From a photograph in the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Thomas Potter Cooke.[A]From a photograph in the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Thomas Potter Cooke.[A]
From a photograph in the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
I was born in Lambeth Parish, London, England, on January 10, 1820; my father, Thomas Frederick Lane, was an actor of considerable provincial fame, and my mother,néeEliza Trenter, a very pretty woman and a sweet singer of ballads. That was an eventful year for theatrical people. The old King, George the Third, died, and all theatres were closed for one month; and there was considerable suffering among our kind, as I have been told since. At twelve months old my mother took me on the stage as a crying baby; but cry I would not, but at sight of the audience and the lights gave free vent to my delight and crowed aloud with joy. From that moment to this, the same sight has filled me with the most acute pleasure, and I expect will do so to the last glimpse I get of them, and when no longer to be seen, "Come, Death, and welcome!" I acted (?) all the "children's" parts in the plays then usual—Damon'schild—and had to be kept quiet with cherries before my last entrance, and then Mr. Macready's eyes frightened me into an awed silence. Then I remember (I was about five) playing the rightful heir in a melodrama called "Meg Murdock; or, the Haggard of the Glen," where the bad man came on when I was sleeping to murder me! Of course I awakened, and we both traversed the stage from different sides, taking the greatest care not to meet, when I stumbled over a property pitcher, and exclaimed "Oh, it's only the jug!" which was always the signal for great applause, and completely baffled the bad man. After that, in Liverpool, I remember playing the brother of "Frankenstein," who is killed by the Monster of Frankenstein's creation, acted by the celebrated T. P. Cooke, and to this hour can remember the horror which possessed me at his look and attitude, my own form dangling lifeless in his arms. He was a very amiable man, and always had some nice thing to give me after the play. Of course, I cannot give any consecutive account of the towns we played in. In one of them the beautiful Miss Maria Foote acted, and I suppose I must have done something to please her, as she sent for me her last night and gave me a lovely wax doll dressed asMaria Darlington, one of her favorite parts; and I thought her mother much prettier than she was! Then again, in Liverpool—by this time I was seven, or very near it—we (mother and myself, my father was dead two years ago) were at Cooke's amphitheatre when they played dramas where horses were the principalactors; one of these was called "Timour, the Tartar." I wasPrince Agib, confined in prison byTimour, because I was the true heir to the throne. My mother comes to the court to beseech for my liberty and gets into more trouble, and is cast into "the lowest dungeon by the moat," I having obtained my liberty in the meanwhile. The last scene shows a practical cataract in the centre of the stage, with a prison to the right; at a given call I rush on, on horseback, and exclaim, "My mother, I will free you still!" and rush down to the prison, almost under the water, take my mother (personated by a young circus rider) on my horse, clasping me round the waist, and dash up the cataract. This had been done with enthusiastic applause for many nights; but this evening the horse stumbled when on the third table, and rolled down to the other two to the stage. My mother, being a very fine rider, saved me from serious injury, and the curtain fell. There was a universal wish on the part of the audience to know if "the dear little girl was much hurt;" but she was insensible to the kind wishes of her audience, I believe I may truly say for the first and only time in her life.
Edwin Forrest.From a daguerreotype in the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Edwin Forrest.From a daguerreotype in the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Edwin Forrest.
From a daguerreotype in the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Edwin Forrest, the great American tragedian, most renowned and best abused of actors, was born in Philadelphia, March 9, 1806. His early life was a history of poverty, struggles, and vicissitudes as circus rider, negro minstrel, and ambitious actor, until his energy and industry conquered and he became the idol of the people. No man on the stage made warmer friends or more bitter enemies, nor was made the subject of more enthusiastic adulation and severe critical censure during the thirty years he was the acknowledged head of his profession.In early life his great characters wereOthello,Rolla,Carwin,Mark Antony,Damon,William Telland in the pieces written for him in which he has never had a successor—Spartacus,Metamora, andJack Cade. Later he improved with care and study, and discarding much of the "ranting" he was charged with, became theLear,Richelieu,Virginius, andCoriolanusof his admiring countrymen. His superb physique and magnificent voice were not appreciated in England, which he visited in 1836 and 1845, the last visit leading to the quarrel with Macready and consequently to the memorable Astor Place riot of May 10, 1849.Forrest clubs and Forrest associations, filled with youthful enthusiasts, deified him and defied his traducers, and after the verdict in the Forrest divorce case in 1852, crowds at "Christy's Minstrels" nightly, for months, encored the song of the evening "Jordan am a Hard Road to Trable" for one verse:"For sixty-nine nights the immortal Forrest played,And sixty-nine crowds he had accordin';In Macbeth, Damon, and Jack CadeHe's the greatest actor on this side of Jordan."His proud, spoiled spirit almost broke with infirmities of age and temper, when his last performances and readings in 1871 and 1872 were comparative failures, and on December 12, 1872, the great, generous, magnetic, but lonely and unhappy man, died.
Edwin Forrest, the great American tragedian, most renowned and best abused of actors, was born in Philadelphia, March 9, 1806. His early life was a history of poverty, struggles, and vicissitudes as circus rider, negro minstrel, and ambitious actor, until his energy and industry conquered and he became the idol of the people. No man on the stage made warmer friends or more bitter enemies, nor was made the subject of more enthusiastic adulation and severe critical censure during the thirty years he was the acknowledged head of his profession.
In early life his great characters wereOthello,Rolla,Carwin,Mark Antony,Damon,William Telland in the pieces written for him in which he has never had a successor—Spartacus,Metamora, andJack Cade. Later he improved with care and study, and discarding much of the "ranting" he was charged with, became theLear,Richelieu,Virginius, andCoriolanusof his admiring countrymen. His superb physique and magnificent voice were not appreciated in England, which he visited in 1836 and 1845, the last visit leading to the quarrel with Macready and consequently to the memorable Astor Place riot of May 10, 1849.
Forrest clubs and Forrest associations, filled with youthful enthusiasts, deified him and defied his traducers, and after the verdict in the Forrest divorce case in 1852, crowds at "Christy's Minstrels" nightly, for months, encored the song of the evening "Jordan am a Hard Road to Trable" for one verse:
"For sixty-nine nights the immortal Forrest played,And sixty-nine crowds he had accordin';In Macbeth, Damon, and Jack CadeHe's the greatest actor on this side of Jordan."
"For sixty-nine nights the immortal Forrest played,And sixty-nine crowds he had accordin';In Macbeth, Damon, and Jack CadeHe's the greatest actor on this side of Jordan."
"For sixty-nine nights the immortal Forrest played,
And sixty-nine crowds he had accordin';
In Macbeth, Damon, and Jack Cade
He's the greatest actor on this side of Jordan."
His proud, spoiled spirit almost broke with infirmities of age and temper, when his last performances and readings in 1871 and 1872 were comparative failures, and on December 12, 1872, the great, generous, magnetic, but lonely and unhappy man, died.
Miss Clara Fisher.[B]From a lithograph by C. G. Childs, published by R. H. Hobson, Philadelphia. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Miss Clara Fisher.[B]From a lithograph by C. G. Childs, published by R. H. Hobson, Philadelphia. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Miss Clara Fisher.[B]
From a lithograph by C. G. Childs, published by R. H. Hobson, Philadelphia. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Miss Lane, Eight Years of Age, in the Five Characters in "Twelve Precisely."From a lithographic reproduction of a drawing by D. C. Johnston, November 3, 1828. In the possession of John Drew, Esq.
Miss Lane, Eight Years of Age, in the Five Characters in "Twelve Precisely."From a lithographic reproduction of a drawing by D. C. Johnston, November 3, 1828. In the possession of John Drew, Esq.
Miss Lane, Eight Years of Age, in the Five Characters in "Twelve Precisely."
From a lithographic reproduction of a drawing by D. C. Johnston, November 3, 1828. In the possession of John Drew, Esq.
PHILADELPHIA.MONDAY EVENING, JANUARY 5, 1829.CHESTNUT STREET THEATRE.Miss Lane.—This astonishing little creature appeared at the Chestnut Street Theatre last evening. She is not more than ten years of age, and evinces a talent for and a knowledge of the stage beyond what we find in many experienced performers of merit. The entertainment ofTwelve Preciselyis well adapted to the display of the versatility of her powers; and in theIrish Girlshe may, with truth, be pronounced inimitably comic. Her brogue and manner are excellent. TheYoung Soldierwas also admirably assumed; his coxcombical airs were natural, evinced astonishing observation in a child so young, and literally convulsed the house with laughter. Her performance ofLittle Picklealso possessed great merit, and the applause bestowed upon her throughout the evening bespoke the wonder and delight of the audience. Those who have a taste for the wonderful should not miss the present opportunity of gratifying it. We promise ourselves a treat of no ordinary kind when she appears asGoldfinchin theRoad to Ruin.—Extract from a Philadelphia Newspaper.
PHILADELPHIA.
MONDAY EVENING, JANUARY 5, 1829.
CHESTNUT STREET THEATRE.
Miss Lane.—This astonishing little creature appeared at the Chestnut Street Theatre last evening. She is not more than ten years of age, and evinces a talent for and a knowledge of the stage beyond what we find in many experienced performers of merit. The entertainment ofTwelve Preciselyis well adapted to the display of the versatility of her powers; and in theIrish Girlshe may, with truth, be pronounced inimitably comic. Her brogue and manner are excellent. TheYoung Soldierwas also admirably assumed; his coxcombical airs were natural, evinced astonishing observation in a child so young, and literally convulsed the house with laughter. Her performance ofLittle Picklealso possessed great merit, and the applause bestowed upon her throughout the evening bespoke the wonder and delight of the audience. Those who have a taste for the wonderful should not miss the present opportunity of gratifying it. We promise ourselves a treat of no ordinary kind when she appears asGoldfinchin theRoad to Ruin.—Extract from a Philadelphia Newspaper.
Joseph Jefferson[C](the First of that Name) asSolus.From an engraving by D. Edwin after the painting by J. Neagle. Published by Lopez & Wemyss. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Joseph Jefferson[C](the First of that Name) asSolus.From an engraving by D. Edwin after the painting by J. Neagle. Published by Lopez & Wemyss. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Joseph Jefferson[C](the First of that Name) asSolus.
From an engraving by D. Edwin after the painting by J. Neagle. Published by Lopez & Wemyss. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Just after this my mother made engagements for us to go to America, that El Dorado to an imaginative class, which assuredly theatrical people are. Mr. John Hallam, the accredited agent for Price & Simpson, of the old Park Theatre, New York, engaged, as was then the fashion, an entire company, and went with us himself in the packet-ship Britannia. The following persons were included in the company, viz.: Mr. Henry Smith, John Sefton,Mr. Robert Grierson, Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, Miss Stannard and her sister Mrs. Hallam, lately married, Master Henri Wells and Miss Wells, dancers. We had an exceptionally fine passage of four weeks (no steam in those days), and landed in New York on June 7, 1827. We remained in New York a few days, long enough to completely change my mother's appearance; the mosquitoes found her a very healthy English woman and feasted at their will. We were then sent to Philadelphia, to the old Walnut Street Theatre. I remember seeing the "first appearance" of most of the parties, of course; my mother's made the finest impression on me. It was asMargerittain "No Song, no Supper." The symphony of her entrance song is a long one, and the orchestra had to play it twice, her reception was so hearty and her nervousness so great. I appeared in September, I think, asThe Duke of Yorkto the elder Booth'sRichard III.Then we were sent to Baltimore, to Mr. Joe Cowell's Theatre, where I had the honor of appearing asAlbertto Mr. Edwin Forrest'sWilliam Tell, and received a medal from that gentleman for the performance. At that time he was, I suppose, about twenty-two or twenty-three, and the handsomest man I ever saw. Alas! how he changed! Mr. Forrest was never a good-tempered man, and was apt to be morose and churlish at rehearsals. But he had many noble qualities; he was the "fairest" actor that ever played. If the character you sustained had anything good in it, he would give you the finest chance of showing it to the audience. He would get a little below you, so that your facial expression could be fully seen; he would partially turn his back, in order that the attention should be given entirely to you. This will be better understood by actors, who know how differently some players act. He was not without appreciation of a little "joke" either. On one occasion, at the old Park Theatre, we were playing, as an afterpiece, "Therese, the Orphan of Geneva." He, asCarwin, rushes with a drawn dagger into the pavilion where he believes thatThereseis sleeping. Immediately the place is struck by lightning; he then staggers out of the pavilion, exclaiming, "'Tis done;Thereseis now no more." ThenThereseenters and rushes into the pavilion to rescue her benefactress. On this occasion I, asTherese, rushed from the house beforeCarwinhad time to come out, and we met, face to face, in the apartment of the murderedcountess, who had hardly finished screaming for her life. I was horror-stricken at my error. "Oh! horrors, Mr. Forrest, what shall I do?" He smiled the beautiful smile which illuminated his face, and said: "Never mind—I'll go out by the back-door!"
I must mention now that my mother had been married some months before to Mr. John Kinlock, a stage manager, and a very capable actor and manager.
Play Bill of the Chestnut Street Theatre. January 9, 1829. Miss Lane (Mrs. Drew) appears in four characters in the "Four Mowbrays."In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Play Bill of the Chestnut Street Theatre. January 9, 1829. Miss Lane (Mrs. Drew) appears in four characters in the "Four Mowbrays."In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Play Bill of the Chestnut Street Theatre. January 9, 1829. Miss Lane (Mrs. Drew) appears in four characters in the "Four Mowbrays."
In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
George Horton Barrett.[D]From a photograph by Meade Brothers, New York. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
George Horton Barrett.[D]From a photograph by Meade Brothers, New York. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
George Horton Barrett.[D]
From a photograph by Meade Brothers, New York. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Miss Fanny Kemble.[E]From a lithographic reproduction of a drawing by Gigoux. Published by John Spratt, London, 1830. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Miss Fanny Kemble.[E]From a lithographic reproduction of a drawing by Gigoux. Published by John Spratt, London, 1830. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Miss Fanny Kemble.[E]
From a lithographic reproduction of a drawing by Gigoux. Published by John Spratt, London, 1830. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.
Well, from this time my parents' ambition was fixed for me. Miss Clara Fisher was then at the zenith of her attraction, and father determined that I should be a second "Clara;" I appeared at the Bowery Theatre, at that time a rival to the Old Park, and was managed by the celebrated Mr. Gilfert. George Barrett and his beautiful wife, Charles Young and his really lovely wife, Mrs. Gilfert and Mrs. Holman were in the company. Shall I ever forget my stage-fright whilst waiting to hear my cue asLittle Picklein "The Spoiled Child." But when the time of entrance came every feeling but exhilaration vanished—only the certainty of success remained. From this time to the latter part of 1830 I played as a star with varying success (financially); among other parts,Dr.Pangloss, in "The Heir at Law,"Goldfinch, in "The Road to Ruin;" "Winning a Husband" (seven characters); "72 Piccadilly" (five characters); "Actress of All Work" (six characters); "Four Mowbrays;"Thomas, in "The Secret;"Gregory, in "Turn Out," and the fourth and fifth acts of Richard III. I would here mention that, in actingDr. Panglossat the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, the elder Joseph Jefferson, grandfather of the present great actor of that name, playedZekiel Homespun. Think of that great old actor playing with a child of nine years old! At one time we (father, mother, and I) were associated with Madame Celeste, her sister Constance and husband, Henry Elliott; and we acted and danced through the State of New York. All the towns, now splendid cities with magnificent opera-houses, were then guiltless of any decent halls, and the orchestras were the great difficulties. In Buffalo, a pretty village, the only available music was one violin played by an old darkey, and all he knew was "Hail, Columbia," and "Yankee Doodle;" so, as Celeste danced twice, the orchestra (!) commenced the first time with "Hail, Columbia," and finished with "Yankee Doodle," and for the second dance reversed the order of precedence. Poor Celeste, who spoke very little English then, her patience exhausted, exclaimed "D—— 'Yankee Doodle' and 'Hail, Columbia.'" The latter part of 1830, father, bitten with the idea of management, arranged a partnership with a Mr.Jones, in New York, to take a company out to Jamaica, W. I. In November we started. The company consisted of Mr. W. C. Forbes, Mr. Kelsey, Mr. Crouta, Mr. and Mrs. Holden, Miss Smith, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and ourselves. When out about ten days we struck a hidden rock—a case of ignorant carelessness, I should think, as it was a most beautiful moonlight night. The ship remained standing, so every one got dressed, ready for leaving, as we could even at night see the beach before us. The captain found that it was San Domingo. In the morning we all got safely to shore, all our baggage with us; then the crew started to erect tents, one for the ladies with the gentlemen appertaining to them, one for the other gentlemen, and one for the crew. Our deck-load had been shingles and staves, which proved very useful, as did all the stores from the ship; and we settled ourselves to stay for some time, as they ascertained that we were forty miles from any settlement, and the captain and one other would have to go to the City of San Domingo and obtain a brig to get us off. To haul by land was impossible. We were there six weeks, and I celebrated my eleventh birthday there. In due season we got to the City of San Domingo, and there obtained some sort of vehicle which took us to Kingston, Jamaica. The company was quite successful there; but yellow fever killed my father, his youngest child, a baby of ten months, and nearly took my mother. Indeed,she had such a siege of illness as for a time to completely prostrate me. By the doctor's advice she went to the north part of the island, to Falmouth. I suppose we acted there, but have no remembrance of it. I only remember the amount of kindness we met with there, really unparalleled. Rumors of insurrection became alarming, and my mother and myself, driven by the leader of the orchestra, Mr. Myers, came across the country to Kingston—more kindness there, till finally we embarked for New York; then to Philadelphia during the first cholera season. That was a fearful time; but youth must have its amusement. In the boarding-house I met Alexina Fisher, a very pretty little girl one year my junior, and we used to act together in the empty attic room—stab each other with great fury and fall upon the ground, until expostulation from the boarders in the third story caused our reconciliation with tears and embraces. In after years Alexina and I were very dear friends. She married John Lewis Baker, a very good actor. She was a charming actress, and they made a moderate fortune in California, which was injured by the deterioration in property. At this time, 1832, the Arch Street Theatre was flourishing pretty well with an entire company of American actors, which was a kind of curiosity, being the first of its kind. The managers were Messrs. William Forrest and Duffy. The company consisted of John R. Scott, Mr. Jones, E. N. Thayer, James E. Murdock, Mrs. Stone, Miss Eliza Riddle, and Mrs. E. N. Thayer. The latter, though of English birth, began her long and honorable career on the stage of this country. Mr. Forrest was backed by his brother Edwin, who produced all his original plays at the Arch Street Theatre—"The Gladiator," "Metamora," "Broker of Bogota," and later "Jack Cade." This season, 1832, "The Ravel Family" came to cheer the oppressed public. What a capital performance it was, and how long they cheered the people! I don't think one of the "Family" is left! We were divided off soon, mother in Baltimore and I in Washington. (During a former engagement in the last-named city, I was on a visit to Mrs. Eaton's little girl, and Mrs. Eaton took me to the President's Levee—General Jackson then filling the chair of state. She introduced me to him. He was very kind and sweet to me, kissed me, and said I was "a very pretty little girl." Need I say that I was a Jackson Democrat from that hour, and have remained one up to date!)