One evening, near the close of the season, Forrest had made so great a sensation in the audience that they stamped, clapped, shouted, and insisted on his coming before the curtain to receive their plaudits. But he had left the theatre in haste to fulfil an appointment elsewhere, and knew not of the honor designed for him. The people, ignorant of his absence, were furious at what they chose to interpret as his want of respect for them. They vowed vengeance. His benefit was to come off a few nights later. It was whispered abroad that the audience would not suffer him to perform unless he offered a meek apology for his insolent disregard of their wishes. He determined that he would not apologize, and that he would act. His friends, already described, with a good number of trusty followers, each a match for ten untrained men in a fight, were on hand, resolved to protect him, and, as they phrased it, to put him through. As the curtain rose and the youthful actor stepped forward, he was greeted with a shower of hisses, mixed with cries of "Apology! Apology!" It was the first experience of the kind he had ever known, and he felt for an instant that horripilating chill called _gooseflesh_ creep over some parts of his skin. But, nothing daunted, he at once, in the fixed attitude he had assumed, turned his level eyes on the noisy crowd, and said, in a calm, clear voice, "Gentlemen, not being guilty of any offence, I shall make no apology. When you called me, I was out of hearing. Is it just to punish me for a fault of which I am innocent?" A perfect hush followed, and in a moment the changed temper of the audience declared itself in a unanimous cheer, and the play went swimmingly on to the close. Soon after the theatre had closed for the summer, about the middle of June, Forrest was attacked by the dreadful fever to which the city was periodically exposed. The low state of his finances caused him to dwell in a malarious quarter near the river, and to stay there at a time when the city was largely deserted by the better classes. It was the first severe and serious illness he had suffered. His best friends were away. He could not afford to hire special attendance. The disease raged terribly. His pain was extreme, and his depression worse. He thought he should die; and then bitterly he lamented that he had ever left his home, to perish in this awful way among strangers. "And yet," he said, "I meant it for the best; and what else could I do? Oh, my mother, where are you? How little you imagine the condition your poor boy is in now!" In his delirium he raved continually about his mother, and sometimes fancied she was with him, and lavished endearing epithets on her. So they told him after his recovery.