Life of Edwin Forrest, the American Tragedian. Volume 1 (of 2)Alger, Horatio, Jr.
General
Life of Edwin Forrest, the American Tragedian. Volume 1 (of 2)
Alger, Horatio, Jr.
Forrest, Edwin, 1806-1872
peculiar and important in the historic growth and moral changes and
destiny of his country.
The composition of a narrative doing justice to a life with such
contents and such relations may well be thought worth the while of any
one. And if it be properly composed, if the programme here laid down
be adequately filled up, the result cannot fail to offer instructions
worthy the attention of the American people.
For the reasons now explained, the most intimate friends of Forrest
had often tried to induce him to write his own memoir. They knew that
such a work would possess extreme interest and value, and they felt
that he had every qualification to do it better than it could be done
by anybody else. But their efforts were vain. Pride in him was greater
than vanity. He had as much self-respect as he had self-complacency.
He was, therefore, not ruled by those motives which caused Cicero,
Augustine, Petrarch, Rousseau, Gibbon, and a throng of lesser men,
to take delight in painting their own portraits, describing their
own experiences, toning up the details with elaborate touches. To
the reiterated arguments urged by his friends, he replied, "I have
all my life been surrounded, as it were, by mirrors reflecting me to
myself at every turn; subjected to those praises and censures which
keep consciousness in a fever; accompanied at every step by a constant
clapping of hands and stamping of feet and pointing of fingers, with
the shout or the whisper, 'There goes Forrest!' I have for years been
sick of this fixing of attention on myself. I can enjoy sitting down
alone and recalling the scenes and occurrences of the past, regarding
them as objects and events outside. But to call them up distinctly as
parts of myself, and record them as a connected whole, with constant
references to the standards in my own mind and the prejudices in the
minds of my friends and my enemies,--I cannot do it. The pain of the
reminiscences, the distress of the fixed self-contemplation, would be
too much. It would drive me mad. Give over. No persuasion on earth can
induce me to think of it."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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