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, _née_ Eliza 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's_
child—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 as _Maria 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 principal actors; one of these was called "Timour, the Tartar." I
was _Prince Agib_, confined in prison by _Timour_, 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.
[Illustration: 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 were _Othello_, _Rolla_, _Carwin_,
_Mark Antony_, _Damon_, _William Tell_ and in the pieces written for
him in which he has never had a successor—_Spartacus_, _Metamora_, and
_Jack Cade_. Later he improved with care and study, and discarding much
of the "ranting" he was charged with, became the_ Lear_, _Richelieu_,
_Virginius_, and _Coriolanus_ of 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 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.]
[Illustration: Miss Clara Fisher.[B]
From a lithograph by C. G. Childs, published by R. H. Hobson,
Philadelphia. In the collection of Peter Gilsey, Esq.]
[Illustration: 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.]