Goin’ along Lispenard street, the other day, I passed the site of old John Ireland’s tavern, which a generation ago was a favorite resort for theatrical people. The head man, the kingpin of the set who congregated here, was J. R. Scott, who did the most talkin’, the hardest drinkin’, and the least payin’ of any of the set. Scott was at one time almost as popular as [Edwin] Forrest, and in fact he is said to have been the only man whom Forrest ever feared as likely to become a rival. But he drank up all his greatness.
One night Scott came into Ireland’s place, about eleven o’clock, while the room was full, and he seemed himself almost as “full” as the room. But this particular night he was “flush” of money, as well as of whiskey, and displayed, with a tremendous air of importance, a big roll of bank bills. You can imagine the sensation that would be produced among a lot of actors by another actor with a lot of bills, and of course everybody wanted to know where it came from.
“Guess,” said Scott, “and whoever guesses right in ten guesses shall have ten dollars.”
Well one guessed “faro bank,” one guessed “lottery,” a third guessed “legacy,” one even suggested “highway robbery,” but in the whole ten guesses no one was right.
“Well, who the devil did give you your money, then?” asked somebody.
“Edwin Forrest,” answered Scott.
“What? Forrest gave you money?”
“Yes, and a lecture besides,” said Scott. “You would have thought, to have heard him, he was my father, and a minister of the gospel, all but for the swearin’. He berated me for my drinkin’, and told me I was the biggest fool in Christendom, and I sometimes think I am. And then he told me to reform.
“I told him I never could reform in this country, I knew too many of ‘the boys.’”
“‘Then go to some other country,’ he said. ‘Go to London.’
“‘You might as well tell me to go to heaven, or the other place,’ I said. ‘How the deuce can I go anywhere without any money?’
“I said this just to show him how absurd he was talkin’, without dreamin’ of what was comin’. But the moment I had said it, he out with his big wallet and handed me these bills, and when I tried to thank him, he growled out, “D–n it, Scott, stop your thankin’, and stop your drinkin’, and you’ll be all right. Go to London or you’ll go to the devil,’ and he stalked off. And I’m off to London in the next packet. Let’s have a good time of it to-night, boys, as my farewell to America. After to-night no more liquor or New York for me.”
The “boys” accepted this characteristic invitation, and there was hard drinkin’ for an hour or two. As for Scott, he got almost wild, and walked the streets all night, after the tavern closed, to get decently sober enough in the mornin’ to prepare for his departure.
The news of Forrest’s generosity to Scott soon got noised abroad among the actors, and was looked at differently by different people. Those friendly to Forrest praised it as a noble instance of liberality, but others said it was merely a shrewd stroke of policy to get a possible rival out of the way.
Well, Scott started off for London sober, and reachin’ there remained sober for some time. He got a chance to appear at the high-toned Princess Theatre, under Maddox, in “Sir Giles Overreach,” and made a big hit; gettin’ the highest kind of praise from the papers, copies of what he sent over to Forrest. But on the fourth night Scott got drunk once more, spoiled the play, and got discharged. Then he got worse drunk than ever and didn’t draw a sober breath for weeks. Taperin’ up a little he appeared at a fourth-rate theatre in the suburbs and made another hit there. Then he went on another drunk and was once more dismissed.
Finally, played out in London, he returned to America and soon was lookin’ round his favorite haunts–among ‘em, Ireland’s tavern. The boys generally were glad to see him again, and had made up their minds in advance that when they did see him they would see him drunk, as usual. So they were neither surprised or disappointed; but Forrest, when he heard of Scott’s return to New York, was both. He swore like a trooper.
Scott was afraid to meet Forrest, after havin’ thus gone back on his promises and his liberality to him, and kept out of the great tragedian’s way as long as he could, dodgin’ him on the street.
But at lasts the two men were brought face to face at a rehearsal of “Macbeth” at the old Bowery Theatre. Everybody about the theatre expected there would be a scene then, but there wasn’t.
Forrest strode in and on without sayin’ a word to Scott, or noticin’ him in any way, and during the rehearsal never spoke to him, or looked at him, save when the business of the part required it. And right after rehearsal Forrest left the theatre.
The night came, and Scott, who was to be the Macduff, determined to do his best, so as to propitiate Forrest. So he threw his whole soul into the part, givin’ a splendid performance. He never in all his life played better, and he never received so much applause. But the more applause he received the more Forrest glowered at him. It seemed as if he was growin’ jealous or envious of him. So Scott himself began to think, and so did his friends, but it wasn’t that sort of feelin’ at all, as was proved right after the performance. For then Forrest, in the presence of half a dozen or more of the actors and actresses, stalked up to Scott with his Metamora stride, and puttin’ his hand on his shoulders heavily, cursed him. Yes, cursed him emphatically, but not on his, Forrest’s account, but on his, Scott’s own.
“D–n you!” cried the great tragedian to the man who might have been as great, “you would have captured those cursed Britishers if you had only acted as you have to-night, and have kept from drink. But you have made a d–n fool of yourself, sir, and you have lied to me.
“Yes, lied, sir; lied!” and he roared out the word, as only he could roar it, while Scott cowered before his wrath. Then changin’ his tone and manner to that of the most witherin’ scorn, Forrest continued, “You cursed numbskull–couldn’t you keep your thick head clear? You have lost the finest chance of your life–you–you ineffable blockhead!” And the way he said those last two words were worth the price of admission to a whole performance. Scott seemed fairly to wilt and to grow small, while the actors present at this unexpected scene upon the stage, when the curtain was down, never even moved–they were held so spellbound.
And then, changin’ from scorn to command, Forrest concluded as follows: “Never speak to me again, sir, neither in the house, the street, or the theatre. Never in this world. Never, never!”
Then he strode off, mutterin’, as he went, the one word, “Fool! Fool! Fool!” but with those three different tones which he of all men knew how to impart to the same word. The first “fool” was uttered in a roar of rage, the second in a hiss of scorn, but the third and last had in it the ring of genuine sorrow. It was the last word ever uttered by Edwin Forrest to J. R. Scott. They never spoke again.
[Editor’s note: There’s little to add to this great anecdote, more illustrative of Forrest’s love for the craft of acting than of a clash of egos.
John Ireland’s tavern was better known as the Star Hotel, a respectable “free and easy” chop and ale tavern with boarding rooms. It is also famous for being the site where the fraternal organization, the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, was founded.]
