Chapter 2

A wonderful feature was the extraordinary amount of Dickens' letters that was worked into it. To save time and trouble, and this I was told by Mrs. Forster, he would cut out the passages he wanted with a pair of scissors and paste them on his MS! As the portion written on the back was thus lost, the rest became valueless. I can fancy the American collector tearing his hair as he reads of this desecration. But it was a rash act and a terrible loss of money. Each letter might have later been worth say from five to ten pounds apiece.

It would be difficult to give an idea of Forster's overflowing kindness on the occasion of the coming of friends to town. Perpetual hospitality was the order of the day, and, like so many older Londoners, he took special delight in hearing accounts of the strange out-of-the-way things a visitor will discover, and with which he will even surprise the resident. He enjoyed what he called "hearing your adventures." I never met anyone with so boisterous and enjoying a laugh. Something would tickle him, and, like Johnson in Fleet Street, he would roar and roar again. Like Diggory, too, at the same story, or rather _scene_; for, like his friend Boz, it was the _picture_ of some humorous incident that delighted, and would set him off into convulsions. One narrative of my own, a description of the recitation of Poe's _The Bells_ by an actress, in which she simulated the action of pulling the bell for the Fire, or for a Wedding or Funeral bells, used to send him into perfect hysterics. And I must say that I, who have seen and heard all sorts of truly humorous and spuriously humorous stories in which the world abounds at the present moment, have never witnessed anything more diverting. The poor lady thought she was doing the thing realistically, while the audience was shrieking with enjoyment. I do not know how many times I was invited to repeat this narrative, a somewhat awkward situation for me, but I was glad always to do what he wished. I recall Browning coming in, and I was called on to rehearse this story, Forster rolling on the sofa in agonies of enjoyment. This will seem trivial and personal, but really it was characteristic; and pleasant it was to find a man of his sort so natural and even boyish.

At the head of his table, with a number of agreeable and clever guests around him, Forster was at his best. He seemed altogether changed. Beaming smiles, a gentle, encouraging voice, and a tenderness verging on gallantry to the ladies, took the place of the old, rough fashions. He talked ostentatiously, he _led_ the talk, told most _à propos_ anecdotes of the remarkable men he had met, and was fond of fortifying his own views by adding: "As Gladstone, or Guizot, or Palmerston said to me in my room," etc. But you could not but be struck by the finished shapes in which his sentences ran. There was a weight, a power of illustration, and a dramatic colouring that could only have come of long practice. He was gay, sarcastic, humorous, and it was impossible not to recognise that here was a clever man and a man of power.

Forster's ideal of hospitality was not reciprocity, but was bounded by _his_ entertaining everybody. Not that he did not enjoy a friendly quiet dinner at your table. Was he on his travels at a strange place? _You_ must dine with him at his hotel. In town you must dine with him. He might dine with you. This dining with you must be according to his programme. When he was in the vein and inclined for a social domestic night he would let himself out.

Maclise's happy power of realising character is shown inimitably in the picture of Forster at the reading of _The Christmas Carol_, seated forward in his chair, with a solemn air of grave judgment. There is an air of distrust, or of being on his guard, as who should say, "It is fine, very fine, but I hold my opinion in suspense till the close. I am not to be caught as you are, by mere flowers." He was in fact distinct from the rest, all under the influence of emotion. Harness is shown weeping, Jerrold softened, etc. These rooms, as is well known, were Mr. Tulkinghorn's in the novel, and over Forster's head, as he wrote, was the floridly-painted ceiling, after the fashion of Verrio, with the Roman pointing. This was effaced many years ago, but I do not know when.

By all his friends Forster was thought of as a sort of permanent bachelor. His configuration and air were entirely suited to life in chambers: he was thoroughly literary; his friends were literary; there he gave his dinners; married life with him was inconceivable. He had lately secured an important official post, that of Secretary to the Lunacy Commissioners, which he gained owing to his useful services when editing the _Examiner_. This necessarily led to the Commissionership, which was worth a good deal more. Nowadays we do not find the editors of the smaller papers securing such prizes. I remember when he was encouraging me to "push my way," he illustrated his advice by his own example: "I never let old Brougham go. I came back again and again until I wore him out. I forced 'em to give me this." I could quite imagine it. Forster was a troublesome customer, "a harbitrary cove," and not to be put off, except for a time. It was an excellent business appointment, and he was admitted to be an admirable official.

In one of Dickens' letters, published by his children, there is a grotesque outburst at some astounding piece of news: an event impending, which seemed to have taken his breath away. It clearly refers to his friend's marriage. Boz was so tickled at this wonderful news that he wrote: "Tell Catherine that I have the most prodigious, overwhelming, crushing, astounding, blinding, deafening, pulverising, scarifying, secret of which Forster is the hero, imaginable, by the whole efforts of the whole British population. It is a thing of the kind that, after I knew it (from himself) this morning, I lay down flat as if an engine and tender had fallen upon me." This pleasantly boisterous humour is in no wise exaggerated. I fancy it affected all Forster's friends much in the same way, and as an exquisitely funny and expected thing. How many pictures did Boz see before him--Forster proposing to the widow in his sweetest accents, his deportment at the church, &c. There was not much sentiment in the business, though the bride was a sweet, charming woman, as will be seen, too gentle for that tempestuous spirit. She was a widow--"Yes, gentlemen, the plaintiff is a widow," widow of Colburn, the publisher, a quiet little man, who worshipped her. She was well endowed, inheriting much of his property, even to his papers, etc. She had also a most comfortable house in Montague Square, where, as the saying is, Forster had only to move in and "hang up his hat."

With all his roughness and bluntness, Forster had a very soft heart, and was a great appreciator of the sex. He had some little "affairs of the heart," which, however, led to no result. He was actually engaged to the interesting L. E. L. (Letitia Landon), whom he had no doubt pushed well forward in the _Examiner_; for the fair poetess generally contrived to enlist the affections of her editors, as she did those of Jerdan, director of the once powerful _Literary Gazette_. We can see from his Memoirs how attracted he was by her. The engagement was broken off, it is believed, through the arts of Dr. Maginn, and it is said that Forster behaved exceedingly well in the transaction. Later he became attached to another lady, who had several suitors of distinction, but she was not disposed to entrust herself to him.

No one so heartily relished his Forster, his ways and oddities, as Boz; albeit the sage was his faithful friend, counsellor, and ally. He had an exquisite sense for touches of character, especially for the little weaknesses so often exhibited by sturdy, boisterous natures. We again recall that disposition of Johnson, with his "bow to an Archbishop," listening with entranced attention to a dull story told by a foreign "diplomatist." "_The ambassador says well_," would the sage repeat many times, which, as Bozzy tells, became a favourite form in the _côterie_ for ironical approbation. There was much of this in our great man, whose voice became of the sweetest and most mellifluous key, as he bent before the peer. "Lord ----," he would add gently, and turning to the company, "has been saying, with much force," etc.

I recall the Guild _fête_ down at Knebworth, where Forster was on a visit to its noble owner, Lord Lytton, and was deputed to receive and marshal the guests at the station, an office of dread importance, and large writ over his rather burly person. His face was momentous as he patrolled the platform. I remember coming up to him in the crowd, but he looked over and beyond me, big with unutterable things. Mentioning this later to Boz, he laughed his cheerful laugh, "Exactly," he cried. "Why, I assure you, Forster would not see _me_!" He was busy pointing out the vehicles, the proper persons to sit in them, according to their dignity. All through that delightful day, as I roamed through the fine old halls, I would encounter him passing by, still in his lofty dream, still controlling all, with a weight of delegated authority on his broad shoulders. Only at the very close did he vouchsafe a few dignified, encouraging words, and then passed on. He reminded me much of Elia's description of Bensley's Malvolio.

There was nothing ill-natured in Boz's relish of these things; he heartily loved his friend. It was the pure love of fun. Podsnap has many touches of Forster, but the writer dared not let himself go in that character as he would have longed to do. When Podsnap is referred to for his opinion, he delivers it as follows, much flushed and extremely angry: "Don't ask me. I desire to take no part in the discussion of these people's affairs. I abhor the subject. It is an odious subject, an offensive subject _that makes me sick_, and I"--with his favourite right arm flourish which sweeps away everything and settles it for ever, etc. These very words must Forster have used. It may be thought that Boz would not be so daring as to introduce his friend into his stories, "under his very nose" as it were, submitting the proofs, etc., with the certainty that the portrait would be recognised. But this, as we know, is the last thing that could have occurred, or the last thing that would have occurred to Forster. It was like enough someone else, but not he.

"Mr. Podsnap was well to do, and stood very high in Mr. Podsnap's opinion." "He was quite satisfied. He never could make out why everybody was not quite satisfied, and he felt conscious that he set a brilliant social example in being particularly well satisfied with most things and with himself." "Mr. Podsnap settled that whatever he put behind him he put out of existence." "I don't want to know about it. I don't desire to discover it." "He had, however, acquired a peculiar flourish of his right arm in the clearing the world of its difficulties." "As so eminently respectable a man, Mr. Podsnap was sensible of its being required of him to take Providence under his protection. Consequently he always knew exactly what Providence intended."

These touches any friend of Forster's would recognise. He could be very engaging, and was at his best when enjoying what he called a shoemaker's holiday--that is, when away from town at some watering-place, with friends. He was then really delightful, because happy, having left all his solemnities and ways in London.

Forster was a man of many gifts, an admirable hard-working official, thoroughly business-like and industrious. I recall him through all the stages of his connection with the Lunacy Department, as Secretary and Commissioner and Retired Commissioner, when he would arrive on "melting days" as it were. But it was as a cultured critic that he was unsurpassed. He was ever "correct," and delivered a judgment that commended itself on the instant; it was given with such weight and persuasion. This correctness of judgment extended to most things, politics, character, literature, and was pleasant to listen to. He was one of the old well-read school, and was never without his edition of Shakespeare, the Globe one, which he took with him on his journeys. He had a way of lightly emphasising the beauty of a special passage of the Bard's.

Once, travelling round with Boz, on one of his reading tours, we came to Belfast, where the huge Ulster Hall was filled to the door by ardent and enthusiastic Northerners. I recall how we walked round the rather grim town, with its harsh red streets, the honest workers staring at him hard. We put up at an old-fashioned hotel, the best--the Royal it was called, where there was much curiosity on the part of the ladies to get sly peeps at the eminent man. They generally contrived to be on the stairs when he emerged. Boz always appeared, even in the streets, somewhat carefully "made up." The velvet collar, the blue coat, the heavy gold pin, added to the effect.

It was at this hotel, when the show was over, and our agreeable supper cleared away, that I saw the pleasant Boz lying on the sofa somewhat tired by his exertions, not so much on the boards as in that very room. For he was fond of certain parlour gymnastics, in which he contended with his aide-de-camp Dolby. Well, as I said, he was on his sofa somewhat fatigued with his night's work, in a most placid, enjoying frame of mind, laughing with his twinkling eyes, as he often did, squeezing and puckering them up when our talk fell on Forster, whom he was in the vein for enjoying. It had so fallen out that, only a few weeks before, Trinity College, Dublin, had invited Forster to receive an honorary degree, a compliment that much gratified him. I was living there at the time, and he came and stayed with me in the best of humours, thoroughly enjoying it all. Boz, learning that I had been with him, insisted on my telling him _everything_, as by instinct he knew that his friend would have been at his best. The scenes we passed through together were indeed of the richest comedy. First I see him in highest spirits trying on a doctor's scarlet robe, to be had on hire. On this day he did everything in state, in his special "high" manner. Thus he addressed the tailor in rolling periods: "Sir, the University has been good enough to confer a degree on me, and I have come over to receive it. My name is John Forster." (I doubt if his name had reached the tailor). "Certainly, sir." And my friend was duly invested with the robe. He walked up and down before a pier glass. "Hey, what now? Do you know, my dear friend, I really think I must _buy_ this dress. It would do very well to go to Court in, hey?" He indulged his fancy. "Why I could wear it on many occasions. A most effective dress." But it was time now to wait on "the senior Bursar," or some such functionary. This was one Doctor L----, a rough, even uncouth, old don, who was for the nonce holding a sort of rude class, surrounded by a crowd of "undergrads." Never shall I forget that scene. Forster went forward, with a mixture of gracious dignity and softness, and was beginning, "Doc-tor L----." Here the turbulent boys round him interrupted. "Now see here," said the irate Bursar, "it's no use all of ye's talking together. Sir, I can't attend to you now." Again Forster began with a gracious bow. "Doctor L----, I have come over at the invitation of the University, who have been good enough to offer me an honorary degree, and--"

"Now see here," said the doctor, "there's no use talking to me now. I can't attend to ye. All of ye come back here in an hour and take the oath, all together mind."

"I merely wished to state, Doctor L----," began the wondering Forster.

"Sir I tell ye I can't attend to ye now. You must come again," and he was gone.

I was at the back of the room, when my friend joined me, very ruminative and serious. "Very odd, all this," he said, "but I suppose when we _do_ come back, it will be all right?"

"Oh yes, he is noted as an odd man," I said.

"I don't at all understand him, but I suppose it _is_ all right. Well come along, my dear friend." I then left him for a while. After the hour's interval I returned. The next thing I saw from the back of the room was my burly friend in the front row of a number of irreverent youngsters of juvenile age, some of whom close by me were saying, "Who's the stout old bloke; what's he doing here?"

"Now," said the Bursar and senior fellow, "take these Testaments on your hands, all o' ye." And then I saw my venerable friend, for so he looked in comparison, with three youths sharing his Testament with them. But he was serious. For here was a most solemn duty before him. "Now repeat after me. _Ego_," a shout, "_Joannes, Carolus_," as the case might be "_juro solemniter_," &c. Forster might have been in church going through a marriage ceremony, so reverently did he repeat the _formula_. The lads were making a joke of it.

Forster, as I said, was indeed a man of the old fashion of gallantry, making his approaches where he admired _sans cérémonie_, and advancing boldly to capture the fort. I remember a dinner, with a young lady who had a lovely voice, and who sang after the dinner to the general admiration. Forster had never seen her before, but when she was pressed to sing again and again, and refused positively, I was amazed to see Forster triumphantly passing through the crowded room, the fair one on his arm, he patting one of her small hands which he held in his own! She was flattered immensely and unresisting; the gallant Foster had carried all before him. This was his way, never would he be second fiddle anywhere if he could help it. Not a bad principle for any one if they can only manage it.

I remember one night, when he was in his gallant mood laying his commands on a group of ladies, to sing or do something agreeable, he broke out: "You know I am a despot, and must have my way, I'm such a harbitrary cove." The dames stared at this speech, and I fancy took it literally, for they had not heard the story. This I fancy did not quite please, for he had no notion of its being supposed he considered himself arbitrary; so he repeated and enforced the words in a loud stern voice. (Boswellians will recall the scene where Johnson said "The woman had a bottom of sense." When the ladies began to titter, he looked round sternly saying "Where's the merriment? I repeat the woman is fundamentally sensible." As who should say "now laugh if you dare!") The story referred to was that of the cabman who summoned Forster for giving him a too strictly measured fare, and when defeated, said "it warn't the fare, but he was determined to bring him there for he were such a harbitrary cove." No story about Forster gave such delight to his friends as this; he himself was half flattered, half annoyed.

Forster liked to be with people of high degree--as, perhaps, most of us do. At one time he was infinitely flattered by the attentions of Count Dorsay, who, no doubt, considered him a personage. This odd combination was the cause of great amusement to his friends, who were, of course, on the look out for droll incidents. There was many a story in circulation. One was that Forster, expecting a promised visit from "the Count," received a sudden call from his printers. With all solemnity he impressed the situation on his man. "Now," he said, "you will tell the Count that I have only just gone round to call on Messrs. Spottiswoode, the printers--you will observe, Messrs. Spot-is-wode," added he, articulating the words in his impressive way. The next time Forster met the Count, the former gravely began to explain to him the reason of his absence. "Ah! I know," said the gay Count, "you had just gone round to _Ze Spotted Dog_--I understand," as though he could make allowance for the ways of literary men. Once Forster had the Count to dinner--a great solemnity. When the fish was "on" the host was troubled to note that the sauce had not yet reached his guest. In an agitated deep _sotto voce_, he said, "Sauce to the Count." The "aside" was unheard. He repeated it in louder, but more agitated tones, "_Sauce_ to the Count." This, too, was unnoticed; when, louder still, the guests heard, "_Sauce for the Flounders of the Count_." This gave infinite delight to the friends, and the phrase became almost a proverb. Forster learning to dance in secret, in preparation for some festivity, was another enjoyment, and his appearance on the scene, carefully executing the steps, his hands on the shoulders of a little girl, caused much hilarity.

All this is amusing in the same way as it was amusing to Boz, as a capital illustration of character, genuinely exhibited, and yet it is with the greatest sympathy and affection I recall these things: but they were _too_ enjoyable. There is nothing depreciating, no more than there was in Bozzy's record, who so amiably puts forward the pleasant weaknesses of his hero. Though twenty years and more have elapsed since he passed from this London of ours, there is nothing I think of with more pleasure and affection than those far-off scenes in which he figured so large and strong, supplying dramatic action, character, and general enjoyment. The figures of our day seem to me to be small, thin and cardboard-like in comparison.

Boz himself is altogether mixed up with Forster's image, and it is difficult to think of one without recalling the other. In this connection there comes back on me a pleasant comedy scene, in which the former figured, and which, even at this long distance of time, raises a smile. When I had come to town, having taken a house, etc., with a young and pretty wife, Dickens looked on encouragingly; but at times shaking his head humorously, as the too sanguine plans were broached: "Ah, _the little victims play_," he would quote. Early in the venture he good-naturedly came to dine _en famille_ with his amiable and interesting sister-in-law. He was in a delightful mood, and seemed to be applying all the points of his own Dora's attempts at housekeeping, with a pleasant slyness: the more so as the little lady of the house was the very _replica_ of that piquant and fascinating heroine. She was destined, alas! to but a short enjoyment of her little rule, but she gained all hearts and sympathies by her very taking ways. Among others the redoubtable John Forster professed to be completely "captured," and was her most obstreperous slave. He, too, was to have been of the party, but was prevented by one of his troublesome chest attacks. Scarcely had Boz entered when he drew out a letter, I see him now standing at the fire, a twinkle in his brilliant eyes. "What _is_ coming over Forster," he said, ruminating, "I cannot make him out. Just as I was leaving the house I received this," and he read aloud, "I can't join you to-day. But mark you this, sir! no tampering, no poaching on _my_ grounds; for I won't have it. Recollect _Codlin's the friend not Short_!" With a wondering look Boz kept repeating in a low voice: "'Codlin's the friend not Short.' What _can_ he mean? What do you make of it?" I knew perfectly, as did also the little lady who stood there smiling and flattered, but it was awkward to explain. But he played with the thing; and it could only be agreed that Forster at times was perfectly "amazing," or "a little off his head."