Chapter 3

And what a dinner it was! What an amusing failure, too, as a first attempt; suddenly, towards the end of the dinner, a loud, strange sound was heard, as of falling or rushing waters; it was truly alarming; I ran out and found a full tide streaming down the stairs. The cook in her engrossment had forgotten to turn a cock. "Ah, the little victims play!" and Boz's eyes twinkled. A loud-voiced cuckoo and quail were sounding their notes, which prompted me to describe a wonderful clock of the kind I had seen, with two trumpeters who issued forth at the hour and gave a prolonged flourish before striking, then retired, their doors closing with a smart clap. This set off Boz in his most humorous vein. He imagined the door sticking fast, or only half-opening, the poor trumpeter behind pushing with his shoulder to get out, then giving a feeble gasping tootle with much "whirring" and internal agonies; then the rest is silence.

On another occasion came Forster himself and lady, for a little family dinner; the same cook insisted on having in her husband, "a dear broth of a boy," to assist her. Forster arriving before he was expected, he was ever _more_ than punctual; the tailor rushed up eagerly to admit him, forgetting, however, to put on his coat! As he threw open the door he must have been astonished at Forster's greeting "No, no, my good friend, I altogether decline. I am _not_ your match in age, weight, or size," a touch of his pleasant humour and good spirits.

As of course Forster deeply felt the death of his old friend and comrade, the amiable and constant Dickens, he was the great central figure in all the dismal ceremonial that followed. He arranged everything admirably, he was executor with Miss Hogarth, and I could not but think how exactly he reproduced his great prototype, Johnson, in a similar situation. Bozzy describes the activity and fuss of the sage hurrying about with a pen in his hand and dealing with the effects: "We are not here," he said, "to take account of a number of vats, &c., but of the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of avarice." So was Forster busy, appraising copyrights, and realizing assets, all which work he performed in a most business-like fashion. That bequest in the will of the gold watch, to his "trusty friend, John Forster," I always thought admirably summarized the relations of the two friends. I myself received under his will one of his ivory paper-knives, and a paper-weight marked C.D. in golden letters, which was made for and presented to him at one of the pottery works.

One of the most delightful little dinners I had was an impromptu one at Forster's house, the party being himself, myself, and Boz. The presence of a third, not a stranger yet not an intimate, prompted both to be more free than had they been _tête-à-tête_. Boz was what might best be called "gay." His fashion of talk was to present things that happened in a pleasantly humorous light. On this occasion he told us a good deal about a strange being, Chauncey Hare Towns-bend, from whom he may have drawn Twemlow in _Our Mutual Friend_. Every look in that sketch reminds me of him; he, too, had a shy shrinking manner, a soft voice, but, in his appearance most of all, was Twemlow; he had a rather over-done worship of Dickens, wishing "not to intrude," etc.; he was a delicate, unhealthy looking person, rather carefully made up. Boz was specially pleasant this day on an odd bequest of his; for poor Twemlow had died, and he, Boz, was implored to edit his religious writings: rather a compendium of his religious opinions to be collected from a mass of papers in a trunk. For which service £1,000 was bequeathed. Boz was very humorous on his first despair at being appointed to such an office; then described his hopeless attempts "to make head or tail" of the papers. "Are they worth anything as religious views?" I asked. "Nothing whatever, I should say," he said, with a humorous twinkle in his eye, "I must only piece them together somehow." And so he did, I forget under what title, I think _Religious Remains of the late C. H. T._ There was probably some joking on this description. It is fair to say that Boz had to put up with a vast deal of this admiring worship, generally from retiring creatures whom his delicate good-nature would not let him offend.

Forster's large sincerity was remarkable, as was his generous style, which often carried him to extraordinary lengths. They were such as one would only find in books. I remember once coming to London without giving him due notice, which he always imperatively required to be done. When I went off to his house at Palace Gate, presenting myself about five o'clock, he was delighted to see me, as he always was, but I saw he was very uncomfortable and distressed. "_Why_ didn't you tell me," he said testily, "a day or two ago would have done. But _now_, my dear fellow, _the table's full_--it's impossible." "What?" I asked, yet not without a suspicion of the truth--for I knew him. "Why, I have a dinner party to-day! De Mussy, the Doctor of the Orleans family, and some others are coming, and here you arrive at this hour! Just look at the clock--I tell you it can't be done." In vain I protested; though I could not say it was "no matter," for it was a serious business. "Come with me into the dining-room and you'll see for yourself." There we went round the table, and "_The table's full_," he repeated from _Macbeth_. There was something truly original in the implied premise that his friend was _entitled_ of right to have a place at his table, and that the sole dispensing cause to be allowed was absence of space or a physical impossibility. It seems to me that this was a very genuine, if rare, shape of hospitality.

Of all Forster's friends at this time, of course, after Dickens, and he had innumerable ones, his fastest seemed Robert Browning. As every Sunday came round it was a rule that the Poet was to dine with him. Many were the engagements his host declined on the score of this standing engagement. "Should be delighted, my dear friend, to go to you, but it is an immemorial custom that every Sunday Robert Browning dines with _me_. Nothing interferes with _that._" Often, indeed, during the week the Poet would drop in for a chat or consultation, often when I was there. He was a most agreeable person, without any affectation; while Forster maintained a sort of patriarchal or paternal manner to him, though there was not much difference in their ages. Indeed, on this point, Forster well illustrated what has been often said of Mr. Pickwick and his time, that age has been much "put back" since that era. Mr. Pickwick, Wardle, Tupman and Co., are all described as old gentlemen, none of the party being over fifty; but they had to dress up to the part of old gentlemen, and with the aid of corpulence, "circular spectacles," &c, conveyed the idea of seventy. Forster in the same way was then not more than forty-five, but had a full-blown official look, and with his grave, solemn utterances, you would have set him down for sixty. Now-a-days men of that age, if in sound order, feel, behave, and dress as men of forty. Your _real_ old man does not begin till he is about seventy-five or so.

Browning having an acquaintance that was both "extensive and peculiar," could retail much gossip and always brought plenty of news with him: to hear which Forster did seriously incline. The Poet, too, had a pleasant flavour of irony or cynicism in his talk, but nothing ill-natured. What a pleasant Sunday that was when Frederick Chapman, the publisher, invited me and Forster, and Browning, with one or two more, whose names I have forgotten, down to Teddington. It was the close of a sultry summer's day, we had a cool and enjoyable repast, with many a joke and retailed story. Thus, "I was stopped to-day," said Browning, "by a strange, dilapidated being. Who do you think it was? After a moment, it took the shape of old Harrison Ainsworth." "A strange, dilapidated being," repeated Forster, musingly, "so the man is alive." Then both fell into reminiscences of grotesque traits, &c. This affectionate intercourse long continued. But alas! this _compulsory_ Sunday dining, as the philosopher knows, became at last a sore strain, and a mistake. It must come to Goldsmith's "travelling over one's mind," with power to travel no farther. Browning, too, had been "found out by Society"; was the guest at noble houses, and I suppose became somewhat lofty in his views. No one could scoff so loudly and violently as could Forster, at what is called snobbishness, "toadying the great"; though it was a little weakness of his own, and is indeed of everybody. However, on some recent visit, I learned to my astonishment, that a complete breach had taken place between the attached friends, who were now "at daggers drawn," as it is called. The story went, as told, I think, by Browning, who would begin: "I grew tired of Forster's _always wiping his shoes on me_." He was fond of telling his friend about "dear, sweet, charming Lady ----," &c. Forster, following the exact precedent of Mrs. Prig in the quarrel with her friend, would break into a scornful laugh, and, though he did not say "_drat_ Lady ----," he insisted she was a foolish, empty-headed creature, and that Browning praised her because she had a title. This was taken seriously, and the Poet requested that no disparaging remarks would be made on one of his best friends. "Pooh," said Forster, contemptuously, "some superannuated creature! I am astonished at you." How it ended I cannot say, but it ended painfully.

Some time elapsed and friends to both sides felt that here was a sort of scandal, and it must be made up. No one was more eager than Forster. Mutual explanations and apologies were given and all was as before. The liberal Forster, always eager to find "an excuse for the glass," announced a grand reconciliation dinner, to which came a rather notable party, to wit, Thomas Carlyle, Browning and his son, the Rev. Whitwell Elwin, the editor of Pope, and sometime editor of the _Quarterly_, the young Robert Lytton, myself, and some others whom I have forgotten. What an agreeable banquet it was! Elwin was made to retell, to Forster's convulsive enjoyment, though he had heard it before, a humorous incident of a madman's driving about in a gig with a gun and a companion, who up to that moment _thought_ he was sane. The Sage of Chelsea had his smoke as usual, a special churchwarden and a more-special "screw" of tobacco having been carefully sent out for and laid before him. There was something very interesting in this ceremonial. We juniors at the end of the table, Robert Lytton and myself, both lit a cigar, which brought forth a characteristic lecture from Forster; "I never allow smoking in this room, save on this privileged occasion when my old friend Carlyle honours me. But I do not extend that to you Robert Lytton, and you (this to me). You have taken the matter into your own hands, without asking leave or license; as that is so, and the thing is done, there is no more to be said." Here of course we understood that he wished to emphasize the compliment to his friend and make the privilege exclusively his. But he would have liked to hear, "May we also smoke?"

Forster's affection for Carlyle and his pride in him was delightful to see. I think he had more reverence for him than for anybody. He really looked on him as an inspired Sage, and this notion was encouraged by the retired fashion in which he of Chelsea lived, showing himself but rarely. Browning was seated near his host, but I noticed a sort of affected and strained _empressement_ on both sides. Later I heard a loud scoffing laugh from Forster, but the other, apparently by a strong effort, repressed himself and made no reply. Alas! as was to be expected, the feud broke out again and was never healed. Though Browning would at times coldly ask me after his old friend.

There was no better dramatic critic than Forster, for he had learned his criticism in the school of Macready and the old comedies. He had a perfect instinct for judging even when not present, and I recollect, when Salvini was being set up against Irving, his saying magisterially: "Though I have not seen either Mr. Salvini or Mr. Irving, I have a perfect conviction that Salvini is an actor and Mr. Irving is not." He had the finest declamation, was admirable in emphasis, and in bringing out the meaning of a passage, with expressive eye and justly-modulated cadences. I never had a greater treat than on one night, after dining with him, he volunteered to read aloud to us the Kitely passages from _Every Man in his Humour_, in which piece at the acted performances he was, I suspect, the noblest Roman of 'em all. It was a truly fine performance; he brought out the jealousy in the most powerful and yet delicately suggestive fashion. Every emotion, particularly the anticipation of such emotions, was reflected in his mobile features. His voice, deep and sonorous, and at times almost flutey with softness, was under perfect control; he could direct it as he willed. The reading must have called up many pleasant scenes, the excitement, his friends, the artists and writers, who all had taken part in the "splendid strolling" as he called it, and now all gone!

He often, however, mistook inferior birds for swans. He once held out to us, as a great treat, the reading of an unpublished play of his friend Lord Lytton, which was called _Walpole_. All the characters spoke and carried on conversation in hexameters. The effect was ridiculous. A more tedious thing, with its recondite and archaic allusions to Pulteney and other Georgian personages, could not be conceived. The ladies in particular, after a scene or two, soon became weary. He himself lost faith in the business, and saw that it was flat, so he soon stopped, but he was mystified at such non-intelligence. There was quite a store of these posthumous pieces of the late dramatist, some of which I read. But most were bad and dreary.

Forster had no doubt some oracular ways, which, like Mr. Peter Magnus's in _Pickwick_, "amused his friends very much." "Dicky" Doyle used to tell of a picnic excursion when Forster was expatiating roundly on the landscape, particularly demanding admiration for "yonder purple cloud" how dark, how menacing it was. "Why, my dear Forster," cried Doyle, "it's not a cloud at all, but only a piece of slated roof!" Forster disdained to notice the correction, but some minutes later he called to him loudly before the crowd: "See, Doyle! yonder is _not_ a cloud, but a bit of slated roof: there can be no doubt of it." In vain Doyle protested, "Why, Forster, I said that to you!" "My dear Doyle," said Forster, sweetly, "it's no more a cloud than I am. I repeat you are mistaken, _it's a bit of slated roof_."

To myself, he was ever kind and good-natured, though I could smile sometimes at his hearty and well-meant patronage. Patronage! it was rather wholesale "backing" of his friends. Thus, one morning he addressed me with momentous solemnity, "My dear fellow, I have been thinking about you for a long time, and I have come to this conclusion: you _must write a comedy_. I have settled that you can do it; you have powers of drawing character and of writing dialogue; so I have settled, the best thing you can do is to write a comedy." Thus had he given his permission and orders, and I might fall to work with his fullest approbation. I have no doubt he told others that he had directed that the comedy should be written.

On another day, my dachshund "Toby" was brought to see him. For no one loved or understood the ways of dogs better. He greatly enjoyed "the poor fellow's bent legs," rather a novelty then, and at last with a loud laugh: "He is _Sir_ Toby! no longer Toby. Yes my dear friend he _must_ be Sir Toby henceforth." He had knighted him on the spot!

Forster always stands out pre-eminently as "the friend," the general friend, and it is pleasant to be handed down in such an attitude. We find him as the common referee, the sure-headed arbiter, good-naturedly and heartily giving his services to arrange any trouble or business. How invaluable he was to Dickens is shown in the "Life." With him friendship was a high and serious duty, more responsible even than relationship. His warm heart, his time, his exertions, were all given to his friend. No doubt he had some little pleasure in the importance of his office, but he was in truth really indulging his affections, and warm heart.

Among his own dearest friends was one for whom he seemed to have an affection and admiration that might be called tender; his respect, too, for his opinions and attainments were strikingly unusual in one who thought so much of his own powers of judgment. This was the Rev. WHITWELL ELWIN, Rector of Booton, Norwich. He seemed to me a man quite of an unusual type, of much learning and power, and yet of a gentle modesty that was extraordinary. In some things the present Master of the Temple, Canon Ainger, very much suggests him. I see Elwin now, a spare wiry being with glowing pink face and a very white poll. He seemed a muscular person, yet never was there a more retiring, genial and delicate-minded soul. His sensitiveness was extraordinary, as was shown by his relinquishing his monumental edition of Pope's Works, after it had reached to its eighth volume. The history of this proceeding has never been clearly explained. No doubt he felt, as he pursued his labours, that his sense of dislike to Pope and contempt for his conduct was increasing, that he could not excuse or defend him. Elwin was in truth the "complement" of Forster's life and character. It was difficult to understand the one without seeing him in the company of the other. It was astonishing how softened and amiable, and even schoolboy-like, the tumultuous John became when he spoke of or was in company with his old friend; he really delighted in him. Forster's liking was based on respect for those gifts of culture, pains-taking and critical instinct, which he knew his friend possessed, and which I have often heard him praise in the warmest and sincerest fashion. "In El-win"--he seemed to delight in rolling out the syllables in this divided tone--"in El-ween you will find style and finish. If there is anyone who knows the topic it is El-win. He is your man."

I was bringing out a _magnum opus_, dedicated to Carlyle, Boswell's _Life of Johnson_, entailing a vast deal of trouble and research. The amiable Elwin, whom I consulted, entered into the project with a host of enthusiasm. He took the trouble of rummaging his note books, and continued to send me week by week many a useful communication, clearing up doubtful passages. But what was this to his service when I was writing a Life of Sterne,[1] and the friendly Forster, interesting himself in the most good-natured way, determined that it should succeed, and put me in communication with Elwin. No doubt he was interested in his _protégé_, and Elwin, always willing to please, as it were, received his instructions. Presently, to my wonder and gratification, arrived an extraordinary letter, if one might so call it, which filled over a dozen closely written pages (for he compressed a marvellous quantity into a sheet of paper), all literally overflowing with information. It was an account of recondite and most unlikely works in which allusions to Sterne and many curious bits of information were stowed away; chapter and page and edition were given for every quotation; it must have taken him many hours and much trouble to write. And what an incident it was, the two well-skilled and accomplished literary critics exerting themselves, the one to secure the best aid of his friend, the other eager to assist, because his friend wished it.

[Footnote 1: I recall a meeting by special appointment with Elwin, who came to lunch to debate it. He had already my letter, turned it over and over again, but without result. The point was what edition should be used--the first or the last; this latter having, of course, the advantage of the author's latest revision. On the great question of "Johnson's stay at Oxford," which has exercised all the scholars, and is still in a more or less unsatisfactory way, he agreed with me.]

In the course of these Shandian enquiries, the passage in Thackeray's lecture occurred to me where he mentions having been shown Eliza's Diary by a "Gentleman of Bath." I wished to find out who this was, when my faithful friend wrote to the novelist and sent me his reply, which began, "My dear Primrose"--his charmingly appropriate nick or pet name for Elwin, who was the very picture of the amiable vicar. It resulted in the gentleman allowing _me_ to look at his journal.

Letter from Elwin on the "unfortunate Dr. Dodd":--

Booton Rectory, Norwich,

Oct. 31st, 1864.

My dear Mr. ----.--I have been ill for some weeks past, which has prevented my writing to you. It is of the less importance that I can add nothing to your ample list of authorities, except to mention, if you are not already aware of it, that there is a good deal about Dr. Dodd and his doings, in "Chrysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea." The contemporary characters which figure in the work are described partly by real, and partly by invented circumstances. But you at least get the view which the author entertained of the persons he introduces on the scene. I missed the first part of your Memoir of Dodd, in the _Dublin Magazine_. The second I saw, and thought it extremely interesting, and very happily written. I was surprised at the quantity of information you had got together. I cannot help you to any detailed account of the Maccaroni preachers. They are glanced at in the second book of Cowper's Task. They have existed, and will exist in every generation, but it is seldom that any record is preserved of them. They are the butterflies of the hour. There are no means by which you can keep worthless men from making a trade of religion, and as long as there are people simple enough to be dupes, so long there will be impostors. It is strange to see what transparent acting will impose upon women. To be popular, to draw large audiences, is the avowed object of many of these preachers. The late R. Montgomery once introduced himself to an acquaintance of mine on the platform at some religious meeting. Montgomery commenced the conversation by the remark, "You have a chapel in the West End." "Yes," said my friend. "And I hope to have one soon," replied M., "for I am satisfied that I have the faculty for _adapting_ the Gospel to the _West End_." You may tell the story if you give no names.

You have anticipated my Sterne anecdotes. I will just mention one circumstance. In the advertisement to the edition of Sterne's Works, in 10 vols. (1798), it is stated (Vol. I, p. iv.) "that the letters numbered 129, 130 and 131, have not those proofs of authenticity which the others possess." Now, letter 131 is very important, for it is that in which Sterne replies to the remonstrances against the freedoms in Tristram Shandy. It may be satisfactory to you to know that some years after the edition of Sterne's Works the letter was published by Richard Warner (apparently from the original) in the Appendix to his Literary Recollections. He was not, I suppose, aware that it had been printed before. Warner was ordained in the North, and his work will throw some light upon the state of things in those regions at a period close upon Sterne's time. You will find it worth while to glance over it. If I can be of any help to you I shall only be too happy.

Believe me ever, most sincerely yours,

W. ELWIN.