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JOHN
FORSTER
BY
ONE OF HIS FRIENDS
LONDON
CHAPMAN & HALL LTD.
1903
* * * * *
JOHN FORSTER.
A MAN OF LETTERS OF THE OLD SCHOOL.
One of the most robust, striking, and many-sided characters of his
time was John Forster, a rough, uncompromising personage, who, from
small and obscure beginnings, shouldered his way to the front until he
came to be looked on by all as guide, friend and arbiter. From a
struggling newspaperman he emerged into handsome chambers in Lincoln's
Inn Fields, from thence to a snug house in Montague Square, ending in
a handsome stone mansion which he built for himself at Palace Gate,
Kensington, with its beautiful library-room at the back, and every
luxury of "lettered ease."
If anyone desired to know what Dr. Johnson was like, he could have found
him in Forster. There was the same social intolerance; the same
"dispersion of humbug"; the same loud voice, attuned to a mellifluous
softness on occasion, especially with ladies or persons of rank; the
love of "talk" in which he assumed the lead--and kept it too; and the
contemptuous scorn of what he did not approve. But then all this was
backed by admirable training and full knowledge. He was a deeply read,
cultivated man, a fine critic, and, with all his arrogance, despotism,
and rough "ways," a most interesting, original, delightful person--for
those he liked that is, and whom he had made his own. His very "build"
and appearance was also that of the redoubtable Doctor: so was his loud
and hearty laugh. Woe betide the man on whom he chose to "wipe his
shoes" (Browning's phrase), for he could wipe them with a will. He would
thus roar you down. It was "in_tol_-er-able"--everything was
"_in-tol-erable!_"--it is difficult to describe the fashion in which he
rolled forth the syllables. Other things were "all Stuff!" "Monstrous!"
"Incredible!" "Don't tell me!" Indeed I, with many, could find a
parallel in the great old Doctor for almost everything he said. Even
when there was a smile at his vehemence, he would unconsciously repeat
the Doctor's autocratic methods.
Forster's life was indeed a striking and encouraging one for those who
believe in the example of "self-made men." His aim was somewhat
different from the worldly types, who set themselves to become
wealthy, or to have lands or mansions. Forster's more moderate
aspiration was to reach to the foremost rank of the literary world:
and he succeeded. He secured for himself an excellent education, never
spared himself for study or work, and never rested till he had built
himself that noble mansion at Kensington, of which I have spoken,
furnished with books, pictures, and rare things. Here he could,
Mæcenas-like, entertain his literary friends of all degrees, with a
vast number of other friends and acquaintances, notable in their walks
of life. It is astonishing what a circle he had gathered round him,
and how intimate he was with all: political men such as Brougham,
Guizot, Gladstone, Forster, Cornwall Lewis (Disraeli he abhorred as
much as his friend of Chelsea did, who once asked me, "What is there
new about _our Jew Premier_?"): Maclise, Landseer, Frith, and
Stanfield, with dozens of other painters: every writer of the day,
almost without exception, late or early. With these, such as Anthony
Trollope, he was on the friendliest terms, though he did not "grapple
them to him with hooks of steel." With the Bar it was the same: he was
intimate with the brilliant and agreeable Cockburn; with Lord
Coleridge (then plain Mr. Coleridge), who found a knife and a fork
laid for him any day that he chose to drop in, which he did pretty
often. The truth was that in any company his marked personality, both
physical and mental; his magisterial face and loud decided voice, and
his reputation of judge and arbiter, at once impressed and commanded
attention. People felt that they ought to know this personage at once.
It is extraordinary what perseverance and a certain power of will, and
that of not being denied, will do in this way. His broad face and
cheeks and burly person were not made for rebuffs. He seized on
persons he wished to know and made them his own at once. I always
thought it was the most characteristic thing known of him in this
way, his striding past Bunn the manager--then his enemy--in his own
theatre, taking no notice of him and passing to Macready's room, to
confer with him on measures hostile to the said Bunn. As Johnson was
said to toss and gore his company, so Forster trampled on those he
condemned. I remember he had a special dislike to one of Boz's useful
henchmen. An amusing story was told, that after some meeting to
arrange matters with Bradbury and Evans, the printers, Boz, ever
charitable, was glad to report to Forster some hearty praise by this
person, of the ability with which he (Forster) had arranged the
matters, thus amiably wishing to propitiate the autocrat in his
friend's interest. But, said the uncompromising Forster, "I am truly
sorry, my dear Dickens, that I cannot reciprocate your friend's
compliment, for _a d----nder ass I never encountered in the whole
course of my life_!" A comparative that is novel and will be admired.
Forster had a determined way with him, of forcing an answer that he
wanted; driving you into a corner as it were. A capital illustration
of this power occurred in my case. I had sent to a London "second
hand" bookseller to supply me with a copy of the two quarto volumes of
Garrick's life, "huge armfuls." It was with some surprise that I noted
the late owner's name and book-plate, which was that of "John Forster,
Esq., Lincoln's Inn Fields." At the moment he had given me Garrick's
original MS. correspondence, of which he had a score of volumes, and
was helping me in many other ways. Now it was a curious coincidence
that this one, of all existing copies, should come to me. Next time I
saw him I told him of it. He knitted his brows and grew thoughtful.
"_My_ copy! Ah! I can account for it! It was one of the volumes I lent
to that fellow"--mentioning the name of the "fellow"--"he no doubt
sold it for drink!" "Oh, so _that_ was it," I said rather
incautiously. "But _you_," he said sternly, "tell me what did _you_
think when you saw my name? Come now! How did it leave my library?"
This was awkward to answer. "I suppose you thought I was in the habit
of selling my books? Surely not?" Now this was what I _had_ thought.
"Come! You must have had some view on the matter. Two huge volumes
like that are not easily stolen." It was with extraordinary difficulty
that I could extricate myself.
It was something to talk to one who had been intimate with Charles
Lamb, and of whom he once spoke to me, with tears running down his
cheeks, "Ah! poor dear Charles Lamb!" The next day he had summoned his
faithful clerk, instructing him to look out among his papers--such was
his way--for all the Lamb letters, which were then lent to me. And
most interesting they were. In one, Elia calls him "_Fooster_," I
fancy taking off Carlyle's pronunciation.
As a writer and critic Forster held a high, unquestioned place, his
work being always received with respect as of one of the masters. He
had based his style on the admirable, if somewhat old-fashioned
models, had regularly _learned_ to write, which few do now, by
studying the older writers: Swift, Addison, and, above all, the
classics.
He was at first glad to do "job work," and was employed by Dr. Lardner
to furnish the "Statesmen of the Commonwealth" to his Encyclopædia.
Lardner received from him a conscientious bit of work, but which was
rather dry reading, something after the pattern of Dr. Lingard, who
was then in fashion. But presently he was writing _con amore_, a book
after his own heart, _The Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith_, in
which there is a light, gay touch, somewhat peculiar at times, but
still very agreeable. It is a charming book, and graced with exquisite
sketches by his friend Maclise and other artists. There was a great
deal of study and "reading" in it, which engendered an angry
controversy with Sir James Prior, a ponderous but pains-taking writer,
who had collected every scrap that was connected with Goldy. Forster,
charged with helping himself to what another had gathered, sternly
replied, as if it could not be disputed, that he had merely gone to
the same common sources as Prior, and had found what he had found! But
this was seasoned with extraordinary abuse of poor Prior, who was held
up as an impostor for being so industrious. Nothing better illustrated
Forster's way: "The fellow was preposterous--intolerable. I had just
as good a right to go to the old magazines as he had." It was, indeed,
a most amusing and characteristic controversy.
At this time the intimacy between Boz and the young writer--two young
men, for they were only thirty-six--was of the closest. Dickens'
admiration of his friend's book was unbounded. He read it with delight
and expressed his admiration with an affectionate enthusiasm. It was
no wonder that in "gentle Goldsmith's life" thus unfolded, he found a
replica of his own sore struggles. No one knew better the "fiercer
crowded misery in garret toil and London loneliness" than he did.
TO CHARLES DICKENS.
Genius and its rewards are briefly told:
A liberal nature and a niggard doom,
A difficult journey to a splendid tomb.
New writ, nor lightly weighed, that story old
In gentle Goldsmith's life I here unfold;
Thro' other than lone wild or desert gloom,
In its mere joy and pain, its blight and bloom,
Adventurous. Come with me and behold,
O friend with heart as gentle for distress,
As resolute with fine wise thoughts to bind
The happiest to the unhappiest of our kind,
That there is fiercer crowded misery
In garret toil and London loneliness
Than in cruel islands mid the far off sea.
March, 1848. JOHN FORSTER.
It will be noted what a warmth of affection is shown in these pleasing
lines. Some of the verses linger in his memory: the last three
especially. The allusion to Dickens is as truthful as it is charming.
The "cruel islands mid the far off sea" was often quoted, though
there were sometimes sarcastic appeals to the author to name his
locality.
This _Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith_ is a truly charming
book: charming in the writing, in its typographic guise, and its forty
graceful illustrations by his friends, Maclise, Leech, Browne, etc. It
appeared in 1848. A pleasing feature of those times was the close
fellowship between the writers and the painters and other artists, as
was shown in the devoted affection of Maclise and others to Dickens.
There is more of class apart nowadays. Artists and writers are not
thus united. The work has gone through many editions; but, after some
years the whim seized him to turn it into an official literary history
of the period, and he issued it as a "Life and Times," with an
abundance of notes and references. All the pleasant air of story
telling, the "Life and Adventures," so suited to poor Goldy's
shiftless career, were abolished. It was a sad mistake, much
deprecated by his friends, notably by Carlyle. But at the period
Forster was in his _Sir Oracle_ vein and inclined to lofty periods.
"My dear Forster," wrote Boz to him, "I cannot sufficiently say how
proud I am of what you have done, and how sensible I am of being so
tenderly connected with it. I desire no better for my fame, when my
personal dustiness shall be past the contrast of my love of order,
than such a biographer--and such a critic. And again I say most
solemnly that literature in England has never had, and probably never
will have, such a champion as you are in right of this book." "As a
picture of the time I really think it is impossible to give it too
much praise. It seems to me to be the very essence of all about the
time that I have ever seen in biography or fiction, presented in most
wise and humane lights. I have never liked him so well. And as to
Goldsmith himself and _his_ life, and the manful and dignified
assertion of him, without any sobs, whines, or convulsions of any
sort, it is throughout a noble achievement of which, apart from any
private and personal affection for you, I think and really believe I
should feel proud." What a genuine affectionate ring is here!
Later Forster lost this agreeable touch, and issued a series of
ponderous historical treatises, enlargements of his old "Statesmen."
These were dreary things, pedantic, solemn and heavy; they might have
been by the worthy Rollin himself. Such was the _Life of Sir John
Eliot, the Arrest of the Five Members_, and others.
No one had been so intimate with Savage Landor as he had, or admired
him more. He had known him for years and was chosen as his literary
executor. With such materials one might have looked for a lively,
vivacious account of this tempestuous personage. But Forster dealt
with him in his magisterial way, and furnished a heavy treatise, on
critical and historical principles. Everything here is treated
according to the strict canons and in judicial fashion. On every poem
there was a long and profound criticism of many pages, which I
believe was one of his own old essays used again, fitted into the
book. The hero is treated as though he were some important historical
personage. Everyone knew Landor's story; his shocking violences and
lack of restraint; his malignity where he disliked. His life was full
of painful episodes, but Forster, like Podsnap, would see none of
these things. He waved them away with his "monstrous!" "intolerable!"
and put them out of existence.
According to him, not a word of the scandals was true. Landor was a
noble-hearted man; misjudged, and carried away by his feelings. The
pity of it was he could have made of it a most lasting, entertaining
book had he brought to it the pleasantly light touch he was later to
bring to his account of Dickens. But he took it all too solemnly.
Landor's life was full of grotesque scenes, and Forster might have
alleviated the harsh views taken of his friend by dealing with him as
an impetuous, irresponsible being, amusing even in his delinquencies.
Boz gave a far juster view of him in _Boythorn_. In almost the year of
his death Forster began another tremendous work, _The Life of Swift_,
for which he had been preparing and collecting for many years. No one
was so fitted by profound knowledge of the period. He had much
valuable MS. material, but the first volume, all he lived to finish,
was leaden enough. Of course he was writing with disease weighing him
down, with nights that were sleepless and spent in general misery. But
even with all allowance it was a dull and conventional thing.
It has been often noted how a mere trifle will, in an extraordinary
way, determine or change the whole course of a life. I can illustrate
this by my own case. I was plodding on contentedly at the Bar without
getting "no forrarder," with slender meagre prospects, but with a
hankering after "writing," when I came to read this Life of Goldsmith
that I have just been describing, which filled me with admiration. The
author was at the moment gathering materials for his Life of Swift,
when it occurred to me that I might be useful to him in getting up all
the local Swiftian relics, traditions, etc. I set to work, obtained
them, made the sketches, and sent them to him in a batch. He was
supremely grateful, and never forgot the volunteered trifling service.
To it I owe a host of literary friends and acquaintance with the
"great guns," Dickens, Carlyle, and the rest; and when I ventured to
try my prentice pen, it was Forster who took personal charge of the
venture. It was long remembered at the _Household Words_ office how he
stalked in one morning, stick in hand, and, flinging down the paper,
called out, "Now, mind, no nonsense about it, no humbug, no returning
it with a polite circular, and all that; see that it is read and duly
considered." _That_ was the turning-point. To that blunt declaration I
owe some forty years of enjoyment and employment--for there is no
enjoyment like that of writing--to say nothing of money in abundance.
He once paid a visit to Dublin, when we had many an agreeable
expedition to Swift's haunts, which, from the incuriousness of the
place at the time, were still existing. We went to Hoey's Court in
"The Liberties," a squalid alley with a few ruined houses, among which
was the one in which Swift was born. Thence to St. Patrick's, to
Marsh's Library, not then rebuilt, where he turned over with infinite
interest Swift's well-noted folios. Then on to Trinity College, where
there was much that was curious; to Swift's Hospital, where, from his
office in the Lunacy Commission, he was quite at home. He at once
characteristically assumed the air of command, introducing himself
with grave dignity to the authorities, by-and-bye pointing out matters
which might be amended, among others the bareness of the walls, which
were without pictures. In the grounds he received all the confidences
of the unhappy patients and their complaints (one young fellow
bitterly appealing to him on the hardship of not being allowed to
smoke, while he had a pipe in his mouth at the time). He would pat
others on the back and encourage them in quite a professional manner.
Of all these Swift localities I had made little vignette drawings in
"wash," which greatly pleased him and were to have been engraved in
the book. They are now duly registered and to be seen in the
collection at South Kensington. Poor dear Forster! How happy he was on
that "shoemaker's holiday" of his, driving on outside cars (with
infinite difficulty holding on), walking the streets, seeing old
friends, and delighted with everything. His old friend and class
fellow, Whiteside, gave him a dinner to which I attended him, where
was the late Dr. Lloyd, the Provost of the College, a learned man,
whose works on "Optics" are well known. It was pleasant to note how
Forster, like his prototype, the redoubtable Doctor, here "talked for
ostentation." "I knew, sir," he might say, "that I was expected to
talk, to talk suitably to my position as a distinguished visitor." And
so he did. It was an excellent lesson in conversation to note how he
took the lead--"laid down the law," while poor Whiteside flourished
away in a torrent of words, and the placid Lloyd more adroitly strove
occasionally to "get in." But Forster held his way with well-rounded
periods, and seemed to enjoy entangling his old friend in the
consequences of some exuberant exaggeration. "My dear Whiteside, how
_can_ you say so? Do you not see that by saying such a thing you give
yourself away?" etc.
Forster, however, more than redeemed himself when he issued his
well-known _Life of Dickens_, a work that was a perfect delight to the
world and to his friends. For here is the proper lightness of touch.
The complete familiarity with every detail of the course of the man of
whose life his had been a portion, and the quiet air of authority
which he could assume in consequence, gave the work an attraction that
was beyond dispute. There have been, it is said, some fifteen or
sixteen official Lives issued since the writer's death; but all these
are written "from outside" as it were, and it is extraordinary what a
different man each presents. But hardly sufficient credit has been
given to him for the finished style which only a true and well trained
critic could have brought, the easy touch, the appropriate treatment
of trifles, the mere indication as it were, the correct passing by or
sliding over of matters that should not be touched. All this imparted
a dignity of treatment, and though familiar, the whole was gay and
bright. True, occasionally he lapsed into his favourite pompousness
and autocracy, but this made the work more characteristic of the man.
Nothing could have been in better taste than his treatment of certain
passages in the author's life as to which, he showed, the public were
not entitled to demand more than the mere historical mention of the
facts. When he was writing this Life it was amusing to find how
sturdily independent he became. The "Blacking episode" could not have
been acceptable, but Forster was stern and would not bate a line. So,
with much more--he "rubbed it in" without scruple. The true reason, by
the way, of the uproar raised against the writer, was that it was too
much of a close borough, no one but Boz and his Bear leader being
allowed upon the stage. Numbers had their little letters from the
great man with many compliments and favours which would look well in
print. Many, like Wilkie Collins or Edmund Yates, had a whole
collection. I myself had some sixty or seventy. Some of these
personages were highly indignant, for were they not characters in the
drama? When the family came to publish the collection of letters,
Yates, I believe, declined to allow his to be printed; so did Collins,
whose Boz letters were later sold and published in America.
No doubt the subject inspired. The ever gay and lively Boz, always in
spirits, called up many a happy scene, and gave the pen a certain
airiness and nimbleness. There is little that is official or
magisterial about the volumes. Everything is pleasant and interesting,
put together--though there is a crowd of details--with extraordinary
art and finish. It furnishes a most truthful and accurate picture of
the "inimitable," recognizable in every page. It was only in the third
volume, when scared by the persistent clamours of the disappointed and
the envious, protesting that there was "too much Forster," that it was
virtually a "Life of John Forster, with some recollections of Charles
Dickens," that he became of a sudden, official and allowed others to
come too much on the scene, with much loss of effect. That third
volume, which ought to have been most interesting, is the dull one. We
have Boz described as he would be in an encyclopædia, instead of
through Forster, acting as his interpreter, and much was lost by this
treatment. Considering the homeliness and every-day character of the
incidents, it is astonishing how Forster contrived to dignify them. He
knew from early training what was valuable and significant and what
should be rejected.
Granting the objections--and faults--of the book, it may be asked, who
else in the 'seventies was, not _so_ fitted, but fitted at all to
produce a Life of Dickens. Every eye looked, every finger pointed to
Forster; worker, patron, and disciple, confidant, adviser, correcter,
admirer, the trained man of letters, and in the school in which Boz
had been trained, who had known every one of that era. No one else
could have been thought of. And as we now read the book, and contrast
it with those ordered or commissioned biographies, so common now, and
perhaps better wrought, we see at once the difference. The success was
extraordinary. Edition after edition was issued, and that so rapidly,
that the author had no opportunity of making the necessary
corrections, or of adding new information. He contented himself with a
leaf or two at the end, in which, in his own imperial style, he simply
took note of the information. I believe his profit was about £10,000.
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."
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.