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.
There is something touching in this deep affection, exhibited by so
rough and sturdy a nature and maintained without flagging for so many
years. With him it was "the noble Elwin," "the good Elwin," "as ever,
most delightful," "kinder and more considerate than ever." "Never were
letters so pleasant to me as yours," he wrote in 1865, "and it is sad
to think that from months we are now getting on to years with barely a
single letter." "My dear fellow," he wrote again, "with the ranks so
thinning around us, should we not close up, come nearer to each other?
None are so dear to us at home as Mrs. Elwin and yourself and all of
you." One of the last entries in his diary was, "Precious letter from
dearest Elwin. December 10th, 1875."
Elwin had, perhaps, a colder temperament, or did not express his
devotion. But his regard would seem to have been as deep-seated; as
indeed was shown in the finely drawn tribute he paid him after his
death, and which is indeed the work of an accomplished writer and
master of expression. "He was two distinct men," wrote Elwin to John
Murray the elder, in 1876, "and the one man quite dissimilar from the
other. To see him in company I should not have recognised him for the
friend with whom I was intimate in private. Then he was quiet,
natural, unpretending, and most agreeable, and in the warmth and
generosity of his friendship he had no superior. Sensitive as he was
in some ways, there was no man to whom it was easier so speak with
perfect frankness. He always bore it with gentle good nature."[2]