the one bequeathed by Dickens. Forster appointed him, without
consulting him, one of his executors, but knowing well that he could
rely on his good will, and the legacy no doubt was intended as a
solatium for the labour thus enforced. Lord Lytton and Justice Chitty
were the other executors. As Lord Lytton was in India the whole burden
fell on the other two, and mostly on Elwin. As his son tells, the
literary part of the business was most considerable; there was an
edition of Landor to be "seen through" the press; there was a vast
number of papers and letters to be examined, preserved or destroyed.
"His own inclination and Forster's instructions were in the direction
of destroying all personal letters, however eminent the writer might
be."]
At another time he wrote with warmth, "Most welcome was your letter
this morning, as your letters always are to me. They come fraught with
some new proof of the true, warm-hearted, generous friend who has made
life worth something more to me than it was a year ago," 1857.[3]
[Footnote 3: Memoirs by Warwick Elwin.]
When Forster married, in 1856, he was eager that Elwin should
officiate, and proposed going down to Norfolk. But legal formalities
were in the way, and Elwin came to London instead. "He never," says
Warwick Elwin, "wavered in his attachment to him. Sometimes he would
be momentarily vexed at some fancied neglect, but the instant they met
again it was all forgotten." Elwin was, in fact, subject to moods and
"nerves," and there were times when he shrank sensitively from the
world and its associations--he would answer no letters, particularly
after the period of his many sore trials. The last time I saw him was
at that great _fiasco_, the production of the first Lord Lytton's
posthumous play on the subject of Brutus, produced by Wilson Barrett,
with extraordinary richness and pomp: a failure that led to an
unpleasant dispute between Lytton's son and the lessee.
When the _Life of Dickens_ appeared, Elwin, as in duty bound,
proceeded to review it in the _Quarterly_. I confess that on reading
over this article there seems to be a curious reserve and rather
measured stint of praise. One would have expected from the generous
Elwin one enthusiastic and sustained burst of praise of his friend's
great work. But it seems as though he felt so trifling a matter was
scarcely worthy of solemn treatment. The paper is only twenty pages
long, and, after a few lines of praise at the beginning and a line or
two at the end, proceeds to give a summary of the facts. The truth was
Elwin was too scrupulously conscientious a critic to stretch a point
in such a matter. I could fancy that for one of his nice feeling it
became an almost disagreeable duty. Were he tempted to expand in
praises, it would be set down to partiality, while he was hardly free
to censure. No wonder he wrote of his performance: "Forster will think
it too lukewarm; others the reverse." As it happened, the amiable
Forster was enchanted.
"For upwards of three-and-thirty years," says Mr. Elwin in this review
(_Q. R._, vol. 132, p. 125), "Mr. Forster was the incessant companion
and confidential adviser of Dickens; the friend to whom he had
recourse in every difficulty, personal and literary; and before whom
he spread, without reserve, every fold of his mind. _No man's life has
ever been better known to a biographer...._ To us it appears that a
more faithful biography could not be written. Dickens is seen in his
pages precisely as he is showed in his ordinary intercourse."
Both Elwin and his friend had that inflexibility of principle in
criticism and literary utterance which they adhered to as though it
were a matter of high morals. This feeling contrasts with the easy
adaptability of our day, when the critic so often has to shape his
views according to interested aims. He indeed will hold in his views,
but may not deem it necessary to produce them. I could recall
instances in both men of this sternness of opinion. Forster knew no
compromise in such matters; though I fancy in the case of people of
title, for whom, as already mentioned, he had a weakness, or of pretty
women, he may have occasionally given way. I remember when Elwin was
writing his fine estimate of his deceased friend, Mrs. Forster in deep
distress came to tell me that he insisted on describing her husband as
"the son of a butcher." In vain had she entreated him to leave this
matter aside. Even granting its correctness, what need or compulsion
to mention it? It was infinitely painful to her. But it was not true:
Forster's father was a large "grazier" or dealer in cattle. Elwin,
however, was inflexible: some Newcastle alderman had hunted up entries
in old books, and he thought the evidence convincing.
Another incident connected with the memory of her much-loved husband,
that gave this amiable woman much poignant distress, was a statement
made by Mr. Furnival, the Shakesperian, that Browning had been
employed by Forster to write the account of Strafford, in the
collection of Lives. He had been told this by Browning himself.
Nevertheless, she set all her friends to work; had papers, letters,
etc., ransacked for evidence, but with poor result. The probability
was that Forster would have disdained such aid; on the other hand, the
Poet had written a tragedy on the subject, and was, therefore, capable
of dealing with it. Letters of vindication were sent to the papers,
but no one was much interested in the point one way or the other;
save, of course, the good Mrs. Forster, to whom it was vital. I am
afraid, however, there was truth in the statement; for it is
completely supported by a stray passage in one of the Poet's letters
to his future wife, recently published.
Forster, I fancy, must have often looked wistfully back to the old
Lincoln's Inn days, when he sat in his large Tulkinghorn room, with the
Roman's finger pointing down to his head. I often grieve that I did not
see this Roman, as I might have done, before he was erased; for Forster
was living there when I first knew him. On his marriage he moved to that
snug house in Montague Square, where we had often cosy dinners. He was
driven from it, he used to say, by the piano-practising on each side of
him, which became "in-_tol_-erable"; but I fancy the modest house was
scarcely commensurate with his ambitions. It was somewhat old-fashioned
too. And yet in his grand palatial mansion at Kensington I doubt if he
was as jocund or as irrepressible as then. I am certain the burden of an
ambitious life told upon his health and spirits.
I often turn back to the day when I first called on him, at the now
destroyed offices at Whitehall, when he emerged from an inner room in
a press of business. I see him now, a truly brisk man, full of life
and energy, and using even then his old favourite hospitable formula,
"My dear sir, I am _very_ busy--very busy; I have just escaped from
the commissioners. But you must dine with me to-morrow and we will
talk of these things." Thus he did not ask you, but he "commanded
you," even as a king would.
One of the most interesting things about Forster was his
"receptivity." Stern and inflexible as he was in the case of old
canons, he was always ready to welcome anything new or striking,
provided it had merit and was not some imposture. I never met a better
appreciator of genuine humour. He had been trained, or had trained
himself; whatever shape it had, only let it have _merit_. He
thoroughly _enjoyed_ a jest, and furnished his own obstreperous laugh
by way of applause. As I have said, there was something truly
_Johnsonian_ about him; everything he said or decided you knew well
was founded on a principle of some kind; he was a solid judicial man,
and even his hearty laugh of enjoyment was always based on a rational
motive. This sort of solid well-trained men are rather scarce
nowadays.
Forster was also a type of the old Cromwellian or Independant with
reference to religious liberty. He could not endure, therefore,
"Romish tyranny," as he called it, which stifled thought. Many of his
friends were Roman Catholics. There were "touches" in Forster as good
as anything in the old comedies.
His handsome and spacious library, with its gallery running round, was
well known to all his friends. Richly stored was it with book
treasures, manuscripts, rare first editions, autographs, in short all
those things which may now be seen at South Kensington. He had a store
of other fine things somewhere else, and kept a secretary or
librarian, to whom he issued his instructions. For he himself did not
profess to know the _locale_ of the books and papers, and I have often
heard him in his lofty way direct that instructions should be sent to
Mr. ---- to search out such and such documents. He had grand ideas
about his books, and spared no cost either in his purchases or
bindings. I have seen one of his quarto MS. thus dressed by Rivière in
plain decoration, but which he told me had cost £30.
Once for some modest private theatricals I had written a couple of
little pieces to be acted by ourselves and our friends. One was called
_Blotting Paper_, the other _The William Simpson_. A gay company was
invited, and I recall how the performers were pleased and encouraged
when the face of the brilliant author of a _Lady of Lyons_ was seen in
the front row. Forster took the whole under his protection, and was
looking forward to attending, but his invariable terrible cough seized
on him. Mrs. Forster was sent with strict instructions to observe and
report everything that did or could occur on this interesting
occasion. I see her soft amiable face smiling encouragement from the
stalls. I rose greatly in my friend's estimation from this attendance
of the author of _Pelham_. "How did you manage it?" "He goes nowhere
or to few places. It was a gr-eat compliment."
This little performance is associated in a melancholy way with the
closing days of Dickens' career. I was naturally eager to secure his
presence, and went to see him at "his office" to try and persuade him
to attend; he pleaded, however, his overwhelming engagements. I find
in an old diary some notes of our talk. "Theatricals led to Regnier,
whom I think he had been to see in _Les Vieux Garçons_. He said he
found him very old. "Alas! He is _Vieux Garçon_ himself." I think of
our few little dinners in my house; would we had had more! Somehow
since I have been living here the image of him has been more and more
stamped on me; I see and like him more. The poor, toiling, loveable
fellow, to think that all is over with him now!"
[At the risk of smiles, and perhaps some suspicion of vanity, I go on
to copy what follows.] When I saw Mrs. Forster during those dismal
days, she was good enough to relate to me much about his personal
liking for me. He would tell them how I could do anything if I only
gave myself fair play. He said he was going to write to give me a
sound blowing up. "And yet," he added, "I doubt if he would take it
from anybody else but me. He is a good fellow." [I still doubt whether
I should add what follows, but I am not inclined to sacrifice such a
tribute from such a man; told me, too, only a few days after his
death.] He praised a novel of mine, _No. 75, Brooke St._, and here are
his words: "The last scene and winding up is one of the most powerful
things I have met."
Forster, devoted to the school of Macready, and all but trained by
that actor, whose bust was placed in his hall, thought but poorly of
the performances of our time. He pooh-poohed them all, including even
the great and more brilliant successes. Once a clever American company
came over, a phenomenal thing at that time, and appeared at the St.
James's Theatre. They played _She Stoops to Conquer_, with two
excellent performers as Old Hardcastle and Marlow; Brough was the
Tony. I induced Forster to come and see them, and we made up a party.
He listened with an amusing air of patronage, which was habitual with
him--meant to encourage--and said often that "it was very good, very
fair indeed." Brough he admitted was perhaps the nearest to the
fitting tone and spirit of the piece. The two American actors, as it
seemed to me, were excellent comedians.
I once saw him at St. James's Hall, drawn to hear one of his friend's
last readings. I saw his entrance. He came piloted by the faithful
Charles Kent, who led, or rather _cleared_ the way, Forster following
with a smiling modesty, as if he sought to avoid too much notice. His
rotund figure was swathed in a tight fitting paletôt, while a sort of
nautical wrapper was round his throat. He fancied no doubt that many
an eye was following him; that there was many a whisper, "That is the
great John Forster." He passed on solemnly through the hall and out at
the door leading to the artistes' rooms. Alas! no one was thinking of
him; he had been too long absent from the stage. It is indeed
extremely strange, and I often wonder at it, how little mark he made.
The present and coming generations know nothing about him. I may add
here that, at Dickens' _very_ last Reading at this place, I and
Charles Kent were the two--the only two--favoured with a place on the
platform, behind the screens. From that coign, I heard him say his
last farewell words: "Vanish from these garish lights for evermore!"
One summer Forster and his wife came down to Bangor, I believe from a
genial good-natured wish to be there with his friends--a family who
were often found there. He put up at the "George," then a house of
lofty pretensions, though now it would seem but a modest affair
enough. What a holiday it was! The great John unbent to an
inconceivable degree; he was soft, engaging even, and in a bright and
constant good humour. The family consisted of the mother, two
daughters, and the son, _moi qui vous parle_--all of whom looked to
him with a sort of awe and reverence, which was not unpleasing to him.
The two girls he professed to admire and love; the mother, a woman of
the world, had won him by her speech at his dinner party, during which
a loud crash came from the hall; he said nothing, but she saw the
temper working within, and quoted happily from Pope,
"And e'en unmoved hears China fall."
Immensely gratified at the implied compliment for his restraint, his
angry brow was smoothed. To imagine a dame of our time quoting Pope at
a dinner! at most she would have heard of him.
What walks and expeditions in that delightful Welsh district! and what
unbounded hospitality! He would insist on his favourites coming to
dinner every few days or so. It was impossible to refuse; equally
impossible to make any excuse; he was so overpowering. Everything was
swept away. At the time the dull pastime of acrostic-writing was in
high vogue, and some ladies of the party thought to compliment him by
fashioning one upon his name. He accepted the compliment with much
complacent gratification; and, when the result was read aloud, it was
found that the only epithet that would fit his name, having the
proper number of letters, was "learned." His brow clouded. It was not
what he expected. He was good-humouredly scornful. "Well, I declare, I
did not expect this. I should have thought something like 'gallant,'
or 'pleasant,' or 'agreeable'--but '_learned_!' as though I were some
old pundit. Thank you, ladies."
No one knew so much as Forster of the literary history of the days
when Dickens first "rose"; and when such men as Lamb, Campbell,
Talfourd, Theodore Hook, Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, and many more of that
school were flourishing.
I see him now seated in the stern manipulating the ropes of the
rudder, with all the air of perfect knowledge; diverting the boatmen,
putting questions to them, and adroitly turning their answers into
pieces of original information; lecturing on the various objects of
interest we passed; yet all the time interesting, and excellent
company. At times he began to talk of poetry, and would pour forth the
stores of his wonderful memory, reciting passages with excellent
elocution, and delighting his hearers. I recall the fine style in
which he rolled forth "Hohenlinden," and "The Royal George," and the
"Battle of the Baltic." At the close he would sink his voice to a low
muttering, just murmuring impressively, "be-neath the wave!" Then
would pause, and say, as if overcome--"Fine, very, very fine!" These
exercises gave his audience genuine pleasure. On shore, visiting the
various show things, he grew frolicsome, and insisted on the visitors
as "Mr. and Mrs. ----," the names of characters in some novel I had
written.
It would be an interesting question to consider how far Forster's
influence improved or injured Dickens' work; for he tells us
everything written by the latter was submitted to him, and corrections
and alterations offered. I am inclined to confess that, when in his
official mood, Forster's notions of humour were somewhat forced. It is
thus almost startling to read his extravagant praise of a passage
about Sapsea which the author discarded in _Edwin Drood_. Nothing
better showed Boz's discretion. The well-known passage in _The Old
Curiosity Shop_ about the little marchioness and her make-believe of
orange peel and water, and which Dickens allowed him to mend in his
own way, was certainly altered for the worse.
I had the sad satisfaction, such as it was, of attending Forster's
funeral, as well as that of his amiable wife. I had a seat in one of
the mourning coaches, with that interesting man, James Anthony Froude.
Not many were bidden to the ceremonial.
Mrs. Forster's life, like that of her husband, closed in much
suffering. I believe she might have enjoyed a fair amount of health
had she not clung with a sort of devotion, not unconnected with the
memory of her husband, to the house which he had built. Nothing could
induce her to go away. She was, moreover, offered a sum of over
£20,000 for it shortly after his death, but declined; it was later
sold for little over a third of the amount. He had bequeathed all his
treasures to the nation, allowing her the life use, but with much
generosity she at once handed over the books, pictures, prints,
sketches, and other things. She bore her sufferings with wonderful
patience and sweetness, and I remember the clergyman who attended her,
and who was at the grave, being much affected.
Mrs. Forster was a woman of more sagacity and shrewdness of
observation than she obtained credit for. She had seen and noted many
curious things in her course. Often of a Sunday afternoon, when I used
to pay her a visit, she would open herself very freely, and reveal to
me many curious bits of secret history relating to her husband's
literary friends. She was very amusing on the Sage of Chelsea. I
recollect she treated Mrs. Carlyle's account of her dreary life and
servitude to her great husband as a sort of romance or delusion,
conveying that she was not at all a lady likely to be thus "put upon."
In vulgar phrase, the boot was on the other leg.
* * * * *
I have thought it right to offer this small tribute to one who was in
his way an interesting and remarkable man. No place has been found for
him in the series known as English Men of Letters; and yet, as I have
before pointed out, he had a place in literature that somewhat
suggests the position of Dr. Johnson. What Forster said, or what
Forster did, was at one time of importance to the community. This sort
of arbiter is unknown nowadays, and perhaps would not be accepted. He
will, however, ever be associated with Charles Dickens, as his friend,
adviser, admirer, corrector, and biographer. There is a conventional
meaning for the term "men of letters," men, that is, who have written
books; but in the stricter sense it is surely one who is "learned in
letters," as a lawyer is learned in the law. Johnson is much more
thought of in this way than as a writer. Forster had this true
instinct, and it was a curious thing one day to note his delight when
I showed him a recent purchase: a figure of Johnson, _his_ prototype,
wrought in pottery, seated in chair, in an attitude of wisdom, his
arms extended and bent, and evidently expatiating. Looking at it, he
delivered an acute bit of criticism worthy of the Doctor himself.
"The interest," he said, "of this figure is not in the modelling,
which is good, but because it represents Johnson as he was, in the eye
of the crowd of his day; who looked on him, not as the writer, but as
the grand _argufier_ and layer-down of the law, the 'settler' of any
knotty point whatever; with them the Doctor could decide anything. See
how his arm is half raised, his fingers outspread, as if about to give
his decision. You should show this to Carlyle, who will be delighted
with it."
He often recurred to this and to the delight the Sage would have had.
I forget whether I followed his advice. On the same occasion he
noticed a figure of Washington. "Ah! there he stands," he said, "with
his favourite air of state and dignity, and sense of what was due to
his position. You will always notice that in the portraits there was a
little assumption of the aristocrat." Forster's criticism was always
of this kind--instructive and acute.
Forster was the envied possessor of nearly every one of Boz's MSS.--a
treasure at the time not thought very much of, even by Dickens
himself, but since his death become of extraordinary value. I should
say that each was worth some two or three thousand pounds at the
least. How amazing has been this appreciation of what dealers call
"the Dickens stuff" during these years! It is almost incredible. I
mind the day when a Dickens' book, a Dickens' letter, was taken
tranquilly. A relation of my own, an old bachelor, had, as we thought,
an eccentric _penchant_ for early editions of Boz; and once, on the
great man coming to the provincial city where he lived, waited on him
to show him what he called his "Old Gold"; to wit, the earlier
editions of Pickwick and Nickleby. We all smiled, and I remember Boz
speaking to me good-naturedly of this enthusiasm. Not one of the party
then--it was in 1865--dreamed that this old bachelor was far wiser
than his generation. The original Pickwick, that is bound from the
numbers, is indeed a nugget of old gold. I remember once asking Wills,
his sub-editor, could I be allowed to have the original MSS. of some
of Boz's short stories? He said, "To be sure, that nothing was more
easy than to ask him, for the printer sent each back to him after use,
carefully sealed up." What became of all these papers I cannot tell;
but I doubt if anyone was then _very_ eager about them.
Lately, turning over some old papers, I came upon a large bundle of
proof "slips" of a story I had written for _All the Year Round_. It
was called _Howard's Son_. To my surprise and pleasure I found that
they had passed through Boz's own hands, and had been corrected
throughout in his own careful and elaborate fashion, whole passages
written in, others deleted, the punctuation altered and improved. Here
was a _trouvaille_. These slips, I may add, have extraordinary value,
and in the States would fetch a considerable sum. It was extraordinary
what pains Boz took with the papers of his contributors, and how
diligently and laboriously he improved and polished them.