John Forster | Page 5

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