John Forster | Page 6

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