John Forster | Page 7

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