It was always delightful to meet him. He had his moments of gloom, like most of his countrymen, for he never lost his native "hall mark," and retained to the last that sort of wheedling tone which is common in the South of Ireland. Yet he had none of that good-natured insincerity, to which a particular class of Irish are given. He was thoroughly sincere and genuine, and ready to support his words by deeds. His humour was racy. As when the Prince of Wales was sympathising with him on a false report of his death, adding, good naturedly, "I really was afraid, Dr. Quain, that we had lost you, and was thinking of sending a wreath." "Well, Sir," said the medico, "recollect that you are now committed to the wreath." I did not note, however, that when the event at last took place the wreath was sent. I always fancied that he was a disappointed man, and that he felt that his high position had not been suitably recognised; or at least that the recognition had been delayed. The baronetcy came late. But what he had set his heart upon, and claimed as his due, was the Presidency of the College of Physicians. This he was always near attaining, but men like Sir Andrew Clarke were preferred to him. I was a special friend for many years, and have had many a favoured "lift" in his carriage when we were going the same way. I was glad to be allowed to dedicate to him some volumes of personal memoirs. The last time I met this genial and amiable man was at the table of a well-known law lord, whom he astonished considerably by addressing me across the table all through dinner by my christian name. He was at the time seriously ill, in his last illness in fact, when, as he said, he had been "tartured to death by their operations." He had good taste in art, was fond of the French school of engraving, and was the friend and counsellor of many an artist. He was of the old Dickens school, of the coterie that included Maclise, Jerrold and the rest.
Once, when he and his family were staying close to Ipswich, I asked him to order me a photograph of the Great White Horse Inn, noted as the scene of Mr. Pickwick's adventure, and to my pleasure and astonishment found that he had commissioned an artist to prepare a whole series of large photographs depicting the old inn, both without and within, and from every point of view. In this handsome way he would oblige his friends. He was in immense demand as a cheerful diner out.
I was amused by a cynical appreciation of a friend and patient of his, uttered shortly after his death. We had met and were lamenting his loss. "Nothing, nobody can fill his place," he said.—"It is sad to lose such a friend."—"Indeed it is," said my companion, "I don't know what I shall do. No one else ever understood my constitution. I really don't know whom I am to go to now"—and he went his way in a pettish mood, as though his physician had rather shabbily deserted him. Alas, is there not much of this when one of these pleasant "specialists" departs?
His faithful devotion to his old friend Forster during that long illness was unflagging. He could not cure, but he did all that was possible by his unwearying attention to alleviate. How often have I found the red chariot waiting at the door, or when I was sitting with him would the door open and the grave manservant announce "Sir Rich-hard Quain." His talk, gossip, news, was part of the alleviation.
After all that must have been an almost joyous moment that brought poor Forster his release from those awful and intolerable days and nights of agony, borne with a fortitude of which the world had no conception. Eternal frightful spasms of coughing day and night, together with other maladies of the most serious kind. And yet, on the slightest respite, this man of wonderful fortitude would turn gay and festive, recover his spirits, and look forward to some enjoyment, a dinner it might be, where he was the old Forster once more, smiling enticingly on his favourite ladies, and unflinchingly prepared to go back to the night of horrors that awaited him!
Mrs. Forster, as her friends knew well, was one of the sweetest women "under the sun," a sweetness brought out by contrast with the obstreperous ways of her tempestuous mate. Often when something went wrong, rather did not go with the almost ideal smoothness at one of his many banquets (and there never was a more generously hospitable man), it was piteous to see her trying to smooth away the incident with the certainty of inflaming the dictator, and turning his wrath upon herself.
She knew well that not he, but his malady, was accountable. She believed from her heart in the duality of Forster. There was a hapless page boy whose very presence and assumed stupidity used to inflame his master to perfect Bersaker fits of rage. The scenes were exquisitely ludicrous, if painful; the contrast between the giant and the object of his wrath, scared out of his life with terror, was absolutely diverting. Thus the host would murmur "Biscuits!" which was not heard or not heeded; then louder and more sharply, "Biscuits!" then a roar that made all start, "BIScuits!!" Poor Mrs. Forster's agitation was sad to see, and between her and the butler the luckless lad was somehow got from the room. This attendant was an admirable comedy character, and in his way a typical servant, stolid and reserved. No one could have been so portentously sagacious as he looked. It was admirable to see his unruffled calm during his master's outbursts when something had gone wrong during the dinner. No violence could betray him into anything but the most placid and correct replies. There was something fine and pathetic in this, for it showed that he also recognised that it was not his true master that was thus raging. I recall talking with him shortly after his master's death. After paying his character a fine tribute he spoke of his illness. "You see, sir," he said at last, "what was at the bottom of it all was he 'ad no staminer, no staminer—no staminer, sir." And he repeated the word many times with enjoyment. I have no doubt he picked it up at Forster's table and it had struck him as a good effective English word, spelled as he pronounced it.
Such was John Forster.