Forster's affection for Carlyle and his pride in him was delightful to see. I think he had more reverence for him than for anybody. He really looked on him as an inspired Sage, and this notion was encouraged by the retired fashion in which he of Chelsea lived, showing himself but rarely. Browning was seated near his host, but I noticed a sort of affected and strained empressement on both sides. Later I heard a loud scoffing laugh from Forster, but the other, apparently by a strong effort, repressed himself and made no reply. Alas! as was to be expected, the feud broke out again and was never healed. Though Browning would at times coldly ask me after his old friend.
There was no better dramatic critic than Forster, for he had learned his criticism in the school of Macready and the old comedies. He had a perfect instinct for judging even when not present, and I recollect, when Salvini was being set up against Irving, his saying magisterially: "Though I have not seen either Mr. Salvini or Mr. Irving, I have a perfect conviction that Salvini is an actor and Mr. Irving is not." He had the finest declamation, was admirable in emphasis, and in bringing out the meaning of a passage, with expressive eye and justly-modulated cadences. I never had a greater treat than on one night, after dining with him, he volunteered to read aloud to us the Kitely passages from Every Man in his Humour, in which piece at the acted performances he was, I suspect, the noblest Roman of 'em all. It was a truly fine performance; he brought out the jealousy in the most powerful and yet delicately suggestive fashion. Every emotion, particularly the anticipation of such emotions, was reflected in his mobile features. His voice, deep and sonorous, and at times almost flutey with softness, was under perfect control; he could direct it as he willed. The reading must have called up many pleasant scenes, the excitement, his friends, the artists and writers, who all had taken part in the "splendid strolling" as he called it, and now all gone!
He often, however, mistook inferior birds for swans. He once held out to us, as a great treat, the reading of an unpublished play of his friend Lord Lytton, which was called Walpole. All the characters spoke and carried on conversation in hexameters. The effect was ridiculous. A more tedious thing, with its recondite and archaic allusions to Pulteney and other Georgian personages, could not be conceived. The ladies in particular, after a scene or two, soon became weary. He himself lost faith in the business, and saw that it was flat, so he soon stopped, but he was mystified at such non-intelligence. There was quite a store of these posthumous pieces of the late dramatist, some of which I read. But most were bad and dreary.
Forster had no doubt some oracular ways, which, like Mr. Peter Magnus's in Pickwick, "amused his friends very much." "Dicky" Doyle used to tell of a picnic excursion when Forster was expatiating roundly on the landscape, particularly demanding admiration for "yonder purple cloud" how dark, how menacing it was. "Why, my dear Forster," cried Doyle, "it's not a cloud at all, but only a piece of slated roof!" Forster disdained to notice the correction, but some minutes later he called to him loudly before the crowd: "See, Doyle! yonder is not a cloud, but a bit of slated roof: there can be no doubt of it." In vain Doyle protested, "Why, Forster, I said that to you!" "My dear Doyle," said Forster, sweetly, "it's no more a cloud than I am. I repeat you are mistaken, it's a bit of slated roof."
To myself, he was ever kind and good-natured, though I could smile sometimes at his hearty and well-meant patronage. Patronage! it was rather wholesale "backing" of his friends. Thus, one morning he addressed me with momentous solemnity, "My dear fellow, I have been thinking about you for a long time, and I have come to this conclusion: you must write a comedy. I have settled that you can do it; you have powers of drawing character and of writing dialogue; so I have settled, the best thing you can do is to write a comedy." Thus had he given his permission and orders, and I might fall to work with his fullest approbation. I have no doubt he told others that he had directed that the comedy should be written.
On another day, my dachshund "Toby" was brought to see him. For no one loved or understood the ways of dogs better. He greatly enjoyed "the poor fellow's bent legs," rather a novelty then, and at last with a loud laugh: "He is Sir Toby! no longer Toby. Yes my dear friend he must be Sir Toby henceforth." He had knighted him on the spot!
Forster always stands out pre-eminently as "the friend," the general friend, and it is pleasant to be handed down in such an attitude. We find him as the common referee, the sure-headed arbiter, good-naturedly and heartily giving his services to arrange any trouble or business. How invaluable he was to Dickens is shown in the "Life." With him friendship was a high and serious duty, more responsible even than relationship. His warm heart, his time, his exertions, were all given to his friend. No doubt he had some little pleasure in the importance of his office, but he was in truth really indulging his affections, and warm heart.
Among his own dearest friends was one for whom he seemed to have an affection and admiration that might be called tender; his respect, too, for his opinions and attainments were strikingly unusual in one who thought so much of his own powers of judgment. This was the Rev. Whitwell Elwin, Rector of Booton, Norwich. He seemed to me a man quite of an unusual type, of much learning and power, and yet of a gentle modesty that was extraordinary. In some things the present Master of the Temple, Canon Ainger, very much suggests him. I see Elwin now, a spare wiry being with glowing pink face and a very white poll. He seemed a muscular person, yet never was there a more retiring, genial and delicate-minded soul. His sensitiveness was extraordinary, as was shown by his relinquishing his monumental edition of Pope's Works, after it had reached to its eighth volume. The history of this proceeding has never been clearly explained. No doubt he felt, as he pursued his labours, that his sense of dislike to Pope and contempt for his conduct was increasing, that he could not excuse or defend him. Elwin was in truth the "complement" of Forster's life and character. It was difficult to understand the one without seeing him in the company of the other. It was astonishing how softened and amiable, and even schoolboy-like, the tumultuous John became when he spoke of or was in company with his old friend; he really delighted in him. Forster's liking was based on respect for those gifts of culture, pains-taking and critical instinct, which he knew his friend possessed, and which I have often heard him praise in the warmest and sincerest fashion. "In El-win"—he seemed to delight in rolling out the syllables in this divided tone—"in El-ween you will find style and finish. If there is anyone who knows the topic it is El-win. He is your man."
I was bringing out a magnum opus, dedicated to Carlyle, Boswell's Life of Johnson, entailing a vast deal of trouble and research. The amiable Elwin, whom I consulted, entered into the project with a host of enthusiasm. He took the trouble of rummaging his note books, and continued to send me week by week many a useful communication, clearing up doubtful passages. But what was this to his service when I was writing a Life of Sterne,[1] and the friendly Forster, interesting himself in the most good-natured way, determined that it should succeed, and put me in communication with Elwin. No doubt he was interested in his protégé, and Elwin, always willing to please, as it were, received his instructions. Presently, to my wonder and gratification, arrived an extraordinary letter, if one might so call it, which filled over a dozen closely written pages (for he compressed a marvellous quantity into a sheet of paper), all literally overflowing with information. It was an account of recondite and most unlikely works in which allusions to Sterne and many curious bits of information were stowed away; chapter and page and edition were given for every quotation; it must have taken him many hours and much trouble to write. And what an incident it was, the two well-skilled and accomplished literary critics exerting themselves, the one to secure the best aid of his friend, the other eager to assist, because his friend wished it.
[1] I recall a meeting by special appointment with Elwin, who came to lunch to debate it. He had already my letter, turned it over and over again, but without result. The point was what edition should be used—the first or the last; this latter having, of course, the advantage of the author's latest revision. On the great question of "Johnson's stay at Oxford," which has exercised all the scholars, and is still in a more or less unsatisfactory way, he agreed with me.