John Forster | Page 2

of not being denied, will do in this way. His broad face and cheeks
and burly person were not made for rebuffs. He seized on persons he
wished to know and made them his own at once. I always thought it
was the most characteristic thing known of him in this way, his striding
past Bunn the manager--then his enemy--in his own theatre, taking no
notice of him and passing to Macready's room, to confer with him on
measures hostile to the said Bunn. As Johnson was said to toss and gore
his company, so Forster trampled on those he condemned. I remember
he had a special dislike to one of Boz's useful henchmen. An amusing
story was told, that after some meeting to arrange matters with
Bradbury and Evans, the printers, Boz, ever charitable, was glad to
report to Forster some hearty praise by this person, of the ability with
which he (Forster) had arranged the matters, thus amiably wishing to
propitiate the autocrat in his friend's interest. But, said the
uncompromising Forster, "I am truly sorry, my dear Dickens, that I
cannot reciprocate your friend's compliment, for a d----nder ass I never
encountered in the whole course of my life!" A comparative that is
novel and will be admired.
Forster had a determined way with him, of forcing an answer that he
wanted; driving you into a corner as it were. A capital illustration of
this power occurred in my case. I had sent to a London "second hand"
bookseller to supply me with a copy of the two quarto volumes of
Garrick's life, "huge armfuls." It was with some surprise that I noted the
late owner's name and book-plate, which was that of "John Forster,
Esq., Lincoln's Inn Fields." At the moment he had given me Garrick's
original MS. correspondence, of which he had a score of volumes, and
was helping me in many other ways. Now it was a curious coincidence
that this one, of all existing copies, should come to me. Next time I saw
him I told him of it. He knitted his brows and grew thoughtful. "My

copy! Ah! I can account for it! It was one of the volumes I lent to that
fellow"--mentioning the name of the "fellow"--"he no doubt sold it for
drink!" "Oh, so that was it," I said rather incautiously. "But you," he
said sternly, "tell me what did you think when you saw my name?
Come now! How did it leave my library?" This was awkward to answer.
"I suppose you thought I was in the habit of selling my books? Surely
not?" Now this was what I had thought. "Come! You must have had
some view on the matter. Two huge volumes like that are not easily
stolen." It was with extraordinary difficulty that I could extricate
myself.
It was something to talk to one who had been intimate with Charles
Lamb, and of whom he once spoke to me, with tears running down his
cheeks, "Ah! poor dear Charles Lamb!" The next day he had
summoned his faithful clerk, instructing him to look out among his
papers--such was his way--for all the Lamb letters, which were then
lent to me. And most interesting they were. In one, Elia calls him
"Fooster," I fancy taking off Carlyle's pronunciation.
As a writer and critic Forster held a high, unquestioned place, his work
being always received with respect as of one of the masters. He had
based his style on the admirable, if somewhat old-fashioned models,
had regularly learned to write, which few do now, by studying the
older writers: Swift, Addison, and, above all, the classics.
He was at first glad to do "job work," and was employed by Dr.
Lardner to furnish the "Statesmen of the Commonwealth" to his
Encyclopædia. Lardner received from him a conscientious bit of work,
but which was rather dry reading, something after the pattern of Dr.
Lingard, who was then in fashion. But presently he was writing con
amore, a book after his own heart, The Life and Adventures of Oliver
Goldsmith, in which there is a light, gay touch, somewhat peculiar at
times, but still very agreeable. It is a charming book, and graced with
exquisite sketches by his friend Maclise and other artists. There was a
great deal of study and "reading" in it, which engendered an angry
controversy with Sir James Prior, a ponderous but pains-taking writer,
who had collected every scrap that was connected with Goldy. Forster,

charged with helping himself to what another had gathered, sternly
replied, as if it could not be disputed, that he had merely gone to the
same common sources as Prior, and had found what he had found! But
this was seasoned with extraordinary abuse of poor Prior, who was held
up as