library
at Trinity College, making his notes, surrounded by the Dons. Dining
with him at his hotel, for even here he must entertain his host, he
lit his cigar after dinner, when an aged waiter of the old school
interrupted: "Ah, you musn't do that. It's agin the rules and
forbidden." He little knew his Forster; what a storm broke on his
head--"Leave the room, you rascal. How dare you, sir, interfere with
me! Get out, sir," with much more: the scared waiter fled. "One of the
pleasantest episodes in my life," I wrote in a diary, "has just
closed. John Forster come and gone, after his visit here (_i.e._ to
Dublin). Don't know when I liked a man more. He was most genial and
satisfactory to talk with. His amiable and agreeable wife with him.
She told a great deal of Boz and his life at home, giving a delightful
picture of his ordinary day. He would write all the morning till one
o'clock, and no one was allowed to see or interrupt him. Then came
lunch; then a long hearty walk until dinner time. During the evening
he would read in his own room, but the door was kept open so that he
might hear the girls playing--an amiable touch. At Christmas time,
when they would go down on a visit, he would entertain them by reading
aloud his proofs and passages not yet published. She described to us
'Boffin,' out of _Our Mutual Friend_, as admirable. He shows all to
Forster before-hand, and consults him as to plot, characters, etc. He
has a humorous fashion of giving his little boys comic names; later to
appear in his stories. Thus, one known as 'Plorn,' which later
appeared as 'Plornish.' This is a pleasant picture of the great
writer's domestic life, and it gives also a faint 'adumbration' of
what is now forgotten: the intense curiosity and eager anticipation
that was abroad as to what he was doing or preparing. Hints of his
characters got known; their movements and developments were discussed,
and the incidents of his story were like public events. We have
nothing of this nowadays, for no writer or story rouses the same
interest. Forster also told us a good deal about Carlyle, whose
proof-sheets, from the abundant corrections, cost three or four times
what the original 'setting' did." Thus the diary.

Once, on a Sunday in Dublin, I brought Forster to the cathedral in
Marlborough Street to hear the High Mass, at which Cardinal Cullen
officiated. He sat it out very patiently, and I remember on coming out
drew a deep sigh, or gasp, with the