oldy pattern; for such he had interest and sympathy. As a
young man, when studying for the Bar, he had been in Chitty's office,
where he had for companions Whiteside and Tennant, afterwards Sir
Emerson. Whiteside became the brilliant parliamentary orator and Chief
Justice; Tennant a baronet and Governor of Ceylon; and Forster himself
the distinguished writer and critic, the friend and biographer of
Dickens. It was a remarkable trio certainly. Chitty, the veteran
conveyancer, his old master, he never forgot, and was always delighted
to have him to dinner, to do him honour in every way. His son, the
judge, was a favourite _protege_, and became his executor. He had a
warm regard for Sir Richard Quain, who was beside Lord Beaconsfield
_in extremis_, who literally knew everyone that ought to be known, and
who would visit a comparatively humble patient with equal interest.
Quain was thoroughly good-natured, ever friendly and even
affectionate. Forster's belief in him was as that in a fetish.

The faithful Quain was with his friend to the last moment. Poor
Forster was being gradually overpowered by the rising bronchial
humours with which, as he grew weaker, he could not struggle with or
baffle. It was then that Quain, bending over, procured him a short
reprieve and relief in his agony, putting his fingers down his throat
and clearing away the impeding masses.

Sir Richard was not only physician-in-ordinary, but the warm and
devoted friend, official consultant, as he was of the whole _coterie_.
For a long course of years he had charge of his friend's health, if
health it could be called where all was disease and misery; and it was
his fate to see him affectionately through the great crisis at the
last. There was a deal of this affection in Quain; he was eminently
good-natured; good true-hearted Quain! Many a poor priest of his
country has been to him, and from them he would never take, though not
of his faith. Quain was indeed the literary man's physician; more so
than Sir Andrew Clarke, who was presumed to hold the post by letters
patent. For Clarke was presumed to know and cure the literary
ailments; but Quain was the genial guide, philosopher and friend,
always one of themselves, and indeed a _literateur_ himself. Who will
forget his quaint little figure, shrewd face, the native accent, never
lost; and his "Ah me dear fellow, shure what can I do?" His
red-wheeled carriage, generally well horsed, was familiar to us all,
and