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 tempe