him, not a word of the scandals was true. Landor was a
noble-hearted man; misjudged, and carried away by his feelings. The
pity of it was he could have made of it a most lasting, entertaining
book had he brought to it the pleasantly light touch he was later to
bring to his account of Dickens. But he took it all too solemnly.
Landor's life was full of grotesque scenes, and Forster might have
alleviated the harsh views taken of his friend by dealing with him as
an impetuous, irresponsible being, amusing even in his delinquencies.
Boz gave a far juster view of him in _Boythorn_. In almost the year of
his death Forster began another tremendous work, _The Life of Swift_,
for which he had been preparing and collecting for many years. No one
was so fitted by profound knowledge of the period. He had much
valuable MS. material, but the first volume, all he lived to finish,
was leaden enough. Of course he was writing with disease weighing him
down, with nights that were sleepless and spent in general misery. But
even with all allowance it was a dull and conventional thing.

It has been often noted how a mere trifle will, in an extraordinary
way, determine or change the whole course of a life. I can illustrate
this by my own case. I was plodding on contentedly at the Bar without
getting "no forrarder," with slender meagre prospects, but with a
hankering after "writing," when I came to read this Life of Goldsmith
that I have just been describing, which filled me with admiration. The
author was at the moment gathering materials for his Life of Swift,
when it occurred to me that I might be useful to him in getting up all
the local Swiftian relics, traditions, etc. I set to work, obtained
them, made the sketches, and sent them to him in a batch. He was
supremely grateful, and never forgot the volunteered trifling service.
To it I owe a host of literary friends and acquaintance with the
"great guns," Dickens, Carlyle, and the rest; and when I ventured to
try my prentice pen, it was Forster who took personal charge of the
venture. It was long remembered at the _Household Words_ office how he
stalked in one morning, stick in hand, and, flinging down the paper,
called out, "Now, mind, no nonsense about it, no humbug, no returning
it with a polite circular, and all that; see that it is read and duly
considered." _That_ was the turning-point. To that blunt declaration I
owe some forty years of enjoyment and employment--for there is no
enjoy