him; that there was many a whisper, "That is the
great John Forster." He passed on solemnly through the hall and out at
the door leading to the artistes' rooms. Alas! no one was thinking of
him; he had been too long absent from the stage. It is indeed
extremely strange, and I often wonder at it, how little mark he made.
The present and coming generations know nothing about him. I may add
here that, at Dickens' _very_ last Reading at this place, I and
Charles Kent were the two--the only two--favoured with a place on the
platform, behind the screens. From that coign, I heard him say his
last farewell words: "Vanish from these garish lights for evermore!"

One summer Forster and his wife came down to Bangor, I believe from a
genial good-natured wish to be there with his friends--a family who
were often found there. He put up at the "George," then a house of
lofty pretensions, though now it would seem but a modest affair
enough. What a holiday it was! The great John unbent to an
inconceivable degree; he was soft, engaging even, and in a bright and
constant good humour. The family consisted of the mother, two
daughters, and the son, _moi qui vous parle_--all of whom looked to
him with a sort of awe and reverence, which was not unpleasing to him.
The two girls he professed to admire and love; the mother, a woman of
the world, had won him by her speech at his dinner party, during which
a loud crash came from the hall; he said nothing, but she saw the
temper working within, and quoted happily from Pope,

"And e'en unmoved hears China fall."

Immensely gratified at the implied compliment for his restraint, his
angry brow was smoothed. To imagine a dame of our time quoting Pope at
a dinner! at most she would have heard of him.

What walks and expeditions in that delightful Welsh district! and what
unbounded hospitality! He would insist on his favourites coming to
dinner every few days or so. It was impossible to refuse; equally
impossible to make any excuse; he was so overpowering. Everything was
swept away. At the time the dull pastime of acrostic-writing was in
high vogue, and some ladies of the party thought to compliment him by
fashioning one upon his name. He accepted the compliment with much
complacent gratification; and, when the result was read aloud, it was
found that the only epithet that would fit his name, having the
proper number of letters, was "learned." His brow clouded. It was not
what he expected. He wa