s good-humouredly scornful. "Well, I declare, I
did not expect this. I should have thought something like 'gallant,'
or 'pleasant,' or 'agreeable'--but '_learned_!' as though I were some
old pundit. Thank you, ladies."

No one knew so much as Forster of the literary history of the days
when Dickens first "rose"; and when such men as Lamb, Campbell,
Talfourd, Theodore Hook, Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, and many more of that
school were flourishing.

I see him now seated in the stern manipulating the ropes of the
rudder, with all the air of perfect knowledge; diverting the boatmen,
putting questions to them, and adroitly turning their answers into
pieces of original information; lecturing on the various objects of
interest we passed; yet all the time interesting, and excellent
company. At times he began to talk of poetry, and would pour forth the
stores of his wonderful memory, reciting passages with excellent
elocution, and delighting his hearers. I recall the fine style in
which he rolled forth "Hohenlinden," and "The Royal George," and the
"Battle of the Baltic." At the close he would sink his voice to a low
muttering, just murmuring impressively, "be-neath the wave!" Then
would pause, and say, as if overcome--"Fine, very, very fine!" These
exercises gave his audience genuine pleasure. On shore, visiting the
various show things, he grew frolicsome, and insisted on the visitors
as "Mr. and Mrs. ----," the names of characters in some novel I had
written.

It would be an interesting question to consider how far Forster's
influence improved or injured Dickens' work; for he tells us
everything written by the latter was submitted to him, and corrections
and alterations offered. I am inclined to confess that, when in his
official mood, Forster's notions of humour were somewhat forced. It is
thus almost startling to read his extravagant praise of a passage
about Sapsea which the author discarded in _Edwin Drood_. Nothing
better showed Boz's discretion. The well-known passage in _The Old
Curiosity Shop_ about the little marchioness and her make-believe of
orange peel and water, and which Dickens allowed him to mend in his
own way, was certainly altered for the worse.

I had the sad satisfaction, such as it was, of attending Forster's
funeral, as well as that of his amiable wife. I had a seat in one of
the mourning coaches, with that interesting man, James Anthony Froude.
Not many were bidden to the ceremonial.

Mrs. Forster's li