rule, but she gained all hearts and sympathies by her very
taking ways. Among others the redoubtable John Forster professed to be
completely "captured," and was her most obstreperous slave. He, too,
was to have been of the party, but was prevented by one of his
troublesome chest attacks. Scarcely had Boz entered when he drew out a
letter, I see him now standing at the fire, a twinkle in his brilliant
eyes. "What _is_ coming over Forster," he said, ruminating, "I cannot
make him out. Just as I was leaving the house I received this," and he
read aloud, "I can't join you to-day. But mark you this, sir! no
tampering, no poaching on _my_ grounds; for I won't have it. Recollect
_Codlin's the friend not Short_!" With a wondering look Boz kept
repeating in a low voice: "'Codlin's the friend not Short.' What _can_
he mean? What do you make of it?" I knew perfectly, as did also the
little lady who stood there smiling and flattered, but it was awkward
to explain. But he played with the thing; and it could only be agreed
that Forster at times was perfectly "amazing," or "a little off his
head."

And what a dinner it was! What an amusing failure, too, as a first
attempt; suddenly, towards the end of the dinner, a loud, strange
sound was heard, as of falling or rushing waters; it was truly
alarming; I ran out and found a full tide streaming down the stairs.
The cook in her engrossment had forgotten to turn a cock. "Ah, the
little victims play!" and Boz's eyes twinkled. A loud-voiced cuckoo
and quail were sounding their notes, which prompted me to describe a
wonderful clock of the kind I had seen, with two trumpeters who issued
forth at the hour and gave a prolonged flourish before striking, then
retired, their doors closing with a smart clap. This set off Boz in
his most humorous vein. He imagined the door sticking fast, or only
half-opening, the poor trumpeter behind pushing with his shoulder to
get out, then giving a feeble gasping tootle with much "whirring" and
internal agonies; then the rest is silence.

On another occasion came Forster himself and lady, for a little family
dinner; the same cook insisted on having in her husband, "a dear broth
of a boy," to assist her. Forster arriving before he was expected, he
was ever _more_ than punctual; the tailor rushed up eagerly to admit
him, forgetting, however, to put on his coat! As he threw open the
door he must have been astonished at Forster's greeting "No, no, my
good friend,