e papers. "Are they worth anything as
religious views?" I asked. "Nothing whatever, I should say," he said,
with a humorous twinkle in his eye, "I must only piece them together
somehow." And so he did, I forget under what title, I think _Religious
Remains of the late C. H. T._ There was probably some joking on this
description. It is fair to say that Boz had to put up with a vast deal
of this admiring worship, generally from retiring creatures whom his
delicate good-nature would not let him offend.

Forster's large sincerity was remarkable, as was his generous style,
which often carried him to extraordinary lengths. They were such as
one would only find in books. I remember once coming to London without
giving him due notice, which he always imperatively required to be
done. When I went off to his house at Palace Gate, presenting myself
about five o'clock, he was delighted to see me, as he always was, but
I saw he was very uncomfortable and distressed. "_Why_ didn't you tell
me," he said testily, "a day or two ago would have done. But _now_, my
dear fellow, _the table's full_--it's impossible." "What?" I asked,
yet not without a suspicion of the truth--for I knew him. "Why, I have
a dinner party to-day! De Mussy, the Doctor of the Orleans family, and
some others are coming, and here you arrive at this hour! Just look at
the clock--I tell you it can't be done." In vain I protested; though I
could not say it was "no matter," for it was a serious business. "Come
with me into the dining-room and you'll see for yourself." There we
went round the table, and "_The table's full_," he repeated from
_Macbeth_. There was something truly original in the implied premise
that his friend was _entitled_ of right to have a place at his table,
and that the sole dispensing cause to be allowed was absence of space
or a physical impossibility. It seems to me that this was a very
genuine, if rare, shape of hospitality.

Of all Forster's friends at this time, of course, after Dickens, and
he had innumerable ones, his fastest seemed Robert Browning. As every
Sunday came round it was a rule that the Poet was to dine with him.
Many were the engagements his host declined on the score of this
standing engagement. "Should be delighted, my dear friend, to go to
you, but it is an immemorial custom that every Sunday Robert Browning
dines with _me_. Nothing interferes with _that._" Often, indeed,
during the week the Poet would drop in for a chat or co