nd make the privilege exclusively his. But
he would have liked to hear, "May we also smoke?"

Forster's affection for Carlyle and his pride in him was delightful to
see. I think he had more reverence for him than for anybody. He really
looked on him as an inspired Sage, and this notion was encouraged by
the retired fashion in which he of Chelsea lived, showing himself but
rarely. Browning was seated near his host, but I noticed a sort of
affected and strained _empressement_ on both sides. Later I heard a
loud scoffing laugh from Forster, but the other, apparently by a
strong effort, repressed himself and made no reply. Alas! as was to be
expected, the feud broke out again and was never healed. Though
Browning would at times coldly ask me after his old friend.

There was no better dramatic critic than Forster, for he had learned
his criticism in the school of Macready and the old comedies. He had a
perfect instinct for judging even when not present, and I recollect,
when Salvini was being set up against Irving, his saying
magisterially: "Though I have not seen either Mr. Salvini or Mr.
Irving, I have a perfect conviction that Salvini is an actor and Mr.
Irving is not." He had the finest declamation, was admirable in
emphasis, and in bringing out the meaning of a passage, with
expressive eye and justly-modulated cadences. I never had a greater
treat than on one night, after dining with him, he volunteered to read
aloud to us the Kitely passages from _Every Man in his Humour_, in
which piece at the acted performances he was, I suspect, the noblest
Roman of 'em all. It was a truly fine performance; he brought out the
jealousy in the most powerful and yet delicately suggestive fashion.
Every emotion, particularly the anticipation of such emotions, was
reflected in his mobile features. His voice, deep and sonorous, and at
times almost flutey with softness, was under perfect control; he could
direct it as he willed. The reading must have called up many pleasant
scenes, the excitement, his friends, the artists and writers, who all
had taken part in the "splendid strolling" as he called it, and now
all gone!

He often, however, mistook inferior birds for swans. He once held out to
us, as a great treat, the reading of an unpublished play of his friend
Lord Lytton, which was called _Walpole_. All the characters spoke and
carried on conversation in hexameters. The effect was ridiculous. A more
tedious thing, with its recondite a