nd archaic allusions to Pulteney and
other Georgian personages, could not be conceived. The ladies in
particular, after a scene or two, soon became weary. He himself lost
faith in the business, and saw that it was flat, so he soon stopped, but
he was mystified at such non-intelligence. There was quite a store of
these posthumous pieces of the late dramatist, some of which I read. But
most were bad and dreary.

Forster had no doubt some oracular ways, which, like Mr. Peter
Magnus's in _Pickwick_, "amused his friends very much." "Dicky" Doyle
used to tell of a picnic excursion when Forster was expatiating
roundly on the landscape, particularly demanding admiration for
"yonder purple cloud" how dark, how menacing it was. "Why, my dear
Forster," cried Doyle, "it's not a cloud at all, but only a piece of
slated roof!" Forster disdained to notice the correction, but some
minutes later he called to him loudly before the crowd: "See, Doyle!
yonder is _not_ a cloud, but a bit of slated roof: there can be no
doubt of it." In vain Doyle protested, "Why, Forster, I said that to
you!" "My dear Doyle," said Forster, sweetly, "it's no more a cloud
than I am. I repeat you are mistaken, _it's a bit of slated roof_."

To myself, he was ever kind and good-natured, though I could smile
sometimes at his hearty and well-meant patronage. Patronage! it was
rather wholesale "backing" of his friends. Thus, one morning he
addressed me with momentous solemnity, "My dear fellow, I have been
thinking about you for a long time, and I have come to this
conclusion: you _must write a comedy_. I have settled that you can do
it; you have powers of drawing character and of writing dialogue; so I
have settled, the best thing you can do is to write a comedy." Thus
had he given his permission and orders, and I might fall to work with
his fullest approbation. I have no doubt he told others that he had
directed that the comedy should be written.

On another day, my dachshund "Toby" was brought to see him. For no one
loved or understood the ways of dogs better. He greatly enjoyed "the
poor fellow's bent legs," rather a novelty then, and at last with a
loud laugh: "He is _Sir_ Toby! no longer Toby. Yes my dear friend he
_must_ be Sir Toby henceforth." He had knighted him on the spot!

Forster always stands out pre-eminently as "the friend," the general
friend, and it is pleasant to be handed down in such an attitude. We
find him as the common referee, the sur