Once for some modest private theatricals I had written a couple of little pieces to be acted by ourselves and our friends. One was called _Blotting Paper_, the other _The William Simpson_. A gay company was invited, and I recall how the performers were pleased and encouraged when the face of the brilliant author of a _Lady of Lyons_ was seen in the front row. Forster took the whole under his protection, and was looking forward to attending, but his invariable terrible cough seized on him. Mrs. Forster was sent with strict instructions to observe and report everything that did or could occur on this interesting occasion. I see her soft amiable face smiling encouragement from the stalls. I rose greatly in my friend's estimation from this attendance of the author of _Pelham_. "How did you manage it?" "He goes nowhere or to few places. It was a gr-eat compliment."
This little performance is associated in a melancholy way with the closing days of Dickens' career. I was naturally eager to secure his presence, and went to see him at "his office" to try and persuade him to attend; he pleaded, however, his overwhelming engagements. I find in an old diary some notes of our talk. "Theatricals led to Regnier, whom I think he had been to see in _Les Vieux Garçons_. He said he found him very old. "Alas! He is _Vieux Garçon_ himself." I think of our few little dinners in my house; would we had had more! Somehow since I have been living here the image of him has been more and more stamped on me; I see and like him more. The poor, toiling, loveable fellow, to think that all is over with him now!"
[At the risk of smiles, and perhaps some suspicion of vanity, I go on to copy what follows.] When I saw Mrs. Forster during those dismal days, she was good enough to relate to me much about his personal liking for me. He would tell them how I could do anything if I only gave myself fair play. He said he was going to write to give me a sound blowing up. "And yet," he added, "I doubt if he would take it from anybody else but me. He is a good fellow." [I still doubt whether I should add what follows, but I am not inclined to sacrifice such a tribute from such a man; told me, too, only a few days after his death.] He praised a novel of mine, _No. 75, Brooke St._, and here are his words: "The last scene and winding up is one of the most powerful things I have met."