“‘They say best men are moulded out of faults,’” murmured Mr. Bellingham, with a wink at the heavy mother.
The poet saw the wink, and waxed a little emphatic. It was Dr. Johnson who had once said of his art of conversation that “he had but half to furnish, since one-half was oaths.” But he was after all a good-natured man.
“Then, God judge me,” he cried, straining his voice, which was none of the strongest, “if he hadn’t a title to be called perfection!”
Mrs. Lightfoot, alarmed by his heat, stopped a levity on her lips half-way, and addressed the great man very soberly.
“I prithee, sir,” she said, “to correct our untutored visions, naturally dazzled in their first contemplation of so unaccustomed a sight.”
“Why, my dear,” said the Laureate, mollified at once, “I can quite understand your naïve enthusiasm; but it is a fact that in order to criticise an achievement one must know something of the principles of the art which designed it.”
“No greater architect of his own fortune than King Colley!” cried Mr. Bellingham.
“I thank you, sir,” answered Mr. Cibber stiffly; then added, blazing out again, “You will oblige me by holding your damned tongue!”
The old gentleman, anxious and conciliatory, put in a word:
“Your professional knowledge, sir, must make your comments doubly instructive. Pray inform us to what details of the building you take particular exception.”