Alice wuz very much interested in ’em, too.
But as I stood by Goldsmith’s grave—a-seein’, with my mind’s eye, Mrs. Primrose and Olivia and the good Vicar a-moralizin’ at em—
I hearn Josiah say to Adrian—
“Oliver, goldsmith.” Sez he—“I spoze Mr. Oliver wuz the best goldsmith in England, or he wouldn’t be layin’ here. He probble made the crowns and septers they all have to wear in these monarkiel countries.”
I turned round, and sez I, “The metal that Goldsmith used wuz purer gold than that—it wuz the rare wealth of a faultless style.”
“That’s what I said,” sez Josiah—“stylish jewelry, and septers, and sech.”
But I explained it all out to Adrian, and kep’ him by me all I could.
Alice drawed my attention to the bust of Longfellow, our own poet, and my emotions swep’ me off quite a long ways, clear from this old Abbey to—
“Where descends from the Atlantic
The gigantic