“That is a page out of Goldsmith’s own life.”
“Poor Poet Noll!” said Mumsie. “Except Charles Lamb, wasn’t he the dearest?”
“Because he ‘wrote like an angel,’ ” suggested Uncle.
“Goldsmith was a loveable, weak character with whom starchy, business-like people often lost patience. He was anyhow better than his judges.”
“His heart was too soft,” suggested Sister Mary.
“And he had vanities,” said Uncle, “but he was of the salt of the earth. A born Irishman! When he died old Samuel Johnson wept, and Joshua Reynolds said he could do no more work that day. These are testimonies to worth. I have always suspected Bozzy of being jealous of Goldy.”
“What I meant,” said Mr. Bang, whose strong point is evidently not literature, “was that Goldsmith was one of the kind who are easily misunderstood.”
“So are we all,” cried Uncle. “Your aunt invariably misunderstands me.”
“Oh pooh!” said Mumsie.
“And I think his contemporary Dr. Johnson a most interesting character,” smiled Mary in her drawing-room manner.