e of exerting
hypnotic force, and converting by magic a fool into a wit.

In his own time, from some unaccountable cause, it became a habit to
treat Goldsmith with a form of moral and intellectual patronage. This
has never entirely passed away. Carlyle, following Horace Walpole's
idea, writing of Johnson, thus speaks of Goldsmith: "An inspired idiot
hangs strangely about him. Yet on the whole there is no evil in the
gooseberry fool, but rather much good--of a fine, if of a weaker sort
than Johnson's--and all the more genuine that he himself could never
become conscious of it."

In the sphere of the high-minded of that period, with the possible but
not the clear and certain exception of Johnson himself, not one in all
that circle, illustrious as it was, so impressed the kindred spirits
of that time and age as Oliver Goldsmith did. His impressiveness
swayed its force and influence over all. This was due first to the
winning grace, but partly to the greatness of the man. "Dr.
Goldsmith," said Johnson, "is one of the first men we now have as an
author, and he is a very worthy man, too." At another time he said:
"As a writer he was of the most distinguished abilities. Whatever he
composed he did it better than any other man could, and whether we
consider him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as a historian, so far
as regards his power of composition he was one of the finest writers
of his time, and will ever stand in the foremost class." These words
were uttered shortly after Goldsmith's death. One can imagine the
looking back with love upon the companionship and the conversation of
one friend at least who would never be forgotten. All natures in some
sphere, touch the infinite. In the silence of his great heart, the
radiance of his intellect, and in his uttered word, the very soul of
Goldsmith's genius lies in a loving understanding. In this man there
flows and shines the very grace of the very Christ. Unfailing
gentleness lives lighted by divinity.

Those were happy days passed in heart-to-heart friendships and
affections, and they were merry hours that sped so swiftly at the
Literary Club. The great are never greater than in the hearts of their
homes and the simplicities of their friendships. At this club the gods
forgot their power and high beings laid aside their loftiness. In the
midst we find the man they teased the man most welcome; that one that
all affected to despise, each in his inmost heart unfeignedly
respec