ising lines and words and whole
passages in extracts, without some very special reason indeed. It does
appear to be a kind of assertion of the editor over the reader--almost
over the author himself--which grates upon me. The author might almost
as well do it himself to my thinking, as a disagreeable thing; and it is
such a strong contrast to the modest, quiet, tranquil beauty of "The
Deserted Village," for instance, that I would almost as soon hear "the
town crier" speak the lines. The practice always reminds me of a man
seeing a beautiful view, and not thinking how beautiful it is half so
much as what he shall say about it.

In that picture at the close of the third book (a most beautiful one) of
Goldsmith sitting looking out of window at the Temple trees, you speak
of the "gray-eyed" rooks. Are you sure they are "gray-eyed"? The raven's
eye is a deep lustrous black, and so, I suspect, is the rook's, except
when the light shines full into it.

I have reserved for a closing word--though I _don't_ mean to be
eloquent about it, being far too much in earnest--the admirable manner
in which the case of the literary man is stated throughout this book. It
is splendid. I don't believe that any book was ever written, or anything
ever done or said, half so conducive to the dignity and honour of
literature as "The Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith," by J. F.,
of the Inner Temple. The gratitude of every man who is content to rest
his station and claims quietly on literature, and to make no feint of
living by anything else, is your due for evermore. I have often said,
here and there, when you have been at work upon the book, that I was
sure it would be; and I shall insist on that debt being due to you
(though there will be no need for insisting about it) as long as I have
any tediousness and obstinacy to bestow on anybody. Lastly, I never will
hear the biography compared with Boswell's except under vigorous
protest. For I do say that it is mere folly to put into opposite scales
a book, however amusing and curious, written by an unconscious coxcomb
like that, and one which surveys and grandly understands the characters
of all the illustrious company that move in it.

My dear Forster, I cannot sufficiently say how proud I am of what you
have done, or how sensible I am of being so tenderly connected with it.
When I look over this note, I feel as if I had said no part of what I
think; and yet if I were to write another I should