“Psha, sir!” cried Goldsmith, “don't I know that already? Were you not all my friends in my day of adversity, and do you expect me suddenly to overthrow all my ideas of friendship by assuming that now that I have bettered my position in the world my friends will be less friendly?” “Goldsmith,” said Steevens, “we received a copy of the _London Packet_ half an hour before you entered. We were discussing the most infamous attack that has ever been made upon a distinguished man of letters.” “At the risk of being thought a conceited puppy, sir, I suppose I may assume that the distinguished man of letters which the article refers to is none other than myself,” said Goldsmith. “It is a foul and scurrilous slander upon you, sir,” said Steevens. “It is the most contemptible thing ever penned by that scoundrel Kenrick.” “Do not annoy yourselves on my account, gentlemen,” said Goldsmith. “You know how little I think of anything that Kenrick may write of me. Once I made him eat his words, and the fit of indigestion that that operation caused him is still manifest in all he writes about me. I tell you that it is out of the power of that cur to cause me any inconvenience. Where is the _Packet?_” “There is no gain in reading such contemptible stuff,” said Cradock. “Take my advice, Goldsmith, do not seek to become aware of the precise nature of that scoundrel's slanders.” “Nay, to shirk them would be to suggest that they have the power to sting me,” replied Goldsmith. “And so, sir, let me have the _Packet_, and you shall see me read the article without blenching. I tell you, Mr. Cradock, no man of letters is deserving of an eulogy who is scared by a detraction.” “Nay, Goldsmith, but one does not examine under a magnifying glass the garbage that a creature of the kennel flings at one,” said Steevens. “Come, sirs, I insist,” cried Goldsmith. “Why do I waste time with you?” he added, turning round and going to the door of the room. “I waste time here when I can read the _Packet_ in the bar.” “Hold, sir,” said Burke. “Here is the thing. If you will read it, you would do well to read it where you will find a dozen hands stretched forth to you in affection and sympathy. Oliver Goldsmith, this is the paper and here are our hands. We look on you as the greatest of English writers--the truest of English poets--the best of Englishmen.” “You overwhelm me, sir. After this, what does it matter if Kenrick flings himself upon me?” He took the _Packet_. It opened automatically, where an imaginary letter to himself, signed “Tom Tickle,” appeared.