amusement of the club by his foibles and absurdities than to their entertainment by his abilities. Perhaps, indeed, there never was a man, the various traits of whose character were more inconsistent than those of Goldsmith,--never a more motely mixture of strength and weakness, clearness and confusion, knowledge and ignorance. Though capable of exhibiting human character naturally and humorously, either in a single essay or through a volume, he could not tell a story without murdering it. Although in continuous writings his views were clear, just, and comprehensive; in occasional conversation he was perpetually falling into gross blunders. In his literary efforts, he pourtrayed nature, without deviating from truth: embellishing whatever he represented, he produced whatever effect he desired. In company he always said or did something different from what he intended.

F 3

* Nihil tetigit quod non ornavit.

Epitaph, Westminster Abbey.

The opponents of a nobleman of considerable talents affixed to him the name of Malagrida. This nobleman, it is well known, has been accused of insincerity and duplicity. Goldsmith being in company with him, and probably meaning to say to him that he wondered how people could apply to his Lordship the name of a man of fair character as a term of reproach, said, I am surprized how they can call your Lordship Malagrida; Malagrida was an honest man.'

Goldsmith valued himself very much on his bon mots; and, were we to judge from his publications, we might conceive not without reason, but in conversation the point was lost. As he was extremely vain in general, he was peculiarly so in what concerned his colloquial powers, not only trying new jests, but repeating those he made in other companies; and was much mortified if they did not produce the intended laugh. Hawkins, in his Life of Johnson, tell us that a common preface of Goldsmith to a story was, • I'll tell you a story of myself, which some

people laugh at and some do not.' One evening, as the company was breaking up, he told them if they would call for another bottle they should hear one of his bon mots. They agreed, and he began thus: I was once told that Sheridan the player, in order to improve himself in stage gesture, had looking-glasses, to the number of ten, hung about his room, and that he practised before them; upon which I said,—then there were ten ugly fellows together. The company not discovering much humour in this story, and perhaps wishing to mortify his anxious solicitude for praise, did not laugh. He went away in a great passion, without tasting

the wine.

The members often amused themselves in making puns. Goldsmith was eager to try any means to attain praise; and not only tried his invention, but endeavoured to retail the puns he heard in other companies as his

own.

He had heard the pun about sending stale pease to Hammersmith, as that was the way to (turn'em green) Turnham

Green. Believing that pun new, he resolved to use it as his own, and at supper, pretending to think the pease too old, called to the waiter to send the pease to Hammersmith. To Hammersmith, Sir?' • Yes, (says Goldsmith) that's the way to make them green.' He was very angry that the company found no jest, blundering out, it was a very good joke when I heard it last night.' He affected the manner of Johnson; and the club, to vex him, called him Dr. Minor, giving to Johnson, as all must acknowledge he deserved among any Doctors, the appellation of Dr. Major. He was greatly affronted with the application of the title of Dr. Minor to him. Johnson had a custom of contracting the names of his friends, as Mund for Edmund. Goldsmith was much displeased with the contraction of Goldy as a diminution of his importance, and said,

I wish, Sir, you would not call me Goldy, but Doctor Goldsmith.' His vanity extended even to his dress. He was as anxious to be thought well attired as an ignorant beau, or a boarding-school girl, but had no

earthly taste in the choice of habiliments. He one day came to the club in a very glaring bloom-coloured coat, and strutted about, looking at his clothes, and seemingly wishing them to attract the attention of the company. Some of them ridiculed his dress. He, to prove how wrong they were, said, let me tell you, gentlemen, when my taylor brought home this coat, he begged of me to tell all my friends who made it.' Why (said Johnson) that was because he knew the strange colour would attract crouds to gaze at it, and thus they might hear of him, and see how well he could make a coat even of so absurd a colour.'

By such frivolities did the author of the Deserted Village, of the Vicar of Wakefield, and the Travellers often expose himself to men greatly his inferiors in intellectual powers.

In the club, Burke frequently amused himself with punning; but his efforts generally produced some resemblance of thought, imagery, or sentiment, not merely a play