at, perhaps an unequalled, master of the arts
of selection and condensation. In these respects his histories of Rome
and of England, and still more his own abridgements of these histories,
well deserve to be studied. In general nothing is less attractive than
an epitome: but the epitomes of Goldsmith, even when most concise, are
always amusing; and to read them is considered by intelligent children,
not as a task, but as a pleasure.

Goldsmith might now be considered as a prosperous man. He had the means
of living in comfort, and even in what to one who had so often slept
in barns and on bulks must have been luxury. His fame was great and
was constantly rising. He lived in what was intellectually far the
best society of the kingdom, in a society in which no talent or
accomplishment was wanting, and in which the art of conversation was
cultivated with splendid success. There probably were never four talkers
more admirable in four different ways than Johnson, Burke, Beauclerk,
and Garrick; and Goldsmith was on terms of intimacy with all the four.
He aspired to share in their colloquial renown; but never was ambition
more unfortunate. It may seem strange that a man who wrote with so much
perspicuity, vivacity, and grace, should have been, whenever he took a
part in conversation, an empty, noisy, blundering rattle. But on this
point the evidence is overwhelming. So extraordinary was the contrast
between Goldsmith's published works and the silly things which he said,
that Horace Walpole described him as an inspired idiot. "Noll," said
Garrick, "wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll." Chamier
declared that it was a hard exercise of faith to believe that so foolish
a chatterer could have really written the "Traveller." Even Boswell
could say, with contemptuous compassion, that he liked very well to hear
honest Goldsmith run on. "Yes, sir," said Johnson, "but he should
not like to hear himself." Minds differ as rivers differ. There are
transparent and sparkling rivers from which it is delightful to drink as
they flow; to such rivers the minds of such men as Burke and Johnson may
be compared. But there are rivers of which the water when first drawn
is turbid and noisome, but becomes pellucid as crystal, and delicious to
the taste, if it be suffered to stand till it has deposited a sediment;
and such a river is a type of the mind of Goldsmith. His first thoughts
on every subject were confused even to absurdity; but they r