ter, 'who can look back to them, and I have always found them do so
with a sigh of regret.'

One night, a country cousin of Sydney Smith's was present at a supper.
'Now, Sydney,' whispered the simple girl, 'I know all these are very
remarkable people; do tell me who they are.'--'Oh, yes; there's
Hannibal,' pointing to a grave, dry, stern man, Mr. Whishaw; 'he lost
his leg in the Carthagenian war: there's Socrates,' pointing to
Luttrell: 'that,' he added, turning to Horner, 'is Solon.'

Another evening, Mackintosh brought a raw Scotch cousin--an ensign in a
Highland regiment--with him. The young man's head could carry no idea of
glory except in regimentals. Suddenly, nudging Sir James, he whispered,
'Is that the great Sir Sydney Smith?'--'Yes, yes,' answered Sir James;
and instantly telling Sydney who he was supposed to be, the grave
evening preacher at the Foundling immediately assumed the character
ascribed to him, and acted the hero of Acre to perfection, fighting his
battles over again--even charging the Turks--whilst the young Scot was
so enchanted by the great Sir Sydney's condescension, that he wanted to
fetch the pipers of his regiment, and pipe to the great Sir Sydney, who
had never enjoyed the agonizing strains of the bagpipe. Upon this the
party broke up, and Sir James carried the Highlander off, lest he should
find out his mistake, and cut his throat from shame and vexation. One
may readily conceive Sydney Smith's enjoying this joke, for his spirits
were those of a boy: his gaiety was irresistible; his ringing laugh,
infectious; but it is difficult for those who knew Mackintosh in his
later years--the quiet, almost pensive invalid to realize in that
remembrance any trace of the Mackintosh of Doughty Street and Orchard
Street days.

One day Sydney Smith came home with two hackney coaches full of
pictures, which he had picked up at an auction. His daughter thus tells
the story: 'Another day he came home with two hackney-coach loads of
pictures, which he had met with at an auction, having found it
impossible to resist so many yards of brown-looking figures and faded
landscapes going for "absolutely nothing, unheard of sacrifices." "Kate"
hardly knew whether to laugh or cry when she saw these horribly
dingy-looking objects enter her pretty little drawing-room, and looked
at him as if she thought him half mad; and half mad he was, but with
delight at his purchase. He kept walking up and down the room, waving
hi