might rival
that of his special idol, but also of the real hold which Goldsmith,
because of his simplicity as well as his genius, had upon the affections
of the great moralist. While he was himself admitted to the high literary
society which he frequented, on terms of sufferance chiefly, Boswell took
every pains to disparage poor Goldsmith. The poet, whose writings possess
a charm so seldom paralleled, it must be allowed, gave no little occasion
for depreciation, by his want of firmness of character; and Boswell
maliciously set forth all his singularities and weaknesses in the most
ludicrous point of view. Whoever will take pains, however, to read his
delightful "Life" by John Forster, will find the general impressions on
the subject very materially corrected, and will see, that, if the
hard-driven bard had many faults, he had also many virtues, which, as
Lord Bacon remarks, is "the posy of the best characters."

But to the veritable story of "Old Grouse in the Gun-room." It seems,
according to the narrative of Mrs. Johnson, that the family of Mr.
Featherston were seated at the tea-table, at the close of a chilly day, a
bright fire blazing on the hearth, and the servants, as usual, being in
attendance. On a sudden, a tremendous crash was heard in a distant part
of the ancient mansion, followed by a succession of wails of the most
lugubrious and unearthly character, which reverberated through the
echoing passage-ways of the house. Whatever the cause of the sounds might
be, there was no doubt they were of the most horrifying description. The
family, consisting of the 'Squire, a maiden sister, and one or two
younger persons, jumped from their seats in the utmost consternation,
while Patrick and the rest of the domestics rushed from the room in a
state of terror more easily to be conceived than described, and huddled
together in the kitchen, as far as possible from the occasion of their
fright.

Imagine a lonely country-house, a quiet and well-ordered family seated
at their evening meal, after dark, of a somewhat gloomy day, the
apartment imperfectly lighted by the glowing fire, and according to such
conveniences for the purpose as old times ordinarily afforded; the
conversation, perhaps, turning on such unexciting topics as the weather,
past, present, and to come, or the thoughts reverting, it may be, to such
mundane topics as the expected game of whist or backgammon,--and the
scene suddenly broken in upon by the most st