many greater writers; but perhaps no writer was ever more
uniformly agreeable. His style was always pure and easy, and, on
proper occasions, pointed and energetic. His narratives were
always amusing, his descriptions always picturesque, his humour
rich and joyous, yet not without an occasional tinge of amiable
sadness. About everything that he wrote, serious or sportive,
there was a certain natural grace and decorum, hardly to be
expected from a man a great part of whose life had been passed
among thieves and beggars, street-walkers and merry andrews, in
those squalid dens which are the reproach of great capitals.

As his name gradually became known, the circle of his
acquaintance widened. He was introduced to Johnson, who was then
considered as the first of living English writers; to Reynolds,
the first of English painters; and to Burke, who had not yet
entered parliament, but had distinguished himself greatly by his
writings and by the eloquence of his conversation. With these
eminent men Goldsmith became intimate. In 1763 he was one of the
nine original members of that celebrated fraternity which has
sometimes been called the Literary Club, but which has always
disclaimed that epithet, and still glories in the simple name of
The Club.

By this time Goldsmith had quitted his miserable dwelling at the
top of Breakneck Steps, and had taken chambers in the more
civilised region of the Inns of Court. But he was still often
reduced to pitiable shifts. Towards the close of 1764 his rent
was so long in arrear that his landlady one morning called in the
help of a sheriff's officer. The debtor, in great perplexity,
despatched a messenger to Johnson; and Johnson, always friendly,