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