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 required only a little time to work
themselves clear. When he wrote they had that time; and
therefore his readers pronounced him a man of genius: but when
he talked he talked nonsense, and made himself the laughing-stock
of his hearers. He was painfully sensible of his inferiority in
conversation; he felt every failure keenly; yet he had not
sufficient judgment and self-command to hold his tongue. His
animal spirits and vanity were always impelling him to try to do
the one thing which he could not do. After every attempt he felt
that he had exposed himself, and writhed with shame and vexation;
yet the next moment he began again.

His associates seem to have regarded him with kindness, which, in
spite of their admiration of his writings, was not unmixed with
contempt. In truth, there was in his character much to love, but
very little to respect. His heart was soft even to weakness: he
was so generous that he quite forgot to be just: he forgave
injuries so readily that he might be said to invite them; and was
so liberal to beggars that he had nothing left for his tailor and
his butcher. He was vain, sensual, frivolous, profuse,
improvident. One vice of a darker shade was imputed to him,
envy. But there is not the least reason to believe that this bad
passion, though it sometimes made him wince and utter fretful
exclamations, ever impelled him to injure by wicked arts the
reputation of any of his rivals. The truth probably is, that he
was not more envious, but merely less prudent, than his
neighbours. His heart was on his lips. All those small