e meditated deeply on what he had read. He had seen
much of the world; but he had noticed and retained little more of what
he had seen than some grotesque incidents and characters which had
happened to strike his fancy. But, though his mind was very scantily
stored with materials, he used what materials he had in such a way as
to produce a wonderful effect. There have been 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, though often surly, sent back the messenger
with a guinea, and promised to follow speedily. He came, and found that
Goldsmith had changed the guinea, and was railing at the landlady over
a bottle of Madeira. Johnson put the cork into the bottle, and entreated
his friend to consider calmly how money was to be procured. Goldsmith
said that he had a novel ready for the press. Johnson g