ious personages in the _Vicar of
Wakefield_ were no doubt gradually assuming definite form in
Goldsmith's mind. It is in the figure of Mr. Tibbs, introduced
apparently at haphazard, but at once taking possession of us by its
quaint relief, that we find Goldsmith showing a firmer hand in
character-drawing. With a few happy dramatic touches Mr. Tibbs starts
into life; he speaks for himself; he becomes one of the people whom we
know. And yet, with this concise and sharp portraiture of a human
being, look at the graceful, almost garrulous, ease of the style:--

"Our pursuer soon came up and joined us with all the
familiarity of an old acquaintance. 'My dear Drybone,' cries
he, shaking my friend's hand, 'where have you been hiding
this half a century? Positively I had fancied you were gone
to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country.'
During the reply I had an opportunity of surveying the
appearance of our new companion: his hat was pinched up with
peculiar smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp;
round his neck he wore a broad black riband, and in his
bosom a buckle studded with glass; his coat was trimmed with
tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword with a black
hilt; and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were
grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with the
peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter
part of my friend's reply, in which he complimented Mr.
Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the bloom in his
countenance. 'Pshaw, pshaw, Will,' cried the figure, 'no
more of that, if you love me: you know I hate flattery,--on
my soul I do; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with the
great will improve one's appearance, and a course of venison
will fatten; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as
you do; but there are a great many damn'd honest fellows
among them, and we must not quarrel with one half, because
the other wants weeding. If they were all such as my Lord
Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever
squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of
their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of
Piccadilly's. My lord was there. "Ned," says he to me,
"Ned," says he, "I'll hold gold to silver, I can tell you
where you were poaching last night." "Poaching, my lord?"
s