hink becoming.

I have said that Horace Smith was a stockbroker. He left business with a
fortune, and went to live in France, where, if he did not increase, he
did not seriously diminish it; and France added to the pleasant stock of
his knowledge.

On returning to England, he set about exerting himself in a manner
equally creditable to his talents and interesting to the public. I would
not insult either the modesty or the understanding of my friend while he
was alive, by comparing him with the author of _Old Mortality_ and _Guy
Mannering_: but I ventured to say, and I repeat, that the earliest of
his novels, _Brambletye House_, ran a hard race with the novel of
_Woodstock_, and that it contained more than one character not unworthy
of the best volumes of Sir Walter. I allude to the ghastly troubles of
the Regicide in his lone house; the outward phlegm and merry inward
malice of Winky Boss (a happy name), who gravely smoked a pipe with his
mouth, and laughed with his eyes; and, above all, to the character of
the princely Dutch merchant, who would cry out that he should be ruined,
at seeing a few nutmegs dropped from a bag, and then go and give a
thousand ducats for an antique. This is hitting the high mercantile
character to a niceity--minute and careful in its means, princely in its
ends. If the ultimate effect of commerce (_permulti transibunt_, &c.)
were not something very different from what its pursuers imagine, the
character would be a dangerous one to society at large, because it
throws a gloss over the spirit of money-getting; but, meanwhile, nobody
could paint it better, or has a greater right to recommend it, than he
who has been the first to make it a handsome portrait.

The personal appearance of Horace Smith, like that of most of the
individuals I have met with, was highly indicative of his character. His
figure was good and manly, inclining to the robust; and his countenance
extremely frank and cordial; sweet without weakness. I have been told he
was irascible. If so, it must have been no common offense that could
have irritated him. He had not a jot of it in his appearance.

Another set of acquaintances which I made at this time used to assemble
at the hospitable table of Mr. Hunter, the bookseller, in St. Paul's
Church-yard. They were the survivors of the literary party that were
accustomed to dine with his predecessor, Mr. Johnson. They came, as of
old, on the Friday. The most regular were Fuseli and