One night, a country cousin of Sydney Smith’s was present at a supper.  ‘Now, Sydney,’ whispered the simple girl, ’I know all these are very remarkable people; do tell me who they are.’—­’Oh, yes; there’s Hannibal,’ pointing to a grave, dry, stern man, Mr. Whishaw; ’he lost his leg in the Carthagenian war:  there’s Socrates,’ pointing to Luttrell:  ‘that,’ he added, turning to Horner, ‘is Solon.’

Another evening, Mackintosh brought a raw Scotch cousin—­an ensign in a Highland regiment—­with him.  The young man’s head could carry no idea of glory except in regimentals.  Suddenly, nudging Sir James, he whispered, ‘Is that the great Sir Sydney Smith?’—­’Yes, yes,’ answered Sir James; and instantly telling Sydney who he was supposed to be, the grave evening preacher at the Foundling immediately assumed the character ascribed to him, and acted the hero of Acre to perfection, fighting his battles over again—­even charging the Turks—­whilst the young Scot was so enchanted by the great Sir Sydney’s condescension, that he wanted to fetch the pipers of his regiment, and pipe to the great Sir Sydney, who had never enjoyed the agonizing strains of the bagpipe.  Upon this the party broke up, and Sir James carried the Highlander off, lest he should find out his mistake, and cut his throat from shame and vexation.  One may readily conceive Sydney Smith’s enjoying this joke, for his spirits were those of a boy:  his gaiety was irresistible; his ringing laugh, infectious; but it is difficult for those who knew Mackintosh in his later years—­the quiet, almost pensive invalid to realize in that remembrance any trace of the Mackintosh of Doughty Street and Orchard Street days.

One day Sydney Smith came home with two hackney coaches full of pictures, which he had picked up at an auction.  His daughter thus tells the story:  ’Another day he came home with two hackney-coach loads of pictures, which he had met with at an auction, having found it impossible to resist so many yards of brown-looking figures and faded landscapes going for “absolutely nothing, unheard of sacrifices.”  “Kate” hardly knew whether to laugh or cry when she saw these horribly dingy-looking objects enter her pretty little drawing-room, and looked at him as if she thought him half mad; and half mad he was, but with delight at his purchase.  He kept walking up and down the room, waving his arms, putting them in fresh lights, declaring they were exquisite specimens of art, and if not by the very best masters, merited to be so.  He invited his friends, and displayed his pictures; discovered fresh beauties for each new comer; and for three or four days, under the magic influence of his wit and imagination, these gloomy old pictures were a perpetual source of amusement and fun.’

At last, finding that he was considered no authority for the fine arts, off went the pictures to another auction, but all re-christened by himself, with unheard-of names.  ‘One, I remember,’ says Lady Holland, ’was a beautiful landscape, by Nicholas de Falda, a pupil of Valdezzio, the only painting by that eminent artist.  The pictures sold, I believe, for rather less than he gave for them under their original names, which were probably as real as their assumed ones.’