A gentleman having said that a conge d’elire has not, perhaps, the force of a command, but may be considered only as a strong recommendation.  “Sir,” replied Johnson, “it is such a recommendation as if I should throw you out of a two pair of stairs window, and recommend you to fall soft.”

Happening one day to mention Mr. Flaxman, the doctor replied, “Let me hear no more of him, sir; that is the fellow who made the index to my Ramblers, and set down the name of Milton thus:  ‘Milton, Mr, John.’”

Goldsmith said that he thought he could write a good fable, mentioned the simplicity which that kind of composition requires, and observed that, in most fables, the animals introduced seldom talk in character.  “For instance,” said he, “the fable of the little fishes, who saw birds fly over their heads, and, envying them, petitioned Jupiter to be changed into birds.  The skill,” continued he, “consists in making them talk like little fishes.”  While he indulged himself in this fanciful reverie, he observed Johnson shaking his sides and laughing.  Upon which he smartly proceeded, “Why, Dr. Johnson, this is not so easy as you seem to think; for if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like WHALES.”

He expressed a particular enthusiasm with respect to visiting the wall of China.  I caught it for the moment, and said I really believed I should go and see the wall of China, had I not children of whom it was my duty to take care.  “Sir,” said he, “by doing so, you would do what would be of importance in raising your children to eminence.  There would be a luster reflected upon them from your spirit and curiosity.  They would be at all times regarded as the children of a man who had gone to view the wall of China—­I am serious, sir.”

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE VILLAGE PASTOR AND SCHOOL-MASTER.

[From The Deserted Village.]

    Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
  And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
  There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
  The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. 
  A man he was to all the country dear,
  And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
  Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
  Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change, his place. 
  Unskillful he to fawn or seek for power
  By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour: 
  Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
  More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
  His house was known to all the vagrant train—­
  He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
  The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
  Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast. 
  The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
  Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
  The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,