—By Oliver Goldsmith
Though Fond of many acquaintances，I desire an intimacy only with a few. The Man in black, whom I have often mentioned, is one whose friendship I could wish to acquire, because he possesses my esteem. His manners, it is true, are tinctured with some strange; and inconsistencies; and he may be justly termed a humorist in a nation of humorists.
Though he is generous even to profusion，he affects to be thought a prodigy of parsimony and prudence; though his conversation be replete with the most sordid and selfish maxims, his heart is deleted with the most unbounded love. I have known him profess himself a man-hater, while his cheek was glowing with compassion; and, while his looks were softened into pity, I have heard him use the languages; of the most unbounded ill-nature.
Some affect humanity and tenderness, others boast of having such dispositions from Nature; but he is the only man I ever know who seemed ashamed of his natural benevolence. He takes as much pains to hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would to conceal his indifference; but on every unguarded moment the mask drops off, and reveals him to the most superficial observer.