“We do not all deserve a Boswell, Ben,” answered the great lexicographer. “Many amongst us lack that congeries of flexible characteristics--the mental amalgam of humour and common-sense, weight, scholarship and piety that may be said to afford just material for a biographer. For my part, indeed, I cannot think that in life such a man as Boswell would have been edified or inspired to any great work by a close and personal intercourse with yourself, for instance. I may err, but that is my deliberate opinion, framed upon those endless personal reminiscences of which you deny us no vinous detail. Nor would the table-talk of such an one as Milton have afforded over-much delight. We should rather----” “When you can make an end, the Professor will speak,” interrupted Carlyle. Whereupon my distinguished friend put in his plea boldly. “Nobody, honoured sirs, has power to arrest this outrage but myself,” said Professor Parkinson. “The application I make is unusual but not unprecedented. Briefly, I beg permission to visit the earth and rectify in person this grave wrong. Permit my spectre one week with this ungenerous and unjust steward of my reputation. I ask no more.” “Only a mind conscious of right would contemplate such a painful design,” declared Doctor Johnson; “and yet it is a question whether the awful demonstration of a professorial apparition to one still in life be not too terrible a punishment for his crime.” “Not so,” interrupted Mr. Carlyle. “Parkinson is in the right. This vile Gridd has earned the worst that can overtake him. Fury and chaos! let justice be done and an example made. Must dead lions suffer for ever from these live asses? Let Parkinson be despatched upon his errand without more ado. He is a Scotch spectre, and may therefore be trusted to use discretion and employ his powers with decency.” “I will not allow my antipathy to the Scotch, just and well-grounded though that sentiment may be----” answered the Sage; but here Ben Jonson held up his hand. “Suffer me to put one question to our learned friend,” he said, then turned to Professor Parkinson. “Dost think all this pother about a trashy scribbler is worthy of thee? He and his lies will all go down to the pit together presently. And Truth prevails.” “But it won’t prevail in my wife’s lifetime, Mr. Jonson,” answered the Professor. “Consider her and my family. Picture to yourself how this scandalous libel must be breaking the hearts of those that loved me. And remember my Institute.” “There struts no vainer figure in literature or rhetoric than that ‘breaking of hearts,’” said Doctor Johnson. “As one not dead to humanity’s tenderer emotions, I may be allowed to declare that hearts do not break. Moreover, worthy Parkinson, we have but the testimony of this new-come shade that things are in so parlous a plight with your reputation. Does he speak what he knows or what he merely believes?” The massive spectre puffed his cheeks and looked at me.