“It is idle, most honoured Doctor Johnson, to discuss the subject of circulating libraries with you,” I answered firmly but respectfully. “Nor would a circulation of fifty thousand copies convey any particular idea perhaps to your experience. But you will recollect the old trick of putting everything into the newspapers. That trick, worthy sir, has now become a confirmed habit--a part of our national system. There is to-day such machinery for scattering of news as you would marvel at. This wicked book has been read throughout the English-speaking world. If uncontradicted its end must be that Professor Parkinson’s life labours are seriously threatened.” “If the edifice of his toil be fundamentally assured, this book cannot assail the issue,” declared Doctor Johnson. “Nevertheless,” he added, “it may be that evil has been done and cries for chastisement. I doubt nothing but that we can trust the Professor wisely to conduct his enterprise and order his apparitional manifestations alike with sound judgment and just taste.” “It will only be necessary for me to appear to the man Thomas Gridd, and that in strict privacy,” declared Peter Parkinson. “’Tis well,” said Ben Jonson. “There are a sort of spectres who abuse their privileges and play the fool--a thing very vile and improper and against right feeling. Indeed the best spectres shall be found in fiction rather than fact. Take Will’s ghost in _Hamlet_. Never stalked real spirit truer. Will yet stands first exemplar for ghost and man. So be it. Depart in peace, Master Parkinson. We can trust you to remember that the spectral condition has its obligations. Good luck attend ye. Ah! there’s Tennyson!” Ben Jonson rose and followed a tall black figure that floated past down a cypress walk. “By Jove!” I said, surprised into an indiscretion; “does he know how Tennyson always declared that he found reading Jonson was like wading through a sea of glue?” And Carlyle answered-- “Alfred told him so to his beard, with customary frankness, and Ben laughed his great thunder laugh--like roll of an Elizabethan drum--and said, ‘My glue sticks, brother, my glue sticks. We shall see if thine holds on so stoutly to the literature of England after passage of centuries!’” “Concerning Tennyson,” began Doctor Johnson, “we may take him first as to his _machinery_, so-called from θεὸς απὸ μηχανῆς, or the occasional interposition of supernatural power; next upon his _episodes_; and lastly as to his _sentiments_, as expressive of manners. Now, in so far as I am able to judge, the man, regarded as a moral----” I felt Professor Parkinson pulling at my sleeve and together we stole away. Carlyle had already turned his back and departed. “Won’t the Doctor be hurt?” I murmured. “Not in the least,” replied my friend. “See! There goes Boswell to him.” A jaunty shade tripped by us with his eyes reverently lifted to the Colossus of Words. “Still at it, you see,” said the Professor.