“Well, Davy,” said Johnson, “the accuracy of your suspicion is wholly dependent on your disposition to be entertained. Where have you been, sir, and of what nature was your diversion?” “Sir,” said Garrick, “I have been with a poet.” “So have we, sir--with the greatest poet alive--the author of 'The Deserted Village'--and yet you enter to find us immoderately glum,” said Johnson. He was anxious to show his friend Goldsmith that he did not regard him as accountable for the visit of the clergyman whom he quite believed to be Oliver's cousin, in spite of the repudiation of the relationship by Goldsmith himself, and the asseveration of Reynolds. “Ah, sir, mine was not a poet such as Dr. Goldsmith,” said Garrick. “Mine was only a sort of poet.” “And pray, sir, what is a sort of poet?” asked Boswell. “A sort of poet, sir, is one who writes a sort of poetry,” replied Garrick. He then began a circumstantial account of how he had made an appointment for the hour at which he had left his friends, with a gentleman who was anxious to read to him some portions of a play which he had just written. The meeting was to take place in a neighbouring coffee-house in the Strand; but even though the distance which he had to traverse was short, it had been the scene of more than one adventure, which, narrated by Garrick, proved comical to an extraordinary degree. “A few yards away I almost ran into the arms of a clergyman--he wore the bands and apron of a Dean,” he continued, “not seeming to notice the little start which his announcement caused in some directions. The man grasped me by the arm,” he continued, “doubtless recognising me from my portraits--for he said he had never seen me act--and then began an harangue on the text of neglected opportunities. It seemed, however, that he had no more apparent example of my sins in this direction than my neglect to produce Dr. Goldsmith's 'Good-Natured Man.' Faith, gentlemen, he took it quite as a family grievance.” Suddenly he paused, and looked around the party; only Reynolds was laughing, all the rest were grave. A thought seemed to strike the narrator. “What!” he cried, “it is not possible that this was, after all, Dr. Goldsmith's cousin, the Dean, regarding whom you interrogated me just now? If so, 'tis an extraordinary coincidence that I should have encountered him--unless--good heavens, gentlemen! is it the case that he came here when I had thrown him off?” “Sir,” cried Oliver, “I affirm that no relation of mine, Dean or no Dean, entered this room!” “Then, sir, you may look to find him at your chambers in Brick Court on your return,” said Garrick. “Oh, yes, Doctor!--a small man with the family bow of the Goldsmiths--something like this.” He gave a comical reproduction of the salutation of the clergyman. “I tell you, sir, once and for all, that the man is no relation of mine,” protested Goldsmith. “And let that be the end of the matter,” declared Johnson, with no lack of decisiveness in his voice.