“I ask your pardon, sir,” he said, gravely, “but--sir, I am a painter--my name is Reynolds--and--well, sir, the family resemblance between you and our dear friend Dr. Goldsmith--a resemblance that perhaps only a painter's eye could detect--seemed to me so extraordinary as you stood together, that----” “Not another word, sir, I entreat of you,” cried the visitor. “My cousin Oliver and I have not met for--how many years is it, Nolly? Not eleven--no, it cannot be eleven--and yet----” “Ah, sir,” said Oliver, “time is fugitive--very fugitive.” He shook his head sadly. “I am pleased to hear that you have acquired this knowledge, which the wisdom of the ancients has crystallised in a phrase,” said the stranger. “But you must present me to your friends, Noll--Oliver, I mean. You, sir”--he turned to Reynolds--“have told me your name. Am I fortunate enough to be face to face with Sir Joshua Reynolds? Oh, there can be no doubt about it. Oliver dedicated his last poem to you. Sir, I am your servant. And you, sir”--he turned to Burke--“I seem to have seen your face somewhere--it is strangely familiar----” “That gentleman is Mr. Burke, sir,” said Goldsmith. He was rapidly recovering his embarrassment, and spoke with something of an air of pride, as he made a gesture with his right hand towards Burke. The clergyman made precisely the same gesture with his left hand, crying---- “What, Mr. Edmund Burke, the friend of liberty--the friend of the people?” “The same, sir,” said Oliver. “He is, besides, the friend of Oliver Goldsmith.” “Then he is my friend also,” said the clergyman. “Sir, to be in a position to shake you by the hand is the greatest privilege of my life.” “You do me great honor, sir,” said Burke. Goldsmith was burning to draw the attention of his relative to Dr. Johnson, who on his side was looking anything but pleased at being so far neglected. “Mr. Burke, you are our countryman--Oliver's and mine--and I know you are sound on the Royal Marriage Act. I should dearly like to have a talk with you on that iniquitous measure. You opposed it, sir?” “With all my power, sir,” said Burke. “Give me your hand again, sir. Mrs. Luttrel was an honour to her sex, and it is she who confers an honour upon the Duke of Cumberland, not the other way about.” “You are with me, Mr. Burke? Eh, what is the matter, Cousin Noll? Why do you work with your arm that way?” “There are other gentlemen in the room, Mr. Dean,” said Oliver. “They can wait,” cried Mr. Dean. “They are certain to be inferior to Mr. Burke and Sir Joshua Reynolds. If I should be wrong, they will not feel mortified at what I have said.” “This is Mr. Boswell, sir,” said Goldsmith. “Mr. Boswell--of where, sir?” “Mr. Boswell, of--of Scotland, sir.” “Scotland, the land where the clergymen write plays for the theatre. Your clergymen might be better employed, Mr.--Mr.----” “Boswell, sir.”