“Alas! sir,” said the stranger, “I am but a country parson. I cannot be expected to know all the men who are called great in London. Of course, Mr. Burke and Sir Joshua Reynolds have a European reputation; but you, Mr.--Mr.--ah! you see I have e'en forgot your worthy name, sir, though I doubt not you are one of London's greatest. Pray, sir, what have you written that entitles you to speak with such freedom in the presence of such gentlemen as Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and--I add with pride--Oliver Goldsmith?” “I am the friend of Dr. Johnson, sir,” muttered Boswell. “And he has doubtless greatness enough--avoirdupois--to serve for both! Pray, Oliver, as the gentleman from Scotland is too modest to speak for himself, tell me what he has written.” “He has written many excellent works, sir, including an account of Corsica,” said Goldsmith, with some stammering. “And his friend, Dr. Johnson, has he attained to an equally dizzy altitude in literature?” “You are surely jesting, sir,” said Goldsmith. “The world is familiar with Dr. Johnson's Dictionary.” “Alas, I am but a country parson, as you know, Oliver, and I have no need for a dictionary, having been moderately well educated. Has the work appeared recently, Dr. Johnson?” [Illustration: 0037] But Dr. Johnson had turned his back upon the stranger, and had picked up a volume which Tom Davies, the bookseller, had sent to him at the Crown and Anchor, and had buried his face in its pages, bending it, as was his wont, until the stitching had cracked, and the back was already loose. “Your great friend, Noll, is no lover of books, or he would treat them with greater tenderness,” said the clergyman. “I would fain hope that the purchasers of his dictionary treat it more fairly than he does the work of others. When did he bring out his dictionary?” “Eighteen years ago,” said Oliver. “And what books has he written within the intervening years?” “He has been a constant writer, sir, and is the most highly esteemed of our authors.” “Nay, sir, but give me a list of his books published within the past eighteen years, so that I may repair my deplorable ignorance. You, cousin, have written many works that the world would not willingly be without; and I hear that you are about to add to that already honourable list; but your friend--oh, you have deceived me, Oliver!--he is no true worker in literature, or he would--nay, he could not, have remained idle all these years. How does he obtain his means of living if he will not use his pen?” “He has a pension from the King, sir,” stuttered Oliver. “I tell you, sir, he is the most learned man in Europe.”