The Professor thereupon introduced me and related my black news.
Jonson shook his head and seemed to find a humorous side to the tragedy; Carlyle thundered his indignation and went from a generalisation upon all biography into personal matters not necessary to set down here; while Doctor Johnson defended biography with some slashing blows.
“You are to remember, sir,” he said to Mr. Carlyle, “that it is most unphilosophic to frame general theories upon the trumpery foundation of a personal experience. You, sir, have permitted us to gather that you are incensed against the literary record of your own career—a very good book in the judgment of many persons. To found general principles upon this solitary example is at once short-sighted, narrow-minded and absurd. No, sir; the thing can be very well done and has been very well done.”
“Nevertheless we cannot all come by a Boswell, Doctor,” said Mr. Jonson.
“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.”