“I will not allow my antipathy to the Scotch, just and well-grounded though that sentiment may be——” answered the Sage; but here Ben Jonson held up his hand.
“Suffer me to put one question to our learned friend,” he said, then turned to Professor Parkinson.
“Dost think all this pother about a trashy scribbler is worthy of thee? He and his lies will all go down to the pit together presently. And Truth prevails.”
“But it won’t prevail in my wife’s lifetime, Mr. Jonson,” answered the Professor. “Consider her and my family. Picture to yourself how this scandalous libel must be breaking the hearts of those that loved me. And remember my Institute.”
“There struts no vainer figure in literature or rhetoric than that ‘breaking of hearts,’” said Doctor Johnson. “As one not dead to humanity’s tenderer emotions, I may be allowed to declare that hearts do not break. Moreover, worthy Parkinson, we have but the testimony of this new-come shade that things are in so parlous a plight with your reputation. Does he speak what he knows or what he merely believes?”
The massive spectre puffed his cheeks and looked at me.
“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!”