“Have I, indeed?” said Goldsmith. “Then I suppose, if I said so, this must be the very man. A Dean, is he?”
“Sir, it is ill-mannered to keep even a curate waiting in the common room of a tavern,” said Johnson, who was not the man to shrink from any sudden addition to his audience of an evening. “If your relation were an Archbishop, sir, this company would be worthy to receive him. Pray give the order to show him into this room.” Goldsmith seemed lost in thought. He gave a start when Johnson had spoken, and in no very certain tone told the waiter to lead the clergyman up to the room. Oliver's face undoubtedly wore an expression of greater curiosity than that of any of his friends, before the waiter returned, followed by an elderly and somewhat undersized clergyman wearing a full bottomed wig and the bands and apron of a dignitary of the church. He walked stiffly, with an erect carriage that gave a certain dignity to his short figure. His face was white, but his eyebrows were extremely bushy. He had a slight squint in one eye.
The bow which he gave on entering the room was profuse but awkward. It contrasted with the farewell salute of Garrick on leaving the table twenty minutes before. Every one present, with the exception of Oliver, perceived in a moment a family resemblance in the clergyman's bow to that with which Goldsmith was accustomed to receive his friends. A little jerk which the visitor gave in raising his head was laughably like a motion made by Goldsmith, supplemental to his usual bow.
“Gentlemen,” said the visitor, with a wave of his hand, “I entreat of you to be seated.” His voice and accent more than suggested Goldsmith's, although he had only a suspicion of an Irish brogue. If Oliver had made an attempt to disown his relationship, no one in the room would have regarded him as sincere. “Nay, gentlemen, I insist,” continued the stranger; “you embarrass me with your courtesy.”
“Sir,” said Johnson, “you will not find that any company over which I have the honour to preside is found lacking in its duty to the church.”
“I am the humblest of its ministers, sir,” said the stranger, with a deprecatory bow. Then he glanced round the room, and with an exclamation of pleasure went towards Goldsmith. “Ah! I do not need to ask which of this distinguished company is my cousin Nolly—I beg your pardon, Oliver—ah, old times—old times!” He had caught Goldsmith's hands in both his own and was looking into his face with a pathetic air. Goldsmith seemed a little embarrassed. His smile was but the shadow of a smile. The rest of the party averted their heads, for in the long silence that followed the exclamation of the visitor, there was an element of pathos.
Curiously enough, a sudden laugh came from Sir Joshua Reynolds, causing all faces to be turned in his direction. An aspect of stern rebuke was now worn by Dr. Johnson. The painter hastened to apologise.
“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.”