“Heavens, sir!” said Boswell in a whisper that had something of awe in it. “Is it possible that you have never heard of Dr. Samuel Johnson?”
“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?”
