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.”
“His is a sad case,” said the clergyman. “To refrain from administering to him the rebuke which he deserves would be to neglect an obvious duty.” He took a few steps towards Johnson and raised his head. Goldsmith fell into a chair and buried his face in his hands; Boswell's jaw fell; Burke and Reynolds looked by turns grave and amused. “Dr. Johnson,” said the stranger, “I feel that it is my duty as a clergyman to urge upon you to amend your way of life.”
“Sir,” shouted Johnson, “if you were not a clergyman I would say that you were a very impertinent fellow!”