“But if not, sir, how can you account for——”
Boswell's inquiry was promptly checked by Johnson.
“Be silent, sir,” he thundered. “If you have left your manners in Scotland in an impulse of generosity, you have done a foolish thing, for the gift was meagre out of all proportion to the needs of your country in that respect. Sir, let me tell you that the last word has been spoken touching this incident. I will consider any further reference to it in the light of a personal affront.”
After a rather awkward pause, Garrick said:
“I begin to suspect that I have been more highly diverted during the past half-hour than any of this company.”
“Well, Davy,” said Johnson, “the accuracy of your suspicion is wholly dependent on your disposition to be entertained. Where have you been, sir, and of what nature was your diversion?”
“Sir,” said Garrick, “I have been with a poet.”
“So have we, sir—with the greatest poet alive—the author of 'The Deserted Village'—and yet you enter to find us immoderately glum,” said Johnson. He was anxious to show his friend Goldsmith that he did not regard him as accountable for the visit of the clergyman whom he quite believed to be Oliver's cousin, in spite of the repudiation of the relationship by Goldsmith himself, and the asseveration of Reynolds.
“Ah, sir, mine was not a poet such as Dr. Goldsmith,” said Garrick. “Mine was only a sort of poet.”
“And pray, sir, what is a sort of poet?” asked Boswell.