“A sort of poet, sir, is one who writes a sort of poetry,” replied Garrick.
He then began a circumstantial account of how he had made an appointment for the hour at which he had left his friends, with a gentleman who was anxious to read to him some portions of a play which he had just written. The meeting was to take place in a neighbouring coffee-house in the Strand; but even though the distance which he had to traverse was short, it had been the scene of more than one adventure, which, narrated by Garrick, proved comical to an extraordinary degree.
“A few yards away I almost ran into the arms of a clergyman—he wore the bands and apron of a Dean,” he continued, “not seeming to notice the little start which his announcement caused in some directions. The man grasped me by the arm,” he continued, “doubtless recognising me from my portraits—for he said he had never seen me act—and then began an harangue on the text of neglected opportunities. It seemed, however, that he had no more apparent example of my sins in this direction than my neglect to produce Dr. Goldsmith's 'Good-Natured Man.' Faith, gentlemen, he took it quite as a family grievance.” Suddenly he paused, and looked around the party; only Reynolds was laughing, all the rest were grave. A thought seemed to strike the narrator. “What!” he cried, “it is not possible that this was, after all, Dr. Goldsmith's cousin, the Dean, regarding whom you interrogated me just now? If so,'tis an extraordinary coincidence that I should have encountered him—unless—good heavens, gentlemen! is it the case that he came here when I had thrown him off?”
“Sir,” cried Oliver, “I affirm that no relation of mine, Dean or no Dean, entered this room!”
“Then, sir, you may look to find him at your chambers in Brick Court on your return,” said Garrick. “Oh, yes, Doctor!—a small man with the family bow of the Goldsmiths—something like this.” He gave a comical reproduction of the salutation of the clergyman.
“I tell you, sir, once and for all, that the man is no relation of mine,” protested Goldsmith.
“And let that be the end of the matter,” declared Johnson, with no lack of decisiveness in his voice.
“Oh, sir, I assure you I have no desire to meet the gentleman again,” laughed Garrick. “I got rid of him by a feint, just as he was endeavouring to force me to promise a production of a dramatic version of 'The Deserted Village'—he said he had the version at his lodging, and meant to read it to his cousin—I ask your pardon, sir, but he said 'cousin.'”
“Sir, let us have no more of this—cousin or no cousin,” roared Johnson.
“That is my prayer, sir—I utter it with all my heart and soul,” said Garrick. “It was about my poet I meant to speak—my poet and his play. What think you of the South Seas and the visit of Lieutenant Cook as the subject of a tragedy in blank verse, Dr. Johnson?”