“Friends and fellow-spooks,” the Doctor began, when all were seated on the visionary camp-stools—­which, by the way, are far superior to those in use in a world of realities, because they do not creak in the midst of a fine point demanding absolute silence for appreciation—­“I do not know why I have been chosen to preside over this gathering of phantoms; it is the province of the presiding officer on occasions of this sort to say pleasant things, which he does not necessarily endorse, about the sundry persons who are to do the story-telling.  Now, I suppose you all know me pretty well by this time.  If there is anybody who doesn’t, I’ll be glad to have him presented after the formal work of the evening is over, and if I don’t like him I’ll tell him so.  You know that if I can be counted upon for any one thing it is candor, and if I hurt the feelings of any of these individuals whom I introduce to-night, I want them distinctly to understand that it is not because I love them less, but that I love truth more.  With this—­ah—­blanket apology, as it were, to cover all possible emergencies that may arise during the evening, I will begin.  The first speaker on the programme, I regret to observe, is my friend Goldsmith.  Affairs of this kind ought to begin with a snap, and while Oliver is a most excellent writer, as a speaker he is a pebbleless Demosthenes.  If I had had the arrangement of the programme I should have had Goldsmith tell his story while the rest of us were down-stairs at supper.  However, we must abide by our programme, which is unconscionably long, for otherwise we will never get through it.  Those of you who agree with me as to the pleasure of listening to my friend Goldsmith will do well to join me in the grill-room while he is speaking, where, I understand, there is a very fine line of punches ready to be served.  Modest Noll, will you kindly inflict yourself upon the gathering, and send me word when you get through, if you ever do, so that I may return and present number two to the assembly, whoever or whatever he may be?”

With these words the Doctor retired, and poor Goldsmith, pale with fear, rose up to speak.  It was evident that he was quite as doubtful of his ability as a talker as was Johnson.

“I’m not much of a talker, or, as some say, speaker,” he said.  “Talking is not my forte, as Doctor Johnson has told you, and I am therefore not much at it.  Speaking is not in my line.  I cannot speak or talk, as it were, because I am not particularly ready at the making of a speech, due partly to the fact that I am not much of a talker anyhow, and seldom if ever speak.  I will therefore not bore you by attempting to speak, since a speech by one who like myself is, as you are possibly aware, not a fluent nor indeed in any sense an eloquent speaker, is apt to be a bore to those who will be kind enough to listen to my remarks, but will read instead the first five chapters of the Vicar of Wakefield.”