r the corner of the ivy-mantled church. Just as he reached it,
the clock struck twelve.

On the very spot of ground, where the stranger now stood, some aged people
remembered that old Michael Johnson had formerly kept his bookstall. The
little children, who had once bought picture-books of him, were
grandfathers now.

"Yes; here is the very spot!" muttered the old gentleman to himself.

There this unknown personage took his stand, and removed the
three-cornered hat from his head. It was the busiest hour of the day. What
with the hum of human voices, the lowing of cattle, the squeaking of pigs,
and the laughter caused by the Merry-Andrew, the market-place was in very
great confusion. But the stranger seemed not to notice it, any more than
if the silence of a desert were around him. He was wrapt in his own
thoughts. Sometimes he raised his furrowed brow to heaven, as if in
prayer; sometimes he bent his head, as if an insupportable weight of
sorrow were upon him. It increased the awfulness of his aspect that there
was a motion of his head, and an almost continual tremor throughout his
frame, with singular twitchings and contortions of his features.

The hot sun blazed upon his unprotected head; but he seemed not to feel
its fervor. A dark cloud swept across the sky, and rain-drops pattered
into the market-place; but the stranger heeded not the shower. The people
began to gaze at the mysterious old gentleman, with superstitious fear and
wonder. Who could he be? Whence did he come? Wherefore was he standing
bare-headed in the market-place? Even the school-boys left the
Merry-Andrew, and came to gaze, with wide open eyes, at this tall,
strange-looking old man.

There was a cattle-drover in the village, who had recently made a journey
to the Smithfield market, in London. No sooner had this man thrust his way
through the throng, and taken a look at the unknown personage, than he
whispered to one of his acquaintances:

"I say, neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know who this old gentleman
is?"

"Ay, that I would," replied neighbor Hutchins; "for a queerer chap I never
saw in my life! Somehow, it makes me feel small to look at him. He's more
than a common man."

"You may well say so," answered the cattle-drover. "Why, that's the famous
Doctor Samuel Johnson, who, they say, is the greatest and learnedest man
in England. I saw him in London Streets, walking with one Mr. Boswell."

Yes; the poor boy--the friendless Sam--w