accept them, and accept them kindly. If I thought she would receive
them scornfully, I would send them to Miss Boswell, who, I hope, has yet
none of her mamma's ill-will to me. . . .

'Mrs. Thrale waits in the coach. I am, dear Sir, &c.,

'March 13, 1779.'

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

* He sent a set elegantly bound and gilt, which was received
as a very handsome present.--BOSWELL

This letter crossed me on the road to London, where I arrived on Monday,
March 15, and next morning at a late hour, found Dr. Johnson sitting
over his tea, attended by Mrs. Desmoulins, Mr. Levett, and a clergyman,
who had come to submit some poetical pieces to his revision. It is
wonderful what a number and variety of writers, some of them even
unknown to him, prevailed on his good-nature to look over their works,
and suggest corrections and improvements. My arrival interrupted for
a little while the important business of this true representative of
Bayes; upon its being resumed, I found that the subject under immediate
consideration was a translation, yet in manuscript, of the Carmen
Seculare of Horace, which had this year been set to musick, and
performed as a publick entertainment in London, for the joint benefit of
monsieur Philidor and Signor Baretti. When Johnson had done reading,
the authour asked him bluntly, 'If upon the whole it was a good
translation?' Johnson, whose regard for truth was uncommonly strict,
seemed to be puzzled for a moment, what answer to make; as he certainly
could not honestly commend the performance: with exquisite address he
evaded the question thus, 'Sir, I do not say that it may not be made
a very good translation.' Here nothing whatever in favour of the
performance was affirmed, and yet the writer was not shocked. A printed
Ode to the Warlike Genius of Britain, came next in review; the bard was
a lank bony figure, with short black hair; he was writhing himself
in agitation, while Johnson read, and shewing his teeth in a grin of
earnestness, exclaimed in broken sentences, and in a keen sharp tone,
'Is that poetry, Sir?--Is it Pindar?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, there is here
a great deal of what is called poetry.' Then, turning to me, the poet
cried, 'My muse has not been long upon the town, and (pointing to the
Ode) it trembles under the hand of the great critick.' Johnson, in a
tone of displeasure, asked him, 'Why do you praise Anson?' I did not
trouble him by asking his reason for this question. He proceeded