count as you were so much a stranger
to that excellent friend, whom you only lamented for the sake of
those who survived him." He had only returned that very day, and she
had been absent from Streatham, as she states elsewhere, till "the
Cecilian business was arranged," _i.e._ till the end of May.

On the 24th August, 1782 (this date is material) Johnson writes to
Boswell:

"DEAR SIR,--Being uncertain whether I should have any call this
autumn into the country, I did not immediately answer your kind
letter. I have no call; but if you desire to meet me at Ashbourne, I
believe I can come thither; if you had rather come to London, I can
stay at Streatham: take your choice."

This was two days after Mrs. Thrale, with his full concurrence, had
made up her mind to let Streatham. He treats it, notwithstanding, as
at his disposal for a residence so long as she remains in it.

The books and printed letters from which most of these extracts are
taken, have been all along accessible to her assailants. Those from
"Thraliana," which come next, are new:

"_25th November_, 1781.--I have got my Piozzi[1] home at last; he
looks thin and battered, but always kindly upon me, I think. He
brought me an Italian sonnet written in his praise by Marco Capello,
which I instantly translated of course; but he, prudent creature,
insisted on my burning it, as he said it would inevitably get about
the town how _he_ was praised, and how Mrs. Thrale translated and
echoed the praises, so that, says he, I shall be torn in pieces, and
you will have some _infamita_ said of you that will make you hate the
sight of me. He was so earnest with me that I could not resist, so
burnt my sonnet, which was actually very pretty; and now I repent I
did not first write it into the Thraliana. Over leaf, however, shall
go the translation, which happens to be done very closely, and the
last stanza is particularly exact. I must put it down while I
remember it:

1.

"'Favoured of Britain's pensive sons,
Though still thy name be found,
Though royal Thames where'er he runs
Returns the flattering sound,

2.

Though absent thou, on every joy
Her gloom privation flings,
And Pleasure, pining for employ,
Now droops her nerveless wings,

3.

Yet since kind Fates thy voice restore
To charm our land again[2],--
Return not to their rocky shore,
Nor tempt the angry main.

4.

Nor is their praise of so much worth,