God bless you, and may you conquer the many-headed monster which I could never charm to silence.”  In “Thraliana,” she says: 

“January, 1785.—­I see the English newspapers are full of gross insolence to me:  all burst out, as I guessed it would, upon the death of Dr. Johnson.  But Mr. Boswell (who I plainly see is the author) should let the dead escape from his malice at least.  I feel more shocked at the insults offered to Mr. Thrale’s memory than at those cast on Mr. Piozzi’s person.  My present husband, thank God! is well and happy, and able to defend himself:  but dear Mr. Thrale, that had fostered these cursed wits so long! to be stung by their malice even in the grave, is too cruel:—­

  “‘Nor church, nor churchyards, from such fops are free.’"[1]—­POPE.

[Footnote 1:  Probably misquoted for—­

  “No place is sacred, not the church is free.”

Prologue to the Satires.]

The license of our press is a frequent topic of complaint.  But here is a woman who had never placed herself before the public in any way so as to give them a right to discuss her conduct or affairs, not even as an author, made the butt of every description of offensive personality for months, with the tacit encouragement of the first moralist of the age.

January 20th, 1785, she writes from Milan:—­“The Minister, Count Wilsick, has shown us many distinctions, and we are visited by the first families in Milan.  The Venetian Resident will, however, be soon sent to the court of London, and give a faithful account, as I am sure, to all their obliging inquiries.”

In “Thraliana”: 

“25th Jan., 1785.—­I have recovered myself sufficiently to think what will be the consequence to me of Johnson’s death, but must wait the event, as all thoughts on the future in this world are vain.  Six people have already undertaken to write his life, I hear, of which Sir John Hawkins, Mr. Boswell, Tom Davies, and Dr. Kippis are four.  Piozzi says he would have me add to the number, and so I would, but that I think my anecdotes too few, and am afraid of saucy answers if I send to England for others.  The saucy answers I should disregard, but my heart is made vulnerable by my late marriage, and I am certain that, to spite me, they would insult my husband.

“Poor Johnson!  I see they will leave nothing untold that I laboured so long to keep secret; and I was so very delicate in trying to conceal his [fancied][1] insanity that I retained no proofs of it, or hardly any, nor even mentioned it in these books, lest by my dying first they might be printed and the secret (for such I thought it) discovered.  I used to tell him in jest that his biographers would be at a loss concerning some orange-peel he used to keep in his pocket, and many a joke we had about the lives that would be published.  Rescue me out of their hands, my dear, and do it yourself, said he;