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,
      Nor is it justly given,
  That angels sing to them on earth
      Who slight the road to heaven.’

“He tells me—­Piozzi does—­that his own country manners greatly disgusted him, after having been used to ours; but Milan is a comfortable place, I find.  If he does not fix himself for life here, he will settle to lay his bones at Milan.  The Marquis D’Araciel, his friend and patron, who resides there, divides and disputes his heart with me:  I shall be loth to resign it.”

[Footnote 1:  This mode of expression did not imply then what it might now.  See ante, p. 92, where Johnson writes to “my Baretti.”]