’Dear sir,—­Why should you take such delight to make a bustle, to write to Mr. Thrale that I am negligent, and to Francis to do what is so very unnecessary.  Thrale, you may be sure, cared not about it; and I shall spare Francis the trouble, by ordering a set both of the Lives and Poets to dear Mrs. Boswell,* in acknowledgement of her marmalade.  Persuade her to 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, ’Here is an errour, Sir; you have made Genius feminine.’  ’Palpable, Sir; (cried