On Tuesday, Dec. 24, I went in the evening to call on Mrs. Thrale, and
tore myself away from her to go to Bolt-court to see Dr. Johnson, who
is very unwell. He received me with great kindness, and bade me come
oftener, which I will try to contrive. He told me he heard of nothing
but me, call upon him who would; and, though he pretended to growl, he
was evidently delighted for me. His usual set, Mrs. Williams and Mrs.
De Mullins, were with him; and some queer man of a parson who, after
grinning at me some time, said,--
“Pray, Mrs. De Mullins, is the fifth volume of 'Cecilia' at home yet?
Dr. Johnson made me read it, ma'am.”
“Sir, he did it much honour.”
“Made you, sir?” said the doctor, “you give an ill account of your own
taste or understanding, if you wanted any making to read such a book as
'Cecilia.'”
“Oh, sir, I don't mean that; for I am sure I left every thing in the
world to go on with it.”
A shilling was now wanted for some purpose or other, and none of them
happened to have one; I begged that I might lend one.
“Ay, do,” said the doctor, “I will borrow of you; authors are like
privateers, always fair game for one another.”
“True, sir,” said the parson, “one author is always robbing another.”
“I don't know that, sir,” cried the doctor; “there sits an author who,
to my knowledge, has robbed nobody. I have never once caught her at a
theft. The rogue keeps her resources to herself!”