and the bas-b!eus, he at least brought her a never-failing supply, day after day, of precisely that kind of literary gossip and anecdote which she delighted in. She would hear of " The Traveller " of the Irish Goldsmith, published on December 19th, 1764, and would be told which lines in it were Dr. Johnson's. On one memorable evening, when Johnson was called abruptly from her dinner-table, returning in three hours, she would listen curiously to the story of the poor author who had sent for him to his lodgings in Islington,—how Johnson had found him drinking Madeira wine and fretting over a novel which lay on his table ready for the press, while his enraged landlady and the bailiffs were besieging him for rent; and how Johnson had extricated the author from his difficulty by carrying off the manuscript to the bookseller and exchanging it for a sum of ready money. It was not till ten years afterwards, Mrs. Thrale tells us, that something in Dr. Goldsmith's behaviour suggested to her that he was the man; and then Johnson confessed that he was so, and that the novel which he had sold so expeditiously for 60l. was "The Vicar of Wakefield." Boswell was away on his travels when first the Thrales and Johnson became intimate; and there had been summers at Streatham and journeys to "Brighthelmstone" before he returned. Near at hand, however, were the lions of the Literary Club, established in 1763 or 1764, the original members of which were Johnson himself, Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Edmund Burke, Topham Beauclerk, Bennet Langton, Sir John Hawkins, and Dr. Nugent, while others were added from time to time. This group included Johnson's most intimate associates, most of whom were considerably younger than himself, while all looked up to him as a kind of literary prophet or leader.
At first only heard of, these men became in time habitually the guests of Mrs. Thrale and her hospitable husband. Everybody was glad of access to a house where Johnson was sure to be found; indeed, it was often hopeless to look for him elsewhere, and the difficulty of securing his company at dinner was a subject of joke with Goldsmith: —
When come to the place where we all had to dine,
A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by nine,
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come.
"For I knew it," he cried: "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale."
Garrick the actor was another of the Johnsonian set who became intimate at Streatham Park; and, when Mrs. Thrale told him she remembered having sat on his knee while he fed her with cakes, more than twenty years ago, he did not like the story! Boswell was first invited to Streatham in 1768. "On the 5th of October," he says, "I complied with this obliging invitation, and found at an elegant villa, six miles from town, every circumstance which can make society pleasing. Johnson, though quite at home, was yet looked to with an awe tempered by affection, and seemed to be equally the care of his host and hostess."
This, indeed, may be said to have been the golden age of their friendship. "On the birthday of our eldest daughter, and that of our friend Dr. Johnson, the 17th and 18th of September," says Mrs. Thrale, "we every year made up a little dance and supper to divert our servants and their friends, putting the summer-house into their hands for the two evenings, to fill with acquaintance and merriment. Francis (Johnson's black servant) and his white wife were invited of course. She was eminently pretty, and he was jealous, as my maids told me. On the first of these days' amusements, I know not what year, Frank took offence at some attentions paid to his Desdemona, and walked away next morning to London in wrath. His master and I, driving the same road an hour after, overtook him. 'What is the matter, child,' says Dr. Johnson, 'that you leave Streatham to-day? Art sick?' 'He is jealous,' whispered I. 'Are you jealous of your wife, you stupid blockhead?' cries out his master in another tone. The fellow hesitated; and 'To be sure, sir; I don't quite approve, sir,' was the stammering reply. 'Why, what do they do to her, man? Do the footmen kiss her?' 'No, sir, no! Kiss my wife, sir! I hope not, sir!' 'Why, what do they do to her, my lad?' 'Why, nothing sir! I'm sure, sir!' 'Why, then, go back directly and dance, you dog, do! and let's hear no more of such empty lamentations.'"
Here is another of Mrs. Thrale's stories of Streatham life: —
"Dr. Johnson was always exceedingly fond of chemistry, and we made up a sort
