not, however, occur to them to search the parish-register of Lynn, in order that they might be able to twit a lady with having concealed her age.  That truly chivalrous exploit was reserved for a bad writer of our own time, whose spite she had provoked by not furnishing him with materials for a worthless edition of Boswell’s Life of Johnson, some sheets of which our readers have doubtless seen round parcels of better books.

But we must return to our story.  The triumph was complete.  The timid and obscure girl found herself on the highest pinnacle of fame.  Great men, on whom she had gazed at a distance with humble reverence, addressed her with admiration, tempered by the tenderness due to her sex and age.  Burke, Windham, Gibbon, Reynolds, Sheridan, were among her most ardent eulogists.  Cumberland acknowledged her merit, after his fashion, by biting his lips and wriggling in his chair whenever her name was mentioned.  But it was at Streatham that she tasted, in the highest perfection, the sweets of flattery, mingled with the sweets of friendship.  Mrs. Thrale, then at the height of prosperity and popularity—­with gay spirits, quick wit, showy though superficial acquirements, pleasing though not refined manners, a singularly amiable temper, and a loving heart—­felt towards Fanny as towards a younger sister.  With the Thrales Johnson was domesticated.  He was an old friend of Dr. Burney; but he had probably taken little notice of Dr. Burney’s daughters, and Fanny, we imagine, had never in her life dared to speak to him, unless to ask whether he wanted a nineteenth or a twentieth cup of tea.  He was charmed by her tale, and preferred it to the novels of Fielding, to whom, indeed, he had always been grossly unjust.  He did not, indeed, carry his partiality so far as to place Evelina by the side of Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison; yet he said that his favourite had done enough to have made even Richardson feel uneasy.  With Johnson’s cordial approbation of the book was mingled a fondness, half gallant half paternal, for the writer; and his fondness his age and character entitled him to show without restraint.  He began by putting her hand to his lips.  But soon he clasped her in his huge arms, and implored her to be a good girl.  She was his pet, his dear love, his dear little Burney, his little character-monger.  At one time, he broke forth in praise of the good taste of her caps.  At another time, he insisted on teaching her Latin.  That, with all his coarseness and irritability, he was a man of sterling benevolence, has long been acknowledged.  But how gentle and endearing his deportment could be, was not known till the Recollections of Madame D’Arblay were published.