When Dr. Johnson was gone, she told me of my mother’s(50) being obliged to change her dress.

“Now,” said she " Mrs. Burney had on a very pretty linen jacket and coat, and was going to church; but Dr. Johnson, who, I suppose, did not like her in a jacket, saw something was the matter, and so found fault with the linen:  and he looked and peered, and then said, ’Why, madam, this won’t do! you must not go to church so!’ So away went poor Mrs. Burney, and changed her gown!  And when she had done so, he did not like it, but he did not know why, so he told her she should not wear a black hat and cloak in summer!  “How he did bother poor Mrs. Burney! and himself too, for if the things had been put on to his mind, he would have taken no notice of them.”

“Why,” said Mr. Thrale, very drily, “I don’t think Mrs. Burney a very good dresser.”

“Last time she came,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she was in a white cloak, and she told Dr. Johnson she had got her old white cloak scoured on purpose to oblige him!  ‘Scoured!’ says he; ’ay, have you, madam?’—­so he see-sawed, for he could not for shame find fault, but he did not seem to like the scouring.’

And now let me try to recollect an account he gave of certain celebrated ladies of his acquaintance:  an account in which, had you heard it from himself, would have made you die with laughing, his manner is so peculiar, and enforces his humour so originally.  It was begun by Mrs. Thrale’s apologising to him for troubling him with some question she thought trifling—­O, I remember!  We had been talking of colours, and of the fantastic names given to them, and why the palest lilac should b called a soupir `etouff`e; and when Dr. Johnson came in, she applied to him.

“Why, madam,” said he, with wonderful readiness, “it is called a stifled sigh because it is checked in its progress, and only half a colour.”

I could not help expressing my amazement at his universal readiness upon all subjects, and Mrs. Thrale said to him, “Sir, Miss Burney wonders at your patience with such stuff, but I tell her you are used to me, for I believe I torment you with more foolish questions than anybody else dares do.”

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“No, madam,” said he; ’you don’t torment me;—­you teaze me, indeed, sometimes.”

“Ay, so I do, Dr. Johnson, and I wonder you bear with my nonsense.”

No, madam, you never talk nonsense; you have as much sense and more wit, than any woman I know.”

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Thrale, blushing, “it is my turn to go under the table this morning, Miss Burney!”

“And yet,” continued the doctor, with the most comical look, “I have known all the wits, from Mrs. Montagu down to Bet Flint.”

“Bet Flint cried Mrs. Thrale -pray, who is she?”

“Such a fine character, madam!  She was habitually a slut and a drunkard, and occasionally a thief and a harlot.”

“And, for heaven’s sake, how came you to know her?”