Next they discussed Pacchierotti, the famous Italian tenor, and his approaching _début_ in a new _rôle_. Then they spoke of the new books. Some one at the table mentioned the word "bluestocking." The expression was a novelty at the time, and created a sensation. "Don't allude to bluestockings in my presence!" cried the author of "Evelina," making a shield of her fan. "You a bluestocking!" exclaimed Burke indignantly. "There is no bluestocking where there is no leaven of pedantry. Now, if it were a question of poor Mrs. Carpenter." "Yes," interposed Gibbon, "the ill-starred lady has translated Epictetus!" "And Mrs. Cholmondeley,--do you give her a place among the bluestockings?" "She's too great a woman for that!" "I was at her house yesterday," remarked Miss Burney; "I found her very affable." "Affability," muttered Dr. Johnson, "is the first lieutenant of pride." In hot haste Boswell produced his tablets from his pocket in order to note the aphorism which had fallen from the oracle's lips. "I find Mrs. Thrale a worthy person," remarked Gibbon, "and an agreeable mistress of her house." "The wife of a brewer?" inquired Lady Vereker, with just a hint of disdain in her tone. "A most intelligent woman!" retorted Miss Burney; "she has saved her husband from ruin." "But it appears that she has not preserved him from another accident," replied Lady Vereker languidly. The guests were beginning to indulge in a smile, when suddenly Dr. Johnson's formidable head began to oscillate, while from his chair emanated a cracking sound of evil augury. Until this moment he had remained silent, breathing heavily between his closely set teeth as if trying to imitate the hiss of a saw, meanwhile enveloping his neighbor, Miss Burney, with a glance of grotesque tenderness in which paternal interest struggled with love; but at the sarcasm of Lady Vereker against his friend, Mrs. Thrale, he bridled and assumed his attitude of combat. "Madam!" he burst forth in a voice of thunder, and there he paused like Hercules with club poised in air. "The bolt is about to fall," whispered Gibbon. An atmosphere of apprehension prevailed about the table. Lady Vereker alone, with an intrepid though somewhat pallid smile, raised her pretty head with charming effrontery to brave the blow. But it was Fate's decree that the bolt should not fall, and that the Doctor should not be heard from that evening. Just at the moment that his lips parted to avenge the honor of Mrs. Thrale, the door opened to admit Ralph. With a fluttered air he hastened to his master and whispered a word or two in his ear. Sir Joshua was upon his feet in an instant.