When Johnson had done reading,
the authour asked him bluntly, 'If upon the whole it was a good
translation?' Johnson, whose regard for truth was uncommonly strict,
seemed to be puzzled for a moment, what answer to make; as he certainly
could not honestly commend the performance: with exquisite address he
evaded the question thus, 'Sir, I do not say that it may not be made
a very good translation.' Here nothing whatever in favour of the
performance was affirmed, and yet the writer was not shocked. A printed
Ode to the Warlike Genius of Britain, came next in review; the bard was
a lank bony figure, with short black hair; he was writhing himself
in agitation, while Johnson read, and shewing his teeth in a grin of
earnestness, exclaimed in broken sentences, and in a keen sharp tone,
'Is that poetry, Sir?--Is it Pindar?' JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, there is here
a great deal of what is called poetry.' Then, turning to me, the poet
cried, 'My muse has not been long upon the town, and (pointing to the
Ode) it trembles under the hand of the great critick.
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