_Friday, Sept. 11_.--And now, if I am not mistaken, I come to relate
the conclusion of Mr. Crutchley's most extraordinary summer career
at Streatham, which place, I believe, he has now left without much
intention to frequently revisit. However, this is mere conjecture; but
he really had a run of ill-luck not very inviting to a man of his cold
and splenetic turn to play the same game.
When we were just going to supper, we heard a disturbance among the
dogs; and Mrs. and Miss Thrale went out to see what was the matter,
while Dr. Johnson and I remained quiet. Soon returning.
“A friend! a friend!” she cried, and was followed by Mr. Crutchley. He
would not eat with us, but was chatty and in good-humour, and as usual,
when in spirits, saucily sarcastic. For instance, it is generally half
my employment in hot evenings here to rescue some or other poor buzzing
idiot of an insect from the flame of a candle. This, accordingly, I
was performing with a Harry Longlegs, which, after much trial to catch,
eluded me, and escaped, nobody could see how. Mr. Crutchley vowed I had
caught and squeezed him to death in my hand.
“No, indeed,” cried I, “when I catch them, I put them out of the
window.”
“Ay, their bodies,” said he, laughing; “but their legs, I suppose, you
keep.”
“Not I, indeed; I hold them very safe in the palm of my hand.”
“Oh!” said he, “the palm of your hand! why, it would not hold a fly!
But what have you done with the poor wretch! thrown him under the table
slily?”
“What good would that do?”
“Oh, help to establish your full character for mercy.”
Now was not that a speech to provoke Miss Grizzle herself? However, I
only made up a saucy lip.
“Come,” cried he, offering to take my hand, “where is he? Which hand is
he in? Let me examine?”
“No, no, I thank you; I sha'n't make you my confessor, whenever I take
one.”
He did not much like this; but I did not mean he should.
Afterwards he told us a most unaccountably ridiculous story of a crying
wife. A gentleman, he said, of his acquaintance had married lately
his own kept mistress; and last Sunday he had dined with the bride and
bridegroom, but, to his utter astonishment, without any apparent reason
in the world, in the middle of dinner or tea, she burst into a violent
fit of crying, and went out of the room, though there was not the least
quarrel, and the sposo seemed all fondness and attention.
“What, then,” said I, somewhat maliciously, I grant, “had you been
saying to er?”
“Oh, thank you!” said he, with a half-affronted bow, “I expected this! I
declare I thought you would conclude it was me!”