_Chesington_.
How sorry am I, my dear Mr. Crisp, that you could not come to Streatham
at the time Mrs. Thrale hoped to see you; for when are we likely to
meet at Streatham again? And you would have been much pleased, I am
sure, with the famous Corsican General, Paoli, who spent the day
there, and was extremely communicative and agreeable.
He is a very pleasing man; tall and genteel in his person, remarkably
attentive, obliging, and polite; and as soft and mild in his speech,
as if he came from feeding sheep in Corsica, like a shepherd; rather
than as if he had left the warlike field where he had led his armies to
battle.
I will give you a little specimen of his language and discourse, as
they are now fresh in my ears.
When Mrs. Thrale named me, he started back, though smilingly, and said:
‘I am very glad enough to see you in the face, Miss Evelina, which I
have wished for long enough. O charming book! I give it you my word I
have read it often enough. It is my favourite studioso for apprehending
the English language; which is difficult often. I pray you, Miss
Evelina, write some more little volumes of the quickest.’
I disclaimed the name, and was walking away; but he followed me with an
apology. ‘I pray your pardon, Mademoiselle. My ideas got in a blunder
often. It is Miss Borni what name I meant to accentuate, I pray your
pardon, Miss Evelina. I make very much error in my English many times
enough.’
My father then lead him to speak of Mr. Boswell, by inquiring into the
commencement of their connexion.
“He came,” answered the General, “to my country sudden, and he fetched
me some letters of recommending him. But I was of the belief he might,
in the verity, be no other person but one imposter. And I supposed,
in my mente, he was in the privacy one espy; for I look away from him
to my other companies, and, in one moment, when I look back to him, I
behold it in his hands his tablet, and one pencil! O, he was at the
work, I give it you my honour, of writing down all what I say to some
persons whatsoever in the room! Indeed I was angry enough. Pretty
much so, I give it you my word. But soon after, I discern he was no
impostor, and besides, no espy; for soon I find it out I was myself
only the monster he came to observe, and to describe with one pencil
in his tablet! O, is a very good man, Mr. Boswell, in the bottom! so
cheerful, so witty, so gentle, so talkable. But, at the first, O, I was
indeed _faché_ of the sufficient. I was in one passion, in my mente,
very well.”
He had brought with him to Streatham a dog, of which he is exceeding
fond; but he apologised for being so accompanied, from the safety which
he owed to that faithful animal, as a guard from robbers. “I walk
out,” he cried, “when I will one night, and I lose myself. The dark it
comes on of a blackish colour. I don’t know where I put my foot! In a
moment comes behind me one hard step. I go on. The hard step he follow.
Sudden I turn round; a little fierce, it may be. I meeted one man: an
ogly one. He had not sleeped in the night! He was so big whatsoever;
with one clob stick, so thick to my arm. He lifted it up. I had no
pistollettos; I call my dog. I open his mouth, for the survey to his
teeth. My friend, I say, look to the muzzle! Give me your clob stick at
the moment, or he shall destroy you when you are ten! The man kept his
clob stick; but he took up his heels, and he ran away from that time to
this moment!”
After this, talking of the Irish giant who is now shewn in town, he
said, “He is so large, I am as a baby! I look at him, and I feel so
little as a child! Indeed my indignation it rises when I see him hold
up one arm, spread out to the full, to make me walk under it for my
canopy! I am as nothing! and it turns my bile more than whatsoever to
find myself in the power of one man, who fetches from me half a crown
for looking at his seven feet!”
All this comic English he pronounces in a manner the most comically
pompous. Nevertheless, my father thinks he will soon speak better,
and that he seems less to want language than patience to assort
it; hurrying on impetuously, and any how, rather than stopping for
recollection.
He diverted us all very much after dinner, by begging leave of
Mrs. Thrale to give “one toast;” and then, with smiling pomposity,
pronouncing “The great Vagabond!” meaning to designate Dr. Johnson as
“The Rambler.”
This is the last visit remembered, or, at least, narrated, of
Streatham.