Thursday. Just before we went to dinner, a chaise drove up to the door, and from it issued Mr. Murphy. He met with, a very joyful reception; and Mr. Thrale, for the first time in his life, said he was “a good fellow”: for he makes it a sort of rule to salute him with the title of “scoundrel,” or “rascal.” They are very old friends; and I question if Mr. Thrale loves any man so well.
He made me many very flattering speeches, of his eagerness to go on with my play, to know what became of the several characters, and to what place I should next conduct them; assuring me that the first act had run in his head ever since he had read it.
In the evening we all, adjourned to Major H—'s, where, besides his own family, we found Lord Mordaunt, son to the Earl of Peterborough,—a pretty, languid, tonnish young man; Mr. Fisher, who is said to be a scholar, but is nothing enchanting as a gentleman; young Fitzgerald, as much the thing as ever; and Mr. Lucius Corcannon.
Mr. Murphy was the life of the party: he was in good spirits, and extremely entertaining; he told a million of stories, admirably well; but stories won't do upon paper, therefore I shall not attempt to present you with them.
This morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Murphy said,
“I must now go to the seat by the seaside, with my new set of acquaintance, from whom I expect no little entertainment.”
“Ay,” said Mrs. Thrale, “and there you'll find us all! I believe this rogue means me for Lady Smatter; but Mrs. Voluble[96] must speak the epilogue, Mr. Murphy.”
“That must depend upon who performs the part,” answered he.
“Don't talk of it now,” cried I, “for Mr. Thrale knows nothing of it.”
“I think,” cried Mr. Murphy, “you might touch upon his character in 'Censor.'”