A WEARIED M.P.—MR. CRUTCHLEY REAPPEARS.
In the midst of the opening of a trial such as this, so important to the country as well as to the individual who is tried, what will you say to a man—a member of the House of Commons who kept exclaiming almost perpetually, just at my side, “What a bore!—when will it be over?—Must one come any more?—I had a great mind not to have come at all.—Who’s that?—Lady Hawkesbury and the Copes?—Yes.—A pretty girl, Kitty.—Well, when will they have done?—I wish they’d call the question—I should vote it a bore at once!”
Just such exclamations as these were repeated, without intermission, till the gentleman departed: and who should it be that spoke with so much legislative wisdom but Mr. W———!
In about two or three hours—this reading still lasting—Mr. Crutchley came to me again. He, too, was so wearied, that he was departing; but he stayed some time to talk over our constant topic—my poor Mrs. Thrale. How little does he suspect the interest I unceasingly take in her—the avidity with which I seize every opportunity to gather the smallest intelligence concerning her!
One little trait of Mr. Crutchley, so characteristic of that queerness which distinguishes him, I must mention. He said he questioned whether he should comme any more: I told him I had imagined the attendance of every member to be indispensable. “No,” cried he, “ten to one if another day they are able to make a house!”
“The Lords, however, I suppose, must come?”
“Not unless they like it.”
“But I hear if they do not attend they have no tickets.”
“Why, then, Miss Primrose and Miss Cowslip must stay away too!”