-- We last night lodged at the house of Sir
Thomas Bullford, an old friend of my uncle, a jolly fellow, of
moderate intellects, who, in spite of the gout, which hath lamed
him, is resolved to be merry to the last; and mirth he has a
particular knack in extracting from his guests, let their humour
be ever so caustic or refractory. -- Besides our company, there was
in the house a fat-headed justice of the peace, called Frogmore,
and a country practitioner in surgery, who seemed to be our
landlord's chief companion and confidant. -- We found the knight
sitting on a couch, with his crutches by his side, and his feet
supported on cushions; but he received us with a hearty welcome,
and seemed greatly rejoiced at our arrival. -- After tea, we were
entertained with a sonata on the harpsichord by lady Bullford,
who sung and played to admiration; but Sir Thomas seemed to be a
little asinine in the article of ears, though he affected to be
in raptures, and begged his wife to favour us with an arietta of
her own composing. -- This arietta, however, she no sooner began to
perform, than he and the justice fell asleep; but the moment she
ceased playing, the knight waked snorting, and exclaimed, 'O
cara! what d'ye think, gentlemen? Will you talk any more of your
Pargolesi and your Corelli?' -- At the same time, he thrust his
tongue in one cheek, and leered with one eye at the doctor and
me, who sat on his left hand.
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