Garrick and Rich.—­Soon after the appearance of Garrick at the theatre of Drury Lane, to which he, by his astonishing powers, brought all the world, while Mr. Rich was playing his pantomimes at Covent Garden to empty benches, he and Mr. Garrick happened to meet one morning at the Bedford coffee-house.  Having fallen into conversation, Garrick asked the Covent Garden manager, how much his house would hold, when crowded with company.  “Why, master,” said Rich, “I cannot well tell; but if you will come and play Richard for one night, I shall be able to give an account.”

Morand, author of Le Capricieuse, was in a box of the theatre during the first representation of that comedy; the pit loudly expressing disapprobation at the extravagance and improbability of some traits in this character, the author became impatient; he put his head out of the box, and called, “Know, gentlemen, that this is the very picture of my mother-in-law.  What do you say now?”

Foote, on his last journey to France for the recovery of his health, while waiting for the packet, entered the kitchen of the Ship tavern at Dover, and, addressing the cook, who prided herself in never having been ten miles out of town, exclaimed, “Why, cookee, I understand you have been a great traveller.”  She denying the charge, Foote replied, “Why, they tell me up stairs that you have been all over Grease, and I am sure I have seen you myself at Spithead.”

A person talking to Foote of an acquaintance of his, who was so avaricious as even to lament the prospect of his funeral expences, though a short time before he had been censuring one of his own relations for his parsimonious temper—­“Now is it not strange,” continued he, “that this man would not remove the beam from his own eye, before he attempted to take the mote out of other peoples?” “Why, so I dare say he would,” cried Foote, “if he were sure of selling the timber.”

DUTY.

General Mackenzie, when commander-in-chief of the Chatham division of marines, during the late war, was very rigid as to duty; and, among other regulations, would suffer no officer to be saluted on guard if out of his uniform.  It one day happened that the general observed a lieutenant of marines in a plain dress, and, though he knew the young officer quite intimately, he called to the sentinel to turn him out.  The officer appealed to the general, saying who he was; “I know you not,” said the general; “turn him out.”  A short time after, the general had been at a small distance from Chatham, to pay a visit, and returning in the evening in a blue coat, claimed entrance at the yard gate.  The sentinel demanded the countersign, which the general not knowing, desired the officer of the guard to be sent for, who proved to be the lieutenant whom the general had treated so cavalierly.—­“Who are you?” inquired the officer.—­“I am General Mackenzie,” was the reply.—­“What, without an uniform?” rejoined the lieutenant; “oh, get back, get back, impostor; the general would break your bones if he knew you assumed his name.”  The general on this made his retreat; and the next day, inviting the young officer to breakfast, told him—­“He had done his duty with very commendable exactness.”