and Mr. Fitzpatrick, I talked through the round of the boxes, from Lady Pembroke’s on the right to Lady Hervey’s on the left, where Dolly’s illness and Lady Harrington’s snuffing gabble were the topics rather than Giardini’s fiddling.  Mr. Storer took me to Foote’s dressing-room at the Haymarket, where we found the Duke of Cumberland lounging.  I was presented, and thought his Royal Highness had far less dignity than the monkey-comedian we had come to see.

I must not forget the visit I made to Drury Lane Playhouse with my Lords Carlisle and Grantham and Comyn.  The great actor received me graciously in such a company, you may be sure.  He appeared much smaller off the boards than on, and his actions and speech were quick and nervous.  Gast, his hairdresser, was making him up for the character of Richard III.

“’Ods!” said Mr. Garrick, “your Lordships come five minutes too late.  Goldsmith is but just gone hence, fresh from his tailor, Filby, of Water Lane.  The most gorgeous creature in London, gentlemen, I’ll be sworn.  He is even now, so he would have me know, gone by invitation to my Lord Denbigh’s box, to ogle the ladies.”

“And have you seen your latest lampoon, Mr. Garrick?” asks Comyn, winking at me.

Up leaps Mr. Garrick, so suddenly as to knock the paint-pot from Gast’s hand.

“Nay, your Lordship jests, surely!” he cried, his voice shaking.

“Jests!” says my Lord, very serious; “do I jest, Carlisle?” And turning to Mr. Cross, the prompter, who stood by, “Fetch me the St. James’s Evening Post,” says he.

“’Ods my life!” continues poor Garrick, almost in tears; “I have loaned Foote upwards of two thousand pounds.  And last year, as your Lordship remembers, took charge of his theatre when his leg was cut off.  ’Pon my soul, I cannot account for his ingratitude.”

“’Tis not Foote,” says Carlisle, biting his lip; “I know Foote’s mark.”

“Then Johnson,” says the actor, “because I would not let him have my fine books in his dirty den to be kicked about the floor, but put my library at his disposal—­”

“Nay, nor Johnson.  Nor yet Macklin nor Murphy.”

“Surely not—­” cries Mr. Garrick, turning white under the rouge.  The name remained unpronounced.

“Ay, ay, Junius, in the Evening Post.  He has fastened upon you at last,” answers Comyn, taking the paper.

“’Sdeath!  Garrick,” Carlisle puts in, very solemn, “what have you done to offend the Terrible Unknown?  Talebearing to his Majesty, I’ll warrant!  I gave you credit for more discretion.”

At these words Mr. Garrick seized the chair for support, and swung heavily into it.  Whereat the young lords burst into such a tempest of laughter that I could not refrain from joining them.  As for Mr. Garrick, he was so pleased to have escaped that he laughed too, though with a palpable nervousness.

   [Note by the editor.  It was not long after this that Mr. Garrick’s
   punishment came, and for the self-same offence.]