“’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.]

“By the bye, Garrick,” Carlisle remarked slyly, when he had recovered, “Mrs. Crewe was vastly taken with the last ‘vers’ you left on her dressing-table.”

“Was she, now, my Lord?” said the great actor, delighted, but scarce over his fright.  “You must know that I have writ one to my Lady Carlisle, on the occasion of her dropping her fan in Piccadilly.”  Whereupon he proceeded to recite it, and my Lord Carlisle, being something of a poet himself, pronounced it excellent.

Mr. Garrick asked me many questions concerning American life and manners, having a play in his repertory the scene of which was laid in New York.  In the midst of this we were interrupted by a dirty fellow who ran in, crying excitedly: 

“Sir, the Archbishop of York is getting drunk at the Bear, and swears he’ll be d—­d if he’ll act to-night.”