to ship him to America. At the opera, with Lord Ossory 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? Taleb