We have, in the ‘Memoirs,’ an account of David Garrick’s first call at the house in St. Martin’s Street, which, though written in the author’s later style, was no doubt derived from contemporary notes or journals:— It was early morning, and the doorsteps were being washed by a new housemaid, who, not recognising the actor, demurred to his entering unannounced. He brushed past her, ran upstairs, and burst into the Doctor’s study. Here he found the master of the house under the hands of his hairdresser; while Susanna was reading a newspaper to him, Charlotte making his tea, and Fanny arranging his books. There was a litter of papers everywhere. Burney would have cleared a chair, but the visitor plumped down into one that was well cushioned with pamphlets, crying: ‘Ay, do now, Doctor, be in a little confusion! Whisk your matters all out of their places, and don’t know where to find a thing that you want for the rest of the day, and that will make us all comfortable.’ The Doctor then, laughing, returned to his place on the stool, that his wig— or, as Madame d’Arblay calls it, the furniture of his head—might go through its proper repairs. David, assuming a solemn air of profound attention, fastened his eyes upon the hairdresser, as if wonderstruck at his amazing skill. The man, highly gratified by such notice from the celebrated Garrick, briskly worked on, frizzing, curling, powdering, and pasting, after the mode of the day, with the utmost importance and self-complacency. Garrick himself had on what he called his scratch wig, which was so uncommonly ill-arranged and frightful that the whole family agreed no one else could have appeared in such a state in the public streets without risk of being hooted at. He dropped now all talk with the Doctor, not even answering what he said, and seemed wholly absorbed in watching what was going on; putting on, by degrees, with a power like transformation, a little mean face of envy and sadness, such as he wore in representing Abel Drugger, till at length, in the eyes of the spectators, he passed out of himself altogether, and, with his mouth hanging stupidly open, and his features vacant of all expression, he became the likeness of some daubed wooden block in a barber’s shop window. The friseur, who at the beginning had felt flattered on seeing his operations so curiously observed, was put out of countenance by this incomprehensible change, became presently so embarrassed that he hardly knew what he was about, and at last fell into utter consternation. Scared and confounded, he hastily rolled up the last two curls, and prepared to make his retreat; but before he could escape, Garrick, lifting his own miserable scratch from his head, and holding it out on his finger and thumb, squeaked out in a whining voice, ‘Pray now, sir, do you think, sir, you could touch me up this here old bob a little bit, sir?’