The hairdresser dismissed, the actor, who could not help acting, proceeded to give further proofs of his versatility. ‘And so, Doctor,’ he began, ‘you, with your tag-rag and bobtail there——’ Here he pointed to some shelves of shabby books and tracts, which he started up to examine; the next moment, becoming an auctioneer, he offered for sale these valuable works, each worth a hundred pounds, and proclaimed that they were ‘going, going, going, at a penny apiece.’ Then, quietly reseating himself: ‘And so, Doctor,’ he continued, ‘you, and tag-rag and bobtail there, shut yourselves up in this snug little bookstall, with all your bright elves around you, to rest your understanding!’ There were loud cries of mock indignation from the young people at the idea of papa resting his understanding. Garrick apologized in his best stage manner, and after some further talk, inquired, ‘But when, Doctor, shall we have out the History of Histories? Do let me know in time, that I may prepare to blow the trumpet of fame.’ Of course, this was a prelude to his appearing in the character of a cheap-jack, advertising ‘the only true History.’ Invited to the parlour to breakfast, he excused himself on the plea of being engaged at home to Twiss[16] and Boswell, whom immediately he took off to the life. Encouraged by the laughter of his audience, this most reprehensible person, who set no bounds to his levity, proceeded to offer an imitation of Dr. Johnson himself. He sincerely honoured and loved Dr. Johnson, he said, but that great man had eccentricities which his most attached admirers were irresistibly impelled to mimic. Arranging, therefore, his dress so as to enlarge his person, in some strange way, several inches beyond its natural size, assuming the voice and authoritative port of the lexicographer, and giving a thundering stamp on the carpet, the devout worshipper of Dr. Johnson delivered, with sundry extraordinary attitudes and gestures, a short dialogue that had passed between them during the preceding week: “David! Will you lend me your ‘Petrarca’?” “Y—e—s, sir!” “David, you sigh?” “Sir, you shall have it, certainly.” “Accordingly,” Garrick continued, “the book—stupendously bound—I sent to him that very evening. But scarcely had he taken the noble quarto in his hands, when, as Boswell tells me, he poured forth a Greek ejaculation, and a couplet or two from Horace; and then, in one of those fits of enthusiasm which always seem to require that he should spread his arms aloft in the air, his haste was so great to debarrass them for that purpose, that he suddenly pounces my poor ‘Petrarca’ over his head upon the floor—Russia leather, gold border, and all! And then, standing for several minutes erect, lost in abstraction, he forgot, probably, that he had ever seen it, and left my poor dislocated Beauty to the mercy of the housemaid’s morning mop!”