Garrick's reading of the imaginary letter, stumbling over certain words—giving an odd turn and a ludicrous misreading to a phrase here and there, and finally his turning over the letter and mumbling a postscript alluding to the length of time that had passed since the writer had received a payment on account, could not have been surpassed. The effect of the comedy upon the people in the room was immeasurably heightened by the entrance of Goldsmith in the flesh, when Garrick, as the amanuensis, immediately walked to him gravely with the scrap of paper which had done duty as the letter, in his hand, asking him if what was written there in black and white about the field-marshal's uniform was correct, and if he meant to agree to Filby's request to wear it on the first night of the comedy.
Goldsmith perceived that Garrick was giving an example of the impromptu entertainment in which he delighted, and at once entered into the spirit of the scene, saying-“Why, yes, sir; I have come to the conclusion that more credit should be given to a man who has brought to a successful issue a campaign against the prejudices and stupidities of the manager of a playhouse than to the generalissimo of an army in the field, so why should not I wear a field-marshal's uniform, sir?”
The laugh was against Garrick, which pleased him greatly, for he knew that Goldsmith would feel that he was sharing in the entertainment, and would not regard it as a burlesque upon himself personally. In an instant, however, the actor had ceased to be the supercilious amanuensis, and became David Garrick, crying—
“Nay, sir, you are out of the play altogether. You are presuming to reply to the amanuensis, which, I need scarcely tell a gentleman of your experience, is a preposterous idea, and out of all consistency with nature.”
Goldsmith had shaken hands with all his friends, and being quite elated at the success of his reply to the brilliant Garrick, did not mind much what might follow.
At what did actually follow Goldsmith laughed as heartily as any one in the room.
“Come, sir,” said the amanuensis, “we have no time to waste over empty civilities. We have our 'Animated Nature' to proceed with; we cannot keep the world waiting any longer; it matters not about the booksellers, 'tis the world we think of. What is this?”—picking up an imaginary paper—“'The derivation of the name of the elephant has taxed the ingeniousness of many able writers, but there can be no doubt in the mind of any one who has seen that noble creature, as I have, in its native woods, careering nimbly from branch to branch of the largest trees in search of the butterflies, which form its sole food, that the name elephant is but a corruption of elegant, the movements of the animal being as singularly graceful as its shape is in accordance with all accepted ideas of symmetry.' Sir, this is mighty fine, but your style lacks animation. A writer on 'Animated Nature' should be himself both animated and natural, as one who translates Buffon should himself be a buffoon.”
In this strain of nonsense Garrick went on for the next ten minutes, leading up to a simulated dispute between Goldsmith and his amanuensis as to whether a dog lived on land or water. The dispute waxed warmer and warmer, until at last blows were exchanged and the amanuensis kicked Goldsmith through the door and down the stairs. The bumping of the imaginary man from step to step was heard in the drawing-room, and then the amanuensis entered, smiling and rubbing his hands as he remarked—
“The impertinent fellow! To presume to dictate to his amanuensis! Lord! what's the world coming to when a common literary man presumes to dictate to his amanuensis?”
Such buffoonery was what Garrick loved. At Dr. Burney's new house, around the corner in St. Martin's street, he used to keep the household in roars of laughter—as one delightful member of the household has recorded—over his burlesque auctions of books, and his imitations of Dr. Johnson.