[In the following essays, Fitzgerald conducts a close examination of the characters in Foote's major works and discusses Foote's ironic tone.]

FOOTE'S COMEDIES

Foote was a diligent dramatist, and wrote about a score of pieces, not all of equal merit; but, with the exception of three or four, all may be considered good, while at least two—The Minor and The Cozeners—stand out from the productions of the time. They might be called great plays, from their subjects and treatment, from the living characters introduced, the abuses that were mercilessly gibbeted or lashed, and the wholesome reform that followed. Here Foote might place his claim to the title of “English Aristophanes” on fair foundation; and his work seems akin to that of Charles Dickens when reforming social abuses.

Character is true drama, and it is followed in real life as well as in the theatre with an absorbing interest. The author himself claimed to have furnished no fewer than eighteen original characters to English drama, and there is much foundation for the claim. The worthy Genest is unbounded in his admiration. “Though having no plot,” he says, “his dialogue is superior to most other writers'; it abounds in wit, humour, and satire, and is peculiarly terse and well adapted to the stage. Seldom is there a superfluous word, or one that could be changed. They contain a history of the follies, customs, and corruptions of his age. He cared not whether the objects of his satire were in high or low life, provided the peculiarities were prominent enough and the persons well known. By his death was lost a great check on fashionable vice.”¹

Foote lived at an age when talent, and even genius, abounded in all departments. The stage was specially distinguished. Actors, managers, dramatists, politicians, poets, writers of all kinds—all were brilliant. Each actor seemed to have a distinct and marked character of his own, in most cases found interesting enough to furnish forth memoirs and other records. Garrick's life has been written at least six times. The lover of the stage is never tired of hearing about him and Quin and Woffington, Barry, Macklin, Mossop, Woodward, Delane, Sheridan, and dozens more. All their lives are interesting and dramatic; they are living personages, and each a “character.” They all got forward in the world and made their mark, because they had talent and originality. The world was their oyster, and they knew how to open it.

In contrast to this happy era, we may look round on our own society to discover that we are living in a time of general mediocrity. In every direction there is a depressing level. If we survey all the professions—law, the Church, medicine, soldiery, political life, authorship—all is second-rate and inferior. There is no one standing at the top—no brilliant figures, as in the day of Dickens and Thackeray. The most distressing extinction of all is that of humour and statesmanship. In a crisis there is no one to turn to.

Foote's work as a dramatist has been much overlooked, if not undervalued. It is really classical. Intended equally for untheatrical as well as for theatrical audiences—for they were sold largely in book form—his pieces seem always to have been heartily appreciated. Yet in the published form all the elements of movement and colour—that is, of mimicry and other illustration—had to be omitted; we can conceive, therefore, when presented with the rich living forces of Foote himself, kindled by the spirit of the persons taken off, what an overpowering exhibition was the result! Foote became the actual personage, while he superadded brilliant illustrative dialogue, eccentric gestures, and other elements. We may assume that the author was not prompted by ill-nature or malice when he “brought on” his victim, but simply found that the presence of such a model kindled his imagination and added force. This vital element, however, being now wanting, it becomes impossible ever to revive pieces of Foote's. And how brilliant and how amusing they must have been! What vivacity, what broad humour, were present, and how original and entertaining! Some of his more notable characters, such as Hartop, Sir Gregory Gazette, the two Cadwalladers, the two Aircastles, Mrs. Cole, and others, may be fairly set beside those of Goldsmith, though lacking Goldsmith's dramatic power and treatment. But so entirely local are the allusions, and so completely based on the spirit and manners of the time, that it would be hopeless to think of reviving them. They would be unintelligible as well as tedious. Foote's pieces, therefore, must remain in the cabinets of the curious, though at the same time the student will find them worthy of his attention, notably those who supply pieces to our stage—which, it must be said without offence, is in a state of destitution as regards dramatists. The consideration of Foote's system is very apropos at this moment, when the Censor question is being submitted to a searching discussion. At every step of Foote's progress we feel that the powers of this official should have been exercised, and why they were not it is difficult to say, unless it be that he, like the rest, trembled before Foote's power. The Lord Chamberlain, however, exercised the duty himself—he was, as it were, the King's deputy; whereas in the present day the licenser seems sometimes to be an independent functionary who does not consult his Chamberlain.

Nowadays no one studies character or human nature, or plausible incident, or, indeed, any of the elements that go to amuse or excite. Any such characters have a sort of stiff, machine-made air; they repeat forms of words supposed to represent character. Everything depends on recited passages; no one thinks of the canon, “We must do it in action.” Who thinks, too, of “the double intention,” described by Johnson in a sentence which conveys the whole art of stage action? Garrick, disguised as a footman, did not act the part properly, for “he did not let the gentleman break through the footman.”

At the present moment the English drama shows signs of exhaustion. The stale devices, the “problem play,” the conversational play of genteel life, are worn out. Who is not tired of “the woman with a past,” and the wretched, uninteresting contentions for the possession of such a creature? What is wanting for the resuscitation of interest is the development of character. Character either on or off the stage is eternally interesting and diverting, and the play and contest of character is a drama in itself. In this view we turn to Foote's long-forgotten pieces, and find characters of the broadest, boldest kind. But, then, characters need character-actors to interpret them, and where are they?

As Genest says, a valuable element in Foote's plays is the striking, vivid pictures they present of the depraved society of his time, as well as of the various types of character that move through it. We are shown a whole gallery of rakes, “fast” men—reckless, gay, and not without spirit and frolic—who are put forward, not to point any moral, but to amuse. Most of the allusions in their talk refer to loose life. Those who are undistinguished by vice are shown as strange eccentrics and oddities. The women are for the most part correct in their manners, but mainly without character, simply because there was no occasion for losing or defending it; as in the case of Mrs. Cadwallader, the tradesman's wife, who seems to accept a lover's proposal as an ordinary matter. To introduce such a personage as “Mother Cole”—a “procuress”—on a British stage might seem going too far, but she was received without protest or repulsion, even with infinite relish. Such an apparition was common enough in the days of the Merry Monarch.

Certain abuses he succeeded in making perfectly ridiculous to the community: affectation, or love of china and curios, attended by ignorance; pretence of religion and inspiration without real feeling—that is to say, hypocrisy; absurd craze for antiquities; blatant arrogance of wealth; pretence of foreign travel; the vulgarity of tax-gatherers, or “commissaries,” who plunder the nation; scheming women, who were agents of dissolute men—in short, he dealt with an endless gallery of beings who preyed on the weaknesses of the community.²

How strange, by the way, is it that, in our time, we see none of this satirical chastisement of foolish types of character! Can the reason be that all is uniform and of one decent pattern—that no one is odd or absurd or affected? Or is the reason the hopeless mediocrity of talent that now reigns in all departments? Not one, it seems to me nowadays, is a true dramatist, though there are many writers of plays and of smart dialogue. No one observes or studies life or produces a true, real, full-blooded, natural character—a character which will engender the action.³

And as we read Foote's scenes we must feel astonished at the power of observation displayed. The author seems to have been familiar with every phase of society. Nothing escaped him; club life, trading life, religious life, licentious life, coffee-house life, gambling life, dandyism, every folly of society was dealt with, and with complete familiarity.⁴

What a terror this man must have been in every society, whether at the dinner-table, or behind the scenes, or on the stage! As his eye roved round the groups before him, and fell now on this one and now on that, each must have quaked in his shoes, thinking that his turn was at hand. The jester is compelled to keep himself afloat, as it were, by recurring efforts; with him, every movement, the slightest naïve or thoughtless utterance, was an opening. On the instant, the victim was roughly “butchered to make a Roman holiday.” He spared no one, particularly those to whom he was under obligation. He would have sympathized with the man who said to certain folk who were lamenting a friend to whom they owed many obligations: “At least you are now free from the burden of gratitude.” Foote in such a case not only dispensed with gratitude, but contrived to turn the table by making the benefactor thankful to him for being indulgent.

And yet, on reading Foote's comedies, we are almost surprised to find how little they depend on that element of personality which yet seemed to have been the secret of their success. He could fill them out lavishly with rich and original strokes, all strict developments of the characters. In this the author was a true artist, for he knew that this adoption of a special model really limited the effect, and was quite transitory; and he sought, beneath the peculiarities and eccentricities of the individual, something large and general which could be applied to the many. Thus Dickens, when setting out his fantastic sketch of Leigh Hunt, broadened all the elements, and formed the general type of an airy, selfish creature who lived in dreams of his personality, which people who had never seen the original could recognize. I have little doubt but that, in the case of Mrs. Gamp, her creator had been first attracted by some stray phrase or perversion, such as “the anworks package,” and this supplied his ready fancy with a whole language. Thence he went deeper down, and came on the confused, muddling character which prompted these utterances, and which jumbled thoughts as it did words. In the same fashion Foote, struck by the amusing incoherence of Cadwallader, devised all sorts of odd situations for his hero, in which he made him behave exactly as he would have done in real life, and then supplied the particular likeness by his vivid histrionic exertions. This, of course, is now lost to the general reader.

As to Foote's acting, it is rather difficult to arrive at an accurate opinion. John Taylor, a pleasant reminiscent, as it is called, whom the older ones of our generation have known—notably the old Mr. Fladgate of the Garrick—had often seen Foote play. He recalled that he acted best the characters that were written by himself, though his voice was harsh and untuned; but the public grew accustomed to him and liked him; and he adds: “His confidence and speech were powerfully effective.” He was not suited to the regular drama, though his good sense and broad humour made him very entertaining. He always tried to keep in the front on the stage—which, as manager, he was privileged to do. Taylor speaks genuinely when he says he could not appreciate the mots of Foote that were circulated with applause. It must be said that this view is supported by Cooke's collection of “good things” given at the end of his latter Life. Most of these were supplied to him by Taylor, who had but a poor opinion of the humorist.

“I have a full recollection,” he used to say, “of his manner. He performed his characters, written by and for himself, with admirable humour and effect, and far beyond any of his successors, though some of these used to take him off with great success, notably Bannister the elder. His voice was harsh and unequal; it would be difficult to believe that it ever could have been endured on the stage; but the public had been used to it, and his intrepid confidence and spirit were powerfully effective”—a very happy criticism. Taylor noted that Foote's manner was by no means suited to the regular drama: meaning, no doubt, that his methods were too disorderly and too dependent on the inspiration of the moment. But his “good sense and broad humour” carried him over this and made him very effective.

Who that has written upon the stage but must recall with deep gratitude the faithful, ever reliable, but little recognized authority, that genuine Dryasdust—Parson Genest? Who has not appealed to him in “a tight place,” and been promptly relieved? This guide has led many an uncertain and perhaps ignorant explorer safely through all the bogs and quagmires of the dramatic chronicles.

This clergyman had been chaplain to the Duke of Ancaster, but fell into ill-health, which compelled him to retire from his profession. He settled at Bath, where for nine years he solaced his sufferings by writing his great encyclopædia in ten volumes octavo: Some Account of the English Stage, it was called, from the Restoration in 1660 to 1830. Joseph Knight gives it this generous praise: “A work of great labour and research, which forms the basis of most exact knowledge of the stage. Few books of reference are equally trustworthy, constant investigation having brought to light few errors, and none of grave importance.”

It is impossible not to admire and sympathize with him in his drudging pursuit; he is so keen, and, above all, so much to be depended upon. From the first origins of the stage he plodded on downwards, year by year, theatre by theatre, to about the 'thirties of last century. There he stopped. Studying his bills, he could track the actor from one house to another, and discover, Heaven knows how, that a theatre was closed on a particular night, for some special reason.

I have mentioned “Joe” Knight, whose spirit was congenial to the parson's, and who had the heartiest faith in him. Indeed, it was believed that this admirable and searching critic might one day undertake to bring the monumental work down to the present era. But it would have been a work of appalling labour, and might have sealed his fate. The good, honest “Joe” Knight was himself a sort of Genest. He had the same drudging accuracy, the same love of dates and details, the same profound knowledge of theatrical history—writing, working with energy, serving three or four papers, and, alas! “burning the candle at both ends,” until there was no more candle to burn. There was too much of the recuperative supper, too much, perhaps, of the small-hours. “Joe's” great task was the preparation of the dramatic biographies in the Dictionary of National Biography. I really believe that he described every actor, actress, and theatrical person, with infinite accuracy and pains; dates, places, incidents, all might be accepted as on oath, so scrupulous and laborious was he in his researches.⁵

And what a force he was—how overpowering and “Falstaffian!” He could say amusing, overpowering things. At a theatre, on a first night, how entertaining to listen to his jocose comments all through the piece! The Garrick Club knew him well. On a “first night” he would come there after the play, take his place at the long supper-table, and “keep it up,” as it is called, with unabated animation till the dawn. Poor Joe! He must have had a difficult time. He was a great bookworm: he collected old French works of a Rabelaisian cast, and made a vast library, but having, as he told me, no shelves or room, had to stack his treasures on the stairs.

Considering the long list of friends, acquaintances, and familiar public characters, who are framed and glazed, as it were, in Foote's pieces, we may wonder how the eccentricities of the amiable “Goldy” escaped being brought upon the Haymarket stage. One reason may have been that he was a dangerous person to meddle with, and, like Johnson, might have bought a cudgel. As it was, he had beaten, or rather tried to beat, a bookseller.

But now comes a surprise, for Goldsmith was to pay Foote the admiring compliment of studying his pieces and helping himself from the dish. He carefully studied his methods and his special treatment of character. He was too well equipped to think of borrowing or copying; but Foote's images, as well as his humorous conceptions and treatment, remained with him. It will be interesting to consider for a moment what his two great comedies owe to Foote. From him Goldsmith certainly took the idea of Tony, the loutish son of a foolish mother. In Foote's case it was a foolish father. In both cases the parents had settled a suitable match for their offspring, but their designs were frustrated by their son's marrying a buxom country girl—Mally Pengrouse in Foote's play. In both pieces—The Knights and She Stoops to Conquer—each heroine is courted by a young spark from town, and each young lady has been selected for two uncouth sons. The young Timothy extols his Mally Pengrouse, just as Tony does his Bet. Goldsmith's piece begins with Mrs. Hardcastle's complaints of the stupidity of country life—“Here we live in an old rambling castle, seeing nobody,” etc. Her husband makes growling, sarcastic comments on his wife's complaints. Mrs. Aircastle grumbles in the same way: “Folks that travelled barefoot to London roll down in their coaches, but still we stick.” When the mother, who dotes on her Tony, says, “He coughs sometimes,” old Hardcastle growls out, “Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way.” Mrs. Aircastle says to her Timothy, “Shoulders back!” on which Aircastle, “His breastbone sticks out like a turkey's,” and adds, “Grace! he has neither grace nor grease.”

That Tony Lumpkin was suggested to “Goldy” by Foote's Knights will be clear to anyone who reads this passage between Timothy and Hartop. It is exactly Hastings patronizing Tony:

HART.:
But have you left in Cornwall nothing that you regret the loss of more than hurling and wrestling?
TIM.:
Nan? what?
HART.:
No favourite she?
TIM.:
Arra, I coupled Favourite and Jowler together, and sure they tugged it all the way up. Part with Favourite! no, I thank you for nothing: you must know I nursed Favourite myself; uncle's huntsman was going to mill-pond to drown all Music's puppies; so I saved she: but, fath, I'll tell you a comical story: At Lanston they both broke loose and eat a whole loin-o'-veal and a leg of beef: Crist! how landlord sweared! fath, the poor fellow was almost mazed; it made me die wi' laughing: but how came you to know about our Favourite?
HART.:
A circumstance so material to his son could not escape the knowledge of Sir Gregory Gazette's friends. But here you mistook me a little, Squire Tim; I meant whether your affections were not settled upon some pretty girl; has not some Cornish lass caught your heart?
TIM.:
Hush! God, the old man will hear; jog a tiny bit this way;—won't a' tell father?
HART.:
Upon my honour!
TIM.:
Why, then I'll tell you the whole story, more or less. Do you know Mally Pengrouse?
HART.:
I am not so happy.
TIM.:
She's uncle's milkmaid; she's as handsome, Lord! her face all red and white, like the inside of a shoulder of mutton: so I made love to our Mally; and just, fath, as I had got her good will to run away to Exeter and be married, uncle found it out and sent word to father, and father sent for me home; but I don't love her a bit the worser for that: but, 'icod, if you tell father, he'll knock my brains out, for he says I'll disparage the family, and mother's as mad as a March hare about it; so father and mother ha' brought me to be married to some young body in these parts.
HART.:
What, is my lady here?
TIM.:
No, sure; Dame Winifred, as father calls her, could not come along.”

Then there is an interview between Timothy and the lady, neither wishing for the marriage. She tells him: “Suppose I won't be married to you?” Tim answers her: “Nay, miss, such I can't help it, faith and soul! But father and mother bid me come a-courting, and if you won't ha' me I'll tell father so.” Tony and Miss Neville have the same sort of confidences in “Goldy's” comedy. It turns out that Timothy has gone and married Mally Pengrouse. Hartop then listens to Timothy, and encourages him on the score of this Mally Pengrouse, he himself wishing to secure the young lady who was intended for Timothy, just as Hastings does. But there is quite a convincing point, though it is but a trifling one. Sir Luke, in The Lame Lover, bids his servant go with his excuses to Sir Gregory Goose—certainly an odd, unusual name. And we find, in The Good-Natured Man, Lofty, who corresponds to Sir Luke, quoting a Sir Gilbert Goose.

Another character certainly inspired “Goldy” for his capital one of Lofty in The Good-Natured Man. Foote supplied the name Lofty in his Patron, and the character also, which is unmistakably original, of “Goldy's” Lofty, in The Lame Lover. Here is one admirable scene, quite as good as, if not better than, Goldsmith's. Sir Luke is a boasting tuft-hunter like Lofty, and has engaged himself to dine with an Alderman. A servant delivers a card to him: “Sir Gregory Goose desires the honour of Sir Luke Limp's company to dinner.” “Gad, so! a little unlucky! I have been engaged for these three weeks.” The Sergeant then mentions that Sir Gregory has been returned to Parliament. Sir Luke: “Is he so? Oh, oh! that alters the case. George, give my compliments to Sir Gregory, and I'll certainly come and dine there. Order Joe to run to Alderman Inkles—sorry can't wait upon him, but confined to bed two days with the new influenza.”

After declaring “that these letter-writers are as persecuting as a beggar who attacks your coach at the mounting of a hill: there is no getting rid of them without a penny to one and a promise to t'other,” a servant brings him a letter from the Earl of Brentford, and an answer is required. “Answer!” cries Sir Luke. “Another invitation: dinner at five—taste for music. Gad, so! I hope Sir Gregory's servant 'an't gone. Run after him as fast as you can; tell him, Quite in despair—recollect an engagement that can't in nature be missed; and return in an instant.”

The servant runs off, but could not overtake the man. Some further talk follows. Sir Luke is taking his leave, when another servant rushes in with a letter:

SERV.:
Sir, His Grace the Duke of—
SIR Luke:
His Grace? Where is he? Where?
SERV.:
In his coach at the door. If you aren't better engaged, he would be glad of your company to go into the city with him and take a dinner at Dolly's.
SIR Luke:
In his own coach, did you say?
SERV.:
Yes, sir, with the coronets—or I believe so.
SIR Luke:
There's no resisting of that. Bid Joe run to Sir Gregory Goose.
SERV.:
He is already gone to Alderman Inkles.
SIR Luke:
Then do you step to the Knight's—hey no! you must go to my Lord's—hold, hold!—no, I have it: step first to Sir Gregory's; then pop in at Lord Brentford's just as the company are going to dinner.
SERV.:
What shall I say to Sir Gregory?
SIR Luke:
Anything—what I told you before.
SERV.:
And what to my Lord?
SIR Luke:
What?—why, tell him that my uncle from Epsom—no! that won't do, for he knows I don't care a farthing for him. Why, tell him—hold, I have it: tell him, just as I was going to my chair to obey his commands, I was arrested by a couple of bailiffs and carried to the Pied Bull at the Borough. I beg ten thousand pardons for making His Grace wait, but His Grace knows my misfor—

But Sheridan, as we might expect from our knowledge of his ways, was the most unscrupulous of the depredators. It is not too much to say that the whole conception of Charles Surface and his impecunious association was imported wholesale from Foote's Minor. All the devices for raising money—the shark-like Jews and the rest—are there. Charles, with his pleasant, gay indifference to debt and difficulty, is a copy of the young Wealthy.

The latter is impecunious, reckless, and engaging, in spite of all his follies. His father comes from India with a friendly uncle to rescue him from his creditors, and enters into a confederacy with a number of “rooks,” he assuming the guise of a foreign Baron, just as Sir Oliver disguises himself as Moses. The young fellow shows signs of grace and nobility, which win his father's heart.

What is most convincing, however, is that we can trace Little Premium back to Little Transfer in Minor, both useful brokers or go-betweens. Like the former, Little Transfer has no money himself, but has to get it, in the form of pavingstones or Witney blankets; these can be converted into ready money for the borrower's benefit.

There is a scene in the second act of Minor so reminiscent of The School for Scandal that we almost rub our eyes and seem to think it must be a passage in that immortal comedy that we had somehow overlooked. We hear Charles and Little Premium consulting together.

TRANS.:
And what sum does your honour lack at present?
SIR Geo.:
Lack! How much have you brought?
TRANS.:
Who, I? Dear me! none.
SIR Geo.:
Zounds, none!
TRANS.:
Lack-a-day! none to be had, I think. All the morning have I been upon the hunt. There, Ephraim Barebones, the tallow-chandler in Thames Street, used to be a neverfailing chap; not a guinea to be got there. Then I trotted away to Nebuchadnezzar Zebulon, in the Old Jewry, but it happened to be Saturday; and they never touch on the Sabbath, you know.
SIR Geo.:
Why, what the devil can I do? …
TRANS.:
Well, well, now, I declare, I am quite sorry to see your honour in such a taking.
SIR Geo.:
Damn your sorrow!
TRANS.:
But come, don't be cast down. Though money is not to be had, money's worth may, and that's the same thing.
SIR Geo.:
How, dear Transfer?
TRANS.:
Why, I have, at my warehouse in the city, ten casks of whale-blubber, a large cargo of Dantzick dowlas, with a curious sortment of Birmingham hafts, and Witney blankets for exportation.
SIR Geo.:
Hey!
TRANS.:
And stay, stay! then, again, at my country-house, the bottom of Gray's Inn Lane, there's a hundred ton of fine old hay, only damaged a little last winter, for want of thatching; with forty load of flint stones.
SIR Geo.:
Well?
TRANS.:
Your honour may have all these for a reasonable profit, and convert them into cash.
SIR Geo.:
Blubber and blankets? Why, you old rascal, do you banter me?
TRANS.:
Who, I? Oh law, marry, heaven forbid.
SIR Geo.:
Get out of my—you fluttering scoundrel! … [Enter Loader.] So, sir, you have recommended me to a fine fellow.
LOAD.:
What's the matter?
SIR Geo.:
He can't supply me with a shilling! and wants, besides, to make me a dealer in dowlas.
LOAD.:
Ay, and a very good commodity, too. People that are upon ways and means must not be nice, knight. A pretty piece of work you have made here! Thrown up the cards, with the game in your hands.
SIR Geo.:
Why, pr'ythee, of what use would his—
LOAD.:
Use! of every use. Procure you the spankers, my boy. I have a broker that in a twinkling shall take off your bargain.
SIR Geo.:
Indeed!
LOAD.:
Indeed! Ay, indeed. You sit down to hazard and not know the chances! I'll call him back. Holo, Transfer! [Enter Transfer.] … Come hither, little Transfer. What, man, our Minor was a little too hasty; he did not understand trap: knows nothing of the game, my dear.
TRANS.:
What I said, was to serve Sir George; as he seemed—
LOAD.:
I told him so; well, well, we will take thy commodities, were they as many more. But try, pr'ythee, if thou couldst not procure us some of the ready for present spending.
TRANS.:
Let me consider.
LOAD.:
Ay, do, come: shuffle thy brains; never fear the Baronet. To let a lord of lands want shiners—'tis a shame.
TRANS.:
I do recollect, in this quarter of the town, an old friend that used to do things in this way.
LOAD.:
Who?
TRANS.:
Statute, the scrivener.
LOAD.:
Slam me, but he has nicked the chance.
TRANS.:
A hard man, Master Loader!
SIR Geo.:
No matter.
TRANS.:
His demands are exorbitant.
SIR Geo.:
That is no fault of ours.
LOAD.:
Well said, knight!
TRANS.:
But, to save time, I had better mention his terms.
LOAD.:
Unnecessary.
TRANS.:
Five per cent. legal interest.
SIR Geo.:
He shall have it.
TRANS.:
Ten, the premium.
SIR Geo.:
No more words.
TRANS.:
Then, as you are not of age, five more for insuring your life.
LOAD.:
We will give it.
TRANS.:
As for what he will demand for the risque—
SIR Geo.:
He shall be satisfied.
TRANS.:
You pay the attorney.
SIR Geo.:
Amply, amply. Loader, despatch him.
LOAD.:
There, there, little Transfer; now everything is settled. All terms shall be complied with, reasonable or unreasonable. What, our principal is a man of honour. [Exit Transfer.] Hey, my knight, this is doing business. This pinch is a sure card. [Re-enter Transfer.]
TRANS.:
I had forgot one thing. I am not the principal; you pay the brokerage.
LOAD.:
Ay, ay; and a handsome present into the bargain, never fear.
TRANS.:
Enough, enough.
LOAD.:
Hark'e, Transfer: we'll take the Birmingham hafts and Witney wares.
TRANS.:
They shall be forthcoming. You would not have the hay with the flints?
LOAD.:
Every pebble of 'em. The magistrates of the Baronet's borough are infirm and gouty. He shall deal them as new pavement. [Exit Transfer.] So that's settled.”

In The Knights we find Miss Penelope Trifle, a spinster aunt, who is a sort of duenna to Miss Sukey, and who talks in a stiff, pedantic strain, with highsounding words, quite as Mrs. Malaprop does in The Rivals, though without any “derangement of epitaphs.” She lectures in the same fashion her niece, who is destined for Timothy, as Lydia was for Captain Absolute. But the young lady has in view another lover. Sukey asks for a glass of ale at the inn. Miss Pen. “Fie, fie, niece! Is that liquor for a young lady? Don't disparage your family and breeding. The person is to be born that ever saw me touch anything stronger than water,” etc. Then the girl answers her; on which the duenna: “Now, Miss Flirt, none of your sneers.” Later she says: “It is indeed, Sir Gregory Gazette, a most critical conjuncture, and requires the most mature consideration.” Sir Gregory says: “Lack-a-day, ma'am! while we deliberate the boy may be lost.” Miss Pen: “Why, Sir Gregory Gazette, what operations can we determine on?” “Lack-a-day, ma'am! I know but one.” Miss Pen: “Administer your propositions, Sir Gregory Gazette; you will have my concurrence, sir, in anything that does not derogate from the regulations of conduct, for it would be most preposterous in one of my character to deviate from the strictest attention.” She then goes on to talk of “the previous preliminaries” and “the accelerations of the nuptials.” Then she asks: “Can you unravel this perplexity, untwine this mystery, Sir Gregory Gazette?” Later she asks: “How, Mr. Jenkins, would you participate of a plot, too?”

A favourite character with Foote was a certain Puff, a sort of verbose expounder of things, an auctioneer or charlatan. We find him also in The Critic, name and all. One of Foote's pieces opens with the visit of two men-about-town to the stage, about rehearsal time. To them appears Foote, who answers their criticisms and questions, and explains to them his theatrical systems. This machinery was transferred toThe Critic.

The staple of Foote's show, The Diversions of the Morning, was a mock-tragedy called Tragedy à la Mode, in which all the devices of such pieces are burlesqued. It is curious how ingeniously Sheridan has disguised the hints he “conveyed.” Fustian, the author, explains and comments exactly as Puff does. We have, “Enter the King's guards, two on each side, who seize them both; both are forced off on opposite sides.” Lindemira is the heroine, and raves like Tilburina. “Fustian. Here ends the act. Townly. The act is short, Mr. Fustian. Manly. But everything is here that the dramatic laws require. Fust. Now enters the Prince in the presence chamber in deep reflection. [Enter Prince.] Prince. How frail is man—perplex! Surely the gods—[A trumpet blows.] But hark! the sprightly trumpet speaks the King's approach. Down, down, my heart! [Enter the King.] O Royal Sir! if e'er your suppliant slave—[Exit King.]” All this is quite as lively as The Critic.

There were other writers who helped themselves to Foote's wares, such as his friend Murphy, who seized on Sir Gregory Gazette, that devourer of newspapers, and introduced him with little variation into his Upholsterer.⁶

FOOTE'S COMEDIES—CONTINUED

Foote's important comedies, in which he dealt with notable abuses on a large, Aristophanic scale, distilling all his acid, venom, and fury, simulated or real, I have dealt with in their proper places, as being formal acts of his life. His other comedies, which are of far slighter texture, I shall deal with here in collective fashion, briefly sketching their plots and characters.

The Nabob, produced in 1772, was one of Foote's pictures of the shifting manners of his day. The country at the time was filled with returned Indian functionaries and traders who had “shaken the tree,” as it was called—who had gone out with some small appointment, and contrived to amass a huge fortune, which they returned to spend in England. They presently acquired the nickname of Nabobs, and Macaulay has presented a lively sketch of their odious methods, their attempts to secure everything—place in society, seats in Parliament, etc. They were all odiously purse-proud, and delighted in outbidding or ousting the impoverished country gentleman. In “Sir Matthew Mite” Foote has given a most unpleasant portrait of this class, which is also exceedingly spirited and amusing. Witness his talk with Mrs. Match'em, one of the most unsavoury types of female agents, which Foote presented rather too often. The wit here was certainly imitated by Sheridan: “Mite. Perhaps I shall be confined a little at first; for when you take or bury a wife, decency requires that you should keep your house for a week: after that time you will find me, dear Match'em, all that you can wish. Match. Ah! that is more than your honour can tell. I have known some of my gentlemen before marriage make as firm and good resolutions not to have the least love or regard for their wives; but they have been seduced after all, and turned out the poorest tame family fools! Mite. Indeed!” This is “Sherry” all over.

The piece is written with much spirit, and the character of the rapacious Mite cleverly detailed. But of a sudden the author indulges in a sort of freak, and seems to disregard all the dramatic proprieties. He represents him as joining the Society of Antiquaries, being initiated by mystic rites, and then reading a burlesque paper on the subject of Whittington and his Cat, in which he gravely discusses the legend—very much in the spirit of Mr. Pickwick when treating of the Cobham Stone. It seems that some such topic had actually been before the society, and been gravely debated, and it was much laughed at in consequence. Foote could not resist the “actuality” of the thing. At the same time, none knew so well as he what would “go down” with his audience, and his own tremendous spirit and rollicking humour was certain to smooth over every intrusive element of the kind, and make it seem probable.

Jekyll told Moore that the origin of Sir Matthew Mite in the play was a certain Nabob, one General Smith, whose father was a cheesemonger. He must have been an absurd personage enough. He once put off some invited friends with the excuse: “I find my damn fellow of a steward has in the meantime sold the estate.” He spoilt his hand, he said, by shooting peacocks with the Great Mogul. Someone brought Foote to visit this original, I fancy at his request. He was pressed to stay, and hospitably treated. Having just left the house, Foote said: “I think I can't possibly miss him now, having had such a good sitting.”

This General Smith had “stood” for the corrupt borough of Hendon in the early part of the year 1776, but was committed to the King's Bench Prison by Lord Mansfield on a charge of bribery. Being excluded from Almack's, he wished to draw the young men of fashion into his net, and built a new and splendid club in St. James's Street. Here he was ready to furnish expectant heirs with moneys up to the amount of £40,000, this bait bringing ruin on many opulent heirs.

The name Mite, with the profession or calling of cheesemonger, must have pointed out the original to the audience. On this occasion, as in the case of Cadwallader, the actor was nigh getting into serious trouble owing to the unusual spectacle of the victim's resenting his treatment.

There was a good story retailed of a deputation of indignant Nabobs repairing to Foote's house in Suffolk Street to call him to account for his ridicule of their order. The satirist was clever enough to know how to deal with these gentlemen. He is said to have welcomed them with effusive cordiality, but whenever they approached the dangerous subject he adroitly turned it aside with humorous tales—in short, put them in such a good humour that they consented to stay and dine with him! Certainly, he was a wonderful creature. It no doubt furnished him with a capital story for his “show,” and he probably mimicked his two visitors in a diverting way. But who could respect such a being? Nor can we respect the two visitors who allowed themselves to be bamboozled by their lively host, who can have said or done nothing that could alter his caricature. Could it be that the visitors saw that nothing was to be got by intimidating Foote, and that it might be better policy to conciliate him?

The Lame Lover, produced in 1770, was apparently written to nullify in a grotesque way the consequences of the author's unfortunate accident. The title, the leading character, called Sir Luke Limp, and the many allusions to lameness, were all devised with this view—to carry off his infirmity as a jest. The wise warn us never to laugh at ourselves, though we may at other folk, by way of deprecation. It is a complete mistake, and only produces contempt. Sir Luke jocosely tells of a wager he had with a German, a challenge to drive a corking-pin into the calves of their legs: “Mine, you may imagine, was easily done, but when it came to the Baron,” etc. And, again, Charlotte says: “A pretty thing for a girl to be tied to a man with one foot in the grave!” “One foot in the grave,” is the witty reply; “the rest of his body is not a whit nearer for that. But I hear his stump on the stairs.” When Sir Luke appears, he protests that he is all the better for his loss. “Consider, I have neither strain, splint, spavin, or gout; no fear of corns, or that another man should tread on my toes. What, d'ye think I would change with Bill Spindle for one of his spindles?” He then admits he is a little awkward at running, “but as far as a chair minuet, match me who can. That is, as all grace is confined to the motions of the head, arms, and chest, which may sitting be as fully displayed as if one had as many legs as a polypus.” He thus illustrates it: “A leg—a redundancy, a mere nothing. Man is from nature an extravagant creature. In my opinion, we might all be full as well as we are without half the things we have.” It is impossible to resist the wit and buoyancy of these sallies. But the plot is incoherent; rather, there is no plot. One scene is truly far-fetched, when Mrs. Circuit enacts a counsel at the Bar, and recites a long speech on the action of Nobson and Hobson. It is quite unmeaning.

There was a well-known man-about-town—“Charles Skrymisher Boothby Clopton, Esquire”—who bore among his friends the more convenient nickname of “Prince Boothby.” The Boothby family was well known to Johnson, who had a particular affection for Miss Boothby, an interesting woman. This Prince Boothby, being of ancient family, might naturally command a distinguished round of acquaintances, but was well known to be what is called a “tuft-hunter,” carrying out his chase with a ludicrous eagerness. Hence “Prince Boothby.” Foote heard of, or more probably met, this personage—saw his capabilities, and introduced him into his The Lame Lover, adding the lameness from his own experience. It is an odious character—hollow, vapid, chattering, unfeeling, and selfish—but decidedly amusing. The author brings out the tuft-hunting weakness in a rather original fashion. This unhappy being committed suicide, having left a declaration that “he was tired of dressing and undressing.”

The scene between the Serjeant and his daughter, where he presses her to marry, may have suggested that between Sir Anthony Absolute and his son the Captain in Sheridan's play:

CHARLOTTE:
A sweet object to excite tender desires!
SERJ.:
And why not, hussy!
CHAR.:
First as to his years—
SERJ.:
What then?
CHAR.:
A pretty thing, truly, for a girl at my time of life to be tied to a man with one foot in the grave.
SERJ.:
The rest of his body is not a whit the nearer for that. There is only an execution issued against part of his personal; his real estate is unencumbered and free.
CHAR.:
Sir, I know how proud Sir Luke is of his leg, and have often heard him declare that he would not change his bit of timber for the best flesh and bone in the kingdom.

Here we have yet another of Foote's unbecoming references to his infirmity. But the Serjeant's epigrammatic reference to the “one leg in the grave” is exactly in the spirit of Sheridan, whom it must have inspired. “I would have law merchant for them also,” etc. The Nabob must be classed with The Commissary, another corrupt type which he held up to scorn and ridicule. This had been brought out in the year 1765. These officials had become wealthy through contracts during the wars, and, like the Nabobs, tried by all manner of arts to get into society. The brothers Fungus are shown taking regular lessons from Professors, the author here copying wholesale from Molière, even to the fencing scene in Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, made as farcical as Foote could contrive it. Thus he introduced a sort of mechanical horse that rocked by machinery. The Commissary has much more “bustle” than any of the preceding pieces. It would seem that Foote was gradually acquiring his art and learning to marshal his plots. It turns on the adventures of a couple of Commissaries, who were engaged in learning to be men of fashion under hired instructors who preyed upon them. As may be conceived, the author went to Molière's comedy for this notion, and even borrowed some scenes. Fungus was the name of the two brother Commissaries.

Foote nourished some unaccountable prejudices against various societies, such as the College of Physicians and the Society of Antiquaries, whom he never tired of ridiculing in a rather heavy and clumsy fashion. This burlesque of pundits and medicos is never difficult. Scott's “Antiquary” is supreme. Mr. Pickwick's discovery of the incised Cobham stone is happier burlesque than Foote's.

The Nabob is introduced to the Society of Antiquaries, whose investigations as to Whittington and his cat were exciting uproarious laughter. And physicians, whether as individuals or as corporations, he never spared.

The Liar, or The Lyar, was produced in 1761. Foote had no part. It was virtually an adaptation of Corneille's play, and though animated enough—the two Palmers, Jack and Robert, performed in it—it is artificial and rather uninteresting; but with a “rattling” player, such as the late Charles Mathews, who at one time played it, it was effective. The adaptation is done with great freedom and animation.

In 1764 he brought out his Patron, dedicated very obsequiously to the Chamberlain, Lord Gower, to whom he acknowledged many obligations, “which let me boast I have had the happiness to receive untainted by the insolence of domestics, the delays of office, or the chilling superiority of rank—mortifications which have been too often experienced by much greater writers than myself, from much less men than your Lordship.” This seems like an allusion to Johnson's treatment by Lord Chesterfield. With the various Chamberlains he appears to have been on intimate footing, and, as they protected him as far as they could, it is no wonder he was grateful. There was, however, a lack of tact in dedicating his pieces to these functionaries.

It has been almost accepted as a truth that Bubb Dodington—Lord Melcombe—was intended in this comedy. This nobleman was no doubt almost the last of the official patrons. He has written a play which he wishes to be brought out on the cheap and convenient terms that a dependent shall take all the failure on his shoulders, while in case of success the real author's name is to leak out. This does not exactly fit with what is known of Lord Melcombe, and is merely a perversion of a story concerning his patronage of a friend. It seems that there was an amateur drama played for which Foote lent his theatre. This was called The Wishes, and was written by a dilettante, Mr. Bentley. A sort of mystery was associated with it. A rehearsal was given under the patronage of Bubb Dodington, at his villa on the Thames. It was later “produced” by Foote. Some distinguished folk were present, and there was a prologue full of obsequious compliments to the young King and his favourite, who was present. Foote was heard to say, “This is too strong,” and he declined to repeat it. The producer went about more suo, sneering and laughing at the performance.

But though he did not actually glance at Lord Melcombe's dramatic ventures, he no doubt found him effective as a character. But how like Foote it was to introduce and ridicule his own client, the writer whose play he had undertaken to produce! Walpole wrote of Bentley, the author: “He would have died to be supposed an author, and writing for gain.” This clearly refers to Bentley, and not to Lord Melcombe, as is generally stated in the biographies. Walpole, indeed, found Lord Melcombe reading the piece to a select circle. Foote was also summoned to hear it read, and adopted it for his stage, but objected to the Prologue.

In this piece he makes merry with a returned Indian, Sir Peter Pepperpot, whose account of his turtles is really amusing: “Bever. You seem moved; what has been the matter, Sir Peter? Sir P. Matter! why, I am invited to dinner on a barbicu, and the villains have forgot my bottle of chian. Younger. Unpardonable. Sir P. Ay, this country has spoiled them. … Well, dear Bever, rare news, boy: our fleet is arrived from the West. Bever. It is? Sir P. Ay, lad; and a glorious cargo of turtle. It was lucky I went to Brighthelmstone; I nicked the time to a hair: thin as a lath, and a stomach as sharp as a shark's: never was in finer condition for feeding. Bever. Have you a large importation, Sir Peter? Sir P. Nine; but seven in excellent order: the captain assures me they greatly gained ground on the voyage. Bever. How do you dispose of them? Sir P. Four to Cornhill, three to Almack's, and the two sickly ones I shall send to my borough in Yorkshire. Younger. Ay! what, have the provincials a relish for turtle? Sir P. Sir, it is amazing how this country improves in turtle and turnpikes: to which (give me leave to say) we, from our part of the world, have not a little contributed. Why, formerly, sir, a brace of bucks on the Mayor's annual day was thought a pretty moderate blessing. But we, sir, have polished their palates. Why, sir, not the meanest member of my corporation but can distinguish the pash from the pee.

The Bankrupt is one of the most perplexing and, it must be said, unmeaning of Foote's pieces. The chief character's name is quite far-fetched—Sir John Riscounter. A lady of title has a paragraph inserted in the papers reflecting on the character of her step-daughter, with a view to securing the wealthy suitor for her own daughter. Her husband is on the verge of bankruptcy, but at the close is saved; the newspaper plot is discovered, and the lady and her daughter turned out. A truly singular plot! The author has combined with it an attack on all the abuses and tricks of bankruptcy, taking a high moral tone which must have amused his friends; for the censor was himself ever in pecuniary shifts and difficulties and in want of cash, being a gamester and a borrower. It is hard to conceive how the plot was tolerated. It is said there was a friend of Foote's—a financier named Fordyce—who was figured in the piece, but he lost his fortune in some great crash; so Foote thought it would be scarcely decent to bring on the boards.

Someone casually mentioned Le Sage's famous story of Le Diable Boiteux to Foote, as a subject suitable for dramatic treatment. Foote loudly scoffed at the suggestion; it was quite unsuited, he said. Within a short time he had prepared a piece on this subject, entitled The Devil upon Two Sticks. The subject has been treated in our own time, very much upon the same lines. In both cases the Evil One goes about visiting various scenes, and making pungent and sarcastic comments as he goes. There is a prodigious amount of talk and speechings of inordinate length, and with wonder we learn that it was completely successful and brought the author abundance of cash. Here is a specimen:

HEL.:
But now, Dr. Last, to proceed in due form: are you qualified to administer remedies to such diseases as belong to the head?
LAST:
I believe I may.
HEL.:
Name some to the College.
LAST:
The toothache.
HEL.:
What do you hold the best method to treat it?
LAST:
I pulls 'em up by the roots.
HEL.:
Well replied, brothers! that, without doubt, is a radical cure.
ALL:
Without doubt.
HEL.:
Thus far as to the head: proceed we next to the middle! When, Dr. Last, you are called in to a patient with a pain in his bowels, what then is your method of practice?
LAST:
I claps a trencher hot to the part.
HEL.:
Embrocation; very well! But if this application should fail, what is the next step that you take?
LAST:
I gi's a vomit and a purge.
HEL.:
Well replied! for it is plain there is a disagreeable guest in the house; he has opened both doors; if he will go out at neither, it is none of his fault.
ALL:
Oh no—by no means.
HEL.:
We have now despatched the middle and head: come we finally to the other extremity—the feet! Are you equally skilful in the disorders incidental to them?
LAST:
I believe I may.
HEL.:
Name some.
LAST:
I have a great vogue all our way for curing of corns.
HEL.:
What are the means that you use?
LAST:
I cuts them out.
HEL.:
Well replied! extirpation: no better method of curing can be. Well, brethren, I think we may now, after this strict and impartial inquiry, safely certify that Dr. Last, from top to toe, is an able physician.
ALL:
Very able, very able indeed.
HEL.:
And every way qualified to proceed in his practice.
ALL:
Every way qualified.
HEL.:
You may descend, Dr. Last. [Last takes his seat among them.]

To see what a terror Foote must have been to any respectable oddity, we have only to call up a certain old knight named Browne, who might be described as a sort of physician-antiquary, who was pursuing his researches in a retired fashion. He wrote many learned disquisitions in the Latin tongue, and got into hot controversies with his medical brethren. There was a certain droll eccentricity about his dress and manner. Foote soon “marked him down.” It is difficult to conceive how a person utterly unknown to the public should be at all acceptable if they did not know the original. For the essence of the pleasure derived from mimicry is the comparison of the original with the copy. Foote's cleverness, therefore, must have been extraordinary, as he was able to make the mere copy or imitation suffice. I fancy he made this so vividly entertaining that the auditors began to think that the original would be more enjoyable still. All these things contribute to the conclusion that Foote must have possessed a special power which held and stimulated his hearers without any reference to his models.

Sir William Browne, just referred to, was President of the College of Physicians—an eccentric being, and therefore one offering himself as the ready prey of Foote. His dispute with the Licentiates was attracting attention, and his odd figure was reproduced by the actor after the most minute study. He copied his wig, the glass fixed in his eye, and his stiff figure. The physician took it good-humouredly, sending him his compliments on having succeeded so well. As he had forgotten one item—the muff—he sent him his own. This pleasant behaviour is said to have propitiated Foote.

He could not spare even his old friend and boon companion Dr. Kennedy, a quaint personage enough, and well fitted for a show, besides being a friend of his own. Accordingly, when the time was ripe, he proceeded to fit him into a satirical piece—no doubt among his conclave of doctors—when the sitter was fortunate enough to meet with a severe accident. Following Mr. Garrick's sedan-chair in his own, on his way to a supper at Dr. Goldsmith's, the chairman, trying to get out of the way of some falling tiles, gave the sedan such a jerk that the doctor's head was dashed against the roof. He sustained a concussion of the brain, and his life was in danger. Foote was good-natured, and forbore his purpose. Some others whom he had intended for his pieces he let off, having learned that they were in affliction.

Foote's sarcastic humour was shown in his answer to his old friend Wilkinson's free-and-easy announcement that he had surreptitiously got a copy of The Devil upon Two Sticks, and was playing it all round the country. “After having committed the fault,” he says, “and well knowing he would quickly hear of my offence, I, by way of preventing his anger, informed him of my invasion on his property, thinking he would construe it as a very good joke; but on the contrary he was really irritated, and by return of post favoured me with the few following whimsical lines”:

FOOTE TO WILKINSON.

My dear Sir,

Your favour brought me the first account of The Devil upon Two Sticks having been played upon your stage. Your letter has delivered me from every difficulty, and will procure me the pleasure of soon seeing you in town, as I shall most certainly move the Court of King's Bench against you on the first day of term, etc.

This mixture of threat and pleasant good-humour was in his happiest vein.

Another doctor introduced by Foote into his play was Dr. Fordyce, the eccentric Quaker physician. He figures in The Devil upon Two Sticks, as Dr. Melchisedech Broadbrim. He used to prescribe with his hat on (and it was a hat of the most tremendous size ever seen), and was a tall, stiff personage, always using the dialect of his sect. His conversation consisted of a number of sentences spoken with an almost solemn conciseness and importance.

Having completed this review of these gay, buoyant, and truly witty pieces, which supplied “laughter holding both his sides,” we turn despondingly to the present general dearth of talent, humour, fun, knowledge of character, and power of entertainment. The stage is now the last place where you can look for wit or humour; indeed, the ear may be turned in any direction, and fail to catch a single lively utterance. Humour, frolic, fun, are at the lowest standard. It has come to such a pass that genuine humour is hardly understood. Irony is taken literally; a double meaning is too much; and were Judge Maule to give his immortal homily to a bigamist nowadays, he would be set down as mad. The great defect of our dramatists is their profound ignorance of character and of human nature. Writing plays now consists in writing dialogues for recitation, but no one considers, or is capable of considering, whether these show appropriateness or fitness for the situation and character. People only talk, in short. Could any dramatic author of our day write, for instance, such a set of speeches as are uttered by John Thorpe in Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey? And this is because they have not learnt to play on those difficult instruments, human characters and feelings.

Notes

1. Foote could boast a great deal of “literary baggage.” In 1747 appeared his treatise on “The Passions,” in which he dealt with the merits and defects of the leading performers—Garrick, Quin, Barry, and others; and though he gives some praise to the great actor's Lear, he points out many blemishes. Later he issued some pamphlets on comedy and tragedy, which show evidences of study and knowledge. Still later he took his share in the controversy about his Minor. When roused, he could write letters of singularly incisive power. Witness his reply to the Duchess of Kingston, which was admired by his contemporaries and has been praised by succeeding critics. On the whole, Foote's literary work is more than respectable in its quality, and on the ground of his comedies he may fairly be ranked as a man of letters.

2. Boz by his powers of sarcasm succeeded in abolishing a long list of abuses, which he made to appear perfectly odious; but Foote had no such lofty aims in view. If he set a corrupt character before his audiences, it was only to entertain them and make them laugh. No one turns in disgust from Mrs. Cole as one does in the case of Stiggins. Dickens had the one stern purpose in view of destroying such monsters. Foote cared little whether they were destroyed or not; he had no ill-feeling to them.

3. Sir Arthur Pinero is a clever man, but his dramas are a little machine-made, and have not much intrinsic life or movement. Mr. Henry A. Jones is nearer to the true model, and knows more of character.

4. Here was one touch. A club servant tells a friend: “It was but last night Sir Ralph moved that every man in the club should give the waiter two guineas apiece, just by way of surprising the rascal, and it was carried nem. con. And when surprise was expressed the servant said, ‘Oh! the members never flinch at a frolic.’” Here was no exaggeration. Frolics just as reckless and unmeaning were carried on every day by the fashionable “bloods.”

5. And yet of good, honest “Joe” it must be said that his work is a little soulless—a series of catalogues, dated entries, etc., without poetry or imagination, with a sort of legal flavour about the whole. This was shown particularly in his account of Garrick, which he expanded into a formal Life in succession to mine, printed some forty years before. It is an admirable consultative work, but dry and uninteresting, and difficult to read. He had no idea of realizing the actors' characters. I speak merely as a critic of his curious style and methods; for I liked him exceedingly, and he made me many affectionate apologies for trespassing, as he called it.

6. Mr. Forster has furnished a carefully-compiled list of Foote's pieces, with their dates of production. It runs: The Diversions, etc., 1747; Auction, etc., 1748; The Knights, 1748; Taste, 1752; The Englishman in Paris, 1753; The Englishman returned from Paris, 1756; The Author, 1757; Diversions, etc., as a farce, 1758; The Minor, 1760; The Lyar, 1761; The Orators, 1762; The Mayor of Garratt, 1763; The Patron, 1764; The Commissary, 1765; The Devil upon Two Sticks, 1768; The Lame Lover, 1770; The Maid of Bath, 1771; The Nabob, 1772; Piety in Pattens, 1773; The Bankrupt, 1773; The Cozeners, 1774; The Capucin, 1776.

   Joseph Knight speaks of some other pieces in manuscript which have been attributed to Foote.