Part 4

_Jack_--A great lawyer's business is always to make choice of the wrong.

_Serjeant_--And prithee, why so?

_Jack_--Because a good cause can speak for itself, whilst a bad one demands an able counselor to give it a color.

_Serjeant_--Very well. But in what respects will this answer to the lawyer himself?

_Jack_--In a twofold way. Firstly, his fees will be large in proportion to the dirty work he is to do.

_Serjeant_--Secondly?

_Jack_--His reputation will rise, by obtaining the victory in a desperate cause.

_Serjeant_--Right, boy. Are you ready in the case of the cow?

_Jack_--Pretty well, I believe.

_Serjeant_--Give it, then.

_Jack_--First of April, anno seventeen hundred and blank, John a-Nokes was indicted by blank, before blank, in the county of blank, for stealing a cow, _contra pacem_, etc., and against the statute in that case provided and made, to prevent stealing of cattle.

_Serjeant_--Go on.

_Jack_--Said Nokes was convicted upon the said statute.

_Serjeant_--What followed upon?

_Jack_--Motion in arrest of judgment, made by Counselor Puzzle. First, because the field from whence the cow was conveyed is laid in the indictment _as round_, but turned out upon proof to be _square_.

_Serjeant_--That's well. A valid objection.

_Jack_--Secondly, because in said indictment the color of the cow is called red; there being no such things _in rerum natura_ as red cows, no more than black lions, spread eagles, flying griffins, or blue boars.

_Serjeant_--Well put.

_Jack_--Thirdly, said Nokes has not offended against form of the statute; because stealing of _cattle_ is there provided against: whereas we are only convicted of stealing a _cow_. Now, though cattle may be cows, yet it does by no means follow that cows must be cattle.

_Serjeant_--Bravo, bravo! buss me, you rogue; you are your father's own son! go on and prosper. I am sorry, dear Jack, I must leave thee. If Providence but sends thee life and health, I prophesy thou wilt wrest as much land from the owners, and save as many thieves from the gallows, as any practitioner since the days of King Alfred.

_Jack_--I'll do my endeavor. [_Exit Serjeant._]

A MISFORTUNE IN ORTHOGRAPHY

From 'The Lame Lover'

SIR LUKE--A pox o' your law; you make me lose sight of my story. One morning a Welsh coach-maker came with his bill to my lord, whose name was unluckily Lloyd. My lord had the man up: "You are called, I think, Mr. Lloyd?"--"At your Lordship's service, my lord."--"What, Lloyd with an L?"--"It was with an L indeed, my lord."--"Because in your part of the world I have heard that Lloyd and Floyd were synonymous, the very same names."--"Very often indeed, my Lord."--"But you always spell yours with an L?"--"Always."--"That, Mr. Lloyd, is a little unlucky; for you must know I am now paying my debts alphabetically, and in four or five years you might have come in with an F; but I am afraid I can give you no hopes for your L. Ha, ha, ha!"

FROM THE 'MEMOIRS'

A CURE FOR BAD POETRY

A physician of Bath told him that he had a mind to publish his own poems; but he had so many irons in the fire he did not well know what to do.

"Then take my advice, doctor," said Foote, "and put your poems where your irons are."

THE RETORT COURTEOUS

Following a man in the street, who did not bear the best of characters, Foote slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, thinking he was an intimate friend. On discovering his mistake he cried out, "Oh, sir, I beg your pardon! I really took you for a gentleman who--"

"Well, sir," said the other, "and am I not a gentleman?"

"Nay, sir," said Foote, "if you take it in that way, I must only beg your pardon a second time."

ON GARRICK'S STATURE

Previously to Foote's bringing out his 'Primitive Puppet Show' at the Haymarket Theatre, a lady of fashion asked him, "Pray, sir, are your puppets to be as large as life?"

"Oh dear, madam, no. Not much above the size of Garrick!"

CAPE WINE

Being at the dinner-table one day when the Cape was going round in remarkably small glasses, his host was very profuse on the excellence of the wine, its age, etc. "But you don't seem to relish it, Foote, by keeping your glass so long before you."

"Oh, yes, my lord, perfectly well. I am only admiring how little it is, considering its great age."

THE GRACES

Of an actress who was remarkably awkward with her arms, Foote said that "she kept the Graces at arm's-length."

THE DEBTOR

Of a young gentleman who was rather backward in paying his debts, he said he was "a very promising young gentleman."

AFFECTATION

An assuming, pedantic lady, boasting of the many books which she had read, often quoted 'Locke Upon Understanding,' a work she said she admired above all things, yet there was one word in it which, though often repeated, she could not distinctly make out; and that was the word ide-a (pronouncing it very long): "but I suppose it comes from a Greek derivation."

"You are perfectly right, madam," said Foote, "it comes from the word ideaousky."

"And pray, sir, what does that mean?"

"The feminine of idiot, madam."

ARITHMETICAL CRITICISM

A mercantile man of his acquaintance, who would read a poem of his to him one day after dinner, pompously began:--

"Hear me, O Phoebus! and ye Muses nine! Pray be attentive."

"I am," said Foote. "Nine and one are ten: go on."

THE DEAR WIFE

A gentleman just married, telling Foote that he had that morning laid out three thousand pounds in jewels for his "dear wife": "Well," said the other, "you have but done her justice, as by your own reckoning she must be a very valuable woman."

GARRICK AND THE GUINEA

Foote and Garrick, supping together at the Bedford, the former in pulling out his purse to pay the reckoning dropped a guinea, which rolled in such a direction that they could not readily find it.

"Where the deuce," says Foote, "can it be gone to?"

"Gone to the Devil, I suppose," said Garrick.

"Well said, David; you are always what I took you for, ever contriving to make a guinea go farther than any other man."

DR. PAUL HIFFERMAN

Paul was fond of laying, or rather offering, wagers. One day in the heat of argument he cried out, "I'll lay my head you are wrong upon that point."

"Well," said Foote, "I accept the wager. Any trifle, among friends, has a value."

FOOTE AND MACKLIN

One night, when Macklin was formally preparing to begin a lecture, hearing Foote rattling away at the lower end of the room, and thinking to silence him at once, he called out in his sarcastic manner, "Pray, young gentleman, do you know what I am going to say?"

"No, sir," said Foote quickly: "do you?"

BARON NEWMAN

This celebrated gambler (well known about town thirty years ago by the title of the left-handed Baron), being detected in the rooms at Bath in the act of secreting a card, the company in the warmth of their resentment threw him out of the window of a one-pair-of-stairs room, where they were playing. The Baron, meeting Foote some time afterward, loudly complained of this usage, and asked him what he should do to repair his injured honor.

"Do?" said the wit; "why, 'tis a plain case: never play so high again as long as you live."

MRS. ABINGTON

When Mrs. Abington returned from her very first successful trip to Ireland, Foote wished to engage her for his summer theatre; but in the mean time Garrick secured her for Drury Lane. Foote, on hearing this, asked her why she gave Garrick the preference.

"I don't know how it was," said she: "he talked me over by telling me that he would make me immortal, so that I did not know how to refuse him."

"Oh! did he so? Then I'll soon outbid him that way; for come to me and I will give you two pounds a week more, and charge you nothing for immortality."

GARLIC-EATERS

Laughing at the imbecilities of a common friend one day, somebody observed, "It was very surprising; and Tom D---- knew him very well, and thought him far from being a fool."

"Ah, poor Tom!" said Foote, "he is like one of those people who eat garlic themselves, and therefore can't smell it in a companion."

MODE OF BURYING ATTORNEYS IN LONDON

A gentleman in the country, who had just buried a rich relation who was an attorney, was complaining to Foote, who happened to be on a visit with him, of the very great expense of a country funeral in respect to carriages, hat-bands, scarves, etc.

"Why, do you bury your attorneys here?" asked Foote gravely.

"Yes, to be sure we do; how else?"

"Oh, we never do that in London."

"No?" said the other much surprised, "how do you manage?"

"Why, when the patient happens to die, we lay him out in a room over night by himself, lock the door, throw open the sash, and in the morning he is entirely off."

"Indeed!" said the other in amazement; "what becomes of him?"

"Why, that we cannot exactly tell, not being acquainted with supernatural causes. All that we know of the matter is, that there's a strong smell of brimstone in the room the next morning."

DINING BADLY

Foote, returning from dinner with a lord of the admiralty, was met by a friend, who asked him what sort of a day he had had. "Very indifferent indeed; bad company and a worse dinner."

"I wonder at that," said the other, "as I thought the admiral a good jolly fellow."

"Why, as to that, he may be a good sea lord, but take it from me, he is a very bad landlord."

DIBBLE DAVIS

Dibble Davis, one of Foote's butts-in-ordinary, dining with him one day at North-end, observed that "well as he loved porter, he could never drink it without a head."

"That must be a mistake, Dibble," returned his host, "as you have done so to my knowledge alone these twenty years."

AN EXTRAORDINARY CASE

Being at the levee of Lord Townsend, when that nobleman was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, he thought he saw a person in his Excellency's suite whom he had known to have lived many years a life of expediency in London. To convince himself of the fact, he asked his Excellency who it was.

"That is Mr. T----, one of my gentlemen at large," was the answer. "Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes! perfectly well," said Foote, "and what your Excellency tells me is doubly extraordinary: first, that he is a gentleman; and next, that he is at large."

MUTABILITY OF THE WORLD

Being at dinner in a mixed company soon after the bankruptcy of one friend and the death of another, the conversation naturally turned on the mutability of the world. "Can you account for this?" said S----, a master builder, who happened to sit next to Foote. "Why, not very clearly," said the other; "except we could suppose the world was built by contract."

AN APPROPRIATE MOTTO

During one of Foote's trips to Dublin, he was much solicited by a silly young man of fashion to assist him in a miscellany of poems and essays which he was about to publish; but when he asked to see the manuscript, the other told him "that at present he had only conceived the different subjects, but had put none of them to paper."

"Oh! if that be the state of the case," replied Foote, "I will give you a motto from Milton for the work in its present state:

'Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.'"

REAL FRIENDSHIP

A young gentleman, making an apology to his father for coming late to dinner, said "that he had been visiting a poor friend of his in St. George's Fields." "Ah! a pretty kind of friend indeed," says the father, "to keep us waiting for dinner in this manner."

"Aye, and for the best kind, too," said Foote: "as you know, my dear sir, a friend in need is a friend indeed."

ANECDOTE OF AN AUTHOR

An author was boasting that as a reviewer he had the power of distributing literary reputations as he liked. "Take care," said Foote, "you are not too prodigal of that, or you may leave none for yourself."

DR. BLAIR

When Foote first heard of Dr. Blair's writing 'Notes on Ossian' (a work the reality of which has always been much doubted), he observed, "The publishers ought to allow a great discount to the purchaser, as the notes required such a stretch of credit."

ADVICE TO A DRAMATIC WRITER

A dull dramatic writer, who had often felt the severity of the public, was complaining one day to Foote of the injustice done him by the critics; but added, "I have, however, one way of being even with them, by constantly laughing at all they say."

"You do perfectly right, my friend," said Foote; "for by this method you will not only disappoint your enemies, but lead the merriest life of any man in England."

THE GRAFTON MINISTRY

A gentleman coming into the Cocoa-Tree one morning during the Duke of Grafton's administration, was observing "that he was afraid the poor ministry were at their wits' end."

"Well, if it should be so," said Foote, "what reason have they to complain of so short a journey?"

JOHN FORD

(1586-?)

The dramatic genius of the English Renaissance had well-nigh spent itself when the sombre creations of John Ford appeared upon a stage over which the clouds of the Civil War were fast gathering. Little is known of this dramatist, who represents the decadent period which followed the age of Shakespeare. He was born in 1586; entered the Middle Temple in 1602; after 1641 he is swallowed up in the turmoil of the time. The few scattered records of his life add nothing to, nor do they take anything from, the John Ford of 'The Broken Heart' and 'Perkin Warbeck.'

His plays are infected with a spirit alien to the poise and beauty of the best Elizabethan drama. His creations tell of oblique vision; of a disillusioned genius, predisposed to abnormal or exaggerated forms of human experience. He breaks through the moral order, in his love for the eccentricities of passion. He weaves the spell of his genius around strange sins.

The problems of despair which Ford propounds but never solves, form the plot of 'The Broken Heart'; Calantha, Ithocles, Penthea, Orgilus, are wan types of the passive suffering which numbs the soul to death. Charles Lamb has eulogized the final scene of this drama. To many critics, the self-possession of Calantha savors of the theatrical. The scene between Penthea and her brother Ithocles, who had forced her to marry Bassanes though she loved Orgilus, is replete with the tenderness, the sense of subdued anguish, of which Ford was a master. He is the dramatist of broken hearts, whose waste places are unrelieved by a touch of sunlight. His love of "passion at war with circumstance" again finds expression in 'Love's Sacrifice,' a drama of moral confusions. In 'The Lover's Melancholy' sorrow has grown pensive. A quiet beauty rests upon the famous scene in which Parthenophil strives with the nightingale for the prize of music.

'The Lady's Trial,' 'The Fancies Chaste and Noble,' 'The Sun's Darling' (written in conjunction with Dekker), are worthy only of passing notice. They leave but a pale impression upon the mind. In 'Perkin Warbeck,' the one historical play of Ford, he exhibits his mastery over straightforward, sinewy verse. 'The Witch of Edmonton,' of which he wrote the first act, gives a signal example of his modern style and spirit.

With the exception of 'Perkin Warbeck,' his dramas are destitute of outlook. This moral contraction heightens the intensity of passion, which in his conception of it has always its ancient significance of suffering. His comic scenes are contemptible. He is at his greatest when dealing with the subtleties of the human heart. Through him we enter into the darker zones of the soul; we apprehend its remoter sufferings. Confusion of spiritual vision, blended with the tyranny of passion, produce his greatest scenes. His are the tragedies of "unfulfilled desire."

The verse of Ford is measured, passionless, polished. There is a subtle music in his lines which haunts the memory.

"Parthenophil is lost, and I would see him; For he is like to something I remember, A great while since, a long, long time ago."

With Ford the sun-born radiance of the noblest Elizabethan drama fades from the stage. An artificial light, thereafter, replaced it.

FROM 'PERKIN WARBECK'

[Perkin Warbeck and his followers are presented to King Henry VII. by Lord Dawbeny as prisoners.]

_Dawbeny_--

Life to the King, and safety fix his throne. I here present you, royal sir, a shadow Of Majesty, but in effect a substance Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown To ripeness, but th' ambition of your mercy; Perkin, the Christian world's strange wonder!

_King Henry_--

Dawbeny, We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true) An ornament of nature, fine and polished, A handsome youth, indeed, but not admire him. How come he to thy hands?

_Dawbeny_--

From sanctuary. At Bewley, near Southampton; registered, With these few followers, for persons privileged.

_King Henry_--

I must not thank you, sir! you were to blame To infringe the liberty of houses sacred; Dare we be irreligious?

_Dawbeny_--

Gracious lord! They voluntarily resigned themselves, Without compulsion.

_King Henry_--

So? 'twas very well 'Twas very well. Turn now thine eyes, Young man! upon thyself and thy past actions: What revels in combustion through our kingdom A frenzy of aspiring youth has danced; Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt To break thy neck.

_Warbeck_--

But not my heart; my heart Will mount till every drop of blood be frozen By death's perpetual winter. If the sun Of Majesty be darkened, let the sun Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse Lasting and universal. Sir, remember There was a shooting in of light when Richmond (Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly, For comfort to the Duke of Bretagne's court. Richard, who swayed the sceptre, was reputed A tyrant then; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day When first they ventur'd on a frightful shore At Milford Haven.

_Dawbeny_--

Whither speeds his boldness? Check his rude tongue, great sir.

_King Henry_--

Oh, let him range: The player's on the stage still; 'tis his part: He does but act.--What followed?

_Warbeck_--

Bosworth Field: Where at an instant, to the world's amazement, A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard Appear'd at once. The tale is soon applied: Fate which crowned these attempts, when least assured, Might have befriended others, like resolved.

_King Henry_--

A pretty gallant! thus your aunt of Burgundy, Your duchess aunt, informed her nephew: so The lesson, prompted, and well conned, was molded Into familiar dialogue, oft rehearsed, Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth.

_Warbeck_--

Truth in her pure simplicity wants art To put a feigned blush on; scorn wears only Such fashion as commends to gazers' eyes Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath; in such a court Wisdom and gravity are proper robes By which the sovereign is best distinguished From zanies to his greatness.

_King Henry_--

Sirrah, shift Your antic pageantry, and now appear In your own nature; or you'll taste the danger Of fooling out of season.

_Warbeck_--

I expect No less than what severity calls justice, And politicians safety; let such beg As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy In a protested enemy, then may it Descend to these poor creatures whose engagements To the bettering of their fortunes have incurred A loss of all to them, if any charity Flow from some noble orator; in death I owe the fee of thankfulness.

_King Henry_--

So brave? What a bold knave is this! We trifle time with follies. Urswick, command the Dukeling and these fellows To Digby, the Lieutenant of the Tower.

* * * * *

_Warbeck_--

Noble thoughts Meet freedom in captivity: the Tower, Our childhood's dreadful nursery!

_King Henry_--

Was ever so much impudence in forgery? The custom, sure, of being styled a king Hath fastened in his thought that he is such.

PENTHEA'S DYING SONG

From 'The Broken Heart'

Oh, no more, no more,--too late; Sighs are spent; the burning tapers Of a life as chaste as fate, Pure as are unwritten papers, Are burnt out; no heat, no light Now remains; 'tis ever night. Love is dead; let lovers' eyes Locked in endless dreams, Th' extremes of all extremes, Ope no more, for now Love dies; Now Love dies--implying Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying.

FROM 'THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY'

AMETHUS AND MENAPHON

_Menaphon--_

Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Which poets of an elder time have feigned To glorify their Temple, bred in me Desire of visiting that paradise. To Thessaly I came; and living private Without acquaintance of more sweet companions Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, I day by day frequented silent groves And solitary walks. One morning early This accident encountered me: I heard The sweetest and most ravishing contention That art and nature ever were at strife in.

_Amethus_--

I cannot yet conceive what you infer By art and nature.

_Menaphon_--

I shall soon resolve ye. A sound of music touched my ears, or rather Indeed entranced my soul. As I stole nearer, Invited by the melody, I saw This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, With strains of strange variety and harmony, Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds, That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent, Wondering at what they heard: I wondered too.

_Amethus_--

And so do I: good, on!

_Menaphon--_

A nightingale, Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument than she, The nightingale, did with her various notes Reply to: for a voice and for a sound, Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe That such they were than hope to hear again.

_Amethus_--

How did the rivals part?

_Menaphon--_

You term them rightly; For they were rivals, and their mistress harmony. Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Into a pretty anger, that a bird, Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many hours to perfect practice. To end the controversy, in a rapture Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly So many voluntaries and so quick, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Meeting in one full centre of delight.

_Amethus_--

Now for the bird.

_Menaphon--_

The bird, ordained to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds; which when her warbling throat Failed in, for grief down dropped she on his lute, And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep a funeral elegy of tears; That trust me, my Amethus, I could chide Mine own unmanly weakness that made me A fellow mourner with him.

_Amethus_--

I believe thee.

_Menaphon--_

He looked upon the trophies of his art, Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed and cried:-- "Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it; Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow, As he was pushing it against a tree, I suddenly stept in.

FRIEDRICH, BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE

(1777-1843)