Bristol in the January of 1741. Samuel was then in command of his
ship, lying in the roads. Sir John was invited to dine with Mr. Jarrit
Smith, an attorney living on College Green, and the captain called on
this gentleman and requested permission to be admitted to his table to
meet his brother, whom he had not seen for a very long time. Mr. Smith
readily acceded to this proposal, and was glad to have the opportunity
of apparently reconciling the brothers. After dinner he left the room
for an hour in order to afford them a better opportunity of completing
the reconciliation. On his return he found them on the most friendly
terms. In this manner they parted at six o'clock in the evening, the
captain taking his leave first. When some half an hour later Sir John
quitted the house, as he was passing the College Green Coffee-house,
on his way to his lodgings, he was fallen upon by a party of the
sailors of the _Ruby_ and the _Vernon_ privateer, with Captain Goodere
at their head; a cloak was thrown over his head to muffle his cries
for help, and he was hurried to a boat, awaiting them in the river,
and conveyed thence on board the _Ruby_. When there, they got him into
the purser's cabin, and the captain, by promises of ample reward,
induced two of his sailors, Matthew Mahony and Charles White, to
strangle him. In order to effect this the captain cut the cord that
attached his escritoire to the floor of the cabin, and himself passed
it round his brother's neck. Then, drawing his sword, he stood
sentinel at the door and bade the two ruffians do their duty. Owing to
the struggles of Sir John and the nervousness of the men, half an
hour elapsed before the baronet was dead. At last, when all was over,
the captain deliberately walked to his brother's body, held a candle
over it to assure himself that he was dead, and exclaimed, "Aye, this
will do; his business is now done."
Next day the circumstance of a gentleman having been kidnapped on
College Green induced Mr. Smith to make inquiries; when, finding that
the description of the gentleman answered to the person of Sir John
Dinely Goodere, he entertained strong suspicions of foul play shown by
his brother, and he applied to the mayor of Bristol for a warrant to
search the _Ruby_. This was granted, and there the baronet was found
strangled in the purser's cabin, and the captain already secured by
the first lieutenant and two of the men, who had overheard the
conference relative to the murder.
Captain Samuel Goodere and his two associates were tried at the next
assizes at Bristol on March 26th, 1741, were found guilty of "wilful
murder," and were hanged.
Thus Mrs. Foote, deriving under the will of her brother Sir John,
became heiress to his estates.
John Foote had two sons by this lady, Samuel and Edward. The first,
the subject of this memoir, was designed for the Bar; the second for
the Church. This latter was a feeble-minded man, who never obtained
preferment, dribbled away his fortune, and was latterly in great
distress, supported by the liberality of his brother.
Foote was sent to school as a boy under the worthy Mr. Conon,
head-master of Truro Grammar School. There he was initiated into
Terence's plays, and in acting his part excelled all his
schoolfellows, and it was in consequence of his success within this
little circle that he caught his first inspiration for the stage.
One of the earliest instances of his jocularity, as practised on his
own father, is related by R. Polwhele in his _Traditions and
Recollections_. Imitating the voice of Mr. Nicholas Donnithorne, from
an inner apartment where his father had supposed that gentleman was
sitting, he drew his father into conversation on the subject of a
family transaction between the two old gentlemen, and thus possessed
himself of a secret, which, whilst it displayed his power of mimicry,
justly incurred his parent's displeasure.
Mr. Polwhele says: "Those (of the inhabitants of Truro) are gone who
used in his presence to arise trembling with their mirth. Conscious of
some oddnesses in their appearance or character, they shrunk from his
sly observation. They knew that every civility, every hospitable
attention, could not save them from his satire; and, after such
experience, they naturally avoided his company instead of courting it.
Foote, indeed, had no restraint upon himself, with respect either to
his conversation or his conduct. He was, in every sense of the word, a
libertine.... He was certainly a very unamiable character. Polly
Hicks, a pretty, silly, simpering girl, was dazzled by his wit. She
had some property; he therefore made her his wife, but never treated
her as such."
The father died soon after the establishment of his sons in their
several professions; but the mother lived to the advanced age of
eighty-four. W. Cooke says of her:--
"We had the pleasure of dining with her, in company with a granddaughter
of hers, at a barrister's chambers in Gray's Inn, when she was at the
age of seventy-nine; and although she had full sixty steps to ascend
before she reached the drawing-room, she did it without the help of a
cane, and with all the activity of a woman of forty.
"Her manners and conversation were of the same cast--witty, humorous,
and convivial; and though her remarks occasionally (considering her
age and sex) rather strayed beyond the limits of becoming mirth, she,
on the whole, delighted everybody, and was confessedly the heroine of
that day's party.
"She was likewise in face and person the very model of her son
Samuel--short, fat, and flabby, with an eye that eternally gave the
signal for mirth and good humour; in short, she resembled him so much
in all her movements, and so strongly identified his person and
manners, that by changing habits they might be thought to have
interchanged sexes."
After leaving school Samuel Foote received his education at Worcester
College, Oxford, formerly Gloucester Hall, which owed its refoundation
and change of name to Sir Thomas Cooke, Bart., a second cousin of
Samuel.
The church connected with the college fronted a lane, where cattle
were sometimes turned out to graze during the night, and the bell-rope
hung very low in the middle of the outside porch. Foote one night made
a loop in the cord and inserted a wisp of hay. One of the cows
smelling this seized it, and by tugging at the rope made the bell
ring, and continue to ring at jerky intervals till the hay was
consumed. This produced consternation in the neighbourhood; people ran
out of their houses thinking that there must be a fire somewhere. The
same happened next and the following nights, and it was concluded that
the church was haunted. But Dr. Gower, the then provost, and the
sexton sat up one night and watched, and discovered that this was a
prank of one of the scholars.
From the University Foote was removed to the Temple, but the dryness
of the law was not to his taste, and he turned to the stage.
His first appearance was in the part of Othello at the Haymarket
Theatre, February 6th, 1747. But as Macklin said on this occasion, "it
was little better than a total failure. Neither his figure, voice, nor
manners corresponded with the character; and in those mixed passages
of tenderness and rage the former was expressed so whiningly, and the
latter in a tone so sharp and inharmonious, that the audience could
scarcely refrain from laughing."
Probably he speedily saw that his genius did not lie in the direction of
tragedy, and he soon struck out into a new and untrodden path, in which
he at once attained the two great ends of affording entertainment to the
people and gaining emolument for himself. He opened the Haymarket
Theatre in the spring of 1747 with a piece of his own writing, entitled
_The Diversions of the Morning_. This consisted of a mimicry of the
best-known men of the day--actors, doctors, lawyers, statesmen. Had he
contented himself with this he might not have been interfered with, but
to the piece of mimicry he added the performance of popular farces--and
he had failed to procure a licence. To evade this difficulty he
announced his entertainment as a Concert of Music, after which would be
given _gratis_ his _Diversions_ and a play.
The managers of the patent houses could not tolerate such an
infringement of their rights. They appealed to the Westminster
magistrates, and on the second night the constables entered the
theatre and dispersed the audience.
But Foote was not so easily put down. The very next morning he
published the following statement in the _General Advertiser_: "On
Saturday afternoon, exactly at twelve o'clock, at the New Theatre in
the Haymarket, Mr. Foote begs the favour of his friends to come and
drink a dish of chocolate with him, and 'tis hoped there will be a
great deal of company and some joyous spirits. He will endeavour to
make the morning as diverting as possible. Tickets to be had for this
entertainment at George's Coffee House, Temple Bar, without which no
one will be admitted. N.B.--Sir Dilbury Diddle will be there, and Lady
Betty Frisk has absolutely promised." No one knew what this
advertisement meant, and a crowded house was the natural result. When
the curtain rose Foote came forward and informed the audience that "as
he was training some young performers for the stage, he would, with
their permission, whilst chocolate was getting ready, proceed with his
instructions before them." Then some young people, engaged for the
purpose, were brought upon the stage, and under the pretence of
instructing them in the art of acting, he introduced his imitations.
As he was not interfered with, he changed the hour to the evening and
substituted tea for chocolate.
He mimicked Quin as a watchman, with deep, sonorous voice calling out,
"Past twelve o'clock, and a cloudy morning"; Delane as a one-eyed
beggar; Peg Woffington as an orange girl, and imitated the unpleasant
squealing tone of her voice; Garrick in his dying scenes, on which he
prided himself.
As may well be supposed, actors, who are peculiarly sensitive to
ridicule, were offended. When they appeared in a grave play, as for
instance, when Garrick was dying on the stage, the audience laughed,
recalling what they had witnessed at the Haymarket. They complained,
"What is fun to you is death to us," but Foote paid no regard to their
remonstrances; he laughed and pursued his course. He was perfectly
unscrupulous, wholly devoid of delicacy of feeling, and would turn
his best friend and benefactor into ridicule in public. But when,
later, Weston took him off, he was highly incensed, and bided his time
to be revenged on him.
Next year Foote called his performance "An Auction of Pictures." Here
is one of his advertisements: "At the forty-ninth day's sale at his
auction rooms in the Haymarket Mr. Foote will exhibit a choice
collection of pictures--some new lots, consisting of a poet, a beau, a
Frenchman, a miser, a taylor, a sot, two young gentlemen, and a ghost.
Two of which are originals, the rest copies from the best masters." In
this several well-known characters were mimicked--Sir Thomas Deveil,
then the acting magistrate for Westminster, Cook, the auctioneer, and
orator Henley. To the attractions of his "Auction," in ridicule of the
Italian Opera, he gave a "Cat Concert." The principal performer in
this was a man well known at the time by the name of Cat Harris.
Harris had attended several rehearsals, where his _mewing_ gave great
satisfaction to the manager and performers. However, on the last
rehearsal Harris was missing, and as nobody knew where he lived,
Shuter was deputed to find him, if possible. He inquired in vain for
some time; at last he was informed that he lived in a certain court in
the Minories, but at which house he could not exactly learn. Shuter
entered the court and set up a cat solo, which instantly roused his
brother musician in his garret, who answered him in the same tune.
"Ho, ho! Are you there, my friend?" said Shuter. "Come along; the
stage waits for you."
Fashion, as usual, flocked to the Haymarket to hear and see its tastes
turned into ridicule.
At the close of the season (1748) Foote was left a considerable
fortune by a relative of his mother, which enabled him to move in all
that luxury of dissipation which was so congenial to his temper. Then
he departed suddenly for Paris and communicated with none of his
friends. Some supposed him to have been killed in a duel, some that he
had been hanged, some that he had drunk himself to death. But he
reappeared in London at the close of the season of 1752, having
dissipated the fortune left him, but having enriched his mind with
studies made in France. He brought with him a play he had composed,
_The Englishman in Paris_, which was brought out at Covent Garden
Theatre on March 24th, 1753, and it proved a success; so much so, that
Murphy, the dramatic author, wrote a sequel to it, _The Englishman
returned from Paris_, which he had the frankness to show to Foote, who
was his friend. Foote, without a word, without asking leave,
appropriated the plot and characters, and turned out a farce with the
same title before Murphy had placed his. Murphy was, naturally, highly
offended, and produced his play in another theatre, but without great
success, as Foote's play had already taken with the public.
In the season of 1757 Foote produced at Drury Lane his comedy of _The
Author_, that principally turns on the distresses incident to a writer
dependent on his pen for his daily bread, and on the caricature of a
gentleman of family and fortune, whom he entitled Cadwalader, who
appears ambitious to be thought a patron of the arts and sciences, of
which he is profoundly ignorant. Cadwalader was a caricature of one of
his most intimate friends, a Mr. Ap Rice, a man of fortune and
education, and allied to many families of distinction. At his table,
where Foote was hospitably received, in open and unguarded familiar
discourse, Ap Rice had laid himself open to ridicule. The Welsh
gentleman was stout, had a broad, unmeaning stare, a loud voice, and
boisterous manner, and as he spoke his head was continually turning to
his left shoulder. The farce was performed for several nights to
crowded audiences before Mr. Ap Rice felt the keenness of the satire.
At last the joke became so serious, that whenever he went abroad, in
the park, the coffee-house, or the assembly, he heard himself spoken
of as Cadwalader, and pointed at with suppressed laughter, or heard
quotations from his part in the play: "This is Becky, my dear Becky."
Mightily offended, and really hurt, he applied to Foote to have the
piece suppressed. But this Foote would not hear of--it was drawing
crowded houses. Then Ap Rice applied to the Lord Chamberlain and
obtained an injunction to restrain the performance.
Dr. Johnson was informed by a mutual friend that Foote was going to
produce an impersonation of him on the stage. "What is the price of a
cane?" asked the doctor. "Sixpence." "Then," said he, "here is a
shilling; go and fetch me the stoutest you can purchase, and tell Mr.
Foote that at his first performance I shall visit the theatre, go on
the stage, and thrash him soundly."
This was repeated to the mimic, and he deemed it advisable to desist
from _this_ impersonation.
In _A Trip to Calais_ he threatened to ridicule the notorious Duchess of
Kingston unless bought off. The audacity of his personalities was
astounding, where he thought he could use his gift of mimicry without
being subject to chastisement. In the _Orators_, 1762, he personated,
under the name of Peter Paragraph, a noted printer and publisher and
alderman of Dublin, known as One-legged Faulkener. The imitation was
perfect. The Irishman brought an action for libel against him, and a
trial ensued. But Nemesis of another sort fell on him four years later.
In 1766 he was on a visit to Lord Mexborough, where he met the Duke of
York, Lord Delaval, and others, when some of the party, wishing to have
a little fun with Foote, drew him into conversation on horsemanship, and
the comedian boasted "that although he generally preferred the luxury of
a post-chaise, he could ride as well as most men he knew." He was urged
to join that morning in the chase, and was mounted on a high-spirited,
mettlesome horse belonging to the Duke of York, that flung him as soon
as he was in the saddle, and his leg was so fractured that it had to be
amputated, and its place supplied by one of cork.
The Duke of York was not a little concerned at the part he had taken
in this practical joke, and to make what amends he could obtained for
him a royal patent to erect a theatre in the city and liberties of
Westminster, from the 14th May to the 14th September, during the term
of his natural life. This was giving him a fortune at one stroke, and
Foote immediately purchased the old premises in the Haymarket and
erected a new theatre on the same ground, which was opened in the May
following, 1767. He made considerable profits, and lodged twelve
hundred pounds at his banker's and kept five hundred in cash.
But his usual demon of extravagance haunted him. He went to Bath and
fell in with a nest of gamblers, who rapidly swindled him, not only
out of his five hundred, but also out of the sum he had placed with
his banker. Several of the frequenters of the rooms saw that he was
being cheated, and the Right Hon. Richard Rigby, Paymaster of the
Forces, took an opportunity of telling him that he was being
plundered, "that from his careless manner of playing and betting, and
his habit of telling stories when he should be minding his game, he
must in the long run be ruined." Foote, instead of taking this hint in
good part, answered angrily and so insultingly that Rigby withdrew.
When he had money he spent it in play and profligacy. Three fortunes
had been left him, and he threw all away, and adopted as his motto,
"Iterum, iterum, iterumque."
His mother, as has been said, had inherited a large fortune, but she
had squandered it and was locked up in the Fleet Prison for debt.
Thence she wrote to her son:--
"DEAR SAM,
"I am in prison for debt; come and assist your loving mother,
"E. FOOTE."
To this brief note he replied:--
"DEAR MOTHER,
"So am I; which prevents his duty being paid to his loving mother
by her affectionate son,
"SAM. FOOTE."
When bringing out his comedy of _The Minor_ considerable objections were
started to its being licensed, and among other objectors was Secker,
Archbishop of Canterbury. Foote offered to submit the play to him for
revision, with permission to strike out whatever he deemed
objectionable. But the prelate was not to be trapped thus. He knew well
that had he done this, Foote would have advertised its performance "as
altered and amended by his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury."
Having made a trip to Ireland, he was asked on his return what
impression was made on him by the Irish peasantry, and replied that
they gave him great satisfaction, as they settled a question that had
long agitated his mind, and that was, what became of the cast clothes
of English beggars.
One evening at the coffee-house he was asked if he had attended the
funeral of a very intimate friend, the son of a baker. "Oh yes,
certainly," said he; "just seen him shoved into the family oven."
Although he had on more than one occasion applied to Garrick for loans
of a few hundred pounds, this did not deter him from mimicking
Garrick, and when the Shakespeare Jubilee took place at
Stratford-on-Avon, under the superintendence of this latter, Foote was
so jealous and envious of its success, that he schemed bringing out a
mock procession in imitation of it, with a man dressed to resemble
Garrick in the character of the Steward of the Jubilee, with his wand,
white-topped gloves, and Shakespeare medal; whilst some ragamuffin was
to address him in the lines of the Jubilee poet-laureate--
A nation's taste depends on you,
Perhaps a nation's virtue too;
to which the mimic Garrick was to reply by clapping his arms, like the
wings of a cock, and crowing--
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
It was with difficulty that Foote could be deterred from carrying his
scheme into effect.
But, indeed, he spared no one. He had been separated practically, though
not legally, from his wife, whom to his friends and acquaintances he
spoke of as "the Washerwoman." She was a quiet, inoffensive, worthy
woman; and his friends induced him after a while to allow her to return
to his house. As it chanced, her conveyance was upset on the way, and
she was thrown out and much cut and bruised in her face and person.
Instead of sympathizing with her, he turned the matter into joke with
his boon companions, and said, "If you want to see a map of the world,
go and look at my wife's face. There is the Black Sea in her eye, the
Red Sea in her gashes, and the Yellow Sea in all her bruises."
Dining once with Earl Kelly at his house at North End in the early part
of the spring, his lordship, who was a _bon vivant_ and had a very red
face, apologized during dinner that he was unable to give the party
cucumbers that day, as none were ripe. "Your own fault, my lord," said
Foote. "Why didn't you thrust your nose into the hot-house?"
On another occasion, Foote calling on the elder Colman, the dramatist,
heard him complain of want of sleep. "Read one of your own plays,"
said Foote.
Dining one day with Lord Stormont, he noticed the diminutive size of
the decanters and glasses. His lordship boasted of the age of his
wine. "Dear me," said Foote. "It is very little, considering its age."
A young parson was on his honeymoon. "I'll give you a text for your
next sermon," said Foote: "Grant us thy peace so long as the moon
endureth."
Some one asked Dr. Johnson whether he did not think that Foote had a
singular talent for exhibiting character. "No, sir," replied the
doctor. "It is not a talent, it is a vice. It is what others abstain
from. His imitations are not like. He gives you something different
from himself, without going into other people. He is like a painter
who can draw the portrait of a man who has a wen on his face. He can
give you the wen, but not the man."
In _The Mayor of Garratt_ Foote took off and held up to derision the
old Duke of Newcastle, under the name of Matthew Mug. Of the Duke he
was wont to say that he always appeared as if he had lost an hour in
the morning and was looking for it all day. In _The Patron_ he
satirized Lord Melcombe, but indeed there were few with any
peculiarity of manner or taste or appearance, whom he was able to
study, whom he did not hold up to public ridicule.
The first time that George II attended the Haymarket _The Mayor of
Garratt_ was on the stage. When His Majesty arrived at the theatre,
Foote, as manager, hobbled to the stage door to receive him; but, as
he played in the first piece, instead of wearing the court dress usual
on these occasions, he was equipped in the immense cocked hat,
cumbrous boots, and all the other military paraphernalia of Major
Sturgeon. The moment the King cast his eyes on this extraordinary
figure, as he stood bowing, stumping, and wriggling with his wooden
leg, George II receded in astonishment, exclaiming to his attendants,
"Look! Vat is dat man--and to vat regiment does he belong?" Even
Samuel's not very bright brother came in for his sneers. Edward Foote
was fond of hanging about the theatre, and frequented the green-room.
Some one asked Samuel who that man was. "He?" replied Foote. "He's my
barber." Somewhat later the relationship came out, and the same person
remarked to him on his having spoken so contemptuously of Edward.
"Why," said Samuel, "I could not in conscience say he was a
brother-wit, so I set him down as a brother-shaver."
Retribution came on him at last.
The reason why Foote did not produce his "take-off" of the Duchess of
Kingston as Lady Kitty Crocodile has never transpired. According to one
account, he had threatened to caricature her in the hopes of levying
blackmail on her to stop the production; according to another, he
received threats that made him fear for his life, or at least a public
horse-whipping, if he proceeded, and he altered the character. But he
was very angry, and to be revenged he produced a piece, _The Capuchin_,
which was the original _Trip to Calais_ altered, but his satire was
transferred from the Duchess to her chaplain, named Jackson, whom he
held up to public scorn as Doctor Viper.