a merry-andrew, and a theatrical assassin, drew forth a reply from the comedian which may be placed among the most poignant and admirable productions of his wit.

Unable to touch his arch enemy upon the stage, Foote resolved to scarify her tool; he remodelled "The Trip to Calais" into "The Capuchin," and, as Dr. Viper, gibbeted him with all the malice he could command. The battle created an immense sensation at the time; and on the first night of the new comedy the theatre was packed with friends and enemies-the latter predominating, but not sufficiently to prevent its success-and it was acted throughout the season. Stung to fury by this terrible satire, Jackson carried on the fight with yet greater malignancy. A riot was attempted on the next opening night, but defeated by Foote's clever tact. As a last stake, Jackson bribed a discharged coachman of Foote's to bring a hideous charge against him. Numbers who had been tortured by his cruel wit became partisans of his detractor. But, on the other hand, he had many firm and powerful friends; his theatre was nightly filled with all that was noble in rank and intellect, and the King, to testify his sympathy, commanded a performance.

There was a trial; but the infamous charges completely broke down, and the jury, without a moment's hesitation, returned a verdict of "Not

Guilty." As soon as the acquittal was pronounced, Murphy rushed away to Suffolk Street with the glad tidings, and seeing Foote at the window, waved his hat in sign of victory. When he entered the room he found him stretched upon the floor in violent hysterics.

He never recovered the blow. He let the Haymarket to Colman for an annuity of £1,600, and certain other considerations. He reappeared in the following May in "The Devil on Two Sticks;" but how changed! His cheeks were lank and withered, his eyes had lost all their old intelligence, and his whole person appeared sunk and emaciated. A few hissed, but his friends and the impartial part of the audience cheered him. He rallied a little in the course of the play; but the public accepted him rather for what he had been than what he was. He appeared in three or four other characters; but towards the end of the season, while performing in "The Devil on Two Sticks," he was seized with a paralytic stroke. A few weeks at Brighton slightly recovered him, and in the autumn his physicians. ordered him to the south of France. But he never got further than Dover, where he died on the 21st of October, 1777. He was buried in the cloisters of Westminster, by torchlight, where he lies undistinguished by a memorial of any kind.

"Did you think he would be so soon gone?" writes Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. "Life,' says

Falstaff, is a shuttle.' way, and the world is really impoverished by his sinking glories. I would have his life written with diligence." Such a valediction from the lips of this great and good man is sufficient to prove that Foote was not altogether the irredeemable scoundrel that he is generally painted. With all his faults he possessed much generosity of disposition. He was an excellent master to his servants, and would retain actors upon his establishment out of friendship, long after they ceased to be useful to him. During one of his visits to Dublin he was taken so ill at rehearsal that he announced himself unable to play that night. "Ah! sir," said one of the actors, "if you do not play we shall have no Christmas dinner." "If my playing gives you a Christmas dinner, play I will." And, although very ill, he kept his word. It has been already recorded how he gave the profits of "Taste" to the poor painter Worsdale, who had been so badly treated by Sir Godfrey Kneller. He was always ready to honour talent in preference to rank. During the run of the "Minor," when seats could not be found for noblemen, he contrived to secure a box for Gray and Mason. Players and authors were always to be found at his table, and not even the comfort of royalty was preferred to theirs.

He was a fine fellow in his

No man was ever more free from toadyism: rank was no shield against his wit, which would strike as

hard at a duke as at a menial. "Well, Foote, here I am, ready as usual to swallow all your good things," said the Duke of Cumberland, one night, in the green-room of the Haymarket. "Really, Your Royal Highness must have an excellent digestion," replied the wit," for you never bring any up again." A Scotch peer, notoriously thrifty, served his wine. in very small glasses, and descanted eloquently upon its age and excellence, "It is very little of its age," observed Foote. Sometimes this humour amounted to insolence; as, for instance, after dining at a nobleman's house, not to his satisfaction, and finding the servants ranged in the hall when he was departing, he inquired for the cook and butler, and upon their stepping forward, said to the first, "Here's half-a-crown for my eating;" and to the other, "here's five shillings for my wine; but, by I never had so bad a dinner for the money in my life." Dining with Lord Townshend after a duel, he suggested that his lordship might have got rid of his antagonist in a more deadly way. "How?" inquired his host. "By inviting him to a dinner like this, and poisoning him," was the sharp reply. The Duke of Norfolk, who was rather too fond of the bottle, asked him in what new character he should go to a masquerade. "Go sober," answered Foote. Being taken into White's, one day, a nobleman remarked to him that his handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket. "Thank you,

my lord," he replied, "thank you; you know the company better than I do." A rich contractor was holding forth upon the instability of the world. "Can you account for it, sir?" he asked, turning to Foote. "Well, not very clearly," he responded, "unless we suppose it was built by contract." "Why are you for ever humming that air ?" he asked of a gentleman who had no idea of time. "Because it haunts me." "No wonder, for you are for ever murdering it."

At

Garrick, of whose great fame he was undoubtedly envious, was a constant butt for his sarcasms. one of Foote's dinner-parties an announcement was made of the arrival of Mr. Garrick's servants. "Oh, let them wait," he replied to his footman, "but be sure you lock up the pantry!” One day, a gentleman, while conversing with Foote, was speaking of Garrick having reflected upon some person's parsimony, and ended by observing, "Why did he not take the beam out of his own eye before attacking the mote in other people's ?" "Because," retorted Foote, "he is not sure of selling the timber." "Where on earth can it be gone ?" said Foote, when Garrick dropped a guinea at the Bedford one night, and was searching for it in vain. "To the devil, I think," answered the actor, irritably. "Let you alone, David, for making a guinea go further than any one else," was the reply.

One day a French gentleman was admiring