{"id":65735,"date":"2014-01-27T19:28:02","date_gmt":"2014-01-28T00:28:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=65735"},"modified":"2014-01-28T21:50:33","modified_gmt":"2014-01-29T02:50:33","slug":"any-nosegays-you-blockhead","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/01\/27\/any-nosegays-you-blockhead\/","title":{"rendered":"Any Nosegays, You Blockhead?"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Severin<\/a>

Severin Roesen, Still Life\u2014Flowers in a Basket<\/i>, ca. 1850s.<\/p><\/div>\n

The British dramatist Samuel Foote was born today in 1720. Foote was a playwright in the snickering, rabble-rousing tradition\u2014a dry wit who was always getting himself into trouble. He performed plays without licensing them, basically the eighteenth-century equivalent of smuggling your camcorder into a movie theater; he went riding and was thrown from his horse, resulting in the loss of one of his legs; he spent some time in debtors\u2019 prison; he\u2019s rumored to have made passes at a footman or two in his day; and much of his writing features withering, thinly veiled caricatures of wealthy people, which really pissed off those wealthy people, to say nothing of their wealthy coteries. Most important, Foote is responsible for having coined the phrase \u201cthe Grand Panjandrum,\u201d as refined a piece of nonsense as I can remember having heard. (He did it off the cuff, having faltered in the recitation of a text he\u2019d \u201cmemorized.\u201d)<\/p>\n

What better way to pay tribute to the man than with an excerpt? Two centuries before Spiro Agnew\u2019s \u201cnattering nabobs,\u201d there was simply The Nabob<\/i>, Foote\u2019s 1772 comedy about an aristocrat newly returned to London from the Orient. You could dip into the play anywhere and come up with comic gold; its brand of buffoonery is never out of fashion. I myself have just discovered what good clean fun it is to read an exchange between a fastidious, irascible Brit\u2014that is, Mite, our titular nabob\u2014and his underwhelming florist:<\/p>\n

\n

Servant <\/b>Mrs. Crocus, from Brompton, your honour.<\/p>\n

Mite<\/b> Has she brought me a bouquet?<\/p>\n

Servant <\/b>Your honour?<\/p>\n

Mite <\/b>Any nosegays, you blockhead?<\/p>\n

Servant <\/b>She has a boy with a basket.<\/p>\n

Mite <\/b>Shew her in! [Enter Mrs. Crocus.]<\/i> Well, Mrs. Crocus; let us see what you have brought me. Your last bouquet was as big as a broom, with a tulip strutting up like a magistrate\u2019s mace; and, besides, made me look like a devil.<\/p>\n

Crocus<\/b> I hope your honour could find no fault with the flowers? It is true, the polyanthuses were a little pinched by the easterly winds; but for pip, colour, and eye, I defy the whole parish of Fulham to match \u2018em.<\/p>\n

Mite <\/b>Perhaps not; but it is not the flowers, but the mixture, I blame. Why, here now, Mrs. Crocus, one should think you were out of your senses, to cram in this clump of jonquils!<\/p>\n

Crocus<\/b> I thought your honour was fond of their smell.<\/p>\n

Mite<\/b> Damn their smell! It is their colour I talk of. You know my complexion has been tinged by the East, and you bring me here a blaze of yellow, that gives me the jaundice. Look! Do you see here, what a fine figure I cut? You might as well have tied me to a bundle of sunflowers!<\/p>\n

Crocus <\/b>I beg pardon, your honour!<\/p>\n

Mite<\/b> Pardon! There is no forgiving faults of this kind. Just so you served Harry Hectic; you stuck into his bosom a parcel of hyacinths, though the poor fellow\u2019s f ace is as pale as a primrose.<\/p>\n

Crocus <\/b>I did not know\u2014<\/p>\n

Mite<\/b> And there, at the opera, the poor creature sat in his side-box, looking like one of the figures in the glass-cases in Westminster-Abbey; dead and drest!<\/p>\n

Crocus<\/b> If gentlemen would but give directions, I would make it my study to suit \u2018 em.<\/p>\n

Mite<\/b> But that your cursed climate won\u2019t let you. Have you any pinks or carnations in bloom?<\/p>\n

Crocus<\/b> They are not in season, your honour. Lillies of the valley\u2014<\/p>\n

Mite<\/b> I hate the whole tribe! What, you want to dress me up like a corpse! When shall you have any rosebuds?<\/p>\n

Crocus<\/b> The latter end of the month, please your honour.<\/p>\n

Mite<\/b> At that time you may call.<\/p>\n

Crocus<\/b> Your honour has no further commands?<\/p>\n

Mite<\/b> None. You may send nosegays for my chairmen, as usual.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The British dramatist Samuel Foote was born today in 1720. Foote was a playwright in the snickering, rabble-rousing tradition\u2014a dry wit who was always getting himself into trouble. He performed plays without licensing them, basically the eighteenth-century equivalent of smuggling your camcorder into a movie theater; he went riding and was thrown from his horse, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[12686,12690,4367,12685,12688,12689,12687],"class_list":["post-65735","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-british-dramatists","tag-florists","tag-flowers","tag-samuel-foote","tag-spiro-agnew","tag-the-grand-panjandrum","tag-the-nabob"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nAn Excerpt from Samuel Foote\u2019s The Nabob<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"January 27, 2014 \u2013 The British dramatist Samuel Foote was born today in 1720. 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