TO HIS GRACE, WILLIAM DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE. Lord Chamberlain of His Majesty's Household. MY LORD, THE MINOR, who is indebted for his appear ance on the Stage to your Grace's indulgence, begs leave to desire your further protection, at his entering into the world. Though the allegiance due from the whole dramatic people to your Grace's station, might place this address in the light of a natural tribute; yet, my Lord, I should not have taken that liberty with the Duke of Devonshire, if I could not at the same time, plead some little utility in the design of my piece; and add, that the public approbation has stamped a value on the execution. The law, which threw the Stage under the absolute government of a Lord Chamberlain, could not fail to fill the minds of all the objects of that power with very gloomy apprehensions; they found themselves (through their own licentiousness, it must be con fessed) in a more precarious dependent state, than any other of His Majesty's subjects. But when their direction was lodged in the hands of a nobleman, whose ancestors had so successfully struggled for national liberty, they ceased to fear for their own. It was not from a patron of the liberal arts they were to expect an oppressor; it was not from the friend of freedom, and of man, they were to dread partial monopolies, or the establishment of petty tyrannies. Their warmest wishes are accomplished; none of their rights have been invaded, except what, without the first poetic authority, I should not venture to call a right, the Jus Nocendi. Your tenderness, my Lord, for all the followers of the Muses, has been in no instance more conspicuous, than in your late favour to me, the meanest of their train; your Grace has thrown open (for those who are denied admittance into the Palaces of Parnassus) a cottage on its borders, where the unhappy migrants may be, if not magnificently, at least, hospitably entertained. I shall detain your Grace no longer, than just to echo the public voice, that, for the honour, progress, and perfection of letters, your Grace may long continue their candid CENSOR, who have always been their generous protečlor. I have the honour, my Lord, to be, with the greatest respect, and gratitude, Your Grace's most dutiful, And obedient Servant, Ellestre, July 8, 1760. SAMUEL FOOTE. THE Dramas of this Writer, having been founded upon the floating incidents and the characters of his own time, have no other claims upon posterity than what their keenness of wit and fertility of humour may give. Few of them are like Shakspere's Represen tations of General Nature. The Characters are not those of the Class, but the Individual, and when the original is snatched from our recoilection, the copy is thereby abated of its principal power to please. They therefore depend more upon mimicry than just conception, and his personages will continue to be traditionally played in the manner that Foote, their creator, performed them. This bar to his perpetuity of Fame affects the present Play less than most of his Collection. The Minor can be scarcely out of vogue while we have a BAWD in the Stews, an AUCTIONEER in the Rostrum, or a METHODIST in the Pulpit. It may be desirable to transmit, that the Characters sketched under the appellations of Mother Cole, Smirk, and Shift, were very just imitations of the well-known Mother DOUGLAS, Mr. LANGFORD the Auctioneer, and GEORGE WHITFIELD, the Enthusiast. The present Play was happily conducive to opening the eyes of Men upon the pernicious principles of the wretched Devotees of the Tabernacle. It is at all times dangerous to attack any mode of piety, but true devotion suffered little, it is believed, on the present occasion. THE MINOR. INTRODUCTION. Enter CANKER and SMART. Smart. BUT are you sure he has leave? Cank. Certain. Smart. I'm damn'd glad on't. For now we shall have a laugh either with him, or at him, it does not signify which. Cank. Not a farthing. Smart. D'you know his scheme? Cank. Not I.—But is not the door of the Little Theatre open? Smart. Yes.- -Who is that fellow that seems to stand centry there? Cank. By his tattered garb, and meagre visage, he must be one of the troop. Smart. I'll call him. -Halloo, Mr. |