THE PATRON. THIS Comedy was performed, for the first time, at . the Little Theatre, Hay-Market, in the season of 1764. To Marmontel the author is indebted for his hint. The hero of the scene is held up as a child of fortune and fashion, enveloped in self-conceit, and a dupe to those whose interest it is to flatter him into a belief, that he is in the possession of every virtue, and every talent that can adorn and dignify elevated life. This dramatic shaft was said to be levelled at a noble lord, whose name we forbear to mention. In his patron, Mr. Foote indulges his vein for irony at the expence of the antiquarians. To expose this race appears to be his favourite task, and it must be allowed to be well executed in the present production; for a character more ludicrous than that of Rust was never exhibited on the English stage. His West India merchant, Sir Peter Pepperpot, is a too faithful picture of bloated prosperity, where cruelty and oppression have attained wealth and situation, destitute of mind ar sense to bestow lustre on the one, or weight on the other, The poet and the bookseller come in for their share of applause; keep up the ball of humour, point, and character: and although The Patron has not been performed for many years, for its author's sake, we trust it will be welcomed by our friends. THE PATRON. ACT I. SCENE I.-The Street. Enter BEVER and YOUNGER. Younger. No, Dick, you must pardon me. Bev. Nay, but to satisfy your curiosity. Bev. Why then to gratify me. Youn. At rather too great an expence. Bev. To a fellow of your observation and turn, I should think, now such a scene a most delicate treat. Youn. Delicate! Palling, nauseous, to a dreadful degree. To a lover, indeed, the charms of the niece may palliate the uncle's fulsome formality. Bev. The uncle! ay; but then you know he is only one of the group. Youn. That's true; but the figures are all finish'd alike. A maniere, a tiresome sameness, through. out. Bev. There you will excuse me; I am sure there is no want of variety. Youn. No! then let us have a detail. Come, Dick, give us a bill of the play.. Bev. First, you know, there's Juliet's uncle. Youn. What, Sir Thomas Lofty! the modern Midas, or rather (as fifty dedications will tell you,) the Pollio, the Atticus, the patron of genius, the protector of arts, the paragon of poets, decider of merit, chief justice of taste, and sworn appraiser to Apollo and the tuneful Nine. Ha, ha! Oh, the tedious, insipid, insufferable coxcomb! Bev. Nay, now, Frank, you are too extravagant. He is universally allow'd to have taste; sharpjudging Ariel, the muse's friend, himselfa muse. Youn. Taste! by whom? underling bards that he feeds, and broken booksellers that he bribes. Look ye, Dick; what raptures you please when Miss Lofty is your theme, but expect no quarter for the rest of the family. I tell thee once for all, Lofty is a rank impostor, the Bufo of an illiberal mercenary tribe: he has neither genius to create, judgment to distinguish, nor generosity to reward; his wealth. has gain'd him flattery from the indigent, and the haughty insolence of his pretence, admiration from the ignorant. Voila le portrait de votre oncle! Now on to the next. Bev. The ingenius and crudite Mr. Rust. Youn. Rival! what, Rust? why, she's too modern for him by a couple of centuries, Martin! why he likes no heads but upon coins. Marry'd! the mummy! Why 'tis not above a fortnight ago, that I saw him making love to the figure without a nose in Somerset-gardens: I caught him stroaking the marble plaits of her gown, and asked him if he was not ashamed to take such liberties with ladies in public? Bev. What an inconstant old scoundrel it is! Youn. Oh, à Dorimont. But how came this about? what could occasion the change? was it in the power of flesh and blood to seduce this adorer of virtù from his marble and porphyry? Bev. Juliet has done it; and, what will surprise you, his taste was a bawd to the business. Youn. Prythee explain. Bev. Juliet met him last week at her uncle's: he was a little pleased with the Greek of her profile; but, on a closer inquiry, he found the turn-up of her nose to exactly resemble the bust of the princess Pompæa. Youn. The chaste moiety of the amiable Nero? Youn. Oh, the deuse! then your business was done in an instant. Bev. Immediately. In favour of the tip, he of fered chart blanche for the rest of the figure; which (as you may suppose) was instantly caught at. Youn. Doubtless. But who have we here. Bev. This is one of Lofty's companions, a West Indian of an overgrown fortune. He saves me the trouble of a portrait. This is Sir Peter Pepperpot. |