SCENE TAKEN FROM

A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.

BY SHERIDAN.

SCENE 1.- The Hall of an Inn.

Enter YOUNG FASHION and LORY, POSTILION following with a portmanteau.

YOUNG FASHION.-Lory, pay the post-boy, and take the portmanteau.

LORY.-Faith, sir, we had better let the post-boy take the portmanteau and pay himself.

FASHION.-Why, sure there's something left in it. LORY.-Not a rag, upon my honour, sir,

-we eat

the last of your wardrobe at Newmalton; and, if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next meal must have been of the cloak-bag.

FASHION. Why, 'sdeath, it appears full.

FASHION.-Why,

LORY.-Yes, sir,—I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save appearances, and look like baggage.

FASHION.- What the devil shall I do? Harkee, boy, what's the chaise?

POSTILION. Thirteen shillings, please your honour. FASHION.-Can you give me change for a guinea? POSTILION.-O yes, sir.

LORY.-Soh, what will he do now?

had better let the boy be paid below.

Lord, sir, you

FASHION.-Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will be as well.

LORY.-Yes, yes; I'll tell them to discharge you below, honest friend.

K

POSTILION.-Please your honour, there are the turnpikes too.

FASHION.-Ay, ay, the turnpikes, by all means. POSTILION. And I hope your honour will order me something for myself.

FASHION. To be sure; bid them give you a crown. LORY.-Yes, yes-my master doesn't care what you charge them; so get along, you

POSTILION. And there's the ostler, your honour. LORY.-'Pshaw! hang the ostler-would you impose upon the gentleman's generosity? (Pushes him out.) A rascal, to be so curst ready with his change!

me.

FASHION.- Why, faith, Lory, he had nearly posed

LORY.- Well, sir, we are arrived at Scarborough, not worth a guinea! I hope you'll own yourself a happy man. -you have outlived all your cares.

FASHION.- - How so, sir?

LORY.-Why, you have nothing left to take care of. FASHION.-Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take care of still.

LORY.-Sir, if you could prevail with somebody else to do that for you, I fancy we might both fare the better for it. But now, sir, for my Lord Foppington, your eldest brother.

FASHION.- Hang my eldest brother!

LORY.-With all my heart; but get him to redeem your annuity, however. Look you, sir, you must wheedle him, or you must starve.

FASHION.-LOOk you, sir, I will neither wheedle him nor starve.

LORY.-Why, what will you do, then?

FASHION. Cut his throat, or get some one to do it for me.

LORY.-Gad, so, sir, I'm glad to find I was not so well acquainted with the strength of your conscience as with the weakness of your purse.

FASHION. Why, art thou so impenetrable a blockhead as to believe he'll help me with a farthing?

LORY.-Not if you treat him de haut en bas, as you

used to do.

FASHION.-Why, how would'st have me treat him?
LORY.-Like a trout-tickle him.

FASHION. I can't flatter.
LORY.-Can you starve?
FASHION.-Yes.

LORY. I can't-good-bye t'ye, sir.

FASHION.Stay-thou'lt distract me. But who comes here?. - my old friend, Colonel Townly.(Enter Colonel Townly.)—My dear colonel, I am rejoiced to meet you here.

COL. TOWNLY.- Dear Tom, this is an unexpected pleasure.—What, are you come to Scarborough to be present at your brother's wedding?

LORY.-Ah! sir, if it had been his funeral, we should have come with pleasure.

COL. TOWNLY.-What, honest Lory, are you with your master still?

LORY.-Yes, sir, I have been starving with him ever since I saw your honour last.

FASHION. Why, Lory is an attached rogue; there's no getting rid of him.

LORY.-True, sir, as my master says, there's no seducing me from his service, (aside) till he's able to pay me my wages.

FASHION.- Go, go, sir,—and take care of the baggage.

LORY.-Yes, sir,-the baggage! O Lord! I suppose, sir, I must charge the landlord to be very particular where he stows this?

FASHION.Get along, you rascal!

(Exit Lory with the portmanteau.)

POETRY.

THE COUNTRY CURATE.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The Village Preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe.
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd, and felt for all.

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each heart, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.

Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd;
To them, his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

GOLDSMITH.

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

From the steep promontory gazed
The stranger, raptured and amazed.
And, "What a scene was here," he cried,
"For princely pomp, or churchman's pride!
On this bold brow, a lordly tower;

In that soft vale, a lady's bower;
On yonder meadow, far away,
The turrets of a cloister grey;