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- Scarborough and the Critic - 1/21 -





LORD FOPPINGTON _Mr. Dodd._ SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY _Mr. Moody._ COLONEL TOWNLY _Mr. Brereton._ LOVELESS _Mr. Smith._ TOM FASHION _Mr. J. Palmer._ LA VAROLE _Mr. Burton._ LORY _Mr. Baddeley._ PROBE _Mr. Parsons._ MENDLEGS _Mr. Norris._ JEWELLER _Mr. Lamash_ SHOEMAKER _Mr. Carpenter._ TAILOR _Mr. Parker._ AMANDA _Mrs. Robinson._ BERINTHIA _Miss Farren._ MISS HOYDEN _Mrs. Abington._ MRS. COUPLER _Mrs. Booth._ NURSE _Mrs. Bradshaw._

Sempstress, Postilion, Maid, _and_ Servants.



What various transformations we remark, From east Whitechapel to the west Hyde Park! Men, women, children, houses, signs, and fashions, State, stage, trade, taste, the humours and the passions; The Exchange, 'Change Alley, wheresoe'er you're ranging, Court, city, country, all are changed or changing The streets, some time ago, were paved with stones, Which, aided by a hackney-coach, half broke your bones. The purest lovers then indulged in bliss; They ran great hazard if they stole a kiss. One chaste salute!--the damsel cried--Oh, fie! As they approach'd--slap went the coach awry-- Poor Sylvia got a bump, and Damon a black eye.

But now weak nerves in hackney-coaches roam, And the cramm'd glutton snores, unjolted, home; Of former times, that polish'd thing a beau, Is metamorphosed now from top to toe; Then the full flaxen wig, spread o'er the shoulders, Conceal'd the shallow head from the beholders. But now the whole's reversed--each fop appears, Cropp'd and trimm'd up, exposing head and ears: The buckle then its modest limits knew, Now, like the ocean, dreadful to the view, Hath broke its bounds, and swallowed up the shoe: The wearer's foot like his once fine estate, Is almost lost, the encumbrance is so great. Ladies may smile--are they not in the plot? The bounds of nature have not they forgot? Were they design'd to be, when put together, Made up, like shuttlecocks, of cork and feather? Their pale-faced grandmammas appeared with grace When dawning blushes rose upon the face; No blushes now their once-loved station seek; The foe is in possession of the cheek! No heads of old, too high in feather'd state, Hinder'd the fair to pass the lowest gate; A church to enter now, they must be bent, If ever they should try the experiment. As change thus circulates throughout the nation, Some plays may justly call for alteration; At least to draw some slender covering o'er, That _graceless wit_ [Footnote: "And _Van_ wants grace, who never wanted wit." --POPE.] which was too bare before: Those writers well and wisely use their pens, Who turn our wantons into Magdalens; And howsoever wicked wits revile 'em, We hope to find in you their stage asylum.

* * * * *


SCENE I.--_The Hall of an Inn_. _Enter TOM FASHION and LORY, POSTILION following with a portmanteau_. _Fash_. Lory, pay the postboy, and take the portmanteau. _Lory. [Aside to TOM FASHION_.] Faith, sir, we had better let the postboy take the portmanteau and pay himself. _Fash. [Aside to LORY_.] Why, sure, there's something left in it! _Lory_. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir! We eat the last of your wardrobe at New Malton--and, if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next meal must have been of the cloak-bag. _Fash_. Why, 'sdeath, it appears full! _Lory_. Yes, sir--I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save appearances, and look like baggage. _Fash. [Aside_.] What the devil shall I do?--[_Aloud_.] Hark'ee, boy, what's the chaise? _Post_. Thirteen shillings, please your honour. _Fash_. Can you give me change for a guinea? _Post_. Oh, yes, sir. _Lory. [Aside_.] So, what will he do now?--[_Aloud_.] Lord, sir, you had better let the boy be paid below. _Fash_. 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. _Post_. Please your honour, there are the turnpikes too. _Fash_. Ay, ay, the turnpikes by all means. _Post_. And I hope your honour will order me something for myself. _Fash_. 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-- _Post_. And there's the ostler, your honour. _Lory_. Psha! damn the ostler!--would you impose upon the gentleman's generosity?--[_Pushes him out_.] A rascal, to be so cursed ready with his change! _Fash_. Why, faith, Lory, he had nearly posed me. _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. _Fash_. How so, sir? _Lory_. Why, you have nothing left to take care of. _Fash_. 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 elder brother. _Fash_. Damn 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. _Fash_. Look you, sir; I would neither wheedle him, nor starve. _Lory_. Why, what will you do, then? _Fash_. Cut his throat, or get someone 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. _Fash_. 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. _Fash_. Why, how wouldst have me treat him? _Lory_. Like a trout--tickle him. _Fash_. I can't flatter. _Lory_. Can you starve? _Fash_. Yes. _Lory_. I can't. Good by t'ye, sir. _Fash_. 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. Town_. 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. Town_. 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. _Fash_. 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. _Fash_. Go, go, sir, and take care of the baggage. _Lory_. Yes, sir, the baggage!--O Lord! [_Takes up the portmanteau_.] I suppose, sir, I must charge the landlord to be very particular where he stows this? _Fash_. Get along, you rascal.--[_Exit_ LORY _with the portmanteau_.] But, Colonel, are you acquainted with my proposed sister-in-law? _Col. Town_. Only by character. Her father, Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, lives within a quarter of a mile of this place, in a lonely old house, which nobody comes near. She never goes abroad, nor sees company at home; to prevent all misfortunes, she has her breeding within doors; the parson of the parish teaches her to play upon the dulcimer, the clerk to sing, her nurse to dress, and her father to dance;--in short, nobody has free admission there but our old acquaintance, Mother Coupler, who has procured your brother this match, and is, I believe, a distant relation of Sir Tunbelly's. _Fash_. But is her fortune so considerable? _Col. Town_. Three thousand a year, and a good sum of money, independent of her father, beside. _Fash_. 'Sdeath! that my old acquaintance, Dame Coupler,

Scarborough and the Critic - 1/21

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