The spoil'd child: in two acts. As performed at the Theatre-Royal, Smoke-Alley.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

- ACT I.

- ACT II.

THE SPOIL'D CHILD;

FINIS.

THE SPOIL'D CHILD; IN TWO ACTS. AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, SMOKE-ALLEY.

DUBLIN: M,DCC,XCII. PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

Little Pickle,

Mrs JORDAN.

Pickle,

Mr INETT.

Tagg,

Mr R. PALMER.

John,

Mr BURTON.

Thomas,

Mr LYONS.

WOMEN.

Miss Pickle,

Mrs HOPKIN.

Maria,

Miss HEARD.

Margery,

Mrs BOOTH.

Susan, (Cook-maid)

Mrs EDWARD.

ACT I.

SCENE.—A Dining Parlour,

Enter MISS PICKLE and PICKLE.

Pickle.

WELL, well, Sister, have a little patience and these holidays will be over; and the boy then goes back to school and all will be quiet.

Miss P.

Yes, till the next breaking up, no, no, brother, unless he is severely punish'd for what he has already done, depend upon it, this vicious humour will be confirmed into habit, and his follies increase in proportion with his years.

Pick.

Now wou'dn't any one think to hear you talk, that my son had actually some vice in him? for my part I own there is something so whimsical in all his tricks that I can't in my heart but forgive him, aye and for aught I know love him the better into the bargain.

Miss P.

Yes truly—because you have never been a sufferer by them—had you been rendered rediculous as I have been by his tricks as you call 'em, you wou'd have been the first to complain and to punish.

Pick.

Nay, as to that, he hasn't spar'd even his father, is there a day passes I do not break my shins over stumbling-blocks he lays in my way?—why there isn't a door in the house but is arm'd with a bason of water on top, and left just a jarr—so that I can't walk over my own house without running the hazard of a shower bath, or being wet through.

Miss P.

Aye, no wonder the child's spoil'd —since you will superintend his education yourself, you indeed.

Pick.

Sister, sister—don't provoke me, at any rate, I have wit enough to conceal my ignorance—I don't pretend to write verses and nonsense, as some folks do.

Miss P.

Now wou'd you rail at me for the disposition I was born with? can I help it if the Gods have made me poetical as the divine bard says.

Pick.

Made you Poetical indeed, 'Sblood if you had been born in a street near a college, or even next door to a day school, I shou'dn't have been surprised; but damn it madam, what had you to do with poetry and stuff.

Miss P.

Provoking ignorance!

Pick.

Hav'n't you rendered yourself the sneer of all your acquaintance by your refin'd and poetical intercourse with Mr Tagg the author, a fellow that strolls about the country spouting and acting in every barn he comes to—and wasn't he found concealed in your closet to the utter scandal of my house and the ruin of your reputation?

Miss P.

If you had the smallest spark of taste you wou'd admire the effusions of Mr Tagg's pen, and be enchanted with his admirable acting as much as I am—but as to this story it may serve as another sample of my nephew's sweet disposition, to coin base falsehoods against his aunt's character.

Pick.

Do you tell me I can't educate my own child? and make a Lord Chancellor of him or an archbishop of Canterbury—which ever I like? just as I please?

During the last speech Pickle leans on the table which is drawn away by a string and he falls.

Miss P.

I'll lay my life that is another trick of that little mischievous wretch.

Pick.

(getting up.) An ungrateful little rascal! to serve me such a trick just as I had made an Archbishop of Canterbury of him —but as he can't be far off I'll immediately correct him—here Thomas (going meets Thomas who enters with table covered two plates, knives, and forks, roasted fowl, castors, butter boat, &c.—places table between chairs and Exit.)

Pick.

But odso here's dinner—well I'll defer my resentment till that's over—but if I don't remember this trick one while, say my name is not Pickle. (cuts up the fowl) Sister, this is the first pheasant we have had this season—it looks well—shall I help you? they say anger makes people dry—mine has made me hungry I think—come here's a wing for you, and some of the breast.

Enter SUSAN, running.

Su.

O dear Sir! O dear ma'am! my young master ma'am! the parrot ma'am—O dear!

Pick.

Parrot and young master—what the deuce does the girl mean!

Miss P.

Mean! why as sure as I live that vile boy has been hurting my poor dear bird.

Su.

Hurting ma'am! no ma'am indeed— besides I'm morally certain it was the strange cat kill'd it this morning.

Miss P.

How! kill'd it, say you! but go on let's hear the whole.

Su.

Why ma'am the truth is, I did but just step out of the kitchen for a moment, but in comes my young Master, whips the pheasant, that was roasting for dinner off the spit, and claps down your ladyship's parrot ready pick'd and truss'd in its place.

Pick.

The parrot! the devil!

Su.

I kept basting and basting, and never thought I was basting the parrot—till just now I found the pheasant and all the parrot's feathers hid in the kitchen cupboard.

Miss P.

O my sweet, my beautiful young bird, I had but just learn'd it to talk too.

Pick.

You taught it to talk—it taught you to talk you mean—I'm sure 'twas old enough —why 'twas hatched in the hard frost.

Miss P.

Well, brother, what excuse now? but run Susan, d'ye hear take John, and—

Enter JOHN slowly, and lame, his face bound.

O John here's a fine piece of business!

John.

Aye, ma'am sure enough.—What you've heard I see, business indeed—the poor thing will never recover.

Miss P.

What John, is it a mistake of Susan's, is it still alive? but where? where is it John?

John.

Safe in the stable an it were as sound, a made a hot mash—wou'dn't touch it—so crippled, will never have a leg to put on ground again.

Pick.

No, I'll swear to that—for here's one of them. holding it up on the fork.

Miss P.

What does the fool mean? what, what's in the stable? what are you talking of?

John.

Master's favourite mare Daisey, ma'am, poor thing.

Pick.

What? how! any thing the matter with Daisey—wou'dn't part with her for—

John.

Aye, aye, quite done up—won't fetch five pounds at next fair.

Miss P.

This dunce's ignorance distracts me—come along Susan. Exit with Susan.

Pick.

Why what can it be? what the devil ails her.

John.

Why Sir, the long and the short of the affair is as how—he has cut me all across the face—mercy I did not lose my eye.

Pick.

This cursed fellow will drive me mad, the mare, the mare, you scoundrel the mare.

John.

Yes Sir, the mare—then too my shins—Master Salve the surgeon says I must 'noint 'emwi—

Pick.

Plague o' your shins you dog, what's the matter with the mare?

John.

Why, Sir, as I was coming home this morning over Black Down, what does I see but young Master tearing over the turf upon Daisey, so I calls to him to stop, thof I knew your honour had forbid him to ride her —but what does he me, but smacks his whip full in my face, and dash over the gate into Stoney Lane.

Pick.

Stoney Lane; well and what?

John.

Farmer Flail met 'em, and had but just time to hide himself in the hedge before down comes mare and Master over a stone heap—and what's worse—when I rated him about it, he snatches up Tom Carter's long whip, and lays me so over the legs, and before I cou'd catch hold of him he whips out of the stable and was off like a shot.

Pick.

Well, if ever I forgive him this—no —I'll send him this moment back to school —school! Zounds I'll send him to sea.

Enter MISS PICKLE.

Miss P.

Well brother, yonder comes your precious child—he's muttering all the way up stairs to himself some fresh mischief I warrant.

Pick.

Aye, here he comes, stand back let's watch him—though I can never contain my passion long. (they retire.)

Enter LITTLE PICKLE with a kite at his back.

Little P.

Well, so far all goes on rarely— dinner must be near ready—Old Poll will taste well I dare say—Parrot and bread sauce, ha, ha, ha! they suppose they're going to have a nice young pheasant, an old parrot is a greater rarity I'm sure, I can't help thinking how devilish tough the drumsticks will be— a fine piece of work aunt will make when 'tis found out, ecod for ought I know, that may be better fun than t'other—no doubt Sukey will tell and John too about the mare, a parcel of sneaking fellows, always, tell, tell, tell, I only wish I cou'd catch 'em at school once— that's all—I'd pay 'em well sor't I'd be bound —O here they are, and as I live my father and aunt—to be sure I'm not got into a pretty scrape now—I almost wish I was safe back at school again. (puts down the kite, they come forward.) O Sir, how d'ye do? I was just coming to—

Pick.

Come, come, no fooling, now how dare you look me in the face after the mischief you have done?

Little P.

Mischief Sir! what mischief have I done?

Pick.

This impudence provokes me beyond all, you know the value I set upon that mare you have spoiled for ever.

Little P.

But Sir—hear me—indeed I wasn't so much to blame Sir, not so very much.

Miss P.

Don't aggravate your faults by pretending to excuse them, your father is too kind to you.

Little P.

Dear Sir, I own I was unfortunate, but I heard you often complain how wild and vicious Daisey was, and so, Sir, sooner than you should suffer, I was resolv'd to venture my own neck and try to tame her for you, that's all Sir;—and so I was no sooner mounted but off she set—I cou'dn't help that you know Sir—and so this misfortune happen'd—but indeed Sir—

Pick.

Cou'd I be sure this was your motive, that it was merely love and regard for your old father makes you thus teize and torment him— perhaps I might be inclined—

John.

Yes, Sir, but 'twas no love and regard for I made him beat me so.

Little P.

John, you know, you were to blame—indeed Sir the truth is John was scolding me for it, and when I told him as I have told you why I did it, and that it was to hinder your being hurt, he said that was no business of mine, and if your neck was broke 'twas no such great matter.

Pick.

What! no great matter to have my neck broke.

Little P.

No Sir, so he said; and I was vex'd to hear him speak so of you—and I believe I might take up the whip and give him a cut or two on the legs—it cou'd not hurt him much.

Pick.

Well child, I believe I must forgive you and so shall John too—but I had forgot poor Poll; what did you roast the parrot for, you young dog you?

Little P.

Why Sir, I knew you and my aunt were both so fond of it—I thought she'd like to see it well drest—but dear aunt (to Miss Pickle) I know you must be angry with me, and you think with reason.

Miss P.

Don't speak to me—I'm not so weak as your father, whatever you may fancy.

Little P.

But indeed aunt you must hear me, had I not lov'd you as I do, I shou'dn't have thus offended you—but 'twas merely my regard for your character.

Pick.

Character!

John.

Character!—O Lord—O Lord.

Pick.

Get about your business you scoundrel.

Exit John.

Little P.

Why dear aunt, I had heard that no ladies kept parrots, or lap dogs, till they were no longer able to keep lovers, and when at school I told 'em you kept a parrot, the boys said, then you must be a foolish old maid.

Miss P.

Indeed! impudent young wretches.

Little P.

Yes aunt, and so I resolved you shou'd no longer be thought so—for I think you're a great deal too handsome for an old maid. (kisses her hand)

Pick.

Come Sister, faith you must forgive him—no female heart can withstand that.

Miss P.

Brother I can forgive where I see occasion, but though these faults are thus excused, how will you answer to a charge of scandal and ill-nature.

Little P.

Ill-nature ma'am—I'm sure nobody can accuse me of that.

Miss P.

How will you justify the report you spread of my being lock'd up in my closet with Mr Tagg the author—can you defend so vile an attempt to injure my dear reputation.

Pick.

What! that too I suppose was from your care of her character—and so to hinder your aunt from being thought an old maid; you lock'd her up in her closet with this author as he's call'd?

Little P.

Nay indeed dear ma'am—I beseech you 'twas no such thing—all I said was, you were amusing yourself in your closet with a favourite author.

Miss P.

I amuse myself, in my closet with a favourite author! worse and worse.

Pick.

Sister, have patience—hear—

Miss P.

I am ashamed to see you support your boy in such insolence—I indeed! who am scrupulous to a fault—but no longer will I remain subject to such impertinence, I quit your house Sir, and you shall quit all claim to my fortune—this moment I'll alter my will, and leave my money to a stranger sooner than to your family. Exit.

Pick.

Her money to a stranger! O the three per cents consols—O the India Stock— go child—fly, throw yourself at your aunt's feet, say any thing to please her—I shall run distracted—O those consols!

Little P.

I'm gone Sir, shall I say she may die as soon as she pleases, but she must not leave her money to a stranger.

Pick.

Aye, aye, there's a good boy; say any thing to please her, that will do very well; say she may die as soon as she pleases, but she must not leave her money to a stranger.

Exit. Little Pickle

Well never man was so tormented. I thought when my poor dear wife Mrs Pickle died, and left me a disconsolate widower, I had some chance of being a happy man—but I know not how it is—I cou'd bear the vexations of my wife's bad temper, better than this woman's—all my married friends were as miserable as myself, that was some relief, but now—faith here she comes, and in a fine humour no doubt.

Enter MISS PICKLE.

Miss P.

Brother I have given directions for my immediate departure, and I am now to tell you, I will persist in my design, unless you this moment adopt the scheme I yesterday laid down for my nephew's amendment.

Pick.

Why my dear sister you know there's nothing I wou'dn't readily do to satisfy and appease you, but to abandon my only child and take a beggar's brat into my arms— impossible!

Miss P.

(going.) Very well Sir, then I'm gone.

Pick.

But Sister stay—was ever man so used —how long is this scheme of yours to last? how long am I to be deprived of him?

Miss P.

How long! why till he's brought duly to reflect on his bad behaviour, which nothing will induce him to do sooner than thinking he is no longer your son, but the child of poor parents—I yesterday spoke to Margaret our old nurse, and she fully comprehends the whole affair.

Pick.

But why in addition to the quitting my own child, am I to have the torment of receiving her's—wont the sending him away be sufficient.

Miss P.

Unless the plot's manag'd my way, I'll have nothing to say to it, but begone, can't you tell that his distress at losing his situation, will be augmented, by seeing it in possession of another? come, come, Brother, a week's purgatory will reform him, depend on it.

Pick.

Why to be sure as you say, it will reform him and as we shall have an eye upon him all the while, and Margaret was his own nurse-

Miss P.

You may be sure she'll take care of him. Well since this is settled, the sooner it is done the better. Thomas! (Enter Thomas.) send your young master here.

Exit Thomas.

Pick.

I see you're finally resolv'd and no other way will content you—well heaven protect my poor child.

Miss P.

Brother you are so blinded by your foolish fondness, that you cease to perceive what is for his benefit, 'tis happy for you there is a person to direct you of my superior discernment.

Enter LITTLE PICKLE.

Little P.

Did you send for me aunt?

Pick.

Child come hither, I have a secret to disclose to you, at which you will be surprs'd.

Little P.

A secret Sir!

Miss P.

Yes, and one that requires your utmost courage to bear, you are no longer to consider that person as your father—he is not so —Margaret who nurs'd you has confess'd— and the thing is sufficiently prov'd, that you are not his son but her's—She exchanged you when an infant for my real nephew, and her conscience at last compell'd her to make the discovery.

Little P.

I another person's child? impossible!—Ah you are only joking with me now to see whether I love you or not—but indeed I am yours—my heart tells me I am only, only yours. (to Pickle.)

Pick.

You deceive yourself—there can be no doubt of the truth of Margaret's account.

Little P.

Good heavens! dear Sir don't say so—I will not believe it—it can never be? —must I then give up all I respect and love to the possession of another? believe Sir 'tisn't the splendor of riches I repine at quitting, 'tis the happiness I never till now felt of calling you father—aunt.

Pick.

Assure yourself of our protection, but no longer can you remain in this house—I must not do an injury to my own child—you belong to others—to them you must now go.

Little P.

Yet Sir, for an instant hear me— pity me dear aunt, if yet I dare to call you so, intercede in my behalf—heaven! she knows me not. Ah! then too sure I know I am not your child—or would that distress, which draws tears of pity from them, fail to move nature in you—farewell I must away—but at least forgive me—pardon the faults I have committed—you cannot sure in pity deny me that—

SONG.—Tune "Je suis Lindor" (voice alone.)

Since then I'm doom'd this sad reverse to prove,

To quit each object of my infant care,

Torn from an honour'd Parent's tender love,

And driven the keenest storms of fate to bear.

Ah but forgive me! pitied let me part,

Your frowns too sure would break my sinking heart.

II.

Where'er I go, whate're my lowly state,

Yet grateful mem'ry still shall linger here,

And hap'ly musing o'er my cruel fate,

You still may greet me with a tender tear.

Ah! then forgive me, &c. &c.

Exeunt.

END OF ACT FIRST.

ACT II.

SCENE.—A Parlour.

Enter MISS PICKLE and MARGERY,

Margery.

AND so as I was telling your ladyship, poor little master does so take it to heart—and so weep and wail, it almost makes me cry to hear him.

Miss P.

Well, well, since he begins already to repent his punishment shall be but short— but have you brought your boy with you?

Marg.

Aye, have I—poor Tommy—he came from aboard of ship but now—and is so grown and alter'd—sure enough he believes every word I have told him as your honour order'd me—and I warrant is so sheepish and shamefaced—O here comes my master —he has heard it all already— Enter PICKLE. but my lady, shall I fetch my poor Tommy to you?— he's waiting without.

Pick.

What that ill looking young rascal in the hall? he with the jacket and trowsers?

Marg.

Aye, your honour, then you have seen him?

Pick.

Seen him!—aye and felt him too— the booby met me bolt at the corner—run his curst carrotty poll in my face and has loosen'd every tooth in my head I believe.

Marg.

Poor lad—he's a sailor and but awkward as yet and so shy I warrant—but will you your honour be kind to him—

Pick.

Kind to him—why I'm to pass for his father, a'n't I?

Marg.

Aye, I wish your honour had been poor Tommy's father—but no such luck for me, as I say to my husband.

Pick.

Indeed?—your husband must be very much oblige to you, and so am I—

Marg.

But do, your honour, once let me see my Tommy drest in his fine smart Cloaths.

Pick.

Damme! I don't half like that Tommy.

Miss P.

Yes, yes, you shall—but now go and fetch him here to us—I shou'd like much to see him.

Marg.

Do you now madam, speak kindly to him, for poor boy he's quite dash'd.

Pick.

Dash'd!—yes and he has dash'd some of my teeth out, plague on him.

Miss P.

Now Mr. Pickle I insist upon your observing a proper behaviour and decorum towards this poor lad—observe the condescention of my deportment—methinks I feel a strange inclination already in his favour— perhaps I may advance him by and by to be my page, shall I brother?—here he comes— and I declare as prepossessing a countenance as I ever beheld.

Enter MARGERY and LITTLE PICKLE, as a Sailor—red hair.

Miss P.

Come hither, child, was there ever such an engaging air.

Marg.

Go, Tommy, do as you're bid, that's a good boy, thank his honour for his goodness to you.

Little P.

Be you the old fellow that's just come to be my father?

Pick.

(aside.) Old fellow?—he's devilish dash'd to be sure—yes I am the old fellow as you call it—will you be a good child?

Little P.

Aye, but what will you gi' me? —must I be good for nothing?

Pick.

Good for nothing! nay, that I'll swear you are already, well, and how long have you been come from Sea, eh? how do you like a sailor's life? eh?

SONG.—Melton Oysters.

LITTLE PICKLE.

I am a brisk and sprightly lad,

Just come home from sea, Sir,

Of all the lives I ever led,

A sailor's life for me, Sir.

Yeo, yeo, yeo! yeo, yeo, yeo!

While the boatswain pipes all hands

With a yeo, yeo, yeo, Sir.

What girl but loves the merry tar

That o'er the Ocean roam, Sir,

In every clime we find a Port

In every Port a home, Sir, Yeo, yeo, &c.

But when our, country's foes are nigh

Each hastens to his gun, Sir,

We make the boasting Frenchman fly,

And bang the haughty don, Sir, Yeo, yeo, &c.

Our foes subdued, once more on shore,

We spend our cash with glee, Sir,

And when all's gone we drown our care,

And out again to sea, Sir.

Yeo, yeo, yeo! yeo, yeo, yeo!

And when all's gone again to Sea,

With a yeo, yeo, yeo, Sir.

Pick.

So, this is the way I'm to be entertain'd in future with forecastle jokes and tarpaulin songs—

Miss P.

Brother, don't speak so harshly to the poor lad—come to me, my pretty boy, I'll be your friend.

Little P.

Friend! Oh what your my Grandmother— (to Miss P.) father mustn't I call her Granne?

Pick.

What, he wants encouragement, Sister, he's found out one relation however— this boy's assurance diverts me, I like him—

(aside.)

Little P.

Granne's mortal cross and frumpish—la, father! what makes your mother there so plaguy foul weather'd.

Miss P.

Mother, indeed!

Pick.

O nothing at all, my dear, she's the best humour'd person in the world—go, throw yourself at her feet and ask her blessing —perhaps she may "gi' ye something."

(mimics.)

Little P.

A blessing!—I shan't be much richer for that, neither, perhaps she may give me half a crown—I'll throw myself at her feet and ask for a guinea— (knetls) dear granne, gi' me that pretty picture

(catches at it.)

Miss P.

Stand off, wretch—am I to be robb'd as well as insulted.

Marg.

Fie! child! learn to behave yourself better.

Little P.

Behave myself—learn you to behave yourself—I shou'dn't ha' thought of you indeed—get you gone—I'm a young gemman now, and mustn't remember old acquaintances—get out, I say.

drives her off and follows.

Pick.

Well, Sister—this plan of yours I hope succeeds to your satisfaction—he'll make a mighty pretty Page, sister, what an engaging air he has, Sister,—this is some revenge for her treatment of my poor boy.

Aside.

Miss P.

I perceive this to be all a contrivance —and this boy is taught to insult me thus— but ere long, you may repent this unparallell'd treatment of unprotected innocence. Exit.

Pick.

What she means to go off with her lover the player man, I suppose—but I'll watch her and her consols too—and if I catch him in my house, it shall be his last appearance this Season— Exit.

Re-enter LITTLE PICKLE.

Little P.

There they go—ha, ha, ha! my scheme has gone on rarely—rather better than their's I think—blessings on the old nurse for consenting to it.—I'll teach 'em to turn people out of doors—let me see—what trick shall I play em now—suppose I set the house on fire—no, no, its too soon for that—that will do very well by and by—let me see—I wish I cou'd see my sister—I'll discover myself to her, and then we might contrive something together nicely—that staircase leads to her room—I'll try and call her— (goes and listens) there's nobody in the way—hist, hist! Maria, Maria!—she hears me—she's coming this way— (runs and hides himself.)

Enter MARIA.

Mar.

Sure somebody call'd me—no, theres nobody here, heigho! I've almost cried myself blind about my poor brother—for so I shall always call him—aye, and love him too— (going)

Little P.

Maria!—Sister!—stop an instant,

Mar.

My Brother! Charles! impossible!

Little P.

'Tis e'en so, faith—'twas all a trick about the nurse and child—I coax'd the old woman to confess the whole to me— so borrowing this dress as you see—return'd to plague 'em a little more, that's all—now you and I must consult together how to revenge ourselves—let me see—how shall we vex 'em—I'll let 'em see who's best at plotting—what shall it be—you can't contrive to kill yourself for the loss of me, can you—that wou'd have a fine effect—is there nothing I can think of—suppose you pretend to fall in love with me and we may run away together!

Mar.

That will do admirably, and you may depend on my playing my part with a good will, for I owe them some revenge for their treatment of you—besides you know I can refuse you nothing.

Enter PICKLE behind.

Little P.

Thank you a thousand times, my dear Maria—thus we'll contrive it

(Seeing Pickle they pretend to whisper.)

Pick.

What!—how's this!—"Dear Maria," and "I'll refuse you nothing." Death and the devil! my daughter has fallen in love with that young rascal and his yeo, yeo, yeo—see too, they embrace (comes forward) mighty well, young madam, mighty well, but come, you shall be lock'd up immediately, and you, young rascal, be whipt out of the house—

Little P.

You won't be so heard-hearted sure—we will not part—here is my anchor fix'd—here am I moor'd for ever—

(Pickle endeavours to take Maria from him—She resists—And Little P. detains her by the hand.)

Mar.

(romantically) No—we'll never, never part—O cruel, cruel fate!

Pick.

He has infected her with his assurance already—what you young minx, do you own you love him?

Mar.

Love him! Sir, I adore him, and spite of your utmost opposition ever, ever shall.

Pick.

O ruin'd! undone! what a wretched old man am I—but Maria! child!

Mar.

Think not to dissuade me, Sir, vain attempt! no, Sir, my affections are fix'd, never to be recall'd.

Pick.

O dear, what shall I do! what will become of me—Oh! a plague on my plot, I have lost my daughter, and for ought I know, my son too—Why child, he's a beggar—he's not worth a sixpence.

Mar.

My soul abhors so low a thought—I despise wealth—know, Sir, I cherish nobler sentiments—

"The generous youth shall own,

"I love him for himself alone."

Pick.

What, poetry too! nay then 'tis time to prevent further mischief— (pulls her) Go to your room—a good key shall ensure your safety, and that young rascal may go back to sea, with his yeo, yeo, yeo, if he will.

Mar.

I obey your harsh command Sir, and am gone—but alas I leave my heart behind.

Exit, Pickle locks her in.

Pick.

Now Sir, for you—don't look so audacious you young villain, don't fancy you belong to me—I utterly disclaim you.

Little P.

(laughing) But that's rather too late now, old one, you have publicly said I was your son, and damme I'll make you stand to it.

Pick.

The devil! here's an affair—here John! Thomas! William!

Enter JOHN, THOMAS and SUSAN.

Take that fellow, and turn him out of doors immediately.

Tho.

Fellow! who, Sir?

Pick.

Who! why zounds! him there, don't you see him.

John.

What! my new young master! no, Sir, I've turn'd out one already—I'll turn out no more—

Pick.

He's not your young master—he's no son of mine—away with him I say.

Su.

No, Sir—we know our young master too well for all that—why he's as like your honour as one pea is like another.

John.

Aye, heaven bless him!—and may he shortly succeed your honour in your estate and fortune.—

Pick.

Rogues! villians! I'm abused, robbed— (drives Servants off) there's a conspiracy form'd against me—and this little Pirate is at the head of the gang—

Enter Thomas, gives Pickle a letter and Exit.

Odso! here's a letter from my poor boy— this is a comfort indeed—well, I'll send for him home without further delay— (reads) ‘Honoured Sir—I heartily repent of having so far abused your goodness while bless'd with your protection—but as I fear no penitence will restore me to your favour have resolved to put it out of my power again to offend you—by bidding adieu to my country for ever’ —here John! go, run directly to Margery's fetch home my Son, and—

Little P.

You may save yourself the trouble —'tis too late—you'll never bring him too, now—make as many signals, and fire as many guns as you please.

Pick.

What d'ye mean—

Little P.

Mean—why he and I have changed births that's all.

Pick.

Chang'd births!

Little P.

Aye, I'm got into his hammock and he's got into mine, that's all, he's some leagues off at sea by this time—the tide serves, the wind's fair, and Botany Bay's the word my old boy.

Pick.

Botany Bay—then my misery is complete—unhappy Pickle—but I'll instantly see about this myself—and if its true—I'll come back just to blow out your brains—and so be either hang'd, or sent to Botany Bay after him. Exeunt.

SCENE.—A Garden.

Enter MISS PICKLE.

Miss P.

This is the hour of my appointment with Mr Tagg—and my brother's absence is favourable indeed—well after such treatment, can he be surprised if I throw myself into the arms of so passionate an admirer —my fluttering little heart tells me this is an important crisis in my happiness—how much these vile men have to answer for in thus bewitching us silly girls—

Tagg.

(behind) "The heavy hours are almost past

"That part my love and me."

Enters.

"My longing eyes may hope at last,

"Their only joy to see."

Thus most charming of your sex, let me prostrate myself at the shrine of beauty.

(kneels)

Miss P.

Mr Tagg, I fear I never can be yours.

Tagg.

Adorable, lovely, the most beautified Ophelia "beautified is a vile phrase"—

Miss P.

Indeed, Mr Tagg, you make me blush with your compliments.

Tagg.

Compliments!— ‘O call not by that hacknied name the voice of truth’ — ‘lovely nymph O deign to hear me—I'll teach you what it is to love.’

Miss P.

Love! Mr Tagg!—O moderate your transports be advised—think no more of this fatal passion.

Tagg.

Think no more of it!— ‘can love be controul'd by advice?’ — ‘will Cupid our mother obey?’ —O then consent my angel to join our hands in one—or give me my death in a frown.

Miss P.

Can I refuse any thing to such a lover—but my dear friend—were I to consent to our tender union—how cou'd we contrive our escape—my brother's vigilence wou'd overtake us—and you might have some cause to repent of his anger.

LITTLE PICKLE Enters, sees them and runs off unperceived.

Tagg.

O he's a Goth, a meer Vandyke, my love!— ‘but fear makes the danger seem double—say Hymen what mischief and trouble, say what men will, wedlock's a Pill —bitter to swallow and hard of digestion’ — I've contrived the plot and every scene of the elopement—here in this shady blest retreat will I unfold it all— reaches chairs) lets sit down like Jessica and the fair Lorenzo here—

(they sit.)

"Wou'd you taste the moon tied hair,

"To yon flagrant bower repair,

"Where mixing with the poplar bough,

"The bantling fine shall shelter you.

"Since music is the food of love

"We'll to the nightingale's complacent notes

"Tune our distresses and record our Woes."

During the above speech, Little Pickle steals on behind them, sews their clothos together and runs off unseen.

Miss P.

O I cou'd listen thus for ever to the charms of love and harmony—but how are we to plan our escape?

Tagg.

In a low and mean attire muffled up in a great cloak will I await you in this happy spot—but why, my soul, why not this instant fly—thus let me seize my tender bit of lamb —there I think I had her as dead as mutton

(aside.)

Miss P.

No, I'm not yet equipp'd for an elopement, and what is of more consequence still, I hav'n't got with me a casket of jewels I have prepared, rather too valuable to be left behind.

Tagg

(aside.) That is of some consequence indeed to me—"my diamond, my pearl," then be a good girl until I come to thee again—

Miss P.

Come back again in the disguise immediately—and if fortune favours faithful lovers vows I will contrive to slip out to you—

Tagg.

Dispose of me, lovely creature as you please—but don't forget the casket.

Enter LITTLE PICKLE, running.

Little P.

Granne! granne!

Miss P.

What rude interuption's this?

Little P.

O nothing at all—only father's coming—that's all—

Tagg.

The devil! what a catastrophe!

(both rise)

Miss P.

One last adieu! (they embrace) think you we shall ever meet again—

they find themselves fasten'd together and struggle.

Tagg.

Damme if I think we shall ever part—

Miss P.

Don't detain me—wont you let me go—

Tagg.

Go! zounds! I wish you was gone.

Miss Pickle runs off with the lap of Tagg's coat, which tears off—Tagg Exit—Little Pickle runs off laughing.

Enter PICKLE.

Pick.

Well, all's not so bad as I fear'd— he's not yet gone to sea, and Margery assures me I shall see him again soon, quite another thing from what he was—but now let me look after my Sister—tho' she let me play the fool, I'll take care to prevent her—I mustn't give up the consols too—but odso I haven't yet seen my daughter,—I'll to her first, lest young yeo, yeo, shou'd really get her shipt off —and when I've secured fifteen, I'll look after fifty—but who's coming here? I'll conceal myself and watch— (goes into the arbour.)

Enter MISS PICKLE, with a casket.

Miss P.

Mr Tagg—Mr Tagg—I hope he's return'd—how I tremble—kind Cupid aid your vot'ry's feeble steps—

Enter LITTLE PICKLE, disguised in a long cloak.

Miss P.

(mistaking him for Tagg) O my dear Mr Tagg—take the casket, and let us make haste that we may escape before my brother comes back—

Little P.

(Kissing her hand) This way—this way—

as they are going Old Pickle comes from the arbour and stops 'em.

Pick.

Your most obedient, humble servant, madam—well said fifty egad!—your most obsequious, Mr Alexander (collars Little Pickle) what John! William! Thomas! you sha'n't want attendants, mighty Prince— (Enter Servants) or may hap you had rather sleep in a castle, great Hero, we have a convenient jail close by, where you'll be very safe, most illustrious chief—

Miss P.

A jail! O heav'ns! poor dear Mr Tagg—a victim to his love for me—O let's implore his forgiveness and intreat him to release you.

Little Pick. kneels—throws off his disguise and appears in his own hair, tho' still in the Sailor's dress.

Little P.

Thus then let me implore for pardon, and believe that a repentance so sincere as mine will never suffer my heart again to wander from its duty towards him.

Pick.

What's this, my son, (embraces him) odds my heart I'm glad to see him once more —O you dear little fellow—but you wicked scoundrel, how dare you play me such tricks?

Little P.

Tricks! O Sir, recollect you have kindly pardoned them already, and now you must intercede for me with my aunt, that I may have her forgiveness too, for preventing her from eloping with her tender swain, Mr Tagg.

Pick.

Mr Tagg! odso! there the consols were sinking apace, but you have rais'd them once more. (embraces)

Little P.

And do you then indeed, Sir, sincerely forgive me and forget all my past follies.

Pick.

Forget them—ah, had you vex'd me as much again I shou'd have been more than repaid by the happiness of this moment.

Little P.

Kind Sir, my joy is then complete, and I will never more offend.

(Comes forward.)

And yet wou'd these our fair and gracious spectators condescend to own they have been amused by my tricks, (and if I can judge of looks, or am skill'd in the language of eyes, they deign to smile assent) I shall be tempted again to transgress.

Information about this book

Title statement

The spoil'd child: in two acts. As performed at the Theatre-Royal, Smoke-Alley.

Bickerstaff, Isaac, 1735-1812.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
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ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4339

ID [isbn10]

1106013387

ID [isbn13]

9781106013385

ID [TCP]

K050370.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3309503804

ID [ECLL]

0048401900

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The spoil'd child: in two acts. As performed at the Theatre-Royal, Smoke-Alley., Bickerstaff, Isaac, 1735-1812.. 36p. ; 12⁰. Dublin :: printed for the booksellers,. 1792.. [Attributed to Isaac Bickerstaffe.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT57003.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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