THE SPOILED CHILD.

ACT I.

SCENE I-A Dining Parlour.-A table and two chairs.

Enter OLD PICKLE, and Miss Pickle, r.

Old P. (L.) Well, well, sister, a little patience and these holidays will soon be over, the boy then goes back to school, and all will be quiet.

Miss P. (R.) Aye, till the next breaking up-no-no, brother, unless he is severely punished 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.

Old P. (L.) Now would not 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 cannot in my heart but forgive him, aye, and for aught I know, love him better into the bargain.

Miss P. (R.) Yes, truly, because you have never been a sufferer by them. Had you been rendered as ridiculous as I have been by his tricks, as you call them, you would have been the first to complain, and to punish.

Old P. Nay, as to that, he has not spared even his father-is there a day passes that I don't break my shins over some stumbling block he lays in my way?-Why, there is not a door but is armed with a bason of water on the top, and just left a-jar; so that, egad, I can't walk over my own house without running the risk of being wet through. Miss P. No wonder the child's spoilt, since you will superintend his education yourself—you! indeed!

Old P. Sister, sister, do not provoke ne-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 would 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.

Old P. Made you poetical, indeed!-s'blood, if you had been born in a street near a college, aye, or even the next door to a day-school, I might not have been so surprisedbut d-n it, madam, in the middle of the Minories, what had you to do with poetry and stuff?

Miss P. Provoking ignorance.

Old P. Have you not rendered yourself the sneer of all your acquaintance, by your refined poetical intercourse with Mr. Tagg, the author; a fellow that strolls about the country, spouting and acting in every barn he comes towas he not once 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 would admire the effusions of Mr. Tagg's pen, and be enchanted at his admirable acting as much as I am.

Old P. Do you tell me I can't educate my own child, and make a lord chancellor, or an archbishop of Canterbury of him, which ever I like-just as I please? [Pickle is about to take a chair, when Young Pickle by a string draws the chair from behind him; Old Pickle falls.]

Miss P. How's this-I'll lay my life that is another trick of this little mischievous wretch.

Old P: [Getting up.] An ungrateful little rascal, to serve me such a trick, just as I had made an archbishop of him— but he can't be far off-I'll immediately correct him; here, Thomas, [Going, meets Thomas and Servants bringing in covers for dinner, L. ] But odso, here's dinner-well, I'll defer my severity till that's over [Both sit,]-but if I don't make him remember this trick one while, say my name is not Pickle. [Sits down to table, Pickle cutting up a pheasant,] Sister, this is the first pheasant we have had this season, it looks well-shall I help you?—they say anger makes a man dry, but mine has made me hungry-come, here's a wing for you, and some of the breast.

Enter SUSAN, (a Cook Maid,) in haste. L.

Susan. Oh, dear sir-oh, dear madam-my young master-the parrot, ma'am-oh dear!

Old P. Parrot, and your 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 bird.

Susan. Hurting, ma'am-no indeed, ma'am; I'll tell you the whole truth-I was not to blame, indeed I was'nt, ma'am ; besides, I am morally certain 'twas the strange cat that kill'd it this morning.

Miss P. How! kill'd it, say you ;-but go on, let us hear the whole.

Susan. Why, ma'am, the truth is, I did but step out of the kitchen for a moment, when in comes my young master, whips the pheasant that was roasting for dinner, from the spit, and claps down your ladyship's parrot, picked and trussed in its place.

Old P. The parrot !-the devil.

Susan. I kept basting, and basting on, and never thought I was basting the parrot.

Miss P. Oh, my sweet, my beautiful young bird! I had just taught it to talk, too.

Old P. You taught it to talk-it taught you to talk, you mean; I am sure it was old enough, 'twas hatched in the hard frost!

Miss P. Well, brother, what excuse now?-but run, Susan, and do you hear, take John, and

Enter JOHN, slowly and lame, his face bound up. L.

Oh John, here's a piece of business.

John. (L.) Ay, ma'am, sure enow-what, you have heard, I see business indeed-the poor thing will never recover. Miss P. [Joyfully] What, John, is it a mistake of Susan's -is it still alive?-but-where-where is it, John?

John. Safe in stables, and it were as sound-a' made her a hot mash, would'nt touch it-so crippled, will never have leg to put to ground again.

Old P. No, I'll swear to that-for here's one of them. [Holding up a leg on a fork.]

Miss P. [Rises] What does the fool mean? whatwhat, what is in the stable-what are you talking of? [Exeunt with Susan, L.

John. Master's favourite mare, Daisy, poor thingOld P. [Alarmed, coming forward, R.] What-howany thing the matter with Daisy? I would not part with her for

John. (L.) Aye, sir, quite done up-won't fetch five pounds at the next fair.

Old P. Why what can it be, what the devil ails her?

John. Why, sir, the long and the short of the whole affair is as how-he's cut me too all across the facemercy I did not lose my eyes.

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

John. Yes, sir, the mare-then too, my shins-master Salve, the surgeon, says I must 'noint 'em wi'.

Old P. Plague on your shins-you dog-what is 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 Daisy, tho' your honour had forbid him to ride her-so I calls to him to stop-bnt what does he do, but smacks his whip in my face, and dash over the gate into Stoney Lane; but 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 could catch hold of him, he slips out of the stable, and was off like a shot.

Old P. Well, if I forgive him this-no-I'll send him this moment back to school.-School! zounds, I'll send him to sea.

Re-enter MISS PICKLE, L..

Miss P. [Crosses c.] Well, brother, yonder comes your precious child-he's muttering all the way up stairs to himself, some fresh mischief, I suppose.

Old P. Aye, here he comes-stand back-let us watch him, though I can never contain my passion long.

[They withdraw to the back of the stage.

Enter LITTLE PICKLE, L.

Little P. Well, so far all goes on rarely: dinner must be nearly ready; old Poll will taste well, I dare say-parrot and bread sauce-ha! ha! ha!-they suppose they are 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 it's found out-ecod, for aught I know, that may be better fun than the other: no doubt Sukey will tell, and John too, about the horse-a parcel of sneaking fellows, always tell, tell, tell.--I only wish I could catch them at school, once-that is all-I'd pay them well for it I'd be bound.-Oh! oh! here they are, and as I live, my father and aunt-it's all out I see-To be sure I'm not got into a fine scrape now: I almost wish I was

safe at school again. [They come forward.] Oh, sir; how do you do, sir? I was just coming to

Old P. Come, come, no fooling now-how dare you look me in the face after the mischief you have done? Little P. What-what have I done?

Old P. (L. c.) You know the value I set upon that mare you have spoilt for ever.

Little P. (R. c.) But, sir, hear me :-indeed, I was not so much to blame, sir, not so very much.

Miss P. (R.) Do not aggravate your faults by pretending to excuse them-your father is too kind to you. Little P. Dear sir, I own I was unfortunate- -I had heard you often complain, how wild and vicious little Daisy was; and indeed, sir, I never saw you ride her, but I trembled least some sad accident might befall you.

Old P. Well, and what is all this to the purpose?

Little P. And so, sir, I resolved, sooner than you should suffer, to venture my own neck, and so try to tame her for you; that was all:-and so I was no sooner mounted than off she set-I could not help that you know, sir; and so this misfortune happened, and so sir-but, indeed, sir

Old P. Could I be sure this was your motive-and 'tis purely love and regard for your old father makes you thus teaze and torment him—perhaps I might be inclined

to

John. (L.) Yes, sir; but 'tis no love and regard to me, made him beat me so.

Little P. John, you know you were to blame.-Sir, indeed 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 you from being hurt, he said that it was no business of mine, and that if your neck was broke it was no such great matter.

Old P. What-no great matter to have my neck brokeLittle 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 could not hurt him much.

Old P. Well, child, I believe I must forgive you, and so shall John too; aye, aye. But I had forgot poor Pollwhat did you roast the parrot for, you young dog?

Little P. Why, sir, I knew you and my aunt were both so fond of it, I thought you would like to see it well dress'd..

Old P. Ha! ha! ha!