ACT I.
SCENE I.—A Dining Parlour.—Pickle and his sister sitting by a table, on which plates are set for dinner—the sister working.
Pickle.
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. 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.
Pick. 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. 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.
Pick. 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!
Pick. Sister, sister, do not 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 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.
Pick. 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 surprised—but d——n it, madam, in the middle of the Minories, what had you to do with poetry and stuff?
Miss P. Provoking ignorance.
Pick. Have you not rendered yourself the sneer of all your acquaintance, by your refined poetical intercourse with Mr. Tagg, the author, a fellow that stroles about the country, spouting and acting in every barn he comes to—was 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.
Pick. 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.
[Young Pickle by a string draws the chair, Old Pickle falls.
Miss P. How’s this—I’ll lay my life that is another trick of this little mischievous wretch.
Pick. (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.) But odso, here’s dinner—well, I’ll defer my severity till that’s over—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.
Sus. Oh, dear sir—oh, dear madam—my young master—the parrot, ma’am—oh dear!
Pick. 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.
Sus. Hurting, ma’am—no indeed, ma’am; I’ll tell you the whole truth—I was not to blame, indeed I wasn’t, 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.
Sus. Why ma’am, the truth is, I did but step out of the kitchin 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.
Pick. The parrot!—the devil.
Sus. 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.
Pick. 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.
Oh John, here’s a piece of business.
John. 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, woud’nt touch it—so crippled will never have leg to put to ground again.
Pick. No, I’ll swear to that—for here’s one of them. (holding up a leg on a fork)
Miss P. What does the fool mean? what—what, what is in the stable—what are you talking of?
John. Master’s favourite mare, Daisy, madam—poor thing——
Pick. (alarmed) What—how—any thing the matter with Daisy? I would not part with her for——
John. Aye, sir quite done up—won’t fetch five pounds at the next fair.
Miss P. This dunce’s ignorance distracts me—come along, Susan.
[Exeunt Miss Pickle and Susan.
Pick. 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 face—mercy I did not lose my eyes.
Pick. 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’——
Pick. 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, thof your honour had forbid him to ride her—so I calls to him to stop—but 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.
Pick. Well, if 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 suppose.
Pick. 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.
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 a 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——
Pick. 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?
Pick. You know the value I set upon that mare, you have spoilt for ever.
Little P. But, sir, hear me—indeed I was not so much to blame, sir, not so very much.
Miss P. 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.
Pick. 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——
Pick. 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. 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.
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 could not hurt him much.
Pick. Well, child, I believe I must forgive you, and so shall John too; aye, aye.——But I had forgot poor Poll—what 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.
Pick. Ha!—ha!—ha!——
Little P. But dear aunt, I know you must be angry with me, and you think with reason.
Miss P. Don’t speak to me, I am not so weak as your father, whatever you may fancy.
Little P. But indeed, aunt, you must hear me, had I not loved you as I do, I should not have thus offended you, but it was merely my regard for your character.
John. Character!—
[Exit, Pickle kicks him off.
Little P. My dear aunt, I always heard that no lady’s keep parrots or lap-dogs, ’till they can no longer keep lovers—and when at school, I told ’em you had a parrot, the boys all said, then you must be a foolish old maid.
Miss P. Indeed!—impudent young wretches.
Little P. Yes, aunt, and so I resolved you should no longer be thought so—for I think you are a great deal too young, and too handsome for an old maid. (taking her hand)
Pick. Come, sister, i’faith you must forgive him, no female heart can withstand that.
Miss P. Brother, you know 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, madam—I’m sure nobody can accuse me of that.
Miss P. How will you justify the report you spread, of my being locked up in my closet with Mr. Tagg, the author—can you defend so vile an attempt to injure my reputation?
Pick. What, that too, I suppose, was from your care of her character—and so to hinder your aunt from being an old maid, you locked her up in her closet with this author, as he is called.
Little P. Nay, indeed, dear madam, 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 will I alter my will, and leave my money to a stranger, sooner than to your family.
[Exit.
Pick. Her money to a stranger, leave her money to a stranger! Oh! the three per-cent. consols—oh, the India stock—go, child—fly, throw yourself at your aunt’s feet—say any thing to please her—I shall run distracted.—Oh! those consols——
Little P. I am gone, sir—shall I say she may die as soon as she pleases, but she must not give 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 P.) Sure never man was so tormented—well, I thought when my poor dear wife, Mrs. Pickle died, and left me a disconsolate widower, I stood some chance of being a happy man, but I know not how it is, I could bear the vexation of my wife’s bad temper better than this woman’s. All my married friends were as miserable as myself—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 am now come to tell you, I will persist in my design, unless you this moment adopt the scheme I yesterday proposed for my nephew’s amendment.
Pick. Why, my dear sister you know there is nothing I would not readily do to satisfy and appease you, but to abandon my only child, to pretend that he is not mine—to receive a beggar brat into my arms—impossible——
Miss P. (going) Very well, sir, then I am gone.
Pick. But sister, stop—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 until he is brought duly to reflect upon his bad behaviour, which nothing will induce him to do, so soon as thinking himself no longer your son, but the child of poor parents—I yesterday spoke to Margaret, his 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 hers? won’t the sending him away be sufficient?
Miss P. Unless the plot is managed my way, I will have nothing to do with it, but begone—can’t you perceive that his distress at losing his situation, will be augmented by seeing it possessed by another—come, come, brother, a week’s purgatory will reform him, depend upon it.
Pick. Why, to be sure, as you say—’twill reform him, and as we shall have our eyes upon him all the while, and Margaret his own nurse—
Miss P. You may be sure she will take care of him—well, since this is settled, the sooner ’tis done the better—Thomas!
Enter Thomas.
Send your young master.
Pick. I see you are finally resolved, 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 great secret to disclose to you, at which you will be much surprised.
Little P. A secret, sir!
Miss P. Yes, and one that requires your utmost courage to hear—you are no longer to consider that person as your father, he is not so—Margaret, who nursed you, has confessed, and the thing is sufficiently proved, that you are not his son, but hers—she exchanged you when an infant for my real nephew, and her conscience has at last compelled 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 (to Pickle) I am yours—my heart tells me I am only only yours.
Pick. I am afraid you deceive yourself—there can be no doubt of the truth of Margaret’s account; but still 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—ah too sure I know (to Old Pickle) I am not your child—or would that distress which now draws tears of pity from a stranger, fail to move nature in you.
Miss P. Comfort yourself, we must ever consider you with compassion and regard—but now you must begone—Margaret is waiting without to receive you.
SONG—Little Pickle.
Tune—Je suis Linder.
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, wou’d break my sinking heart.
II.
Where e’er I go, what e’er my lowly state,
Yet grateful mem’ry still shall linger here,
And perhaps when musing o’er my cruel fate,
You still may greet me with a tender tear.
Ah! then forgive me, pitied let me part,
Your frowns too sure would break my sinking heart.
END OF THE FIRST ACT.