Part 7

“Instead of which,” pursued Mr. Vuffin, “if you was to advertise Shakspeare played entirely by wooden legs, it’s my belief you wouldn’t draw a sixpence.”

“I don’t suppose you would,” said Short. And the landlord said so too.

“This shows, you see,” said Mr. Vuffin, waving his pipe with an argumentative air, “this shows the policy of keeping the used-up giants still in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for nothing, all their lives, and in general very glad they are to stop there. There was one giant--a black ’un--as left his carawan some years ago and took to carrying coach-bills about London, making himself as cheap as crossing-sweepers. He died. I make no insinuation against anybody in particular,” said Mr. Vuffin, looking solemnly round, “but he was ruining the trade;--and he died.”

The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the dogs, who nodded and said gruffly that _he_ remembered.

“I know you do, Jerry,” said Mr. Vuffin with profound meaning. “I know you remember it, Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it served him right. Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had three-and-twenty wans--I remember the time when old Maunders had in his cottage in Spa fields in the winter time when the season was over, eight male and female dwarfs setting down to dinner every day, who was waited on by eight old giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton stockings, and high-lows: and there was one dwarf as had grown elderly and wicious who whenever his giant wasn’t quick enough to please him, used to stick pins in his legs, not being able to reach up any higher. I know that’s a fact, for Maunders told it me himself.”

“What about the dwarfs, when _they_ get old?” inquired the landlord.

“The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,” returned Mr. Vuffin; “a gray-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a giant weak in the legs and not standing upright--keep him in the carawan, but never show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be offered.”

While Mr. Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, a sixpennyworth of halfpence for practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to the company, who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length the weary child prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they withdrew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs fast asleep at a humble distance.

MRS. JARLEY AND HER WAX-WORKS

OF all the adventures of little Nell, the meeting with Mrs. Jarley was the most delightful. It happened just at the right time. Nell and her grandfather were trudging along the road. It was late in the afternoon and they didn’t know where they were to find a resting-place. They came to a common and saw what in England is called a caravan. It is not such a caravan as one would find in Bagdad, made up of camels. It was a little house on wheels. It had white curtains on the windows, and the window-shutters were of green, with bright red trimmings. There was a door with brass knockers and there were two fat horses to draw it. They all belonged to a stout, good-natured lady named Mrs. Jarley, who was at the moment arranging her tea things for a comfortable afternoon tea.

Mrs. Jarley looked up and saw little Nell. “Are you hungry, child?”

“Not very, but we are tired, and it’s a long way.”

“Well, hungry or not,” said Mrs. Jarley, “you had better have some tea, and I suppose the old gentleman is agreeable to that.”

So they sat down on the grass and had tea and bread and butter and generous slices of ham.

Then Mrs. Jarley invited Nell and her grandfather to be her guests in the little house on wheels. There wasn’t very much room, but Mrs. Jarley was so hospitable that they at once accepted her invitation and made themselves at home. Half of the little house had berths for sleeping, very much as if it were a ship. The other half was a kitchen, with a little stove in it. It also had several boxes and kettles and saucepans.

When they got started after breakfast in the morning, little Nell’s spirits rose and she forgot her troubles.

“Well,” said Mrs. Jarley, “how do you like this way of travelling?”

Nell said she liked it very much.

“That’s the happiness of you young people,” said Mrs. Jarley. “You don’t know what it is to be low in your feelings. You always have your appetites too--and what a comfort it is.”

Then Mrs. Jarley brought out a large roll of canvas about a yard wide, and spread it on the floor.

“There, child,” she said, “read that.”

Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous black letters, the inscription, “JARLEY’S WAX-WORK.”

“Read it again,” said the lady, complacently.

“Jarley’s Wax-Work,” repeated Nell.

“That’s me,” said the lady. “I am Mrs. Jarley.”

Giving the child an encouraging look, intended to reassure her and let her know that, although she stood in the presence of the original Jarley, she must not allow herself to be utterly overwhelmed and borne down, the lady of the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon was the inscription, “One hundred figures the full size of life,” and then another scroll, on which was written, “The only stupendous collection of real wax-work in the world,” and then several smaller scrolls with such inscriptions as, “Now exhibiting within”--“The genuine and only Jarley”--“Jarley’s unrivalled collection”--“Jarley is the delight of the Nobility and Gentry”--“The Royal Family are the patrons of Jarley.” When she had exhibited these leviathans of public announcement to the astonished child, she brought forth specimens of the lesser fry in the shape of handbills, some of which were couched in the form of parodies on popular melodies; as, “Believe me if all Jarley’s wax-work so rare”--“I saw thy show in youthful prime”--“Over the water to Jarley”; while, to consult all tastes, others were composed with a view to the lighter and more facetious spirits, as a parody on the favorite air of “If I had a donkey,” beginning:

If I know’d a donkey wot wouldn’t go To see Mrs. JARLEY’S wax-work show, Do you think I’d acknowledge him? Oh no no! Then run to Jarley’s----

--besides several compositions in prose, purporting to be dialogues between the Emperor of China and an oyster, or the Archbishop of Canterbury and a Dissenter on the subject of church-rates, but all having the same moral, namely, that the reader must make haste to Jarley’s, and that children and servants were admitted at half-price. When she had brought all these testimonials of her important position in society to bear upon her young companion, Mrs. Jarley rolled them up and, having put them carefully away, sat down again, and looked at the child in triumph.

“Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any more,” said Mrs. Jarley, “after this.”

“I never saw any wax-work, ma’am,” said Nell. “Is it funnier than Punch?”

“Funnier!” said Mrs. Jarley in a shrill voice. “It is not funny at all.”

“Oh!” said Nell, with all possible humility.

“It isn’t funny at all,” repeated Mrs. Jarley. “It’s calm and--what’s that word again--critical?--no--classical, that’s it--it’s calm and classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and squeakings like your precious Punches, but always the same, with a constantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility; and so like life, that if wax-work only spoke and walked about, you’d hardly know the difference. I won’t go so far as to say, that, as it is, I’ve seen wax-work quite like life, but I’ve certainly seen some life that was exactly like wax-work.”

“Is it here, ma’am?” asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by this description.

“Is what here, child?”

“The wax-work, ma’am.”

“Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of? How could such a collection be here, where you see everything except the inside of one little cupboard and a few boxes? It’s gone on in the other wans to the assembly-rooms, and there it’ll be exhibited the day after to-morrow. You are going to the same town, and you’ll see it, I dare say. It’s natural to expect that you’ll see it, and I’ve no doubt you will. I suppose you couldn’t stop away if you was to try ever so much.”

“I shall not be in the town, I think, ma’am,” said the child.

“Not there!” cried Mrs. Jarley. “Then where will you be?”

“I--I--don’t quite know. I am not certain.”

“You don’t mean to say that you’re travelling about the country without knowing where you’re going to?” said the lady of the caravan. “What curious people you are! What line are you in? You looked to me at the races, child, as if you were quite out of your element, and had got there by accident.”

“We were there quite by accident,” returned Nell, confused by this abrupt questioning. “We are poor people, ma’am, and are only wandering about. We have nothing to do;--I wish we had.”

“You amaze me more and more,” said Mrs. Jarley, after remaining for some time as mute as one of her own figures. “Why, what do you call yourselves? Not beggars?”

“Indeed, ma’am, I don’t know what else we are,” returned the child.

“Lord bless me,” said the lady of the caravan. “I never heard of such a thing. Who’d have thought it!”

She remained so long silent after this exclamation, that Nell feared she felt her having been induced to bestow her protection and conversation upon one so poor, to be an outrage upon her dignity that nothing could repair. This persuasion was rather confirmed than otherwise by the tone in which she at length broke silence, and said:

“And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn’t wonder?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the child, fearful of giving new offense by the confession.

“Well, and what a thing that is,” returned Mrs. Jarley. “_I_ can’t.”

Mrs. Jarley’s wax-works were carried in other wagons to the town where they were to be exhibited, and little Nell was engaged to point to each wax figure, and explain to the audience what it represented. Dozens of figures of noted persons, all with wax faces, and all dressed in brilliant clothes, stood stiffly in a row.

Dickens describes the scene where Mrs. Jarley instructs Nell as to her duties:

* * * * *

When the festoons were all put up as tastily as they might be, the stupendous collection was uncovered, and there were displayed, on a raised platform some two feet from the floor, running round the room and parted from the rude public by a crimson rope breast high, divers sprightly effigies of celebrated characters, singly and in groups, clad in glittering dresses of various climes and times, and standing more or less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very wide open, and their nostrils very much inflated, and the muscles of their legs and arms very strongly developed, and all their countenances expressing great surprise. All the gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted and very blue about the beards; and all the ladies were miraculous figures; and all the ladies and all the gentlemen were looking intensely nowhere, and staring with extraordinary earnestness at nothing.

When Nell had exhausted her first raptures at this glorious sight, Mrs. Jarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and the child, and, sitting herself down in an armchair in the centre, formally invested her with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing out the characters, and was at great pains to instruct her in her duty.

“That,” said Mrs. Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell touched a figure at the beginning of the platform, “is an unfortunate Maid of Honor in the Time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her finger in consequence of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood which is trickling from her finger; also the gold-eyed needle of the period, with which she is at work.”

All this Nell repeated twice or thrice, pointing to the finger and the needle at the right times, and then passed on to the next.

“That, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Jarley, “is Jasper Packlemerton of atrocious memory, who courted and married fourteen wives, and destroyed them all by tickling the soles of their feet when they were sleeping in the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On being brought to the scaffold and asked if he was sorry for what he had done, he replied yes, he was sorry for having let ’em off so easy, and hoped all Christian husbands would pardon him the offense. Let this be a warning to all young ladies to be particular in the character of the gentlemen of their choice. Observe that his fingers are curled as if in the act of tickling, and that his face is represented with a wink, as he appeared when committing his barbarous murders.”

When Nell knew all about Mr. Packlemerton, and could say it without faltering, Mrs. Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin man, the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at a hundred and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who poisoned fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and other historical characters and interesting but misguided individuals. And so well did Nell profit by her instructions, and so apt was she to remember them, that by the time they had been shut up together for a couple of hours, she was in full possession of the history of the whole establishment, and perfectly competent to the enlightenment of visitors.

Mrs. Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at this happy result, and carried her young friend and pupil to inspect the remaining arrangements within doors, by virtue of which the passage had been already converted into a grove of green baize hung with the inscriptions she had already seen (Mr. Slum’s productions), and a highly ornamented table placed at the upper end for Mrs. Jarley herself, at which she was to preside and take the money, in company with his Majesty King George the Third, Mr. Grimaldi as clown, Mary Queen of Scots, an anonymous gentleman of the Quaker persuasion, and Mr. Pitt holding in his hand a correct model of the bill for the imposition of the window duty. The preparations without doors had not been neglected either; for a nun of great personal attractions was telling her beads on the little portico over the door; and a brigand with the blackest possible head of hair, and the clearest possible complexion, was at that moment going round the town in a cart, consulting the miniature of a lady.

It now only remained that the compositions in praise of the wax-works should be judiciously distributed; that the pathetic effusions should find their way to all private houses and tradespeople; and that the parody commencing “If I know’d a donkey,” should be confined to the taverns, and circulated only among the lawyers’ clerks and choice spirits of the place. When this had been done, and Mrs. Jarley had waited upon the boarding-schools in person, with a hand-bill composed expressly for them, in which it was distinctly proved that wax-work refined the mind, cultivated the taste, and enlarged the sphere of the human understanding, that lady sat down to dinner.

THE KENWIGSES

XV

THE KENWIGSES

I HAVE always wondered whether I should have liked the Kenwigses if I had met them in New York or Minneapolis. Probably I should not. But I like to read about them, and they somehow seem to be amusing and likeable. That is because they made a part of London once upon a time. They lived in a tumble-down house, in a tumble-down street. All the houses had seen better days and seemed to be nodding at each other as much as to say: “Times are not what they used to be when we were young.”

But for all their dreary surroundings, the Kenwigses, big and little, were very cheery people, and had a remarkably good time. The great thing about them was that they admired each other so much, and told each other so. That doesn’t seem to be very much. Anybody could do that, but most people don’t. I have known very nice people to live together for years without ever telling one another how nice they are. In that way the niceness often disappears. It wasn’t so with the Kenwigses. They made the most of each other and got a great deal of satisfaction out of a very little. They were all proud of the family, and didn’t care who knew it.

They lived on the first floor of the house, which was never kept in a tidy condition. Mrs. Kenwigs put all her time in keeping the little girls tidy, and I am not sure that any one can blame her for the fact that the entry was always in disorder. Mr. Kenwigs was very proud of his wife, and Mrs. Kenwigs was proud of her uncle, Mr. Lillyvick, whose business it was to collect water-rents in that neighborhood. He would go about with his bills and knock loudly at the doors of all the people who hadn’t paid their water-rates, and threaten them in a most terrifying manner. So every one was afraid of Mr. Lillyvick except Mrs. Kenwigs, who was proud of him. For she was his niece.

We are introduced to the Kenwigs children at a party, which Mrs. Kenwigs made in order to show off her uncle to the admiring neighbors. The reason why the children sat up for the party was because it was held in the sitting-room, which was also the place where they slept. It was a very great occasion, and the children were on their good behavior. Uncle Lillyvick was seated in a large armchair by the fireside, and the four little Kenwigses sat side by side on a small bench facing the fire, with their nice little pig-tails tied up with blue ribbons.

“They are so beautiful,” said Mrs. Kenwigs, sobbing. It was very easy for Mrs. Kenwigs to sob.

“Oh dear,” said all the ladies, “but don’t give way, don’t!”

“I can’t help it,” sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs. “Oh, they are too beautiful to live, much too beautiful!”

On hearing this all the four little girls began to cry, too, and hid their heads in their mother’s lap. This made a great excitement. At last the little Kenwigses were distributed among the company, so that their mother might not be overcome by the sight of their combined beauty. Then the conversation was taken up again by the older people. When it threatened to stop, Mrs. Kenwigs turned to Morleena, the oldest of the little girls.

“Morleena Kenwigs, kiss your dear uncle.” Morleena obeyed, and then the three other little girls had to do the same thing, and then they had to kiss all the other members of the company. Then Morleena, who had been at the dancing-school, had to dance and be admired again by her mother. What with kissing, and dancing, and being wept over, the little Kenwigses had a very busy evening, and were the life of the party.

THE CHILD’S STORY

XVI

THE CHILD’S STORY

ONCE upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half-way through.

He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child: “What do you do here?” And the child said: “I am always at play. Come and play with me!”

So he played with that child the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing birds, and saw so many butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home--where was that, they wondered!--whistling and howling, driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But when it snowed, that was best of all; for they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was; and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.

They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books: all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants and genii and fairies, and blue-beards and bean-stalks and riches and caverns, and forests and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.

But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So he said to the boy, “What do you do here?” And the boy said: “I am always learning. Come and learn with me.”

So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I could tell--or he either, for he soon forgot a deal of it. But they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoners’ base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays, too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced till midnight, and real theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends, and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.

Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So he said to the young man: “What do you do here?” And the young man said: “I am always in love. Come and love with me?”

So he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen--just like Fanny in the corner there--and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny’s, and she laughed and colored just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So the young man fell in love directly--just as Somebody I won’t mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! he was teased sometimes--just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they quarrelled sometimes--just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon--all exactly like Somebody I won’t mention, and Fanny!

But the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?” And his answer was: “I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!”