Part 8

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.

[Illustration:

_Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons_

MRS. KENWIGS AND THE FOUR LITTLE KENWIGSES]

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!”

So he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that had come out earliest were even turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his wife; and they had children, who were with them too. So they all went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard.

Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they would hear a very little distant voice crying: “Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on together.

Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they all stood still, and one of the children said: “Father, I am going to sea,” and another said, “Father, I am going to India,” and another, “Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can,” and another, “Father, I am going to Heaven!” So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to Heaven rose into the golden air and vanished.

Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his hair was turning gray. But they never could rest long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always busy.

At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall.

So they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady stopped.

“My husband,” said the lady. “I am called.”

They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue say: “Mother, mother!”

It was the voice of the first child who had said: “I am going to Heaven!” and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray not yet!”

But the voice cried: “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.

Then the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark avenue and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him, and said: “My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together.

And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of the wood: so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them through the trees.

Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when he passed out of the wood and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting on a fallen tree. So he said to the old man: “What do you do here?” And the old man said with a calm smile: “I am always remembering. Come and remember with me!”

So the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face to face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the father, mother, and children; every one of them was there, and he had lost nothing. So he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honored and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear grandfather, because this is what you do to us, and what we do to you.

THE BOY AT TODGERS’S

XVII

THE BOY AT TODGERS’S

WHEN Mr. Pecksniff and his two daughters came to London, they found their way to Mrs. Todgers’s Boarding House. It was early in the morning and they rang two or three times without making any impression on anything but a dog over the way. At last a chain and some bolts were withdrawn, and a small boy with a large red head, and no nose to speak of, and a pair of huge boots under his arm, appeared. The boy rubbed his nose with the back of his shoe brush and said nothing.

“Still abed, my man?” asked Mr. Pecksniff.

“Still abed!” replied the boy, “I wish they wos still abed. They’re very noisy abed, all calling for their boots at once. I thought you was the Paper and wondered why you didn’t shove yourself through the grating as usual. What do you want?”

The boy was called Bailey, and though he was a little cross when the Pecksniffs came because it was so early in the morning, he was usually the soul of good humor. Indeed, good humor was about the only thing he had, for no one had taken the trouble to teach him good manners.

Bailey would roll up his sleeves to the shoulders and find his way all over the house, and wherever he went he made things lively. He wore an apron of coarse green baize. He would answer the door and then make a bolt for the alley, and in a moment be playing leap-frog, till Mrs. Todgers followed him and pulled him into the house by the hair of his head.

When the two Miss Pecksniffs were sitting primly on the sofa, Bailey would greet them with such compliments as: “There you are agin! Ain’t it nice!” This made them feel very much at home.

“I say,” he whispered, stopping in one of his journeys to and fro, “young ladies, there’s soup to-morrow. She’s making it now. Ain’t she putting in the water? Oh! not at all neither!”

The next time he passed by he called out:

“I say--there’s fowls to-morrow. Not skinny ones. Oh, no!”

Presently he called through the keyhole:

“There’s a fish to-morrow--just come. Don’t eat none of him!” And, with this warning, he vanished again.

* * * * *

By-and-by, he returned to lay the cloth for supper, it having been arranged between Mrs. Todgers and the young ladies that they should partake of an exclusive veal-cutlet together in the privacy of that apartment. He entertained them on this occasion by thrusting the lighted candle into his mouth, and exhibiting his face in a state of transparency; after the performance of which feat he went on with his professional duties; brightening every knife as he laid it on the table, by breathing on the blade and afterward polishing the same on the apron already mentioned. When he had completed his preparations, he grinned at the sisters, and expressed his belief that the approaching collation would be of “rather a spicy sort.”

“Will it be long before it’s ready, Bailey?” asked Mercy.

“No,” said Bailey, “it _is_ cooked. When I come up, she was dodging among the tender pieces with a fork, and eating of ’em.”

But he had scarcely achieved the utterance of these words, when he received a manual compliment on the head, which sent him staggering against the wall; and Mrs. Todgers, dish in hand, stood indignantly before him.

“Oh, you little villain!” said that lady. “Oh, you bad, false boy!”

“No worse than yerself,” retorted Bailey, guarding his head, in a principle invented by Mr. Thomas Cribb. “Ah! Come now! Do that agin, will yer!”

“He’s the most dreadful child,” said Mrs. Todgers, setting down the dish, “I ever had to deal with. The gentlemen spoil him to that extent, and teach him such things, that I’m afraid nothing but hanging will ever do him any good.”

“Won’t it?” cried Bailey. “Oh! Yes! Wot do you go a lowerin’ the table-beer for then, and destroying my constitooshun?”

“Go down-stairs, you vicious boy,” said Mrs. Todgers, holding the door open. “Do you hear me? Go along!”

After two or three dexterous feints, he went, and was seen no more that night, save once, when he brought up some tumblers and hot water, and much disturbed the two Miss Pecksniffs by squinting hideously behind the back of the unconscious Mrs. Todgers. Having done this justice to his wounded feelings, he returned underground; whence, in company with a swarm of black beetles and a kitchen candle, he employed his faculties in cleaning boots and brushing clothes until the night was far advanced.

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