the centre, and the whole of the stage box."
"Oh, indeed!" said Nicholas; "a family, I suppose?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Crummles. "It's an affecting thing. There are six
children, and they never come unless the Phenomenon plays."
It would have been difficult for any party to have visited the theatre
on a night when the Phenomenon did _not_ play, inasmuch as she always
sustained one, and not uncommonly two or three characters, every night;
but Nicholas, sympathizing with the feelings of a father, refrained from
hinting at this trifling circumstance, and Mr. Crummies continued:
"Six,--pa and ma eight,--aunt nine,--governess ten,--grandfather and
grandmother, twelve. Then, there's the footman who stands outside with a
bag of oranges and a jug of toast-and-water, and sees the play for
nothing through the little pane of glass in the box-door--it's cheap at
a guinea; they gain by taking a box."
"I wonder you allow so many," observed Nicholas.
"There's no help for it," replied Mr. Crummles; "it's always expected
in the country. If there are six children, six people come to hold them
in their laps. Ring in the orchestra, Grudden!"
It was Mr. Crummles' habit to give a benefit performance, commonly
called a "bespeak," to any member of his company fortunate enough to
have either a birthday or any other anniversary of sufficient importance
to challenge attention on the posters, and not long after Nicholas
entered the company, this honor fell to the lot of one of the prominent
actresses, Miss Snevellicci. Mr. Crummles then informed Nicholas that
there was some work for him to do before that event took place.
"There's a little canvassing takes place on these occasions," said Mr.
Crummles, "among the patrons, and the fact is, Snevellicci has had so
many bespeaks in this place that she wants an attraction. She had one
when her stepmother died, and when her uncle died; and Mrs. Crummles and
myself have had them on the anniversary of the Phenomenon's birthday,
and our wedding-day, and occasions of that description; so that, in
fact, it is hard to get a good one. Now, won't you help this poor girl,
Mr. Johnson, by calling with her to-morrow morning upon one or two of
the principal people?"--asked the manager in a persuasive tone, adding,
"The Infant will accompany her. There will not be the smallest
impropriety, sir. It would be of material service--the gentleman from
London--author of the new piece--actor in the new piece--first
appearance on any boards--it would lead to a great bespeak,
Mr. Johnson."
The idea was extremely distasteful to Nicholas; but out of kindness to
Miss Snevellicci, he reluctantly consented to be one of the canvassing
party, and accordingly the next morning, sallied forth with Miss
Snevellicci and the Infant Phenomenon.
The Phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion, for first the right
sandal came down, and then the left, and these mischances being
repaired, one leg of the little white trousers was discovered to be
longer than the other; then the little green parasol with a broad fringe
border and no handle, which she bore in her hand, was dropped down an
iron grating, and only fished up again by dint of much exertion.
However, it was impossible to scold her, as she was the manager's
daughter, so Nicholas took it all in perfect good humor and walked on,
with Miss Snevellicci, arm in arm, on one side, and the offending infant
on the other.
At the first house they visited, after having a long conversation
concerning the stage, and its relation to life, they at length disposed
of two boxes, and retired, glad that the conference was at an end.
At the next house they were in great glory, for there resided the six
children who had been enraptured with the Phenomenon, and who, being
called down from the nursery to be treated with a private view of that
young lady, proceeded to poke their fingers into her eyes, and tread
upon her toes, and show her many other little attentions peculiar to
their time of life.
"I shall certainly persuade Mr. Borum to take a private box," said the
lady of the house, after a most gracious reception; "Augustus, you
naughty boy, leave the little girl alone." This was addressed to a young
gentleman who was pinching the Phenomenon from behind, apparently with a
view to ascertaining whether she was real.
"I am sure you must be very tired," said the mamma, turning to Miss
Snevellicci. "I cannot think of allowing you to go without first taking
a glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am ashamed of you: Miss Lane, my
dear, pray see to the children."
This entreaty addressed to the governess, was rendered necessary by the
behavior of the youngest Miss Borum, who, having filched the
Phenomenon's little green parasol, was now carrying it bodily off, while
the distracted Infant looked helplessly on, and presently the poor child
was really in a fair way to be torn limb from limb, for two strong
little boys, one holding on by each of her hands, were dragging her in
different directions as a trial of strength. However, at this juncture
Miss Lane rescued the unhappy victim, who was presently taken away,
after sustaining no more serious damage than a flattening of the pink
gauze bonnet, and a rather extensive creasing of the white frock and
trousers. Her companions were thankful not only when the call was ended,
but when the whole trying morning, with its series of visits, was over.
The benefit performance was a great success, and the new actor made such
a decided hit on that night and the succeeding ones, that Mr. Crummies
prolonged his stay in Portsmouth for a fortnight beyond the days
allotted to it, during which time Nicholas attracted so many people to
the theatre that the manager finally decided upon giving him a benefit,
calculating that it would be a promising speculation. From it Nicholas
realized no less a sum than twenty pounds, which, added to what he had
earned before, made him feel quite rich and comfortable.
At that time he received a letter containing news of his sister in
London, and a danger that menaced her, which made him prepare to leave
Portsmouth without an hour's delay, if he should be summoned.
Accordingly he decided to acquaint his manager with the possibility of
his withdrawal from the company, and hastened to the green-room for that
purpose, where he found Mrs. Crummies in full regal costume, with the
Phenomenon as the Maiden, in her maternal arms. He broke the news to
the group as gently as possible, but it was received with great dismay,
and there were both protestations and tears, while the Phenomenon, being
of an affectionate nature and moreover excitable, raised a loud cry, and
was soothed with extreme difficulty, showing that the child's heart was
in the right place, notwithstanding the constant strain upon her
emotions from being so often obliged to simulate unnatural ones.
Mr. Crummles was no sooner acquainted with the news than he evinced many
tokens of grief, but finding Nicholas determined in his purpose, at once
suggested a grand farewell performance, to be advertised as a brilliant
display of fireworks.
"That would be rather expensive," suggested Nicholas dryly.
"Eighteen-pence would do it," said Mr. Crummles; "You on the top of a
pair of steps with the Phenomenon in an attitude; 'FAREWELL,' on a
transparency behind; and nine people at the wings with a squib in each
hand--all the dozen and a half going off at once--it would be very
grand--awful from the front, quite awful."
As Nicholas appeared by no means impressed with the idea, but laughed
heartily at it, Mr. Crummles abandoned the project, and gloomily
observed that they must make up the best bill they could, with combats
and hornpipes, and so stick to the legitimate drama.
Next day the posters appeared, and the public were informed that Mr.
Johnson would have the honor of making his last appearance that evening,
and that an early application for places was requested, in consequence
of the extraordinary overflow attendant on his performances.
Upon entering the theatre that night, Nicholas found all the company in
a state of extreme excitement, and Mr. Crummles at once informed him in
an agitated voice that there was a London manager in one of the boxes.
"It's the Phenomenon, depend upon it, sir," said Crummies. "I have not
the smallest doubt it's the fame of the Phenomenon. She shall have ten
pound a week, Johnson; she shall not appear on the London boards for a
farthing less. They shan't engage her either, unless they engage Mrs.
Crummles too; twenty pound a week for the pair, or I'll throw in myself
and the two boys, and they shall have the family for thirty. Thirty
pound a week. It's too cheap, Johnson. It's dirt cheap."
Every individual member of the company had in the same manner decided
that it was his or her attractions that had drawn the great man's
attention to the Portsmouth theatre, and each one secretly decided upon
the amount of inducement necessary to persuade him or her to make a new
engagement. Everybody played to the stranger, everybody sang to him,
everything was done for his exclusive benefit, and it was a cruel blow
to the general expectations when he was discovered to be asleep, and
shortly after that he woke up and went away: in consequence of which,
the feelings of the company, collectively and severally, underwent a
severe reaction. Nicholas alone, had no feeling whatsoever on the
subject, except of amusement. He went through his part as briskly as he
could, then took Smike's arm and walked home to bed.
With the post next morning came the letter he had been expecting,
calling him instantly to London, and he at once hurried off to say
farewell to Mr. Crummles. His news was received with keen regret by that
gentleman, who, always mindful of theatrical effects followed Nicholas
even to the coach itself. As that vehicle stood in the open street,
ready to start, and Nicholas was about to enter it, he was not a little
astonished to find himself suddenly clutched in a violent embrace which
nearly took him off his legs; while Mr. Crummles' voice exclaimed, "It
is he--my friend, my friend!"
"Bless my heart," cried Nicholas, struggling in the manager's arms,
"What are you about?"
The manager made no reply, but strained him to his breast again,
exclaiming, "Farewell, my noble, my lion-hearted boy!"
In fact Mr. Crummles, who could never lose any opportunity for
professional display, had turned out for the express purpose of taking a
public farewell of Nicholas, and to render it the more imposing, the
elder Master Crummles was going through a similar ceremony with Smike;
while Master Percy Crummles, with a second-hand cloak worn theatrically
over his left shoulder, stood by, in attitude of an attendant officer
waiting to convey two victims to the scaffold.
The lookers-on laughed very heartily, and as it was well to put a good
face upon the matter, Nicholas laughed too, when he had succeeded in
disengaging himself; and rescuing the astonished Smike, climbed up to
the coach-roof after him, waving farewell, as they rolled away.
Some years later, when Nicholas was residing in London, under very
different circumstances from those of his Portsmouth experience, and
with a very different occupation; walking home one evening, he stood
outside a minor theatre which he had to pass, and found himself poring
over a huge play-bill which announced in large letters;
_Positively the last appearance of Mr. Vincent Crummles, of Provincial
Celebrity!!!_
"Nonsense!" said Nicholas, preparing to resume his walk, then turning
back again, "It can't be,"--but adding on second thoughts--"Surely it
_must_ be the same man. There can't be two Vincent Crummleses."
The better to settle the question he referred to the bill again, and
finding there was a Baron in the first piece, whose son was enacted by
one Master Crummles, and his nephew by one Master Percy Crummles, and
that, incidental to the piece was a castanet _pas seul_ by the Infant
Phenomenon, he no longer entertained any doubt; and presenting himself
at the stage door at once, sent in a scrap of paper with "Mr. Johnson"
written thereon in pencil, and was presently conducted into the presence
of his former manager.
Mr. Crummles was unfeignedly glad to see him, and in the course of a
long conversation informed Nicholas that the next morning he and his
were to sail for America, that he had made up his mind to settle there
permanently, in the hope of acquiring some land of his own, which would
support them in their old age, and which they could afterward bequeath
to their children. Nicholas, having highly commended this resolution,
Mr. Crummles imparted such further intelligence relative to their mutual
friends as he thought might prove interesting, and added a hearty
invitation to Nicholas to attend that night a farewell supper, to be
given in their honor at a neighboring tavern.
This invitation Nicholas instantly accepted, promising to return at the
conclusion of the performances, and availed himself of this interval to
go out and buy a silver snuff-box as a token of remembrance for Mr.
Crummles, also a pair of ear-rings for Mrs. Crummles, a necklace for the
Phenomenon, and a flaming shirt-pin for each of the young gentlemen,
after making which purchases he returned to the theatre, and repaired to
the tavern with Mr. Crummles.
He was received with great cordiality by those of the party whom he
knew, and with particular joy by Mrs. Crummles, who at once said: "Here
is one whom you know,"--thrusting forward the Phenomenon, in a blue
gauze frock, extensively flounced, and trousers of the same.
Nicholas stooped down to salute the Phenomenon, and then, supper being
on table, Mrs. Crummles gave her hand to Nicholas and repaired with a
stately step to the repast, followed by the other guests.
The board being at length cleared of food; and punch, wine, and spirits
being placed upon it, and handed about, speeches were made, and health
drunk to Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Crummles and the young Crummleses, after
which ceremony, with many adieus and embraces, the company dispersed.
Nicholas waited until he was alone with the family, to give his little
presents, and then with honest warmth of feeling said farewell to Mr.
and Mrs. Crummles, the Master Crummleses, and the Infant
Phenomenon,--and history has not chronicled their further career, nor
recorded to what greater heights of popularity the Infant Phenomenon has
since attained.
JENNY WREN
[Illustration: JENNY WREN]
JENNY WREN
Her real name was Fanny Cleaver, but she had long ago dropped it, and
chosen to bestow upon herself the fanciful appellation of Miss Jenny
Wren, by which title she was known to the entire circle of her friends
and business acquaintances.
Miss Wren's home was in a certain little street called Church Street,
running out from a certain square called Smith Square, at Millbank, and
there the little lady plied her trade, early and late, having for
companions her father and a lodger, Lizzie Hexam. Her father had once
been a good workman at his own trade, but unfortunately for poor little
Jenny Wren, was so weak in character and so confirmed in bad habits that
she could place no trust in him, and had come to consider herself the
head of the family, and to speak of him as "my child," or "my bad boy,"
ordering him about as if he were in truth, a child.
When Lizzie Hexam's brother and a friend, Bradley Headstone, paid their
first visit to the house on Church Street, they knocked at the door,
which promptly opened and disclosed a child--a dwarf, a girl--sitting on
a little, low, old-fashioned arm-chair, which had a kind of little
working-bench before it.
"I can't get up," said the child, "because my back's bad and my legs are
queer. But I'm the person of the house."
"Who else is at home?" asked Charley Hexam, staring?
"Nobody's at home at present," returned the child, with a glib
assertion of her dignity, "except the person of the house."
The queer little figure, and the queer, but not ugly little face, with
its bright grey eyes, was so sharp that the sharpness of the manner
seemed unavoidable.
The person of the house continued the conversation: "Your sister will be
in," she said, "in about a quarter of an hour. I'm very fond of your
sister. Take a seat. And would you please to shut the street door first?
I can't very well do it myself, because my back's so bad and my legs are
so queer."
They complied, and the little figure went on with its work of gumming or
gluing together pieces of cardboard and thin wood, cut into various
shapes. The scissors and knives upon the bench, showed that the child
herself had cut them; and the bright scraps of velvet and silk and
ribbon also strewn upon the bench showed that when duly stuffed, she was
to cover them smartly. The dexterity of her nimble fingers was
remarkable, and as she brought two thin edges accurately together by
giving them a little bite, she would glance at the visitors out of the
corners of her grey eyes with a look that out-sharpened all her other
sharpness.
"You can't tell me the name of my trade, I'll be bound," she said.
"You make pincushions," said Charley.
"What else do I make?"
"Penwipers," said his friend.
"Ha, ha! What else do I make?"
"You do something," he returned, pointing to a corner of the little
bench, "with straw; but I don't know what."
"Well done, you!" cried the person of the house. "I only make
pincushions and penwipers, to use up my waste. But my straw really does
belong to my business. Try again. What do I make with my straw?"
"Dinner-mats?"
"Dinner-mats! I'll give you a clue to my trade in a game of forfeits. I
love my love with a B because she's beautiful; I hate my love with a B
because she is brazen; I took her to the sign of the Blue Boar; and I
treated her with Bonnets; her name's Bouncer and she lives in
Bedlam--now, what do I make with my straw?"
"Ladies' bonnets?"
"Fine ladies'," said the person of the house, nodding assent. "Dolls'.
I'm a Doll's dressmaker."
"I hope it's a good business?"
The person of the house shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "No.
Poorly paid. And I'm often so pressed for time. I had a doll married
last week, and was obliged to work all night. And they take no care of
their clothes, and they never keep to the same fashions a month. I work
for a doll with three daughters. Bless you, she's enough to ruin her
husband!" The person of the house gave a weird little laugh, and gave
them another look but of the corners of her eyes. She had an elfin chin
that was capable of great expression; and whenever she gave this look,
she hitched this chin up, as if her eyes and her chin worked together on
the same wires.
"Are you always as busy as you are now?"
"Busier. I'm slack just now. I finished a large mourning order the day
before yesterday. Doll I work for lost a canary bird."
"Are you alone all day?" asked Bradley Headstone. "Don't any of the
neighboring children--?"
"Ah," cried the person of the house, with a little scream as if the word
had pricked her. "Don't talk of children. I can't bear children. I know
their tricks and their manners!" She said this with an angry little
shake of her right fist, adding:
"Always running about and screeching, always playing and fighting,
always skip--skip--skipping on the pavement, and chalking it for their
games! Oh--I know their tricks and their manners!" Shaking the little
fist as before. "And that's not all. Ever so often calling names in
through a person's keyhole, and imitating a person's back and legs. Oh!
_I_ know their tricks and their manners. And I tell you what I'd do to
punish 'em. There's doors under the church in the Square--black doors
leading into black vaults. Well! I'd open one of those doors, and I'd
cram 'em all in, and then I'd lock the door and through the keyhole I'd
blow in pepper."
"What would be the good of blowing in pepper?" asked Charley Hexam.
"To set 'em sneezing," said the person of the house, "and make their
eyes water. And when they were all sneezing and inflamed, I'd mock 'em
through the keyhole. Just as they, with their tricks and their manners,
mock a person through a person's keyhole!"
An emphatic shake of her little fist, seemed to ease the mind of the
person of the house; for she added with recovered composure, "No, no,
no. No children for me. Give me grown-ups."
It was difficult to guess the age of this strange creature, for her poor
figure furnished no clue to it, and her face was at once so young and so
old. Twelve, or at the most thirteen, might be near the mark.
"I always did like grown-ups," she went on, "and always kept company
with them. So sensible. Sit so quiet. Don't go prancing and capering
about! And I mean always to keep among none but grown-ups till I marry.
I suppose I must make up my mind to marry, one of these days!"
At that moment Lizzie Hexam entered, and the visitors after saying
farewell to the dolls' dressmaker, took Lizzie out with them for a
short walk.
The person of the house, dolls' dressmaker, and manufacturer of
ornamental pincushions and penwipers, sat in her quaint little low
arm-chair, singing in the dark, until Lizzie came back.
"Well, Lizzie--Mizzie--Wizzie," said she, breaking off in her song.
"What's the news out of doors?"
"What's the news indoors?" returned Lizzie playfully, smoothing the
bright long fair hair, which grew very luxuriant and beautiful on the
head of the dolls' dressmaker. It being Lizzie's regular occupation when
they were alone of an evening to brush out and smooth the long fair
hair, she unfastened a ribbon that kept it back while the little
creature was at work, and it fell in a beautiful shower over the poor
shoulders that were much in need of such adorning rain.
Lizzie then lighted a candle, put the room door and the house door open,
and turned the little low chair and its occupant toward the outer air.
It was a sultry night, and this was a fine weather arrangement when the
day's work was done. To complete it, she seated herself by the side of
the little chair, and protectingly drew under her arm the spare hand
that crept up to her.
"This is what your loving Jenny Wren calls the best time of the day and
night," said the person of the house; adding, "I have been thinking
to-day what a thing it would be, if I should be able to have your
company till I am married, or at least courted. Because when I'm
courted, I shall make _him_ do some of the things that you do for me. He
couldn't brush my hair like you do, or help me up and downstairs like
you do, and he couldn't do anything like you do; but he could take my
work home, and he could call for orders in his clumsy way. And he shall
too. _I'll_ trot him about, I can tell him!"
Jenny Wren had her personal vanities--happily for her--and no intentions
were stronger in her breast than the various trials and torments that
were, in the fulness of time, to be inflicted upon "him."
"Wherever he may happen to be just at present, or whoever he may happen
to be," said Miss Wren, "_I_ know his tricks and his manners, and I give
him warning to look out."
"Don't you think you're rather hard upon him?" asked her friend smiling,
and smoothing her hair.
"Not a bit," replied the sage Miss Wren, with an air of vast experience.
"My dear, they don't care for you, those fellows, if you're not hard
upon 'em?"
In such light and playful conversation, which was the dear delight of
Jenny Wren, they continued until interrupted by Mr. Wrayburn, a friend
of Lizzie's, who fell to talking playfully with Jenny Wren.
"I think of setting up a doll, Miss Jenny," he said.
"You had better not," replied the dressmaker.
"Why not?"
"You are sure to break it. All you children do."
"But that makes good for trade, you know, Miss Wren," he returned.
"I don't know about that," Miss Wren retorted; "but you'd better by half
set up a pen-wiper, and turn industrious, and use it."
"Why, if we were all as industrious as you, little Busy Body, we should
begin to work as soon as we could crawl, and there would be a
bad thing!"
"Do you mean," returned the little creature with a flush suffusing her
face, "bad for your backs and your legs?"