The lady of the caravan sat at one window in all the pride and poetry of the musical instruments, and little Nell and her grandfather sat at the other in all the humility of the kettle and saucepans, while the machine jogged on and shifted the darkening prospect very slowly. At first the two travellers spoke little, and only in whispers, but as they grew more familiar with the place they ventured to converse with greater freedom, and talked about the country through which they were passing, and the different objects that presented themselves, until the old man fell asleep; which the lady of the caravan observing, invited Nell to come and sit beside her.
“Well child,” she said, “how do you like this way of travelling?”
Nell replied that she thought it was very pleasant indeed, to which the lady assented in the case of people who had their spirits. For herself, she said, she was troubled with a lowness in that respect which required a constant stimulant; though whether the aforesaid stimulant was derived from the suspicious bottle of which mention has been already made, or from other sources, she did not say.
“That’s the happiness of you young people,” she continued. “You don’t know what it is to be low in your feelings. You always have your appetites too, and what a comfort that is.”
Nell thought that she could sometimes dispense with her own appetite very conveniently; and thought, moreover, that there was nothing either in the lady’s personal appearance or in her manner of taking tea, to lead to the conclusion that her natural relish for meat and drink had at all failed her. She silently assented, however, as in duty bound, to what the lady had said, and waited until she should speak again.
Instead of speaking, however, she sat looking at the child for a long time in silence, and then getting up, brought out from a corner a large roll of canvas about a yard in width, which she laid upon the floor and spread open with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of the caravan to the other.
“There child,” she said, “read that.”
Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous black letters, the inscription, “Jarley’s Waxwork.”
“Read it again,” said the lady, complacently.
“Jarley’s Waxwork,” 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 waxwork 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 waxwork 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 favourite air of “If I had a donkey,” beginning
If I know’d a donkey wot wouldn’t go
To see Mrs. Jarley’s waxwork 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 waxwork 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 waxwork 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 waxwork quite like life, but I’ve certainly seen some life that was exactly like waxwork.”
“Is it here ma’am?” asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by this description.
“Is what here, child?”
“The waxwork, 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
