While they were thus employed, a tallish gentleman with a hook nose and black hair, dressed in a military surtout very short and tight in the sleeves, and which had once been frogged and braided all over but was now sadly shorn of its garniture and quite threadbare—dressed too in ancient grey pantaloons fitting tight to the leg, and a pair of pumps in the winter of their existence—looked in at the door, and smiled affably. Mrs. Jarley’s back being then towards him, the military gentleman shook his forefinger as a sign that her myrmidons were not to apprise her of his presence, and stealing up close behind her, tapped her on the neck, and cried playfully “Boh!”
“What, Mr. Slum!” cried the lady of the waxwork. “Lor! who’d have thought of seeing you here!”
“ ’Pon my soul and honour,” said Mr. Slum, “that’s a good remark. ’Pon my soul and honour that’s a wise remark. Who would have thought it! George, my faithful feller, how are you?”
George received this advance with a surly indifference, observing that he was well enough for the matter of that, and hammering lustily all the time.
“I came here,” said the military gentleman turning to Mrs. Jarley—“ ’pon my soul and honour I hardly know what I came here for. It would puzzle me to tell you, it would by Gad. I wanted a little inspiration, a little freshening up, a little change of ideas, and—’Pon my soul and honour,” said the military gentleman, checking himself and looking round the room, “what a devilish classical thing this is! By Gad, it’s quite Minervian!”
“It’ll look well enough when it comes to be finished,” observed Mrs. Jarley.
“Well enough!” said Mr. Slum. “Will you believe me when I say it’s the delight of my life to have dabbled in poetry, when I think I’ve exercised my pen upon this charming theme? By the way—any orders? Is there any little thing I can do for you!”
“It comes so very expensive, sir,” replied Mrs. Jarley, “and I really don’t think it does much good.”
“Hush! No, no!” returned Mr. Slum, elevating his hand. “No fibs. I’ll not hear it. Don’t say it don’t do good. Don’t say it. I know better!”
“I don’t think it does,” said Mrs. Jarley.
“Ha, ha!” cried Mr. Slum, “you’re giving way, you’re coming down. Ask the perfumers, ask the blacking-makers, ask the hatters, ask the old lottery-office-keepers—ask any man among ’em what my poetry has done for him, and mark my words, he blesses the name of Slum. If he’s an honest man, he raises his eyes to heaven, and blesses the name of Slum—mark that! You are acquainted with Westminster Abbey, Mrs. Jarley?”
“Yes, surely.”
“Then upon my soul and honour, ma’am, you’ll find in a certain angle of that dreary pile, called Poet’s Corner, a few smaller names than Slum,” retorted that gentleman, tapping himself expressively on the forehead to imply that there was some slight quantity of brains behind it. “I’ve got a little trifle here, now,” said Mr. Slum, taking off his hat which was full of scraps of paper, “a little trifle here, thrown off in the heat of the moment, which I should say was exactly the thing you wanted to set this place on fire with. It’s an acrostic—the name at this moment is Warren, but the idea’s a convertible one, and a positive inspiration for Jarley. Have the acrostic.”
“I suppose it’s very dear,” said Mrs. Jarley.
“Five shillings,” returned Mr. Slum, using his pencil as a toothpick. “Cheaper than any prose.”
“I couldn’t give more than three,” said Mrs. Jarley.
“—And six,” retorted Slum. “Come. Three-and-six.”
Mrs. Jarley was not proof against the poet’s insinuating manner, and Mr. Slum entered the order in a small notebook as a three-and-sixpenny one. Mr. Slum then withdrew to alter the acrostic, after taking a most affectionate leave of his patroness, and promising to return, as soon as he possibly could, with a fair copy for the printer.
As his presence had not interfered with or interrupted the preparations, they were now far advanced, and were completed shortly after his departure. 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
