Chapter I: HAVE always wondered whether I should have liked the Kenwigses if I (2)

“Of course not,” says Jemmy. “What made you think it was, Gran? Well! And so this friend was the cleverest and bravest and best-looking and most generous of all the friends that ever were, and so he was in love with Seraphina’s sister, and so Seraphina’s sister was in love with him, and so they all grew up.”

“Bless us!” says my respected friend. “They were very sudden about it.”

“So they all grew up,” our boy repeated, laughing heartily, “and Bobbo and this boy went away together on horseback to seek their fortunes, and they partly got their horses by favor, and partly in a bargain; that is to say, they had saved up between them seven and fourpence, and the two horses, being Arabs, were worth more, only the man said he would take that, to favor them. Well! And so they made their fortunes and came prancing back to the school, with their pockets full of gold, enough to last forever. And so they rang at the parents’ and visitors’ bell (not the back gate), and when the bell was answered they proclaimed ‘The same as if it was scarlet fever! Every boy goes home for an indefinite period!’ And then there was great hurrahing, and then they kissed Seraphina and her sister,--each his own love, and not the other’s on any account,--and then they ordered the Tartar into instant confinement.”

“Poor man!” said my respected friend.

“Into instant confinement, Gran,” repeated Jemmy, trying to look severe and roaring with laughter; “and he was to have nothing to eat but the boys’ dinners, and was to drink half a cask of their beer every day. And so then the preparations were made for the two weddings, and there were hampers, and potted things, and sweet things, and nuts, and postage-stamps, and all manner of things. And so they were so jolly, that they let the Tartar out, and he was jolly too.”

“I am glad they let him out,” says my respected friend, “because he had only done his duty.”

“Oh, but hadn’t he overdone it, though!” cried Jemmy. “Well! And so then this boy mounted his horse, with his bride in his arms, and cantered away, and cantered on and on till he came to a certain place where he had a certain gran and a certain godfather,--not you two, you know.”

“No, no,” we both said.

“And there he was received with great rejoicings, and he filled the cupboard and the bookcase with gold, and he showered it out on his gran and his godfather because they were the kindest and dearest people that ever lived in this world. And so while they were sitting up to their knees in gold, a knocking was heard at the street door, and who should it be but Bobbo, also on horseback with his bride in his arms, and what had he come to say but that he would take (at double rent) all the lodgings forever, that were not wanted by this boy and this gran and this godfather, and that they would all live together, and all be happy! And so they were, and so it never ended!”

“And was there no quarrelling?” asked my respected friend, as Jemmy sat upon her lap and hugged her.

“No! Nobody ever quarrelled.”

“And did the money never melt away?”

“No! Nobody could ever spend it all.”

“And did none of them ever grow older?”

“No! Nobody ever grew older after that.”

ON THE WAY TO GRETNA GREEN

XX

ON THE WAY TO GRETNA GREEN

HARRY was eight and Norah was seven. They lived on Shooters Hill, six or seven miles from London. Harry’s father, Mr. Walmer, had a big place called the Elms. The children read fairy-stories and delighted in princes and dragons and wicked enchanters, and kings who had fair daughters and offered them to any knights who were brave enough to come and take them. And they liked to read about lovers who ran away to Gretna Green and were married and lived happily ever after. Just where Gretna Green was they didn’t know, but it must be a very romantic place to run away to. Cobbs, the gardener, heard them talking about it all as they sat under a tree. They intended to keep bees and a cow, and live on milk and honey.

Cobbs left Mr. Walmer, and went to work at the Holly Tree Inn up in Yorkshire. One day the coach drew up and two little passengers got out. Harry and Norah were on their way to Gretna Green.

“We’ll stop here,” said Harry to the landlord. “Chops and cherry pudding for two.” Then they went to the sitting-room.

Cobbs found them there. Master Harry, on an enormous sofa, was drying the eyes of Miss Norah with his pocket-handkerchief. Their little legs were entirely off the floor.

_Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons_

THE RUNAWAY COUPLE]

“I see you a-getting out, sir,” said Cobbs. “I thought it was you. I thought I couldn’t be mistaken in your height and figure. What’s the object of your journey, sir? Matrimonial?”

“We are going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna Green. We have run away on purpose. Norah has been in low spirits, Cobb, but she’ll be happy now that we have found you to be our friend.”

“Thank you, sir, and thank _you_, miss, for your good opinion. Did you bring any luggage with you?”

The lady had got a parasol, a smelling-bottle, some buttered toast, eight peppermint drops, and a small hair-brush. The gentleman had got half a dozen yards of string, a knife, three or four sheets of writing-paper, an orange, and a china mug with his name on it.

“What may be the exact natur of your plans, sir?” said Cobb.

“To go on,” said the boy, “in the morning and be married to-morrow.”

“Just so, sir,” said Cobb. “Would it meet your views if I was to accompany you?”

When Cobbs said this, they both jumped for joy again, and cried out: “Oh, yes, Cobbs, yes!”

“Well, sir,” said Cobbs, “if you will excuse my having to give an opinion, what I should recommend would be this. I’m acquainted with a pony, sir, which, put in a phaeton which I could borrow, would take you and Mrs. Harry Walmer Junior (myself driving, if you approved), to the end of your journey in a very short space of time.”

They clapped their hands and jumped for joy.

“Is there anything you want, just at present, sir?”

“We should like some cakes after dinner,” answered Master Harry, “and two apples and jam. With dinner we should have toast and water. But Norah has been accustomed to half a glass of currant wine for dessert, and so have I.”

“It shall be ordered at the bar, sir,” said Cobbs.

“Cobbs, are there any good walks in this neighborhood?”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Cobbs, “there is Love Lane. And a pleasant walk it is, and proud shall I be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry Walmer Junior.”

“Norah, dear,” said Master Harry, “put on your bonnet, my sweetest darling, and we’ll go there with Cobbs.”

It was very pleasant walking down Love Lane gathering water-lilies, but as the afternoon came on they both became a little homesick. Master Harry kept up nobly, but Mrs. Harry Walmer Junior began to cry, “I want to go home.” When Harry’s father and Norah’s mother appeared upon the scene, every one was happy. Harry and Norah had been on the way to Gretna Green, though they never got there.

OUR SCHOOL

XXI

OUR SCHOOL

THE children who live now are fortunate in having schools that are made for their happiness as well as for their mental improvement. Most of the schools Dickens describes were dreary places like that which Sissie Jupes attended. However, there were some memories that were not altogether unpleasant, and I enjoy reading the chapter which he entitles “Our School.”

* * * * *

It seems as if our schools were doomed to be the sport of change. We have faint recollections of a Preparatory Day-School, which we have sought in vain, and which must have been pulled down to make a new street, ages ago. We have dim impressions, scarcely amounting to a belief, that it was over a dyer’s shop. We know that you went up steps to it; that you frequently grazed your knees in doing so; that you generally got your leg over the scraper, in trying to scrape the mud off a very unsteady little shoe. The mistress of the Establishment holds no place in our memory; but, rampant on one eternal door-mat, in an eternal entry long and narrow, is a puffy pug-dog, with a personal animosity toward us, who triumphs over Time. The bark of that baleful Pug, a certain radiating way he had of snapping at our undefended legs, the ghastly grinning of his moist black muzzle and white teeth, and the insolence of his crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook, all live and flourish. From an otherwise unaccountable association of him with a fiddle, we conclude that he was of French extraction, and his name _Fidèle_. He belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting a back parlor, whose life appears to us to have been consumed in sniffing, and in wearing a brown beaver bonnet. For her, he would sit up and balance cake upon his nose, and not eat it until twenty had been counted. To the best of our belief we were once called in to witness this performance; when, unable, even in his milder moments, to endure our presence, he instantly made at us, cake and all.

Why a something in mourning, called “Miss Frost,” should still connect itself with our preparatory school, we are unable to say. We retain no impression of the beauty of Miss Frost--if she were beautiful; or of the mental fascinations of Miss Frost--if she were accomplished; yet her name and her black dress hold an enduring place in our remembrance. An equally impersonal boy, whose name has long since shaped itself unalterably into “Master Mawls,” is not to be dislodged from our brain. Retaining no vindictive feeling toward Mawls--no feeling whatever, indeed--we infer that neither he nor we can have loved Miss Frost....

But, the School that was Our School before the Railroad came and overthrew it, was quite another sort of place. We were old enough to be put into Virgil when we went there, and to get prizes for a variety of polishing on which the rust has long accumulated. It was a school of some celebrity in its neighborhood--nobody could have said why--and we had the honor to attain and hold the eminent position of first boy. The master was supposed among us to know nothing, and one of the ushers was supposed to know everything. We are still inclined to think the first-named supposition perfectly correct.

We have a general idea that its subject had been in the leather trade, and had bought us--meaning Our School--of another proprietor who was immensely learned. Whether this belief had any real foundation, we are not likely ever to know now. The only branches of education with which he showed the least acquaintance were ruling and corporally punishing. He was always ruling ciphering-books with a bloated mahogany ruler, or smiting the palms of offenders with the same diabolical instrument, or viciously drawing a pair of pantaloons tight with one of his large hands, and caning the wearer with the other. We have no doubt whatever that this occupation was the principal solace of his existence.

A profound respect for money pervaded Our School, which was, of course, derived from its Chief. We remember an idiotic goggle-eyed boy, with a big head and half-crowns without end, who suddenly appeared as a parlor-boarder, and was rumored to have come by sea from some mysterious part of the earth where his parents rolled in gold. He was usually called “Mr.” by the Chief, and was said to feed in the parlor on steaks and gravy; likewise to drink currant wine. And he openly stated that if rolls and coffee were ever denied him at breakfast, he would write home to that unknown part of the globe from which he had come, and cause himself to be recalled to the regions of gold. He was put into no form or class, but learned alone, as little as he liked--and he liked very little--and there was a belief among us that this was because he was too wealthy to be “taken down.” His special treatment, and our vague association of him with the sea, and with storms, and sharks, and coral reefs, occasioned the wildest legends to be circulated as his history. A tragedy in blank verse was written on the subject--if our memory does not deceive us, by the hand that now chronicles these recollections--in which his father figured as Pirate, and was shot for a voluminous catalogue of atrocities: first imparting to his wife the secret of the cave in which his wealth was stored, and from which his only son’s half-crowns now issued. Dumbledon (the boy’s name) was represented as “yet unborn” when his brave father met his fate; and the despair and grief of Mrs. Dumbledon at that calamity was movingly shadowed forth as having weakened the parlor-boarder’s mind. This production was received with great favor, and was twice performed with closed doors in the dining-room. But it got wind, and was seized as libellous, and brought the unlucky poet into severe affliction. Some two years afterward, all of a sudden one day, Dumbledon vanished. It was whispered that the Chief himself had taken him down to the docks, and re-shipped him for the Spanish Main; but nothing certain was ever known about his disappearance. At this hour, we cannot thoroughly disconnect him from California.

Our School was rather famous for mysterious pupils. There was another--a heavy young man, with a large double-cased silver watch, and a fat knife the handle of which was a perfect tool-box--who unaccountably appeared one day at a special desk of his own, erected close to that of the Chief, with whom he held familiar converse. He lived in the parlor, and went out for his walks, and never took the least notice of us--even of us, the first boy--unless to give us a deprecatory kick, or grimly to take our hat off and throw it away, when he encountered us out of doors, which unpleasant ceremony he always performed as he passed--not even condescending to stop for the purpose. Some of us believed that the classical attainments of this phenomenon were terrific, but that his penmanship and arithmetic were defective, and he had come there to mend them; others, that he was going to set up a school, and had paid the Chief “twenty-five pound down,” for leave to see Our School at work. The gloomier spirits even said that he was going to buy us; against which contingency, conspiracies were set on foot for a general defection and running away. However, he never did that. After staying for a quarter during which period, though closely observed, he was never seen to do anything but make pens out of quills, write small-hand in a secret portfolio, and punch the point of the sharpest blade in his knife into his desk all over it, he too disappeared, and his place knew him no more.

There was another boy, a fair, meek boy, with a delicate complexion and rich curling hair, who, we found out, or thought we found out (we have no idea now, and probably had none then, on what grounds, but it was confidentially revealed from mouth to mouth), was the son of a Viscount who had deserted his lovely mother. It was understood that if he had his rights he would be worth twenty thousand a year. And that if his mother ever met his father she would shoot him with a silver pistol, which she carried, always loaded to the muzzle, for that purpose. He was a very suggestive topic. So was a young mulatto, who was always believed (though very amiable) to have a dagger about him somewhere. But we think they were both outshone, upon the whole, by another boy who claimed to have been born on the twenty-ninth of February, and to have only one birthday in five years. We suspect this to have been a fiction--but he lived upon it all the time he was at Our School.

The principal currency of Our School was slate pencil. It had some inexplicable value, that was never ascertained, never reduced to a standard. To have a great hoard of it, was somehow to be rich. We used to bestow it in charity, and confer it as a precious boon upon our chosen friends. When the holidays were coming, contributions were solicited for certain boys whose relatives were in India, and who were appealed for under the generic name of “Holiday-stoppers,”--appropriate marks of remembrance that should enliven and cheer them in their homeless state. Personally, we always contributed these tokens of sympathy in the form of slate pencil, and always felt that it would be a comfort and a treasure to them.

Our School was remarkable for white mice. Red-polls, linnets, and even canaries, were kept in desks, drawers, hat-boxes, and other strange refuges for birds, but white mice were the favorite stock. The boys trained the mice, much better than the masters trained the boys. We recall one white mouse, who lived in the cover of a Latin dictionary, who ran up ladders, drew Roman chariots, shouldered muskets, turned wheels, and even made a very creditable appearance on the stage as the Dog of Montargis. He might have achieved greater things, but for having the misfortune to mistake his way in a triumphal procession to the Capitol, when he fell into a deep inkstand, and was dyed black and drowned. The mice were the occasion of some most ingenious engineering, in the construction of their houses and instruments of performance. The famous one belonged to a company of proprietors, some of whom have since made railroads, engines, and telegraphs; the chairman has erected mills and bridges in New Zealand.

The usher at Our School, who was considered to know everything as opposed to the Chief, who was considered to know nothing, was a bony, gentle-faced, clerical-looking young man in rusty black. It was whispered that he was sweet upon one of Maxby’s sisters (Maxby lived closed by, and was a day pupil), and further that he “favored Maxby.” As we remember, he taught Italian to Maxby’s sisters on half-holidays. He once went to the play with them, and wore a white waistcoat and a rose: which was considered among us equivalent to a declaration. We were of opinion on that occasion, that to the last moment he expected Maxby’s father to ask him to dinner at five o’clock, and therefore neglected his own dinner at half-past one, and finally got none. We exaggerated in our imaginations the extent to which he punished Maxby’s father’s cold meat at supper; and we agreed to believe that he was elevated with wine and water when he came home. But we all liked him; for he had a good knowledge of boys, and would have made it a much better school if he had had more power. He was writing master, mathematical master, English master, made out the bills, mended the pens, and did all sorts of things. He divided the little boys with the Latin master (they were smuggled through their rudimentary books, at odd times when there was nothing else to do), and he always called at parents’ houses to inquire after sick boys, because he had gentlemanly manners. He was rather musical, and on some remote quarter-day had bought an old trombone; but a bit of it was lost, and it made the most extraordinary sounds when he sometimes tried to play it of an evening. His holidays never began (on account of the bills) until long after ours; but, in the summer vacations he used to take pedestrian excursions with a knapsack; and at Christmas time, he went to see his father at Chipping Norton, who we all said (on no authority) was a dairy-fed pork-butcher. Poor fellow! He was very low all day on Maxby’s sister’s wedding-day, and afterward was thought to favor Maxby more than ever, though he had been expected to spite him. He has been dead these twenty years. Poor fellow!

Our remembrance of Our School presents the Latin master as a colorless, doubled-up, near-sighted man with a crutch, who was always cold, and always putting onions into his ears for deafness, and always disclosing ends of flannel under all his garments, and almost always applying a ball of pocket-handkerchief to some part of his face with a screwing action round and round. He was a very good scholar, and took great pains where he saw intelligence and a desire to learn: otherwise, perhaps not. Our memory presents him (unless teased into a passion) with as little energy as color--as having been worried and tormented into monotonous feebleness--as having had the best part of his life ground out of him in a mill of boys. We remember with terror how he fell asleep one sultry afternoon with the little smuggled class before him, and awoke not when the footstep of the Chief fell heavy on the floor; how the Chief aroused him, in the midst of a dread silence, and said: “Mr. Blinkins, are you ill, sir?”; how he blushingly replied: “Sir, rather so”; how the Chief retorted with severity: “Mr. Blinkins, this is no place to be ill in” (which was very, very true), and walked back solemn as the ghost in Hamlet, until, catching a wandering eye, he caned that boy for inattention, and happily expressed his feelings toward the Latin master through the medium of a substitute.

There was a fat little dancing-master who used to come in a gig, and taught the more advanced among us hornpipes (as an accomplishment in great social demand in after life); and there was a brisk little French master who used to come in the sunniest weather, with a handleless umbrella, and to whom the Chief was always polite, because (as we believed), if the Chief offended him, he would instantly address the Chief in French, and forever confound him before the boys with his inability to understand or reply.

There was, besides, a serving man, whose name was Phil. Our retrospective glance presents Phil as a shipwrecked carpenter, cast away upon the desert island of a school, and carrying into practice an ingenious inkling of many trades. He mended whatever was broken, and made whatever was wanted. He was general glazier, among other things, and mended all the broken windows--at the prime cost (as was darkly rumored among us) of ninepence, for every square charged three-and-six to parents. We had a high opinion of his mechanical genius, and generally held that the Chief “knew something bad of him,” and on pain of divulgence enforced Phil to be his bondsman. We particularly remember that Phil had a sovereign contempt for learning; which engenders in us a respect for his sagacity, as it implies his accurate observation of the relative positions of the Chief and the ushers. He was an impenetrable man, who waited at table between whiles, and throughout “the half” kept the boxes in severe custody. He was morose, even to the Chief, and never smiled, except at breaking-up, when, in acknowledgment of the toast, “Success to Phil! Hooray!” he would slowly carve a grin out of his wooden face, where it would remain until we were all gone. Nevertheless, one time when we had the scarlet fever in the school, Phil nursed all the sick boys of his own accord, and was like a mother to them.

There was another school not far off, and of course Our School could have nothing to say to that school. It is mostly the way with schools, whether of boys or men. Well! the railway has swallowed up ours, and the locomotives now run smoothly over its ashes.

“So fades and languishes, grows dim and dies,
All that this world is proud of.”

--and is not proud of, too. It had little reason to be proud of Our School, and has done much better since in that way, and will do far better yet.

ALICIA IN WONDERLAND

XXII

ALICIA IN WONDERLAND

WE all know Lewis Carroll’s _Alice in Wonderland_. Dickens had an Alice too who was worth knowing. Her wonderland was a plain little house in London. Her father, Mr. Watkins, was a poorly paid government clerk who found it hard to support his large family. Her mother found life too much for her nerves. So Alice had to take the responsibility for the family happiness. While other people were worrying, she tried to make things pleasant.

But fortunately Alice had such a fortunate disposition that she could live in London and in Wonderland at the same time. In Wonderland, her father, Mr. Watkins, was king, and Mrs. Watkins was queen, and Mr. Pickles the fish-dealer was a great merchant of untold wealth. Alice had a doll who was a duchess, to whom she told her troubles, and with whom she consulted about the fashions. The duchess was a very proud and sympathetic person indeed.

So it was very natural that Alice should have a visit from her fairy godmother. The unusual thing was that she took the advice that was given her, and so got out of trouble instead of getting into it through heedlessness, as most people do in the fairy-stories. Alice was a very wise little girl; in my judgment she was almost as wise as her godmother. Indeed, it sometimes requires more wisdom to take good advice than to give it.

* * * * *

There was once a king, and he had a queen; and he was the manliest of his sex, and she was the loveliest of hers. The king was, in his private profession, under government. The queen’s father had been a medical man out of town.

They had nineteen children, and were always having more. Seventeen of these children took care of the baby; and Alicia, the eldest, took care of them all. Their ages varied from seven years to seven months.

Let us now resume our story.

One day the king was going to the office, when he stopped at the fishmonger’s to buy a pound and a half of salmon, not too near the tail, which the queen (who was a careful house-keeper) had requested him to send home. Mr. Pickles, the fishmonger, said, “Certainly, sir, is there any other article? Good morning.”

The king went on toward the office in a melancholy mood; for quarter-day was such a long way off, and several of the dear children were growing out of their clothes. He had not proceeded far, when Mr. Pickles’s errand-boy came running after him, and said, “Sir, you didn’t notice the old lady in our shop.”

“What old lady?” inquired the king. “I saw none.”

Now, the king had not seen any old lady, because this old lady had been invisible to him, though visible to Mr. Pickles’s boy. Probably because he messed and splashed the water about to that degree, and flapped the pairs of soles down in that violent manner, that, if she had not been visible to him, he would have spoiled her clothes.

Just then the old lady came trotting up. She was dressed in shot silk of the richest quality, smelling of dried lavender.

“King Watkins the First, I believe?” said the old lady.

“Watkins,” replied the king, “is my name.”

“Papa, if I am not mistaken, of the beautiful Princess Alicia?” said the old lady.

“And of eighteen other darlings,” replied the king.

“Listen. You are going to the office,” said the old lady.

It instantly flashed upon the king that she must be a fairy, or how could she know that?

“You are right,” said the old lady, answering his thoughts. “I am the good Fairy Grandmarina. Attend! When you return home to dinner, politely invite the Princess Alicia to have some of the salmon you bought just now.”

“It may disagree with her,” said the king.

The old lady became so very angry at this absurd idea, that the king was quite alarmed, and humbly begged her pardon.

“We hear a great deal too much about this thing disagreeing, and that thing disagreeing,” said the old lady, with the greatest contempt it was possible to express. “Don’t be greedy. I think you want it all yourself.”

The king hung his head under this reproof, and said he wouldn’t talk about things disagreeing any more.

“Be good, then,” said the Fairy Grandmarina, “and don’t! When the beautiful Princess Alicia consents to partake of the salmon--as I think she will--you will find she will leave a fish-bone on her plate. Tell her to dry it, and to rub it, and to polish it till it shines like mother-of-pearl, and to take care of it as a present from me.”

“Is that all?” asked the king.

“Don’t be impatient, sir,” returned the Fairy Grandmarina, scolding him severely. “Don’t catch people short before they have done speaking. Just the way with you grown-up persons. You are always doing it.”

The king again hung his head, and said he wouldn’t do so any more.

“Be good, then,” said the Fairy Grandmarina, “and don’t! Tell the Princess Alicia, with my love, that the fish-bone is a magic present which can only be used once; but that it will bring her, that once, whatever she wishes for, PROVIDED SHE WISHES FOR IT AT THE RIGHT TIME. That is the message. Take care of it.”

The king was beginning, “Might I ask the reason?” when the fairy became absolutely furious.

“_Will_ you be good, sir?” she exclaimed, stamping her foot on the ground. “The reason for this, and the reason for that, indeed! You are always wanting the reason. No reason. There! Hoity toity me! I am sick of your grown-up reasons.”

The king was extremely frightened by the old lady’s flying into such a passion, and said he was very sorry to have offended her, and he wouldn’t ask for reasons any more.

“Be good, then,” said the old lady, “and don’t!”

With those words Grandmarina vanished, and the king went on and on and on, till he came to the office. There he wrote and wrote and wrote, till it was time to go home again. Then he politely invited the Princess Alicia, as the fairy had directed him, to partake of the salmon. And when she had enjoyed it very much, he saw the fish-bone on her plate, as the fairy had told him he would, and he delivered the fairy’s message, and the Princess Alicia took care to dry the bone, and to rub it, and to polish it till it shone like mother-of-pearl.

And so, when the queen was going to get up in the morning, she said, “Oh, dear me, dear me; my head, my head!” and then she fainted away.

The Princess Alicia, who happened to be looking in at the chamber-door asking about breakfast, was very much alarmed when she saw her royal mamma in this state, and she rang the bell for Peggy, which was the name of the lord chamberlain. But remembering where the smelling-bottle was, she climbed on the chair and got it; and after that she climbed on another chair by the bedside, and held the smelling-bottle to the queen’s nose; and after that she jumped down and got some water; and after that she jumped up again and wetted the queen’s forehead; and in short, when the lord chamberlain came in, that dear old woman said to the little princess, “What a trot you are! I couldn’t have done it better myself!”

But that was not the worst of the good queen’s illness. Oh, no! She was very ill indeed for a long time. The Princess Alicia kept the seventeen young princes and princesses quiet, and dressed and undressed and danced the baby, and made the kettle boil, and heated the soup, and swept the hearth, and poured out the medicine, and nursed the queen, and did all that ever she could, and was as busy, busy, busy as busy could be; for there were not many servants at that place for three reasons: because the king was short of money, because a rise in his office never seemed to come, and because quarter-day was so far off that it looked almost as far off and as little as one of the stars.

But on the morning when the queen fainted away, where was the magic fish-bone? Why, there it was in the Princess Alicia’s pocket! She had almost taken it out to bring the queen to life again, when she put it back, and looked for the smelling-bottle.

After the queen had come out of her swoon that morning and was dozing, the Princess Alicia hurried up-stairs to tell a most particular secret to a most particular confidential friend of hers, who was a duchess. People did suppose her to be a doll, but she was really a duchess, though nobody knew it except the princess.

This most particular secret was the secret about the magic fish-bone, the history of which was well known to the duchess, because the princess told her everything. The princess kneeled down by the bed on which the duchess was lying, full-dressed and wide awake, and whispered the secret to her. The duchess smiled and nodded. People might have supposed that she never smiled and nodded; but she often did, though nobody knew it except the princess.

Then the Princess Alicia hurried down-stairs again, to keep watch in the queen’s room. She often kept watch by herself in the queen’s room; but every evening, while the illness lasted, she sat there watching with the king. And every evening the king sat looking at her with a cross look, wondering why she never brought out the magic fish-bone. As often as she noticed this, she ran up-stairs, whispered the secret to the duchess over again, and said to the duchess, “They think we children never have a reason or a meaning!” And the duchess, though the most fashionable duchess that ever was heard of, winked her eye.

“Alicia,” said the king, one evening when she wished him good night.

“Yes, papa.”

“What is become of your magic fish-bone?”

“In my pocket, papa!”

“I thought you had lost it?”

“Oh no, papa.”

“Or forgotten it?”

“No, indeed, papa.”

And so another time the dreadful little snapping pug-dog, next door, made a rush at one of the young princes as he stood on the steps coming home from school, and terrified him out of his wits; and he put his hand through a pane of glass, and bled, bled, bled. When the seventeen other young princes and princesses saw him bleed, bleed, bleed, they were terrified out of their wits too, and screamed themselves black in their seventeen faces all at once. But the Princess Alicia put her hands over all their seventeen mouths, one after another, and persuaded them to be quiet because of the sick queen. And then she put the wounded prince’s hand in a basin of fresh cold water, while they stared with their twice seventeen are thirty-four, put down four and carry three, eyes, and then she looked in the hand for bits of glass, and there were fortunately no bits of glass there. And then she said to two chubby-legged princes, who were sturdy though small, “Bring me in the royal rag-bag: I must snip and stitch and cut and contrive.” So these two young princes tugged at the royal rag-bag, and lugged it in; and the Princess Alicia sat down on the floor, with a large pair of scissors and a needle and thread, and snipped and stitched and cut and contrived, and made a bandage, and put it on, and it fitted beautifully; and so when it was all done, she saw the king her papa looking on by the door.

“Alicia.”

“Yes, papa.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Snipping, stitching, cutting, and contriving, papa.”

“Where is the magic fish-bone?”

“In my pocket, papa.”

“I thought you had lost it?”

“Oh no, papa!”

“Or forgotten it?”

“No, indeed, papa.”

After that, she ran up-stairs to the duchess, and told her what had passed, and told her the secret over again: and the duchess shook her flaxen curls, and laughed with her rosy lips.

Well! and so another time the baby fell under the grate. The seventeen young princes and princesses were used to it; for they were almost always falling under the grate or down the stairs; but the baby was not used to it yet, and it gave him a swelled face and a black eye. The way the poor little darling came to tumble was, that he was out of the Princess Alicia’s lap just as she was sitting, in a great coarse apron that quite smothered her, in front of the kitchen fire, beginning to peel the turnips for the broth for dinner; and the way she came to be doing that was, that the king’s cook had run away that morning with her own true love, who was a very tall but very tipsy soldier. Then the seventeen young princes and princesses, who cried at every thing that happened, cried and roared. But the Princess Alicia (who couldn’t help crying a little herself) quietly called to them to be still, on account of not throwing back the queen up-stairs, who was fast getting well, and said: “Hold your tongues, you wicked little monkeys, every one of you, while I examine baby!” Then she examined baby, and found that he hadn’t broken anything; and she held cold iron to his poor dear eye, and smoothed his poor dear face, and he presently fell asleep in her arms. Then she said to the seventeen princes and princesses: “I am afraid to let him down yet, lest he should wake and feel pain; be good, and you shall all be cooks.” They jumped for joy when they heard that, and began making themselves cooks’ caps out of old newspapers. So to one she gave the salt-box, and to one she gave the barley, and to one she gave the herbs, and to one she gave the turnips, and to one she gave the carrots, and to one she gave the onions, and to one she gave the spice-box, till they were all cooks, and all running about at work, she sitting in the middle, smothered in the great coarse apron, nursing baby. By and by the broth was done; and the baby woke up, smiling like an angel, and was trusted to the sedatest princess to hold, while the other princes and princesses were squeezed into a far-off corner to look at the Princess Alicia turning out the saucepanful of broth, for fear (as they were always getting into trouble) they should get splashed and scalded. When the broth came tumbling out, steaming beautifully, and smelling like a nosegay good to eat, they clapped their hands. That made the baby clap his hands; and that, and his looking as if he had a comic toothache, made all the princes and princesses laugh. So the Princess Alicia said: “Laugh and be good; and after dinner we will make him a nest on the floor in a corner, and he shall sit in his nest and see a dance of eighteen cooks.” That delighted the young princes and princesses, and they ate up all the broth, and washed up all the plates and dishes, and cleared away, and pushed the table into a corner; and then they in their cooks’ caps, and the Princess Alicia in the smothering coarse apron that belonged to the cook that had run away with her own true love that was the very tall but very tipsy soldier, danced a dance of eighteen cooks before the angelic baby, who forgot his swelled face and his black eye, and crowed with joy.

And so then, once more the Princess Alicia saw King Watkins the First, her father, standing in the doorway looking on, and he said, “What have you been doing, Alicia?”

“Cooking and contriving, papa.”

“What else have you been doing, Alicia?”

“Keeping the children light-hearted, papa.”

“Where is the magic fish-bone, Alicia?”

“In my pocket, papa.”

“I thought you had lost it?”

“Oh no, papa.”

“Or forgotten it?”

“No, indeed, papa.”

The king then sighed so heavily, and seemed so low-spirited, and sat down so miserably, leaning his head upon his hand, and his elbow upon the kitchen-table pushed away in the corner, that the seventeen princes and princesses crept softly out of the kitchen, and left him alone with the Princess Alicia and the angelic baby.

“What is the matter, papa?”

“I am dreadfully poor, my child.”

“Have you no money at all, papa?”

“None, my child.”

“Is there no way of getting any, papa?”

“No way,” said the king. “I have tried very hard, and I have tried all ways.”

When she heard these last words, the Princess Alicia began to put her hand into the pocket where she kept the magic fish-bone.

“Papa,” said she, “when we have tried very hard, and tried all ways, we must have done our very, very best?”

“No doubt, Alicia.”

“When we have done our very, very best, papa, and that is not enough, then I think the right time must have come for asking help of others.” This was the very secret connected with the magic fish-bone, which she had found out for herself from the good Fairy Grandmarina’s words, and which she had so often whispered to her beautiful and fashionable friend, the duchess.

So she took out of her pocket the magic fish-bone that had been dried and rubbed and polished till it shone like mother-of-pearl; and she gave it one little kiss, and wished it was quarter-day. And immediately it _was_ quarter-day; and the king’s quarter’s salary came rattling down the chimney, and bounced into the middle of the floor.

But this was not half of what happened--no, not a quarter; for immediately afterward the good Fairy Grandmarina came riding in, with a carriage and four (peacocks), with Mr. Pickles’s boy up behind, dressed in silver and gold, with a cocked hat, powdered hair, pink silk stockings, a jewelled cane, and a nosegay. Down jumped Mr. Pickles’s boy, with his cocked hat in his hand, and wonderfully polite (being entirely changed by enchantment), and handed Grandmarina out; and there she stood, in her rich shot silk smelling of dried lavender, fanning herself with a sparkling fan.

“Alicia, my dear,” said this charming old fairy, “how do you do? I hope I see you pretty well? Give me a kiss.”

The Princess Alicia embraced her; and then Grandmarina turned to the king, and said rather sharply, “Are you good?”

The king said he hoped so.

“I suppose you know the reason _now_ why my goddaughter here,” kissing the princess again, “did not apply to the fish-bone sooner?” said the fairy.

The king made a shy bow.

“Ah! but you didn’t _then_?” said the fairy.

The king made a shyer bow.

“Any more reasons to ask for?” said the fairy.

The king said, “No, and he was very sorry.”

“Be good, then,” said the fairy, “and live happy ever afterward.”

Then Grandmarina waved her fan, and the queen came in most splendidly dressed; and the seventeen young princes and princesses, no longer grown out of their clothes, came in, newly fitted out from top to toe, with tucks in everything to admit of its being let out. After that, the fairy tapped the Princess Alicia with her fan; and the smothering coarse apron flew away, and she appeared exquisitely dressed, like a little bride, with a wreath of orange flowers and a silver veil. After that, the kitchen dresser changed of itself into a wardrobe, made of beautiful woods and gold and looking-glass, which was full of dresses of all sorts, all for her and all exactly fitting her. After that, the angelic baby came in, running alone, with his face and eye not a bit the worse, but much the better. Then Grandmarina begged to be introduced to the duchess; and, when the duchess was brought down, many compliments passed between them.

A little whispering took place between the fairy and the duchess; and then the fairy said out loud, “Yes, I thought she would have told you.” Grandmarina then turned to the king and queen, and said: “We are going in search of Prince Certainpersonio. The pleasure of your company is requested at the church in half an hour precisely.” So she and the Princess Alicia got into the carriage; and Mr. Pickles’s boy handed in the duchess, who sat by herself on the opposite seat; and then Mr. Pickles’s boy put up the steps and got up behind, and the peacocks flew away with their tails behind.

Prince Certainpersonio was sitting by himself, eating barley-sugar, and waiting to be ninety. When he saw the peacocks, followed by the carriage, coming in at the window, it immediately occurred to him that something uncommon was going to happen.

“Prince,” said Grandmarina, “I bring you your bride.”

The moment the fairy said those words, Prince Certainpersonio’s face left off being sticky, and his jacket and corduroys changed to peach-bloom velvet, and his hair curled, and a cap and feather flew in like a bird and settled on his head. He got into the carriage by the fairy’s invitation; and there he renewed his acquaintance with the duchess, whom he had seen before.

In the church were the prince’s relations and friends, and the Princess Alicia’s relations and friends, and the seventeen princes and princesses, and the baby, and a crowd of the neighbors. The marriage was beautiful beyond expression. The duchess was bridesmaid, and beheld the ceremony from the pulpit, where she was supported by the cushion of the desk.

Grandmarina gave a magnificent wedding-feast afterward, in which there was everything and more to eat, and everything and more to drink. The wedding-cake was delicately ornamented with white satin ribbons, frosted silver, and white lilies, and was forty-two yards round.

When Grandmarina had drunk her love to the young couple, and Prince Certainpersonio had made a speech, and everybody had cried, hip, hip, hip, hurrah! Grandmarina announced to the king and queen that in future there would be eight quarter-days in every year, except leap-year, when there would be ten. She then turned to Certainpersonio and Alicia, and said, “My dears, you will have thirty-five children, and they will be good and beautiful. Seventeen of your children will be boys, and eighteen girls. The hair of the whole of your children will curl naturally. They will never have the measles, and will have recovered from the whooping-cough before being born.”

On hearing such good news everybody cried out, “Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!” again.

“It only remains,” said Grandmarina in conclusion, “to make an end of the fish-bone.”

THE INFANT PHENOMENON

XXIII

THE INFANT PHENOMENON

IN our day the moving picture and the radio have made it possible for the people who live in the city and the people who live in the country to see and hear the same things. Our amusements are very much alike. But it was not so in Dickens’s day. The great actors were in the theatres of the large cities; but companies of strolling players were on the roads. They carried their stage scenery with them and did their own advertising. They did not have to compete with those who could act better.

Dickens enjoyed these cheerful wanderers who went about giving entertainments to people who were easily pleased. When Nicholas Nickleby and his friend Smike were trudging along on the road from London to Portsmouth they fell in with Mr. Vincent Crummles and his dramatic company. Nicholas had almost come to the end of the little money with which he started, and he was very glad when Mr. Crummles invited him to share his supper at the inn. When Nicholas had told Mr. Crummles his story he was invited to join the company, at a salary which while not large was sufficient to keep him from starving. In this way he became acquainted with the Infant Phenomenon. She was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Crummles and was the pride of the family. Nicholas was introduced to her when they came to the theatre in the next town. It was a very dingy little theatre on a back street. Mrs. Crummles led the way to the stage.

There bounded on to the stage from some mysterious inlet, a little girl in a dirty white frock with tucks up to the knees, short trousers, sandled shoes, white spencer, pink gauze bonnet, green veil, and curl-papers; who turned a pirouette, cut twice in the air, turned another pirouette, then, looking off at the opposite wing, shrieked, bounded forward to within six inches of the footlights, and fell into a beautiful attitude of terror, as a shabby gentleman in an old pair of buff slippers came in at one powerful slide, and chattering his teeth, fiercely brandished a walking-stick.

“They are going through the Indian Savage and the Maiden,” said Mrs. Crummles.

“Oh!” said the manager, “the little ballet interlude. Very good, go on. A little this way, if you please, Mr. Johnson. That’ll do. Now!”

The manager clapped his hands as a signal to proceed, and the savage, becoming ferocious, made a slide toward the maiden; but the maiden avoided him in six twirls, and came down at the end of the last one upon the very points of her toes. This seemed to make some impression upon the savage; for, after a little more ferocity and chasing of the maiden into corners, he began to relent, and stroked his face several times with his right thumb and forefinger, thereby intimating that he was struck with admiration of the maiden’s beauty. Acting upon the impulse of this passion, he (the savage) began to hit himself severe thumps in the chest, and to exhibit other indications of being desperately in love, which being rather a prosy proceeding, was very likely the cause of the maiden’s falling asleep; whether it was or no, asleep she did fall, sound as a church, on a sloping bank, and the savage perceiving it, leaned his left ear on his left hand, and nodded sideways, to intimate to all whom it might concern that she _was_ asleep, and no shamming. Being left to himself, the savage had a dance, all alone. Just as he left off, the maiden woke up, rubbed her eyes, got off the bank, and had a dance all alone too--such a dance that the savage looked on in ecstasy all the while, and when it was done, plucked from a neighboring tree some botanical curiosity, resembling a small pickled cabbage, and offered it to the maiden, who at first wouldn’t have it, but on the savage shedding tears relented. Then the savage jumped for joy; then the maiden jumped for rapture at the sweet smell of the pickled cabbage. Then the savage and the maiden danced violently together, and, finally, the savage dropped down on one knee, and the maiden stood on one leg upon his other knee; thus concluding the ballet, and leaving the spectators in a state of pleasing uncertainty, whether she would ultimately marry the savage, or return to her friends.

“Very well indeed,” said Mr. Crummles; “bravo!”

“Bravo!” cried Nicholas, resolved to make the best of everything. “Beautiful!”

“This, sir,” said Mr. Vincent Crummles, bringing the maiden forward, “this is the Infant Phenomenon--Miss Ninetta Crummles.”

“Your daughter?” inquired Nicholas.

“My daughter--my daughter,” replied Mr. Vincent Crummles; “the idol of every place we go into, sir. We have complimentary letters about this girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry of almost every town in England.”

“I am not surprised at that,” said Nicholas; “she must be quite a natural genius.”

“Quite a--!” Mr. Crummles stopped; language was not powerful enough to describe the Infant Phenomenon. “I’ll tell you what, sir,” he said; “the talent of this child is not to be imagined. She must be seen, sir--seen--to be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go to your mother, my dear.”

“May I ask how old she is?” inquired Nicholas.

“You may, sir,” replied Mr. Crummles, looking steadily in his questioner’s face, as some men do when they have doubts about being implicitly believed in what they are going to say. “She is ten years of age, sir.”

“Not more?”

“Not a day.”

“Dear me!” said Nicholas, “it’s extraordinary.”

It was; for the Infant Phenomenon, though of short stature, had a comparatively aged countenance, and had moreover been precisely the same age--not perhaps to the full extent of the memory of the oldest inhabitant, but certainly for five good years. But she had been kept up late every night, and put upon an unlimited allowance of gin and water from infancy, to prevent her growing tall, and perhaps this system of training had produced in the Infant Phenomenon these additional phenomena.