famous little Becky Puppet has been pronounced to
be uncommonly flexible in the joints, and lively on
the wire; the Amelia Doll, though it has had a smaller
circle of admirers, has yet been carved and dressed
with the greatest care by the artist; the Dobbin Figure,
though apparently clumsy, yet dances in a very amusing
and natural manner; the Little Boys’ Dance has
been liked by some; and please to remark the richly
dressed figure of the Wicked Nobleman, on which no
expense has been spared, and which Old Nick will fetch
away at the end of this singular performance.
And with this, and a profound bow to his patrons,
the Manager retires, and the curtain rises.
London, June 28, 1848
Chiswick Mall
While the present century was in its teens, and on
one sunshiny morning in June, there drove up to the
great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton’s academy
for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family
coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven
by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig,
at the rate of four miles an hour. A black servant,
who reposed on the box beside the fat coachman, uncurled
his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite
Miss Pinkerton’s shining brass plate, and as
he pulled the bell at least a score of young heads
were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the
stately old brick house. Nay, the acute observer
might have recognized the little red nose of good-natured
Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising over some geranium
pots in the window of that lady’s own drawing-room.
“It is Mrs. Sedley’s coach, sister,”
said Miss Jemima. “Sambo, the black servant,
has just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new
red waistcoat.”
“Have you completed all the necessary preparations
incident to Miss Sedley’s departure, Miss Jemima?”
asked Miss Pinkerton herself, that majestic lady;
the Semiramis of Hammersmith, the friend of Doctor
Johnson, the correspondent of Mrs. Chapone herself.
“The girls were up at four this morning, packing
her trunks, sister,” replied Miss Jemima; “we
have made her a bow-pot.”
“Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, ’tis more
genteel.”
“Well, a booky as big almost as a haystack;
I have put up two bottles of the gillyflower water
for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making it, in
Amelia’s box.”
“And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy
of Miss Sedley’s account. This is it,
is it? Very good—ninety-three pounds,
four shillings. Be kind enough to address it
to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal this billet which
I have written to his lady.”
In Miss Jemima’s eyes an autograph letter of
her sister, Miss Pinkerton, was an object of as deep
veneration as would have been a letter from a sovereign.
Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or
when they were about to be married, and once, when
poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet fever, was Miss
Pinkerton known to write personally to the parents
of her pupils; and it was Jemima’s opinion that
if anything could console Mrs. Birch for her daughter’s
loss, it would be that pious and eloquent composition
in which Miss Pinkerton announced the event.
