‘Well, so it is, I do believe,’ said the aunt.
‘Let me examine the figure once more,’ said the portrait painter, laying down his palette of colors, but keeping his brush in the other hand. ‘Yes, yes, I fancy, madam, your niece is correct. It is not a work of Indian art, nor of Egyptian, nor of Grecian art; it is the work of a London doll-maker.’
I expected he was, of course, about to say, ‘by the celebrated Mr. Sprat,’ but he did not.
‘Oh, you poor London doll!’ said the little girl, ‘what a pity you were not made in India, or somewhere a wonderful way off, then Mr. Johnson would have taken pity on you, and painted you all over.’
Mr. Johnson laughed at this; and then gave such a droll look at the little girl, and such a good-natured look at me. ‘Well,’ said he to her, ‘well, my little dear, leave this black doll with me; and when you come again with your aunt, you shall see what I have done.’
The aunt thanked Mr. Johnson for his pleasant promise, while she was taking off her turban to depart; and away they went, the Newfoundland dog, Nep, leaping downstairs before them, to show the way. They were from Buckinghamshire, and had lodgings only a few streets distant. The aunt was Mrs. Brown, her niece was Mary Hope. Mary Hope’s father was a clerk in the Bank; but she chiefly lived with her aunt in the country, as her father had seven other daughters, and a small salary.
As soon as they were gone, Mr. Johnson told his son to tear off all my burned clothes, scrape me all over with the back of a knife, and then wash me well with soap and water. When this was done, the good-natured artist painted me all over from head to foot. When I was dry, he again painted me all over with a warmer color, like flesh; and when that also was dry, he painted my cheeks, and lips, and eyebrows; and finally he gave me a complete skin of the most delicate varnish. My beautiful hair was entirely burned off; and Mr. Johnson said this was a sad pity, as he did not know how to supply it. But his son told him there was a doll’s wig-shop very near the Temple, where a new head of hair could be got. So the kind Mr. Johnson took the measure of my head; and when he went out for his evening walk, he went to the shop and bought me a most lovely, dark, auburn wig, with long ringlets, and his son glued it on. When all was done, they hung me up in a safe place to dry.
The hanging up to dry immediately reminded me of my infancy in the shop of Mr. Sprat, when I first dangled from the beam and looked round upon all my fellow-creature dolls, who were dangling and staring and smiling on all sides. The recollection was, on the whole, pleasing. I seemed to have lived a long time since that day. How much I had to recollect! There was the doll-shop in Holborn—and little Emmy, who used to read little books in the back room—the Marcett books, the Harriet Myrtle books, the Mary Howitt books, and the delightful story of ‘The Good-natured Bear,’—in short, all the different stories and histories, and voyages, and travels, and fairy tales she had read—and there was the master of the shop in his brown paper cocked hat—and Thomas Plummy and the cake—and Ellen Plummy, and Twelfth-night in the pastry-cook’s shop—and the different scenes that I had witnessed among the little milliners; and the making of my first frock and trousers under the tent, upon Ellen Plummy’s bed; and my life in Hanover Square, during which I saw so many great places in great London, and had been taught by Lady Flora’s governess to write, and had fallen headlong from a box at the opera into a gentleman’s hat; and where, after having beautiful ball-dresses made, my little lady mamma and I had both caught fire; and, lastly, there was my tumble over the wall into the passage, where the Newfoundland dog had fancied I was a broiled bone, and caught me up in his mouth. Here was a biography to recollect; while, for the second time in my life, I was hanging up for my paint and varnish to dry.
