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THE WAXWORK;

OR, LOVE AND RUMOUR.

I.

In a corner dark of Vanity Fair
A dingy booth you'll see,
Old Mother Rumour sitteth there,
And leereth vacantly;

No thing on earth hath so true an air,
And so false a tongue, as she.

Lean she is, and wither'd, and old,
And her dress is very queer,
Cut in the fashion of folk long cold,

Buried this many a year;

Sew'd with scarlet and patch'd with gold, Yet yellow and grim and sere.

But the drollest part of the old girl's dress
Is a head-cap strange to sight,
Fashion'd so curiously you'd guess
'Twas a death's-head grinning white:
It waggles about while the people press
From morning until night.

At the waxwork door she sits so grey,
With a greedy leer and grim;
If you go in from the light of day
And find all dark and dim,
And two candles guttering away
For her palsied hands to trim.

When the show is full with a dozen or so,

The old Hag quits her seat,

And shuffles down the ghastly row

With trembling hands and feet:

In the draughty air the rushlights blow,
As she doth her tale repeat.

Around her purblind glance is cast
On the figures pale and tall,
Her memory is failing fast

And she confuses all :

King and Headsman, Present and Past,
The mighty with the small!

For her stock of figures is ever the same,

And neither more nor less;

But she must change the dress and the name, And it causes her distress;

[Tho' her blunders cause her little shame And little bashfulness.]

He who was lately old John Knox
To-morrow may be Pope Joan !
Times are busy, and grim Guy Fawkes
To Robespierre has grown!

Sink the Baptist a little in his socks,
And Luther stands full blown !

See here the last great murderer
Stands praying in the cart;
But the self-same figure I aver
Was lately Buonaparte-
Just as the public thoughts prefer,
She dresses each with art.

Queen or harlot, or both in one,
Beggars and priests and kings;
Every figure beneath the sun

Wherewith Fame's trumpet rings.

How well on the whole the trick is done
With the same old stock of things!

II.

Listen, my love! But yesternight
When the fun of the Fair all slept,
I saw the booth in the dark all white,
And under the canvas crept :
And there I looked on the strangest sight,
Hid from the most adept!

'Twas black, pitch black, in the booth within, When I to peep began,

But suddenly the moon look'd in,

Thro' a rent in the tent, all wan;

And the waxen figures both plump and thin, Stood looming, woman and man!

The waxen figures stood white like death,
In their varied dress all dumb;

I look'd upon them, and felt my breath
Like a chill wind go and come ;—
And in the midst, like a hideous wraith,
The Hag-on the gilded drum!

On the gilded drum she sat and smiled,
And her head was a skull so gray,

Which wagg'd about like the head-dress wild
She weareth all the day;

And at her side where she mused and smiled,

A glittering scythe there lay.

A skeleton form with eyes so red,

She sat without a sound,

And she kick'd her heels, and roll'd her head,

In a reverie profound;

And the waxen shapes like the very dead,
In their quaint attire, stood round!

The moon, thro' a rent in the canvas sheet, Lit her from head to heel,

Her rags had fallen to her feet,

And she glitter'd bright as steel:

Schoolboys in dreams such spectres meet,
After a gluttonous meal.

With

my heart in my mouth, afraid and chill, I ceased to gape and stare,

And I breathed again 'neath the stars so still,

And the heavens so blue and fair;

And I rush'd to the top of a windy hill,

To get a breath of air.

III.

Then in I came from the chill of night,

And into your little room,

And the vaporous breath of the moon was bright Around you in the gloom;

And you waken'd up in your bedgown white

To see my pale face loom.

And the hideous nightmare seem'd by far
More sad than all things seem,

As your face, like a little drowsy star,
Broke to a welcome gleam—

"My dear," you murmur'd, "how late you are, I have had such a lovely dream!"

THE QUALITY OF THE BRAIN.

WE all form rough judgments of each other, as bright or dull, cheerful or melancholy, sluggish or energetic, stupid or intelligent. But none of our judgments are more emphatically of the class called empirical, and none have more frequently to be revised or repented of.

In youth, while the human face is yet comparatively fresh to us, we decide positively and hastily, and, for the most part, wrongly. That gift of the "discerning of spirits," which is usually attributed to the young, is the especial property of childhood,-perhaps one should say, of very early childhood. The intuitions of a boy of ten years are not to be trusted in such matters, whatever may be said for those of a baby of ten months or of four-and-twenty. As soon as ever the serpent has entered Paradise,-in other words, as soon as the little mind has begun to criticise in anything like the forms common to the adult mind, there is no end to the risk of error. The symbols that represent particular moral qualities are, in the case of the growing boy and girl, so very simple! A pair of curled moustaches means fierceness; depressed eyebrows mean ill-temper; full red cheeks stand for good-humour; and what, in after-life, we should all agree to call a smirk, means benevolence or tenderness.

Far later in life, we go on making blunders similar in kind. Features acutely chiselled, with quick, glossy eyes, commend themselves to us, as indicating intelligence; and there are very few inexperienced persons to whom a tolerably moist blue eye will not commend the possessor as a good-natured, cheerful, or (if the conception of tenderness have been really formed in the mind of the observer) even tender person.

Some of the surprises that await us in these or similar particulars are often pathetic or even tragic. At five-and-thirty we see that the errors of thirteen were inevitable, but how we regret them! There was a certain face made sad through suffering of a nature you were too young to understand. You stood aloof from the man, though he wished you well, and clung to the knees of a smooth-faced scoundrel, and so on, and on, without end; for old people make these blunders as well as young ones. And there is a certain tract of moral country in which we have all gone astray. Is there, was there ever, will there be ever, a man who, to the last day of his life, will not be liable to be fooled by the exquisite, inscrutable promise of the female face? The

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