AT MADAME TUSSAUD’S IN VICTORIAN YEARS

“That same first fiddler who leads the orchéstra to-night Here fiddled four decades of years ago; He bears the same babe-like smile of self-centred delight, Same trinket on watch-chain, same ring on the hand with the bow.

“But his face, if regarded, is woefully wanner, and drier, And his once dark beard has grown straggling and gray; Yet a blissful existence he seems to have led with his lyre, In a trance of his own, where no wearing or tearing had sway.

“Mid these wax figures, who nothing can do, it may seem That to do but a little thing counts a great deal; To be watched by kings, councillors, queens, may be flattering to him— With their glass eyes longing they too could wake notes that appeal.”

Ah, but he played staunchly—that fiddler—whoever he was, With the innocent heart and the soul-touching string: May he find the Fair Haven! For did he not smile with good cause? Yes; gamuts that graced forty years’-flight were not a small thing!