‘Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any more,’ said Mrs Jarley, ‘after this.’
‘I never saw any wax-work, ma’am,’ said Nell. ‘Is it funnier than Punch?’
‘Funnier!’ said Mrs Jarley in a shrill voice. ‘It is not funny at all.’
‘Oh!’ said Nell, with all possible humility.
‘It isn’t funny at all,’ repeated Mrs Jarley. ‘It’s calm and—what’s that word again—critical?—no—classical, that’s it—it’s calm and classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and squeakings like your precious Punches, but always the same, with a constantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility; and so like life, that if wax-work only spoke and walked about, you’d hardly know the difference. I won’t go so far as to say, that, as it is, I’ve seen wax-work quite like life, but I’ve certainly seen some life that was exactly like wax-work.’
‘Is it here, ma’am?’ asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by this description.
‘Is what here, child?’
‘The wax-work, ma’am.’
‘Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of? How could such a collection be here, where you see everything except the inside of one little cupboard and a few boxes? It’s gone on in the other wans to the assembly-rooms, and there it’ll be exhibited the day after to-morrow. You are going to the same town, and you’ll see it I dare say. It’s natural to expect that you’ll see it, and I’ve no doubt you will. I suppose you couldn’t stop away if you was to try ever so much.’
‘I shall not be in the town, I think, ma’am,’ said the child.