did), he was ghastly, and not a creature to be alone with.

When did that dreadful Mask first look at me? Who put it on, and
why was I so frightened that the sight of it is an era in my life?
It is not a hideous visage in itself; it is even meant to be droll,
why then were its stolid features so intolerable? Surely not
because it hid the wearer's face. An apron would have done as much;
and though I should have preferred even the apron away, it would not
have been absolutely insupportable, like the mask. Was it the
immovability of the mask? The doll's face was immovable, but I was
not afraid of HER. Perhaps that fixed and set change coming over a
real face, infused into my quickened heart some remote suggestion
and dread of the universal change that is to come on every face, and
make it still? Nothing reconciled me to it. No drummers, from whom
proceeded a melancholy chirping on the turning of a handle; no
regiment of soldiers, with a mute band, taken out of a box, and
fitted, one by one, upon a stiff and lazy little set of lazy-tongs;
no old woman, made of wires and a brown-paper composition, cutting
up a pie for two small children; could give me a permanent comfort,
for a long time. Nor was it any satisfaction to be shown the Mask,
and see that it was made of paper, or to have it locked up and be
assured that no one wore it. The mere recollection of that fixed
face, the mere knowledge of its existence anywhere, was sufficient
to awake me in the night all perspiration and horror, with, "O I
know it's coming! O the mask!"

I never wondered what the dear old donkey with the panniers--there
he is! was made of, then! His hide was real to the touch, I
recollect. And the great black horse with the round red spots all
over him--the horse that I could even get upon--I never wondered