mere rigidity, under certain aspects, there is terror, and I have no doubt that every one of Madame Tussaud's rooms, inspected by the grey light of early dawn, becomes a Chamber of Horrors. What, then, could be more awful than the deformed Punch, with a thousand murders upon his head, which, if not real, were, at any rate, as real as himself, brandishing his instrument of destruction, with grievous efficiency, and displaying hideous features, rendered more hideous still by the red glare by which they were illumined? He seemed a triumphant demon, sporting in bis proper element.
Not without a sense of fear, I made several desperate clutches at the figure, hoping to arrest the work of destruction, but I only received as many severe raps on the knuckles. Some other measure must be adopted. A thought struck me. I left the room and descended into the kitchen, where I heard raps and crashes repeated in the room above. The servants had retired to rest.
Presently I returned to the parlour armed with a large dish-cover, which was generally used to retain warmth in haunches of mutton and other joints of more than ordinary dimensions. Punch was on the table where I had first placed him, and I was pleased to notice that my looking-glass was still unbroken. A languor, probably caused by over-exertion, had evidently taken possession of the destroyer, and seizing my opportunity, I clapped the cover over him, and resolutely held it by the handle. The clattering noise I heard within showed me that the activity of the captive had returned. The sound only served to increase the vigour of my pressure.
At this moment I heard the latch-key in the door of the house, and shortly afterwards the door of the room opened, and a young gentleman, who lodged in an upper apartment, and with whom I was on familiar terms, made his appearance. He cast a look of surprise at the broken lamp, but his attention was soon absorbed by myself. What in the name of wonder could induce me to stand in the midst of semi-darkness, pressing a large dish-cover on the table with all my might, he could not divine, and with sundry expletives he acknowledged his perplexity. "What was I up to?" This was his question, couched in an idiom which he had studied with much assiduity.
Now, I am not given to mendacity, neither was I guilty of any crime that I wished to conceal. I was merely doing my little utmost to prevent the destruction of my property. And yet something prevented me from telling the honest truth. Put yourself in my place, reader and ask yourself whether there is a friend in the world to whom you would acknowledge that you were keeping a recently-animated puppet under a dish-cover? With impudence suggested by despair, I answered that I was doing nothing. My reply seemed to be more satisfactory than I had reason to expect, and indeed to suggest some meaning that I had not intended. My friend looked exceedingly knowing, winked archly, thrust his tongue into his cheek, and left the room without further question.
Relieved by his departure, I unwittingly relaxed the pressure of my hand, when the dish-cover, as if impelled by a spring, at once flew up to the ceiling, and Punch, released from captivity, was in full enjoyment of a liberty which he at once expanded into licence, bounding to a small table, which was used to sustain small fragile curiosities, and demolishing them with demoniac delight. Unable to endure any longer the wanton tyranny of the reckless puppet, I seized the poker, and fiercely struck the head. The body being of a yielding material—glazed chintz, I believe—offered no resistance, and consequently the head was merely bent beneath my blow without receiving any injury whatever. Some other mode of attack must be adopted. Flinging down the poker and snatching up the tongs, I firmly laid hold of Punch, and holding the tongs at arms' length, conveyed him to the fire.
Nothing I ever endured in my life equalled the horror I felt during the few moments that followed. The head of the puppet was pinched tight between the tongs, but the eyes rolled, as if Punch were aware of the fate in store for him, and the little legs kicked convulsively. I plunged him into a yawning gulf of fire, caused by the separation of two large coals, and then thrust him down with the poker. During this process he writhed as if in the most intense agony, and his eyes were fixed upon me with a mixed expression of rage and pain, until the small flames that arose beneath, began to consume him, and he was gradually changed into a black shapeless mass. The end of the operation was marked by a prolonged squeak, that seemed to enter my very soul. I sank back exhausted into an arm-chair.
On the following morning I was aroused by the servant's opening the shutters. Raking the ashes I discovered a lump of charred wood, which was evidently the head of the ill-starred puppet. My friend entered the room, and asked me if I was better, with more of mirth and less of anxiety than usually accompanies such questions, when addressed to an invalid. In reply to some searching inquiries, he replied, with a scarcely-suppressed smile, that on the previous night he had found me, with a very flushed countenance, violently pressing a dish-cover on the table, and evidently not very steady on my feet. The beer-boy, who called for the empty cans, reported that on the previous evening I had, somewhat to his surprise, taken in the beer myself. When I endeavoured to gather the general opinion as to the destruction of the lamp and glasses, which still lay in fragments, the servant stated her belief that the cat had been in the room.
Surely, my knowledge of my own affairs is better than of other persons. If my readers choose to favour an hypothesis, based upon the evidence of the beer-boy and the servant, and to decide that I might indeed have bought Punch, but that all the wonderful events that followed the purchase were the result of a
