second blow at my head, which I fortunately
avoided, the removal of a tangible object for the
exercise of his vigour causing him to fall sideways
on the table. The pain which he apparently
felt, when his own wooden head came
into collision with the board, which had only
an oilcloth covering, was clearly expressed by
an increased brightness in his eyes. After viewing
me maliciously for a few seconds, he dealt
a blow at my table-lamp, the glass leg of which
he demolished, causing the top to fall with a
heavy crash, and leaving me no other light than
such as was afforded by the fire in the grate.
A violent bound then took him to my sideboard,
when with insane fury he effected the
destruction of my wine glasses and cruets.

How little do we know what is good for us!
Not many minutes before I had lamented the
want of animation in the hideous figure I had
so foolishly purchased, and now I would have
given anything to see it deprived of the wild
vitality I had still more foolishly thrust upon it.

The world in general is accustomed to look
upon Punch as simply a ridiculous figure. On
their way to the spots where they pursue the
more serious occupations of life, gentlemen of
education and intelligence have their attention
arrested by the sound of a squeaking voice with
which they have been familiar from childhood,
and join a small crowd intent on witnessing the
performance of a drama which causes universal
laughter. They do not much understand what
is passing before them, for the plot of the play
has undergone considerable changes since the
days when their mammas, at a considerable
expense, bespoke a special performance of
Punch for the amusement of the juvenile party
assembled to celebrate their birthday. Possibly
one of the combats at the time of their pause is
between Punch and a very stiff dragon, which
opens its jaws and fiercely squeezes the head of
the puppet between them. They did not see
such a dragon in the days of their youth; but
they are not astonished at the innovation. The
whole affair is too trifling to awaken anything
like surprise, however adverse the performance
may be to the law of precedent. The educated
and intelligent spectators feel, however, that
the soundless bite of an ill-shaped dragon is not
sufficient to repay them for their slight sacrifice
of tune; an instinct tells them they ought to
hear the crack of the cudgel against the wooden
head. So they take care to see Punch strike
one of his quasi-human adversaries, and to
see the head of the adversary knocked smartly
against the proscenium before they resume their
journey.

The character of a man of education and
intelligence may be tested by the precise moment
at which he quits the semicircle of spectators
ranged before Punch's show. Mere vulgarians,
comprising especially those errand boys who
have been enjoined not to lose a moment, are
sure to stop till the performance is over, when
they usually follow in the track of the retiring
exhibitor, and therefore afford no criterion at
all. But with the man of education and intelligence,
who is sure never to see either the
beginning or the end of the play, the case is
altogether different. When he is liberal, he
graciously waits till the cashier of the show
comes with the hat, that he may pay a fair price
for the enjoyment he has received. When he
is stingy he takes fright at the hat, and its first
appearance, even in the distance, is the signal
for his departure. When he is merely careless,
he retires indifferently, just as the fit takes him,
without waiting for or shunning the opportunity
of payment. But, however the men of education
and intelligence may differ from each other,
they all agree in one point. Every one of them,
if on quitting the little crowd he runs against a
friend who passes, leaving the show unnoticed,
feels bound to apologise for having taken part
in a recreation so frivolous. Some refer sentimentally
to the delight afforded by reminiscences
of the innocent days of children; some wisely
make the novel remark that "men are but children
of a larger growth;" some, more honest,
confess that it is their weakness to like a laugh,
however obtained, and to add that they look
upon Punch as an expedient for the promotion
of hilarity that has never been known to
fail.

And so they walk away to keep important
appointments, and to transact important business,
little reflecting that they have witnessed
one of the most awful tragedies ever offered to
the contemplation of mankind. They have, in
fact, seen represented a series of murders, all
perpetrated by brutal means, that would raise
the horror of civilised Europe if brought before
the notice of a legal tribunal, and all accompanied
by reckless derision on the part of the
murderer, an uncouth being, whose form and
voice seem to separate him from the rest of
mankind. It is, I believe, by Charles Lamb
that Punch is regarded as a compound of
Richard the Third and Don Juan. But the
wicked Englishman perishes on Bosworth Field,
and the Spanish libertine is borne away by
fiends; whereas there is no retributive justice
in the tragedy of Punch. By hanging the hangman,
the hook-nosed ribald shows that he is
superior to human law; by killing the Evil One,
who appears not as a tempter, but as a Nemesis,
he shows that he is beyond the reach even of
superhuman punishment. Of all the plays ever
invented, there is none so thoroughly wicked as
that in which the English Punch, widely differing
from his Neapolitan ancestor, is the principal
personage.

This is no digression. It is necessary for my
readers to regard Punch from a serious point of
view, and to know that I am capable of regarding
him in a like manner, if they would appreciate
the horror which I felt when a living,
moving Punch, apparently an incarnation of the
spirit of malice, was carrying on his work of
destruction before my eyes, visible only by
firelight. A statue, associated with nothing but
cheerfulness say, for instance, one of the
insipid figures copied from some creation of
Canova—when standing in a passage, where the
rays of the moon, unmingled with other light,
fall upon it, becomes a ghastly spectacle. In