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 his 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 then 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
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
lthat you were keeping a recently-animated
puppet under a dish-cover? With impudence
suggested by despair, I answered that
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
dishcover, 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
dishcover 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