ing the opening. One of them was about to proceed with hammer and chisel.
“Stop,” said the young merchant, “I can save you a great deal of trouble. I can open it in an instant. Allow me—by touching a little spring here”—
As he said this, he pressed a secret spring on the side of the box. No sooner was it done than the lid was thrown back with sudden and tremendous violence, as if by some living force, and up jumped a hideous and shaggy monster which knocked the six custom-house officers flat on their backs. It was an enormous Punchinello on springs, who had been confined in the box like the Genie in the Arabian story, and by the broad grin on his face he seemed delighted with his liberty and his triumph over his inquisitors. The six officers lay stunned by the blow; and while others ran up to see what was the matter, the young traveller persuaded Mr. Punch back again into his box, and, shutting him down, took advantage of the confusion to carry it off with the rest of his baggage, and reach a cab in safety. When the officers recovered their senses, the practical joker had escaped into the crowded city. They could give no clear account of what had happened; but I verily believe they thought that Lucifer himself had knocked them down, and was now let loose in the city of Grindwell.
Another amusing incident occurred afterwards at the city gates. An American lady, who was a great lover of Art, had purchased a bronze bust of Plato somewhere on the Continent. She had it carefully boxed, and took it along with her baggage. She got on very well until she reached the city of Grindwell. Here she was stopped, of course, and her baggage examined. Finding nothing contraband, they were about to let her pass, when they came to the box containing the ancient philosopher’s head.
“What’s this?” they asked. “What’s in this box, so heavy?”
“A bust,” said the lady.
“A bust? so heavy? a bust in a lady’s baggage? — Impossible!”
“I assure you, it is nothing but a bust.”
“Pray, whose bust may it be, Madam?”
“The bust of Plato.”
“Plato? Plato? Who’s Plato? Is he an Italian?”
“He was a Greek philosopher.”
“Why is it so heavy?”
“It is a bronze bust.”
“We beg your pardon, Madam; but we fear there’s something wrong here. This Plato may be a conspirator, — a Carbonaro, — a member of some secret society, — a red-republican, — a conductor of the electric fluid. How can we answer for this Plato? We don’t like this heavy box; — these very heavy boxes are suspicious. Suppose it should be some infernal-machine. Madam, we have our doubts. This box must be detained till full inquiries are made.”
There was no help for it. The box was detained. “It must be so, Plato!” After waiting several hours, it was brought forward in presence of the entire company of inquisitors, and cautiously opened. Seeing no Plato, but only some sawdust, they grew still more suspicious. Having placed the box on the ground, they all retired to a safe distance, as if awaiting some explosion. They evidently took it for an infernal-machine. In their eyes everything was a machine of some sort or other. After waiting some time, and finding that it didn’t burst, nor emit even a smell of sulphur, the boldest man of the party approached it very cautiously, and upset it with his foot and ran.
All this while the lady and her friends stood by, silent spectators of this farce. The only danger of explosion was on their part, with laughter at the whole scene. They contrived, however, to keep their countenances, though less rigidly than the Greek philosopher in the box did his.
When the custom-house officials found, that, though the box was upset, nothing occurred, they grew more bold, and, approaching, saw a piece of the bronze head peering above the sawdust. Then, for the first time, they began to feel ashamed of themselves. So replacing the sawdust
