Chapter II: Part 2

"I am afraid," observed TIME, whittling a piece of stick with his scythe, "that we may have looked in at a wrong season. As far as I can judge from a consideration of the temperature, and a glance round your landscape, we are now at Midsummer--in the dog days, if I may so put it without offence. Of course your legislators would not be in Town just now, sweltering at work that might as well be performed in winter weather, when, regarded as a place of business or residence, Town has attractions superior to those of the country." "Ah, young fellow," I said, perhaps a little sharply, not relishing his somewhat round-about way of putting things, "when you are as old as me or my esteemed master, you will not be so cock-sure of things. Our Parliamentary Session begins on the threshold of Spring; we stop in Town hard at work, through the pleasantest months of the year; we toil through Summer nights, see August out, and, somewhere about the first week in September, when the days are growing short, the air is chill, and Autumn gets ready to usher in Winter, we go off to make holiday."

"Dear me, dear me!" cried _Mr. P._, "how very sad. How deliberately foolish. We manage things much better than that down in our tight little Earth. When we take that in turn, you will find, my good TIME, that we burrow at our legislative work through the Winter months, getting it done so as to leave us free to enjoy the country in the prime of Spring, and amid the wealth of Summer. But come along, TOBY, let's get on to your House."

"It will be no use going now," said TIME, holding up his hour-glass; "it is five o'clock; the working day is practically over, and we shall find these sensible dogs travelling off to take a turn in the park, or pay a round of visits in search of the culinary receptacle that cheers, but does not intoxicate."

"Wrong again, young Cock-sure," I said; "we shall just find our house of Commons settling down to the business of the night. We begin about four o'clock in the afternoon, and peg away till any hour to-morrow morning that one or two Members please. It is true we have a rule which enjoins the suspension of business at midnight; but instead of suspending business we can (and do) suspend the Rule, and sometimes sit all night."

"Ah!" said _Mr. Punch_, gravely shaking his head, "we manage things much better than that at Westminster."

Got my two friends with some difficulty across Palace Yard, eyed suspiciously by the police-dogs on duty. One concentrated his attention on _Mr. Punch's_ dorsal peculiarity.

"We have strict orders from the Sergeant-at-Arms," he said, "to examine all parcels carried by strangers."

"That's not a parcel," I said, hurriedly, and taking him on one side, succinctly explained the personal peculiarity of my esteemed Master. "Humph!" said the police-dog. "Exactly," I responded, and he let us pass on, though evidently with lingering apprehension that he was allowing a valuable clue to slip out of his hands, as it were.

"Wait here a moment," I said, "till I get an order for your admission."

Absent only a few minutes; when I got back terrible commotion; _Mr. P.'s_ friend was in the hands of the Police; they had attempted to take his scythe from him, and he had smartly rapped one on the head with his hour-glass.

"I've carried it a million years," he said, swinging the scythe with practised hand, till he made a clean sweep of the police-dogs.

"Make it a couple of millions, whilst you are at it, young man," said a sarcastic police-dog.

With some difficulty calmed him; explained that no one, not even a Member, was permitted to enter House with a scythe, or other lethal weapon. Only exception made once a year, when Hon. Members, moving and seconding Address, are allowed to carry property-swords, which generally get between their legs. TIME partially mollified at last, consented to leave scythe behind chair of door-keeper, where the late TOM COLLINS used to secrete his gingham-umbrella.

"It seems to me," he said, "that the public are treated in this place worse than jackals. Hustled from pillar to post, suspected of unnamed crimes, grudged every convenience, and generally regarded as intolerable intruders."

"Ah," said _Mr. P._, "we manage things much better at Westminster."

"Order! Order!" cried an angry voice, and _Mr. P._ and his companion were within an ace of being trundled out of the gallery, where strangers are permitted to see and hear whatever is possible from their position--and it is not much.

"What are they talking about?" asked TIME, in guarded whisper, being, by this time, completely cowed.

"They haven't reached public business yet," I explained. "Been for last two hours debating a private Bill, providing that the pump-handle in the village of Plumberry shall be chained at eight o'clock at night. The Opposition want it done at nine."

"Well, I suppose they know all about it," said TIME. "Probably been down to Plumberry, examined into bearing of whole question, and formed their opinion accordingly?"

"Nothing of the sort; some of them don't even know where Plumberry is--never heard its name before this Pump-handle business came up. Don't even now wait in House to hear question, debated by Members with local knowledge. You see only twenty or thirty Members in their places. But, when bell rings for division, four hundred will troop in, and their vote will settle the question whether Plumberry shall be privileged to pump water as late as nine o'clock, or whether at eight the handle shall be chained."

So it turned out: In House of four hundred and seventy-nine Members Bill was read a second time by majority of twenty-three. Division occupied twenty minutes, which, with debate, appropriated two of the most precious hours of the sitting.

_Mr. P._ narrowly escaped expulsion, attention being awkwardly concentrated upon him, owing to the exuberance of his delight in recollection of how much better these things are managed at Westminster.

After this, public business was approached, beginning with questions. Of these there were a list of eighty, the large majority on exceedingly trivial circumstances. Nine-tenths of them could have been answered in a sentence by the Minister addressed, supposing the Member had dropped him a private note, or crossed the floor of the House, to speak to him. TIME openly contemptuous at such a way of doing business, more especially when, on question which appeared on printed paper having been answered, half-a-dozen Members sprang up from different parts of House, and volleyed forth supplementary interrogations. Explained to him things used to be worse when questions were propounded _viví voce_, and at length.

"Now," I said, not liking _Mr. P.'s_ crowing over us, "the SPEAKER will not allow the terms of a question to be recited. They appear on printed paper, and are taken as read."

"Then," queried TIME, "what are these Members putting questions 'arising,' they say, 'out of the answer just given? They don't spare a syllable, and take up five times as much of the Sitting as Members who put their questions on the Paper, and are not allowed to read them. You don't mean to say that such a transparent evasion of the rule is permitted?"

"It looks very like it," said _Mr. P._; "but it's not at all the sort of thing that would be permitted in our House of Commons. We make Rules, and the Speaker sees that they are obeyed in the spirit, as well as in the letter."

By the time questions were over, following on the prelude of private business, the evening was getting on. Members evidently tired out; had crowded in to vote on the Pump-handle question; sat in serried rows during the squabbles of question-time; and as soon as business was actually reached, House swiftly emptied, leaving about a score of Members. TIME more than ever distracted. _Mr. P._ increasingly perky.

"Ho! ho!" he said, rubbing his hands, "I don't wonder at this Star going to the Dogs. Stop till you come over to Westminster, TIME, dear boy, and we'll show you how public business should be carried on."

Explain to them that House is now in Committee on a Bill that had at earlier stages occupied some months of the Session, practically the greater portion of its working time. Now Session drawing to a close; agreed on both sides that it is too late to conclude Bill this Session; will be dropped after another night or two; Members knowing this, do not think it worth while to give up more time to Bill. Next Session it will be brought in again, and if the Government have better luck, and get earlier stages through in less time, there will be a chance of it passing.

"What!" shrieked TIME, forgetting where he was, "you don't mean to say that after devoting nearly a whole Session to a measure, laboriously shaping it up to a certain stage, you chuck away all your work because the Almanack says it's August? Why don't you, when you meet again in February, take the Bill up at the stage you dropped it? Why don't you--"

Here our friend's observations were brought to a sudden close. TIME was, as _Mr. P._ subsequently remarked, reduced to the status of a half-Timer. Angry cries of "Order! Order!" broke in on his unpremeditated speech. Two attendants, approaching him on either flank, seized him, and led him forth under the personal direction of the Sergeant-at-Arms. _Mr. P._, following his friend, and endeavouring from the top of the staircase to assure him that, "we manage these things better at Westminster," was promptly taken into custody, and led forth beyond the precincts, a combination of circumstances that interrupted and, indeed, as far as my friends were concerned, finally closed what was beginning to promise to prove an agreeable and instructive evening.

_Business Done_.--_Mr. Punch_ and another Stranger expelled from the Gallery, and TOBY's narrative completed.

* * * * *

VISIT TO VENUS.

The two Travellers made their way through space in silence, but on a sudden Father TIME plucked his conductor by the sleeve, and spoke.

"Sir," he said, "I perceive in the distance a wonderful light, and there is a sound of soft and beautiful music that attracts me strangely. Shall we approach the light, and listen more closely to these strains?"

"Have patience." replied the Sage. "The light and the music come from the planet Venus. Thither I am directing our course. In a few moments we shall arrive."

Even as he spoke the light grew brighter, the music of the invisible choir swelled to a louder strain, and before the King of the Hours had time to express his rapture, the pair had alighted in a scene of veritable enchantment. Fairy-like structures of crystal, sparkling with all the hues of the rainbow, rose on every side. Spires and domes of the most fantastic but graceful design seemed to soar into the clear and perfect air. All were bathed in a rosy glow, the source of which was hidden. Spacious walks paved with huge blocks of opal divided the rows of palaces. Along them grew tall and slender trees of a curious and delicate foliage. Birds of Paradise, King Fishers and doves flitted from branch to branch. The broadest of these avenues ended in a sweeping flight of steps of alabaster which led to a vast and perfectly proportioned hall, the roof of which was supported on columns of pure jewels, diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds.

A throng of maidens, in classical attire and wearing wreaths of roses on their heads, made their way along this avenue to where _Mr. Punch_ and his companion were standing. Their leader, a fair and lovely girl of seventeen, advanced to the Wise One and addressed him.

"Sire," she sang in a low and gracious voice, "Our Queen has sent me to say that she waits for your coming. She holds her Court in yonder hall, and thither I am bidden to guide you. Is it your pleasure to come at once?"

_Mr. Punch_ signified his assent, the maiden took him by the hand, and beckoning to Father TIME to follow, they walked slowly towards the Royal Hall and mounted the steps. A double gate of wrought gold opened as they reached the top, and passing through it, they found themselves in the Court of Queen CALLISTA. A marvellous sight met their eyes. The Queen sat on a raised throne in the midst of a throng of attendants. She was of surpassing beauty. Her deep-blue eyes were set like jewels beneath a broad low forehead on which a light crown of pearls and diamonds rested. Her garments were of a soft gauzy material that half concealed and half revealed the beautiful lines of her bust and limbs. In one hand she held a spray of myrtle, the other rested lovingly on the head of the magnificent hound who sat beside her, looking trustfully into her face. The great hall was filled with beautiful women grouped together here and there, some seated and some standing. They were all talking. Suddenly the Queen raised her hand and commanded silence. She then rose and thus addressed the two visitors:--

"You have come from below to the Realm of Women. Here we abide as you behold us. Age and decay hold aloof from us, and we order our lives with wisdom and modesty. Speak, if you have aught to ask."

"Pardon me, Madam," said Father TIME, somewhat rashly, "are we not here on the planet Venus? and have I not somewhere heard strange tales of what was done by ----?"

But CALLISTA interrupted him. She smiled a beautiful smile.

"Ah, yes," she said, "those stories are of the vanished past. Now we blush even to think they might once have been true;" and surely enough the whole charming assemblage became suffused with the prettiest imaginable blush. "I will speak plainly with you," continued the Queen; "for plain speech is best. No men live here. Therefore, we dwell in peace. But we permit the fairest and best among our number to descend from time to time to earth, and to dwell there in mortal shapes for awhile. You may have seen them," she went on, mentioning some names well known to _Mr. Punch_. "They are allowed to marry; but only the wisest and noblest men may approach them. On earth their will is free, and sometimes, alas, they fall away from righteousness, and pass through bitter tribulation."

"Yes," said the Fleet Street Sage, "We call it the Divorce Court--your Majesty will pardon the rough speech of an old man--and, somehow, we don't seem able to get on without it. But here, of course, you have no such institution?"

"No," replied the Queen. "There once was such a court among us, hundreds of years ago, ere we had banished the men from our midst. Now, however, we use the building in which petitions used to be heard as our chief College. Come hither, ZOE," she proceeded, addressing a sweet little girl of about fifteen. "Tell this wise gentleman your solution of that pretty question relating to the concomitants of a system of ternary quadrics."

Without a moment's hesitation, ZOE stated the question, and, what is more, solved it with absolute correctness.

"Marvellous!" said _Mr. Punch_. "I congratulate you."

"CYNTHIA," said the Queen, beckoning with her rosy fingers to another maiden, "will you recite to me your Pindaric Ode on the late foot-race?"

CYNTHIA at once complied, and _Mr. Punch_ listened in amazement to the resounding lines of an ode worthy of the great Greek. "Nor do we confine ourselves to such accomplishments," the Queen went on. "We all sew perfectly, our knitting is universally admired, and our classes on the Management of Domestic Servants, or the true theory of Making Both Ends Meet are always largely attended. Moreover, we do not neglect the body. Some play at ball, some even form elevens for cricket, others fence or play your Scotch game, or even lawn-tennis, and all dance gracefully. See!" she cried, clapping her hands, "they shall show you."

At this signal delicious music burst forth in a strange measure, swaying, rhythmical, and delightful. The maidens enlaced one another, and moved across the floor in perfect time. Their bodies seemed to float rather than tread the ground, as they passed the spell-bound visitors. The dance ceased as suddenly as it began.

"Your Majesty" said _Mr. Punch_, "your country is, indeed, highly blessed, and your subjects are marvellously accomplished. You dwell here without men, without chaperons, and you are lovely," he added, with emotion, "beyond the power of words to express. Would that your example could be followed upon earth!"

And with this, he and the Father kissed the young Queen's hand, and left the royal presence chamber.

* * * * *

VISIT TO SERIOCOMIX.

"And so," said TIME, as he carefully arranged his forelock before a mirror in the corridor, in reply to a communication recently made to him by _Mr. Punch en route_, "and so we're to make a regular rollicking night of it'? You insist on taking me into every Music Hall in Seriocomix, hey, you young dog, you! Well, well, Sir, I'm not so young as I used to be--but I'm as fond of a bit of good honest wholesome fun as ever I was. So lead on!"

They were in Seriocomix--a new and brilliant planet recently discovered by _Mr. Punch_--by the aid of WELLER's patent double-million gas-magnifying microscope (extra power). This star, as all astronomers are by this time aware, is a howling waste of extraordinary density, and occupied entirely by Music Halls, which TIME, for some inexplicable reason, was desirous of visiting in _Mr. Punch's_ company.

_Mr. Punch_, though considerably TIME's junior, almost envied his companion's boyish eagerness for pleasure; he was so evidently unfamiliar with Music Halls.

"If you are expecting to be vastly amused, Sir," _Mr. Punch_ ventured to hint, "I am afraid you may be just a trifle disappointed."

"Disappointed?" said TIME; "not a bit of it, Sir; not a bit of it! Isn't a Music Hall a place of entertainment? You've plenty of them where _you_ come from, haven't you? They wouldn't be filled night after night, as I'm given to understand they are, if they didn't succeed in entertaining, _would_ they, now?"

_Mr. Punch_ felt a natural reluctance to betray the weak points of any terrestrial institution.

"Oh, _our_ Music Halls? they are perfection, of course," he said. "The entertainments there are distinguished by humour of the most refined and intellectual order. It only struck me that they mayn't be quite the same _here_, you know, that's all."

"We shall see, Sir, we shall see," said TIME. "I don't think I'm particularly difficult to amuse." By this time they had entered the dazzling hall, and, reclining on sumptuous seats, were prepared to bestow their best attention upon the proceedings. A stout man with a fair wig, a dyed moustache and a blue chin, occupied the stage. He was engaged in representing a Member of the Seriocomican aristocracy with irresistible powers of social fascination, and he wore a loose-caped cloak over garments of closely-fitting black, which opened in front to display a mass of crumpled white, amidst which scintillated an enormous jewel. In his hand he held a curious black disc, with which he beat time to a ditty, of which _Mr. Punch_ only succeeded in catching the following refrain:--

"Oh, I 'ave sech a w'y with the loydies! All the dorlins upon me are gorn!
For they soy--'Yn't he noice! you can tell by his vice,
He's a toff and a gentleman born!'"

And here the singer suddenly caused the black disc to expand with a faint report to a cylindrical form of head-dress, which he placed upon one side of his head, amidst thunders of approval.

But TIME seemed rather depressed than exhilarated by this performance.

"He ought to be kicked off the stage," he muttered. "I'd do it myself if I was younger!"

"You would make a mistake," said _Mr. Punch_; "he is just the person that a Music Hall audience idolises as their highest ideal of a man and gentleman--in Seriocomix."

"At least," said TIME, "you wouldn't stand such an outrageous cad as that in any of _your_ Music Halls, I hope?"

A deeper tinge stole into _Mr. Punch's_ already highly-coloured countenance. "Certainly not," he replied, with perhaps the slightest suspicion of a gulp. "Our 'Lion Comiques' are without exception, persons of culture and education, and, if they sing of love at all, it is only to treat the subject in a chaste and chivalrous spirit. They are worthy examples to all young people who are privileged to listen to their teachings."

"I wish you could send one or two out to Seriocomix, then, as missionaries," said TIME.

"I wish we could send them _all_," rejoined _Mr. Punch_, feelingly, and they went on to another Music Hall. Here TIME had no sooner perceived the artist who was upon the stage than he exclaimed indignantly, "Disgraceful, Sir. This man is in no condition to entertain a respectable audience--he is _intoxicated_, Sir--look at his _tie_!"

"I think not," said _Mr. Punch_, after observing him attentively through his opera-glass; "he merely affects to be so because the point and humour of the song depend on it. But he has evidently forced himself to make a close study of the symptoms, or he could hardly have produced so marvellous an imitation. Art does demand these sacrifices. You will observe that he represents another Music-Hall ideal--the hero who can absorb the largest known quantity of ardent spirits, and whose prowess has earned for him the proud title of the Boozer King."

It was a spirited chorus, and the accomplished vocalist reeled in quite a natural manner as he chanted:--

"So every pub I enter, boys,
With welcome the room will ring;
Make room for him, there, in the centre, boys!
For he is the Boozer King!
Yes, give him a seat in the centre, boys.
Three cheers for our Boozer King!"

But TIME's worn features exhibited nothing but the strongest disgust.

"Is it possible," he exclaimed, "that this sort of thing can be considered amusing anywhere!"

"It is considered extremely facetious," said _Mr. Punch_--"in Seriocomix."

"What would they think of such a--such an apotheosis of degradation in one of your Music Halls at home, eh?" demanded TIME.

Privately, _Mr. Punch_ was of opinion that it would not be at all unpopular. However, he was not going to admit this:--

"It would be hissed off the stage," he said, courageously. "The fact is, that our Eccentric Vocalists have always shrunk from the responsibility of presenting a national vice under an attractive light, and so such exhibitions are absolutely unknown among us."

"I respect them for their scruples," said TIME; "they have their reward in a clear conscience," "No doubt," said _Mr. Punch_. "Shall we go on?" And as TIME had had enough of the Boozer King, they went on, and entered the next hall, just as a remarkably pretty young girl, with an innocent rosebud mouth and saucy bright eyes like a bird's, tripped daintily on to the platform.

"Come," said TIME, with more approval than he had yet shown, "this is better--_much_ better. We need feel no shame is listening to _this_ young lady, at all events. What is she going to give us? Some tender little love-ditty, I'll be bound?"

She sang of love, certainly, though she treated the subject from rather an advanced point of view, and this was the song she sang:--

"True love--you tyke the tip from me--'s all blooming tommy-rot!
And the only test we go by is--'ow much a man has got?
So none of you need now despair a girlish 'art to mash,--
So long as you're provided with the necessairy cash!"

And the chorus was:--

"You may be an 'owling cad;
Or be gowing to the bad;
Or a hoary centenarian, or empty-headed lad;
Or the merest trifle mad--
If there's rhino to be had,
Why, a modern girl will tyke you--yes, and only be too glad!"

As she carolled out this charming ditty in her thin high voice, TIME positively shivered in his stall, "Are _all_ the girls like that in Seriocomix?" he moaned. "I trust not."

"It seems the fashion to assume so here, at any rate," said _Mr. Punch_, not without a hazy recollection of having heard very similar sentiments in Music Halls much nearer home than Seriocomix. "The young woman is probably an authority on the subject. Are you off already?"

"Yes," said TIME, as he made for the exit. "I think she is going to sing again presently. Come along!"

At the next Music Hall they were just in time to hear the announcement of a new Patriotic Song, and old TIME, who had in his day seen great and noble deeds accomplished by men who loved and were proud of their Fatherland, was disposed to congratulate both himself and the audience on the choice of topic.

Only, as the song went on, he seemed dissatisfied somehow, as if he had expected some loftier and more exalted strain. And yet it was a high-spirited song, too, and told the Seriocomicans what fine fellows they were, and how naturally superior to the inhabitants of all other planets, while the chorus ran as follows:--

"Yes, we never stand a foreigner's dictation!
No matter if we're wrong or if we're right;
We're a breed of good old bulldogs as a nation,
And we never stop to bark before we bite!"

And then the singer, a fat-necked man, in a kind of military uniform, drew a sword and struck an attitude, amidst red fire, which aroused vociferous enthusiasm.

TIME seemed to be getting restless again, so they moved on once. more, and presently entered a hall where they found a stout lady with a powdered face and extremely short skirts, about to sing a pathetic song, which had been expressly written to suit her talents.

She began in a quavering treble that was instinct with intense feeling:--

"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him;
My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme!
And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him,
But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme!
For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly,
As with seed and fresh water his glorsis I fill:
Though the poor little tyle which he waggled so lytely
Loys under the dysies all stiffened and still!"

--And then, to a subdued _obbligato_ upon a bird-whistle, came the touching refrain:

"Yes, I hear him singing 'Tweet,' so melodious and sweet!
Till his shadder comes and flits about the room. 'Tweet-tweet-tweet!'
All my sorrer I forget. For I have the forncy yet,
That he twitters while he's loyin' in his tomb--'Tweet-tweet!'
Yes, he twitters to me softly from his tomb!"

_Mr. Punch_ observed his elder attentively during this plaintive ditty, but there was no discernible moisture in TIME's hard old eyes, though among the rest of the audience noses were being freely blown.

"Well," he said, "it may be very touching and even elevating, for anything I know--but it's not my notion of cheerful entertainment. I'm off!"

"I should like," said TIME, rather wistfully, as they proceeded to visit yet another establishment, "yes, I _should_ like to hear something _comic_ before the evening is over."

"Now is your opportunity, then," said _Mr. Punch_, taking his seat and inspecting the programme, "for I observe that the gentleman who is to appear next is described as a 'Mastodon Mirth-moving Mome.'"

"And does that mean that he is funny?" inquired TIME, hopefully.

"If it doesn't, I don't know what it _does_ mean," replied _Mr. Punch_, as the Mastodon entered.

His mere appearance was calculated to provoke--and did provoke--roars of laughter, though TIME only gazed the more sadly at him. He had coarse black hair falling about his ears, a white face, and a crimson nose; he wore a suit of dingy plaid, a battered hat, and long-fingered thread gloves. And he sang, very slowly and dolefully, this side-splitting ballad:--

"We met at the corner, Marire and me.
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
She took and invited me 'ome to tea;
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
I sat in the parler along with her,
Tucking into the eggs and the bread and but-tèr,--
When in come her Par with the kitching po-kèr!
_Quite_ permiscuous! _Who'd_ ha' thought of it?"

There was a chorus, of course:--

"Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
Who can guess what's going to be!
Whatever you fancy'll fall far short of it.
That's the way things 'appen with me!"

It seemed that this was the first occasion on which the audience had had the privilege of hearing this chaste and simple production, and nothing could exceed their frantic delight--the song was rapturously re-demanded again and again. Tears stood in TIME's eyes, but they were not the tears of excessive mirth; it was almost incredible--but the "Mastodon Mome" had only succeeded in rendering his depression more acute.

"A melancholy performance that," he said, shaking his head, "a sorry piece of vulgar buffoonery, Sir!"

"Aren't you rather severe, Sir?" remonstrated _Mr. Punch_; "the song is an immense hit--it has, as they say on this planet, 'knocked them;' from henceforth that vocalist's fortune is made; he will receive the income of a Cabinet Minister, and his fame will spread from planet to planet. Why, to-morrow, Sir, that commonplace phrase, '_Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it_?' will be upon the lips of every inhabitant; it will receive brevet-rank as a witticism of the first order, it will enrich the language, and enjoy an immortality, which will endure--ah, till the introduction of a newer catchword! I assure you the most successful book--the wittiest comedy, the divinest poem, have never won for their authors the immediate and sensational reputation which this singer has obtained at a bound with a few doggerel verses and an ungrammatical refrain. Isn't there genius in _that_, Sir?"

"Ah!" said TIME, "I'm old-fashioned, I daresay. I'm no longer in the movement. I might have been amused once by the story of a clandestine tea-party and an outraged parent with a poker; I don't know. All I _do_ know is, that I find it rather dreary at present. We'll drop in at just one or two more places, Sir, and then go quietly home to bed, eh?" They entered a few more Music Halls, and found the entertainment at each pretty much alike; now and then, instead of songs about mothers-in-law, domestic disagreements, and current scandals, they were entertained by the spectacle of acrobats going through horrible contortions, or women and little children performing feats high up aloft to the imminent peril of life and limb.

"With _us_," said _Mr. Punch_, complacently, "there is a net stretched below the performers."

"An excellent arrangement," said TIME; "and I suppose, if they _did_ happen to fall--"

"The spectators underneath would be to some extent protected," said _Mr. Punch_.

Then there were ballets, so glittering and gorgeous and interminable, that poor old TIME dropped asleep more than once, in spite of the din of the orchestra. At last, although several other places remained to be visited, he broke down altogether. "To tell you the truth," he said, "I've had about enough of it. At my age, Sir, the pursuit of this sort of amusement is rather hard work. I'll do no more Music Halls on this planet. But I tell you what I _will_ do. After all this I want a little rational amusement. I want to be cheered up. Now when will you take me round _your_ Music Halls, eh? Any evening will suit me--shall we say Boxing Night?"

"_Not if I know it!_" was _Mr. Punch's_ internal reflection--but all he said was, "'Boxing Night?' let me see, I'm going _somewhere_ on Boxing Night, I know. Well, I'll look up my engagements when I get home, and drop you a line."

"Do," said TIME--"mind you don't forget. I am sure we shall have capital fun."

"Oh, capital," replied _Mr. Punch_, hurriedly--"capital--but now for (excuse the paradox) the Land of the Sea."

And so again they started. But _Mr. Punch's_ presentiment will turn out to be quite correct. He _will_ be unfortunately engaged on Boxing Night, and so his tour of the terrestrial Music Halls with TIME will be postponed _sine die_.

* * * * *

VISIT TO NEPTUNE.

In a very short time the two august travellers found themselves in Neptune. To their surprise they learned that the planet consisted entirely of land. They were met by one of the inhabitants in full naval uniform, who heartily greeted them, promising to show them everything his country contained.

"The only thing that must for the present be unexhibited is the sea," he concluded. "Truth to speak, we have lost sight of it, and the disappearance has caused considerable inconvenience."

_Mr. Punch_ condoled with the son of Neptune, and asked what were the chief amusements in the planet.

"Well, badgering the Engineers is considered excellent sport--especially just now when their services are not absolutely required. We snub them and underpay them, we refuse them the rank due to them, and lead them a generally happy life! Nothing of that sort of thing down below, I suppose?"

_Mr. Punch_ at the moment this question was put was probably thinking of something else--at any rate he gave no answer.

"But this is about the best thing we have here," continued the Resident, pointing to a scene recalling the traditional pictures of Greenwich Fair, "the Royal Naval Exhibition. You see we have pictures and models and fireworks. Everything connected with the Navy inclusive of ladies' foot-ball."

"Ladies' foot-ball," echoed _Mr. Punch_, "why what has that to do with matters nautical?"

"Pardon me, _Mr. Punch_," returned the Resident in a tone of impatience, "but to-day you are certainly dense. Ladies' foot-ball is entirely nautical. Are not the ladies, as they play it, quite at sea?"

The Sage of Fleet Street bowed, and admitted that second thoughts were best.

"And now you must really excuse me," continued the Resident, "for it is my duty, as a director of the Royal Naval Exhibition to start the donkey races. I suppose you have had nothing like our Exhibition down below?"

"Nothing," returned the Sage.

"So I thought," was the reply. "If you have time, you can call upon the Admiral Survival of the Fittest."

"Gentlemen," said that illustrious official, after they had entered his bureau, "it is usual to salute me by tugging at your forelocks and scraping the deck with your right feet. While you perform this operation, you will notice that I will hitch up my trousers in true nautical style."

"Oh, certainly," returned _Mr. Punch_, "Delighted! But, Admiral, isn't that sort of thing a little old-fashioned?"

"And what of that, Sir? In spite of everything _we_ still have hearts of oak. We have _not_ changed since the time of NELSON and Trafalgar. We can still run up the rigging (there isn't any but that is an unimportant detail) like kittens, and reef a sail (there's not one left, but what does _that_ matter?) in a Nor-Wester as our ancestors did before us. And if you don't believe me, go to any public dinner when response is being made for the Navy."

"But if the ships have changed, would it not be better if the crews had undergone an appropriate transformation?"

"We don't think so. But, there, it's no use palavering. Some day the matter will be put to the test?"

"By a war?"

"No; by the Fleet starting for a cruise in calm weather. Some say we should all go to the bottom. But I am talking of the Planet Neptune. On your little Earth, I suppose, things are _very_ different?"

"Very," replied _Mr. Punch_. "_We_ have the Admiralty!"

And considering this an appropriate moment for departure, the Sage and his Venerable Companion floated amongst the stars.

* * * * *

AIRY FAIRY LILIAN.

KING ARTHUR.

THE ONLY ADELINA.

OUR ELLEN.

OUR HENRY.

THE GRASSHOPERATIC STAR.

THE SOCIETY CLOWN.

"O.K."

OUR JOHNNIE.]

* * * * *

ARTISTIC STARS.

"It's wonderful!" exclaimed TIME. "We haven't got anything like this on Earth."

"Plenty more where they come from," said his Guide Philosopher and Friend; "but now just give me a lock of your hair, and I'll stand you a fly through the artistic quarter."

And Mr. PUNCH, like Beauty, "drawing him with a single hair," carried the Ancient Wanderer along with him, past galaxies of talent, musical, dramatic, and operatic, refusing to stop and gratify the old Gentleman's pardonable curiosity.

"I know I've got Time for it all," quoth the flying Sage, "but I haven't space, that's where the difficulty is. As for Literary Stars, from TENNYSON and SWINBURNE, to LANG, STEVENSON, BLACK, BESANT, and our excellent friend, Miss BRADDON, with other novelists too numerous to mention, we must leave our cards on them, pay a flying visit, and just skirt the artistic quarter."

"There's the President!" exclaimed Old TIME.

"Ah! everyone knows _him_," said _Mr. Punch_--"artist and orator, and ever a Grand Young Man, the flower of the Royal Academy."

"Sir JOHN, too," cried TIME.

"As fresh as his own paint is our MILLAIS," returned _Mr. Punch_. "But 'on we goes again,' as the showman said, and you can pick out for yourself the Artist-Operatic-Composer-Painter-Etcher-Fellow-of-All-Souls, and master of a variety of other accomplishments, yclept HUBERT HERKOMER; then the gay and gallant FILDES, the chiseler BOEHME, the big PETTIE, the Flying, not the Soaring, Dutchman, TADEMA, the always-purchased BOUGHT'UN, the gay dog POYNTER, Cavalier Sir JOHN GILBERT, and the chivalric DON CALDERON! There's a galaxy for you, my boy! Can you touch these on Earth?"

"Well," said TIME, slowly scratching the tip of his nose, "I fancy I've heard of 'all the talents' before. Besides these, there are a few more who are celebrated in black and white--"

"Rather!" cried _Mr. Punch_, enthusiastically. "My own dear boys, with JOHN TENNIEL at their head. But they're all so busy just now that I couldn't take up their time."

"But you're taking _me_ up," observed the aged T., slily.

"Quite so," returned his guide--who if, _per impossibile_, he ever _could_ be old, would be "_the_ aged P.,"--and then giving another tug at his companion's forelock, he cried, "On we goes again! We'll be invisible for awhile, and I'll show you our 'ARRY in the clouds. You remember IXION in Heaven, or as 'ARRY would call him, IXION in 'Eaven. Now see 'ARRY dreamin' o' Goddesses. Here we go Up! Up! Up!"

And what happened is told by 'ARRY in the following letter.

QUEEN OF SONG.

THE JERSEY LILY.]

* * * * *

'ARRY'S VISIT TO THE MOON.

Dear CHARLIE,--I've bin on the scoop, and no error this time, my
dear boy!
I must tell yer my rounds; it's a barney I know you are bound to
enjoy.
Talk of _Zadkiel's Halmanack_, CHARLIE, JOHN KEATS, or the _Man
in the Moon_--
Yah! I've cut all _their_ records as clean as a comet would lick
a balloon.

'ARRY ain't no Astronomer, leastways I ain't never made it my mark
To go nap on star-gazing; I've mostly got other good biz arter dark.
But when _Mister Punch_ give me the tip 'ow he'd take poor old
TIME on the fly,
Wy I tumbled to it like a shot; 'ARRY's bound to be in it, sez I.

So I took on the Lockyers and Procters, and mugged up the planets
and stars.
With their gods and their goddesses, likeways their thunderbolts,
tridents and cars.
I jogged on with old Jupiter, CHARLIE, and gave young Apoller
a turn,
While as to DIANNER!--but there, that is jest wot you're going
to learn.

It wos dry and a little bit dazing, this cram, and you won't
think it's odd
If yours truly got doosedly drowsy. In fact I wos napped on
the nod,
But the way I got woke wos a wunner. Oh! CHARLIE, my precious
old pal,
If you'd know wot's fair yum-yum, 'ook on to a genuine celestial
gal.

"_Smack!_" "Hillo!" sez I, starting sudden, "where ham I, and
wot's this 'ere game?"
Then a pair o' blue eyes looked in mine with a lime-lighty sort of
a flame,
As made me feel moony immediate. "Great Pompey," thinks I, "here's
a spree!
It's DIANNER by all that is proper, and as for Enjimmyun--that's
_Me_!"

For I see a young person in--well, I ain't much up in classical
togs,
But she called it a "chlamys," I think. She'd a bow, and a couple
of dogs,
"Rayther forward and sportive young party," thinks I, Sandown-Parky
in style;
But pooty, and larky no doubt, so I tips her a wink and a smile.

"All right, Miss DIANNER," sez I. "You 'ave won 'em--the gloves--and
no kid.
Wot size, Miss, and 'ow many buttons?" But she never lowered a lid,
And the red on her cheeks warn't no blush but a reglar indignant
flare-up,
Whilst the look from her proud pair of lamps 'it as 'ard and as
straight as a Krupp.

Brought me sharp to my bearings, I tell yer. "Young mortal," she sez,
"it is plain
An Enjimmyun is not to be found in the purlieus of Chancery Lane.
And that Primrose 'Ill isn't a Latmos. The things you call gloves I
don't wear,
Only buskins. But don't you be rude, or the fate of Actæon you'll
share."

I wosn't quite fly to her patter, but "mortal" might jest 'ave bin
"cub,"
From the high-perlite way she pernounced it, and plainly DIANNER
meant "snub."
Struck me moony, her manner, did CHARLIE, she hypnertised me with
her looks,
And the next thing I knowed I was padding the 'oof in a region of
spooks.

Spooks, is bogies and ghostesses, CHARLIE, according to latter-day
chat,--
And the place where DIANNER conveyed, me _was_ spooky, and spectral
at that.
"Where _are_ we, Miss, if I _may_ arsk?" I sez, orfully 'umbl for me.
Then she turns 'er two lamps on me sparkling. "Of course we're in
Limbo," sez she.

Didn't quite like the lay on it, CHARLIE, for Limbo sounds precious
like quod:
But _she_ meant Lunar Limbo, dear boy, sort o' store-room, where
everythink odd,
Out of date, foolish, faddy, and sech like, is kept like old curio
stock.
(Ef yer want to know more about Limbo, read Mr. POPE's _Rape of the
Lock_.)

"So this 'ere is the Moon, Miss!" sez I. "Where's the Man there's
sech talk on downstairs?"
She looked at me 'orty. Thinks I, "You're a 'ot 'un to give yourself
hairs.
I may level you down a bit later: The Man in the Moon, Miss," I adds.
Sez she, "We don't 'ave Men up here; they are most of them tyrants or
cads!"

"Oh," sez I, "on the MONA CAIRD lay, eh, my lady?" Jest then, mate, I
looks
And sees male-looking things by the dozen: but then they turned out
to be spooks.
There was TOLSTOI the Rooshian romancer, a grim-looking son of a gun,
Welting into young Cupid like scissors, and wallopping Hymen like fun.

Old Hymen looked 'orrified rayther; but as for young Arrers-and-'Arts,
_He_ turned up his nose at the old 'un, whilst all the gay donas and
tarts,
Not to mention the matronly mivvies, were arter the boy with the bow,
Plainly looking on TOLSTOI and IBSEN as crackpots, and not in the know.

"Queer paper, my dear Miss DIANNER," sez I, "wot do _you_ think?" Sez
she,
"A mere Vision of Vanities, mortal, of no speshal interest to me.
_I_ am not the keeper of Limbo, although it is found in my sphere.
Everything that's absurd and unnatural claims a clear right to come
_here_.

"See, the latest Art-Hobbies are ambling about with their 'eads in the
air,
And their riders are tilting like true toothpick paladins. SMUDGE over
there
Makes a bee-line for SCRATCH in this corner, whilst MUCK and the
Mawkish at odds,
Clash wildly, and Naturalism pink Sentiment painfully prods."

Then I twigged Penny WHISTLER's white plume, and the haddypose HOSCAR
upreared,
His big hairy horryflame, CHARLIE, whilst Phillistines looked on and
jeered.
I see Nature, as Narstiness, ramping at wot Nambypamby dubbed Nice,
And Twoddle parading as Virtue, and Silliness playing at Vice.

Here was pooty girls Primrosing madly, and spiling their tempers a lump,
By telling absurd taradiddles for some big political pump;

And there wos 'ard-mouthed middle-aged 'uns a shaking the Socherlist
flag,
And a ramping like tiger-cats tipsy around a rediklus red rag.

There wos patriots playing the clown, there was magistrates playing the
fool;
There wos jugginses teaching the trombone to kids at a bloomin' Board
School.
"This is Free Hedgercation in Shindy," sez I. "They're as mad as March
hares,
All these Limboites, dear Miss DIANNER. We do it _much_ better
downstairs!"

She smiled kinder scoffish, I fancied, and give 'er white shoulders a
hunch.
Says she; "I've no comments to make. It's along of my friend _Mr. Punch_
Whom the whole Solar System obeys, and the Court of Olympus respects,
That I wait on you 'ere, Mister ARRY. Pray what would you like to see
next?"

"Well," sez I, with a glance at her gaiters, "I've heard you're a whale,
Miss, at Sport.
Do you 'know anythink' wuth my notice?" She gave me a look of a sort,
As I can't put in words, not exactly, a sort o' cold _scorch_,
dontcherknow.
That's a bit of a parrydocks p'raps; anyhow, it hurt wus than a blow.

But we went on the fly once agen--can't say 'ow it wos managed, but soon
We 'ad passed to a rum-looking region--the opposite side of the Moon,
Where no mortal afore had set foot, nor yet eyes, Miss DIANNER declared.
"Here's a Region of Sport!" sez the lady. Good Gracechurch Street, mate,
'ow I stared!

Seemed a sort of a blend-like of Hepsom, and Goodwood, and Altcar, mixed
up
With the old Epping 'Unt and new Hurlingham, thoughts of the Waterloo Cup,
Swell Polo and Pigeon-match tumbled about in my mind, while the din
Was like Putney Reach piled on a Prizefight, with Kennington Oval chucked
in.

There wos toffs, fair top new 'uns, mixed hup with the welcher, the froth
with the scum;
There wos duchesses, proud as DIANNER, and she-things as sniffed of the slum;
There was "champions" thick as bluebottles, and plungers as plenty as peas,
With stoney-brokes, pale as a poultice, and "crocks," orful gone at the knees;

I see a whole howling mix-up of "mug" booky, dog-owner and rough,
A-watching of snaky-shaped hounds pelting 'ard 'after bits o' brown fluff,
I see--and the Sportsman within me began for to bubble and burn,
And I yelled, "O my hazure-horbed Mistress, can't you and me 'ave jest
a turn?"

We _did_, and my "Purdey Extractor" made play, though it ain't me to brag,
But somehow her arrers went straighter, and 'ers wos the heaviest bag.
"Let _me_ 'ave a try, Miss," sez I, "with that trifle from Lowther Arcade!"
I tried, and hit one of her dogs, as she didn't think sport I'm afraid.

The 'ound didn't seem much to mind it; immortal, I spose, like Miss D.;
Then we 'ad a slap arter the deer, and she'd very soon nailed two or three.
_I_ wos out of it, couldn't pot one, and it needled me orful, dear boy,
To be licked by a gal, _though_ a goddess, and armed with a archery toy!

Her togs wos a little bit quisby--for moors as ain't pitched in the Moon,
And _there wasn't no pic-nic, dear boy!_ I got peckish and parched pooty
soon.
_She_ lapped from a brook, and her hoptics went wide as a cop on the watch,
When I hinted around rayther square, _I_ should like a small drop of cold
Scotch.

Well, well; I must cut this yarn short. We'd a turn at Moon Sports like all
round,
Wish I'd time to describe our Big Boar Hunt--DIANNER's pet pastime I found,
Can't say it was _mine_; bit too risky. Pigsticking in Ingy may suit
White Shikkarries or Princes, dear boy, but yer Boar is a nasty big brute.

Too much tusk for my taste! 'Owsomever DIANNER she speared him to rights,
And I dropped from the tree I'd shinned up when the boar had made tracks
for my tights.
"Bravo, Miss DIANNER!" I sez. "You are smart, for a gal, with that spear.
But didn't yer get jest a mossel alarmed--fur yer 'ARRY, my dear?"

Put it hamorous like, with a wink, snugging up to the lady, I did;
For she'd found a weak spot in my 'art, this cold classical gal, and no kid.
I'd been 'aving a pull at my flask, up that tree, and her pluck and blue eyes
Made me feel a bit spoony; in fact I was mashed. But, O wot a surprise!

"Alarmed? about _you_, Sir! And _why_?" sez DIANNER, with eyes all aflash,
I sez, "Don't yer remember Adonis, love, Venus's boar-'unting mash?
No wonder the lady felt fainty like; fear for a sweetheart, yer see.
And--well, if I'm not quite Adonis, _you found your Enjimmyun_ in _Me_!

"One more, only one, dear DIANNER," I sez. And I aimed for a kiss,
I made for her lips, a bee-line. But great snakes, my dear boy, wot a miss!
Hit me over the 'ed with her boar-spear, a spanker, she did, like a shot.
Don't you never spoon goddesses, CHARLIE; you'll find it a dashed sight
too 'ot!

"Adonis!" she cried. "Nay, Actæon! And his shall be also thy fate.
There is _Punch_ looking on, he'll approve!" And she jest set 'er dogs
on me, straight!
"Way-oh! Miss DIANNER!" I yells. "No offence! Don't be 'ard on a bloke!
Beg yer pardon, I'm sure!" Here a hound nipped my calf like a vice,
and--I woke.

Leastways, I persoom it _wos_ waking, if 'tother was sleep and a dream,
But I feel a bit moon-struck, dear boy. Spooks abound, and things ain't
what they seem.
_Mister Punch_ sez, "it served me quite right." Well, next time
correspondence he'd carry
With satterlites, spesh'ly the Moon, he had better not drop upon 'ARRY.

"Poor fellow, I pity him," said _Mr. Punch_ to Father TIME, as the pair passed away from the Lunar precincts together, bowing courteously, and a little apologetically, to 'ARRY's late hostess, who called off her dogs, and affably responded to their parting salutation. "Fact is," pursued the Sage, "my young friend 'ARRY, though smart and _fin de siècle_, in his way, is a little of 'the earth, earthy,' and lacks both the adventurousness and the tact of an Ixion."

"I presume," said the Scythe-bearer, "our inter-planetary peregrinations are now pretty nearly at an end--for this time?"

"We have yet one more visit to pay," said _Mr. Punch_.

At this moment, as the space-pervading trio fleeted forward, a strange unusual effulgence grew to the eastward, and began to bathe them in golden light. Miraculously metamorphic was its action upon the aërial travellers. _Mr. Punch_ flung aside his hat and his "Immensikoff," and appeared as the Apollo-like personage he really is. TOBY's wings expanded, and his pace mended. As for "Old Father TIME" himself, the combined influence of the regenerating philtre in _Faust_, and the fire-bath in _She_, could not more completely have transmogrified him. His face brightened with youthfulness, his solitary forelock bushed out into a wavy and hyacinthine hirsute crop, his ancient and magician-like garments fell from him, his plumes expanded, until he looked more like "the herald Mercury" than old Edax Rerum.

Then they swung, as on airy _trapèze_, or on wings of the thunder-bird
strong,
With the sound in their ears of the voice of the starry and sisterly
throng.
Did the orbs of splendiferous Sol give a wink as they ranged into
reach?
Was his genial mouth all alight with the flame of the friendliest
speech?
Hey, Presto! Great Scott! Transformation on DRURIOLANUS's stage
Was never so sudden as this! Who rides there as the Sun-God? The Sage!
The Great Hypnotiser! Utopia's lord! He Who Must Be Obeyed!
He whose Magical Spell is on Princes and Peoples, on Art and on Trade.
_Houp-là!_ Transformation tremendous! The round of the Planets we've
travelled,
Some curious secrets unveiled, and some mysteries mighty unravelled.
_We manage things better on Earth!_ That's the formula! Sounds it
sardonic?
Was _Punch_ just a morsel sarcastic, his hosts just a trifle ironic?
At any rate, _Punch_ here explains to the World how to manage things
better,
By purging Humanity's spirit, and snapping Hate's tyrannous fetter.
He'd Hypnotise Man into health, both of body and spirit, and out of
The follies, and vices, and greeds, and conceits. See the whole
Comus-rout of
Absurdities, Appetites, Antics, Antipathies, personal, national,
Driven before his bright Sun-Car! The Rule of the Rosily Rational
He would inaugurate, making Earth's atmosphere healthy as Thanet's,
_That_ Father TIME, is his aim; _that's_ the Moral of _Punch_ and the
Planets!