Chapter 4

"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.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

'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_.)