"I am glad to hear _that_, at any rate," said Saturn, welcoming the
illustrious guests to his remote golden-ringed realm.
[Illustration]
Saturn, however, did not look exactly comfortable, and his voice, how
unlike "To that large utterance of the early gods," sounded quavering
and querulous.
"It is customary," said he, "to talk, as the old Romans rather
confusedly did, of 'the Saturnian reign' as the true 'Golden Age,'
identified with civilisation, social order, economic perfection, and
agricultural profusion. As a matter of fact, I've always been treated
badly, from the day when Jupiter dethroned me to that when, the Grand
Old Man--who _ought_ to have had more sympathy with me--banished
hither the strife-engendering Pedant's hotch-potch called Political
Economy."
"Be comforted, Saturn, old boy--_I_ am here!" cried _Mr. Punch_. "I
am 'personally conducting' Father TIME in a tour of the Planets. Let's
have a look round your realm!"
_Mr. Punch_ sums up much of what he saw in modern "Saturnian Verses."
_Punch_. Good gracious! my worthy old Ancient, who once held the sway
of the heavens,
Your realm seems a little bit shaky; what mortals call "sixes and
sevens"!
_Saturn_. That's scarcely god-lingo, my boy; but 'tis much as you
say, and no wonder.
Free imports have ruined my realm--I refer to Bad-Temper and Blunder,
Two brutish and boobyish Titans--they've wholly corrupted our morals,
And taught us "Boycotting," and "Strikes," and "Lock-outs," and all
sorts of mad quarrels.
I hope you don't know them down there, in your queer little speck of
a planet,
These humbugging latter-day Titans?
_Punch_. That cannot concern you--now can it?
_Saturn_. Just look at the shindy down yonder!
_Punch_. By Jove, what the doose are they doing?
_Saturn_. Oh, settling the Great Social Question!
_Father Time_. It looks as though mischief were brewing.
_Saturn_. Sort of parody of the old fight, which was splendid at least,
if tremendous,
'Twixt Jove and the Titans of old. That colossus, gold-armoured,
stupendous,
Perched high on the "Privilege" ramparts, and bastioned by big bags of
bullion,
Is "Capital"; he's the new Jove, and each Titan would treat as his
scullion,
But look at the huge Hundred-Handed One, armed with the scythe and the
sickle,
The hammer, the spade, and the pick!
_Father Time_. Things appear in no end of a pickle!
_Saturn_. Precisely! That's Labour-Briareus; backed up by "Bad Temper"
and "Blunder,"
And egged on by "Spout" (with a Fog-Horn); he's "going for" him of the
Thunder,
And Gold ramparts headlong, _à outrance_.
_Punch_. But look at the spectres behind them!
_Saturn_. Ah! Terrors from Tartarus, those to which only Bad Temper
can blind them.
Those spectres foreshadow grim fate; they are Lawlessness, Ruin,
Starvation;
To the Thunderer dismal defeat, to the conquerors blank desolation.
The Sage looked serious.
These things, mused he, are an allegory, perhaps, but of a
significance not wholly Saturnian.
[Illustration]
"Saturn, old boy" said he, "cannot what sentimentalists call 'the
Dismal Science,' which as you say has been banished hither, do
anything to help you out of this hobble?"
"The Dismal Science," responded Saturn, whose panaceas of Unrestricted
Competition, Free Combination, Cheap Markets, Supply and Demand,
&c., have landed its disciples in Sweating Dens on the one side and
Universal Strikes on the other, can hardly offer itself as a cure for
the New Socialism. Like Rhea of old, when asked for food, it proffers
a stone."
"Ah!" quoth Father TIME, "you manage these things much better on the
Earth, doubtless."
"Doubtless," replied the Sage, drily, as he and Father TIME took their
departure.
* * * * *