Father TIME with his glorious guide dropped gently down. They found
themselves in the centre of a bare expanse of dry, grassy country,
broken here and there by sand-hills. On their right was the sea,
dotted with ships. Parties of men in red coats, and carrying in their
hands curiously-shaped sticks, were walking about in all directions.
They all looked very earnest, some of them were gloomy, some
positively furious. Occasionally they stopped, placed themselves in an
uncouth straddle-legged attitude, whirled their sticks, looked eagerly
towards the horizon, and then marched on again as solemnly as before.
One party in particular attracted the attention of Father TIME. It
was a large, mixed gathering of men, and women, and children. They
all moved or stood at a respectful distance from the central figure, a
benevolent-looking gentleman, with a flowing white beard. He too wore
a red coat, and carried a stick. A crowd of attendants bearing more
sticks followed him.
[Illustration]
"Let me explain," said the Arch-Provider of Merriment to his
companion, "this ground is known as Links; the game of 'Golf' is being
played. These gentlemen are golfers. The sticks they carry are called
clubs. That bearded old gentleman is the King of Jupiter, FOOZLER THE
FIFTH. He is playing his morning round. I will introduce you."
So saying, the King of all Clubs advanced with the Scythe-holder, and,
taking advantage of a moment when King FOOZLER, having made a long
shot, was in good humour, rapidly effected the necessary presentation.
"I know this game well," said _Mr. Punch_. "It is said to be much
played in my own country now. Permit me to have the honour of playing
one hole against your Majesty."
The King smiled a gracious assent. His ball had been already placed
for him on a little heap of sand about an inch high. He advanced
towards it, anxiously measured his distance, waved his club to and
fro over his ball as if in blessing, and then, swinging it through
the air, struck--nothing. The ball remained unmoved.
"He's missit the globe," muttered one of the attendants; "I've aye
tellt him to keep his eye furrmer on the ball."
Four times His Majesty, whose good humour was now entirely gone,
repeated the operation with similar results. At last he hurled his
club to the ground, breaking it into splinters, and addressed his
immovable ball in strong terms.
"Allow me, Your Majesty," said _Mr. Punch_, as he stepped airily
forward and selected the king's best driver from the heap of clubs
carried by the chief caddie, "I think I know how this ought to be
done," and without a moment's hesitation he delivered his stroke. The
ball flew true and far until it was merely a speck in the air, and
finally dropped down about a quarter of a mile away. "You will find
it in the hole," said the Golfer of Golfers, carelessly turning to the
discomfited King; "Oh, my Royal and Ancient One," he continued, "there
are certain things we do better in another country, and Golf is one of
them."
But at this moment a great commotion arose. A messenger on a foaming
steed dashed up, and handed a despatch to the king, who at once read
it.
"Dear me!" said His Majesty, "this is most annoying. The Emperor of
BARATARIA is to arrive in half an hour. He's a bit of a young prig,
and bores me dreadfully--but we must meet him." With that he retired
at once to the nearest palace, to change his uniform. In about ten
minutes he came forth a changed man. On his head glittered an immense
helmet, with a waving plume; a tunic of gold lace was buttoned tightly
round his chest. Row upon row of stars and medals encircled him like
so many belts; his legs were hidden in an enormous pair of jack-boots,
to which were fixed a pair of huge Mexican spurs. An immense sword
dangled at his side.
"This," said the King, as he motioned _Mr. Punch_ and Father TIME into
his state carriage, and vaulted in after them with as much agility as
his sword and boots would permit, "is the uniform of the Baratarian
Die-hards, of which regiment I am honorary Colonel."
Thus they drove to the balloon station, at which the Imperial guest
was expected. After a few minutes, a sound of cheering was heard.
"He's coming," observed the King. "Have I got my kissing face on?"
_Mr. Punch_ reassured him. A moment afterwards the state-balloon
of BARATARIA soared up to the platform, and a young man, gorgeously
attired in the uniform of the Tenth (Jupiter's Own) Lancers, sprang
lightly from it.
Loud pealed the loyal anthem, and rattled all the drums,
And, as the guard presented, the cry went up, "He comes!"
He steps upon the platform, and, while the plaudits ring,
A King hangs round an Emperor's neck, an Emperor hugs a King;
And, with impartial kisses on both cheeks duly pressed,
The guest does homage to his host, the host salutes his guest.
The Emperor then, having shaken _Mr. Punch_ warmly by the hand,
departed with his royal host. After this, the three potentates,
_Punch_ the Only, FOOZLER THE FIFTH, and the Baratarian Emperor,
called upon one another at intervals of half an hour. This process
occupied the afternoon.
For the evening a state-ball at the Royal Palace had been announced.
Thither, at the appointed hour, _Mr. Punch_ and his hoary associate
were conveyed. As they approached, the royal band struck up a martial
air, the Lord Chamberlain advanced to meet them, and ushered them into
the magnificent hall in which the guests were assembling. From this a
wide double staircase led up to a marble gallery. Hall, gallery, and
staircase were filled with a brilliant crowd; the men arrayed in every
variety of uniform; the ladies, to a woman, in V-shaped dresses, the
openness of which appeared to vary in a direct ratio to the age of
their wearers.
[Illustration]
"We will repose awhile," _Mr. Punch_ remarked to the Father, "and
scan the multitude. This, my dear Tempus, is the pick of Society.
That stout lady, with a face like a haughty turtle, is the Duchess of
DOUBLECHIN; that graceful little woman next to her is Lady ANGELINA
BATTLEAXE--she is a dress-maker."
"A what?" inquired Father TIME.
"A dress-maker," answered the Master, calmly.
"In her shop, ancient notions forsaking,
The proud ANGELINA unbends;
And her figure's a tall one for making
A fit for the figures of friends.
Our cynical latter-day Catos
Are dumb when invited to dine
With a Marquis who deals in potatoes,
Or an Earl who takes orders for wine.
And, though old-fashioned folk think it funny,
It's as common as death, or as debts,
To find gentlemen making their money
Out of shops for the making of bets.
The stout puffy old fellow there is the wealthiest man in Jupiter.
He floats mines, asteroid mines mostly, and makes it pay him. He
can command the very best society. Those ladies clustering round the
Prince-Royal come from over the ocean. Pretty, but twangy. A fresh
consignment arrives every year. And the Prince-Royal has the pick of
them."
[Illustration]
But before _Mr. Punch_ could finish his explanatory sketch, a
tremendous uproar was heard in the court-yard of the Palace. There
was a sound as of a huge mob shouting in unison, shots were heard, and
cries of "Liberty for Ever:" vent the air. The royal guests were in
a state of terrible agitation. An orderly covered with mud forced his
way through the crowd, up the stairs, and stood before the King.
"Your Majesty," he panted, "a revolution has broken out. The populace
has erected barricades, the deposition of your House has been
declared, and a Republic proclaimed. The mob is now marching to the
Palace."
The King drew himself up to his full height. Where are my Golf-clubs?
he asked in a calm voice.
"Your Majesty, they have been seized and secreted."
"Then all is lost. It only remains for me to depart," was the King's
heartbroken reply. "I will, in person, announce my resignation." "I
resign!" shouted the King, appearing on a balcony overlooking the
court-yard. Deafening cheers greeted this announcement. "Bless you, my
children!" sobbed the King--"I am off to the station. Take care of my
poodle, and my pet parrot."
At this the mob unanimously burst into tears. They insisted on
accompanying the deposed monarch to the station, the popular band
playing "_The Dead March in Saul_." But the King remained calm, and
marched on without swerving. At the station he took his seat silently
in the Royal Balloon, a whistle was heard, and the car floated off
into space.
"I cannot say I think much of all that," said _Mr. Punch_. "In
our part of the Universe we generally manage to get a little more
bloodshed out of it."
* * * * *