"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?"
[Illustration]
"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_.
* * * * *