* * * * *
'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_!"
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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;
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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_!
[Illustration]
"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!
[Illustration]