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Punch, or the London Charivari, The Christmas Number, 1890

Name: Punch, or the London Charivari, The Christmas Number, 1890
Author: Various

by Various

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Language: en419 downloads on Project Gutenberg

Subjects

English wit and humor -- Periodicals

In: Christmas·Punch·Short Stories

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #13244.

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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.

"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.

"My good friend," replied the Sage of Fleet Street, "we are approaching Mars, which as you know, or should know (if your education has been completed under the supervision of the School Board) is sometimes called the Red Planet."

"So I have often heard. But why?"

"That is what we shall soon discover. But now keep quiet, as we have arrived."

With the gentlest of gentle shocks Mr. Punch and his companion found themselves on a mound, which they soon recognised as a mountain. Looking below them, they saw masses of scarlet, apparently in motion. It was then that TIME regretted that he had not brought with him his telescope.

"It would have been so useful," he murmured, "and if a little bulky, what of that? Surely Mr. Punch is accustomed to make light of everything?"

"See, some one is approaching," observed the Sage of Fleet Street, whose eye-sight was better than that of his companion. And sure enough a lively young officer at this moment put in an appearance, and saluted.

"Glad to see you both," said he; "and, by order of the General Commander-in-Chief, you are to make what use you please of me. I am entirely at your service."

"Why, you speak English!" exclaimed Mr. Punch.

"That is so!" returned the young officer in American; "and why not? Besides I know French, Russian, German, and all the languages spoken on your little globe, to say nothing of the dialects used by those who inhabit the rest of the planets. It's our system. Nowadays, a man in the Service is expected to be up in everything. If he wasn't, how on earth could he fight, or do anything else in a satisfactory fashion? And now let us bustle along."

"But first," put in TIME, who did not relish being silent, "will you kindly tell us what those masses of colour are?"

"Certainly. They are troops. We put them in scarlet in peace, but they appear in their shirtsleeves the moment war's declared. Novel idea, isn't it?"

And then the pleasant-spoken young officer led the way to a lift, and, touching a button, the three descended from the top of the mountain to the valley beneath.

"On the counterweight system," explained the A.D.C. "We cribbed the idea from Folkestone, and Lynmouth. And here, Mr. Punch, is something that will interest you. We absolutely howled at that sketch of yours showing the mechanical policeman. Don't you know--old woman puts a penny in the slot and stops the traffic? And here's the idea developed. See that mechanical sentry. I put a penny in the slot, and he pays me the usual compliment. He shoulders arms, as I am only a captain--worse luck! If I were of field rank he would come smartly to the present."

And sure enough the mechanical soldier saluted.

"It's not half a bad idea," continued the agreeable A.D.C. "You see sentry-go is awfully unpopular, and a figure of iron in times of peace is every bit as good as a man of brass. The pence go to the Canteen Fund along with the fines for drunkenness. It seems reasonable enough that a fellow, if he wants to be saluted, should pay for the swagger. If a fellow likes to turn out the guard, he can do it with sixpence--but then of course he hasn't the right unless his rank permits it--see?"

By this time the mechanical soldier had returned to the slope, and was parading his beat in a somewhat jerky manner.

"And now what would you fellows like to do?" asked the A.D.C. "Pardon the familiarity, but nowadays age doesn't count, does it? Everybody's young. One of the best Juliets I ever knew had turned sixty, and played to a Romeo who was twenty years her senior. Nothing like that down below, I suppose?"

"Nothing," returned Mr. Punch.

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