"Sir JOHN, too," cried TIME.

"As fresh as his own paint is our MILLAIS," returned Mr. Punch. "But 'on we goes again,' as the showman said, and you can pick out for yourself the Artist-Operatic-Composer-Painter-Etcher-Fellow-of-All-Souls, and master of a variety of other accomplishments, yclept HUBERT HERKOMER; then the gay and gallant FILDES, the chiseler BOEHME, the big PETTIE, the Flying, not the Soaring, Dutchman, TADEMA, the always-purchased BOUGHT'UN, the gay dog POYNTER, Cavalier Sir JOHN GILBERT, and the chivalric DON CALDERON! There's a galaxy for you, my boy! Can you touch these on Earth?"

"Well," said TIME, slowly scratching the tip of his nose, "I fancy I've heard of 'all the talents' before. Besides these, there are a few more who are celebrated in black and white—"

"Rather!" cried Mr. Punch, enthusiastically. "My own dear boys, with JOHN TENNIEL at their head. But they're all so busy just now that I couldn't take up their time."

"But you're taking me up," observed the aged T., slily.

"Quite so," returned his guide—who if, per impossibile, he ever could be old, would be "the aged P.,"—and then giving another tug at his companion's forelock, he cried, "On we goes again! We'll be invisible for awhile, and I'll show you our 'ARRY in the clouds. You remember IXION in Heaven, or as 'ARRY would call him, IXION in 'Eaven. Now see 'ARRY dreamin' o' Goddesses. Here we go Up! Up! Up!"

And what happened is told by 'ARRY in the following letter.



* * * * *

'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!"



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 Actaeon 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.



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;



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.



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!



"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, Actaeon! 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 siecle, 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 aerial 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 trapeze, 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-la! 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!

THE END