VISIT TO SERIOCOMIX.
"And so," said TIME, as he carefully arranged his forelock before a mirror in the corridor, in reply to a communication recently made to him by Mr. Punch en route, "and so we're to make a regular rollicking night of it'? You insist on taking me into every Music Hall in Seriocomix, hey, you young dog, you! Well, well, Sir, I'm not so young as I used to be—but I'm as fond of a bit of good honest wholesome fun as ever I was. So lead on!"
They were in Seriocomix—a new and brilliant planet recently discovered by Mr. Punch—by the aid of WELLER's patent double-million gas-magnifying microscope (extra power). This star, as all astronomers are by this time aware, is a howling waste of extraordinary density, and occupied entirely by Music Halls, which TIME, for some inexplicable reason, was desirous of visiting in Mr. Punch's company.
Mr. Punch, though considerably TIME's junior, almost envied his companion's boyish eagerness for pleasure; he was so evidently unfamiliar with Music Halls.
"If you are expecting to be vastly amused, Sir," Mr. Punch ventured to hint, "I am afraid you may be just a trifle disappointed."
"Disappointed?" said TIME; "not a bit of it, Sir; not a bit of it! Isn't a Music Hall a place of entertainment? You've plenty of them where you come from, haven't you? They wouldn't be filled night after night, as I'm given to understand they are, if they didn't succeed in entertaining, would they, now?"
Mr. Punch felt a natural reluctance to betray the weak points of any terrestrial institution.
"Oh, our Music Halls? they are perfection, of course," he said. "The entertainments there are distinguished by humour of the most refined and intellectual order. It only struck me that they mayn't be quite the same here, you know, that's all."
"We shall see, Sir, we shall see," said TIME. "I don't think I'm particularly difficult to amuse." By this time they had entered the dazzling hall, and, reclining on sumptuous seats, were prepared to bestow their best attention upon the proceedings. A stout man with a fair wig, a dyed moustache and a blue chin, occupied the stage. He was engaged in representing a Member of the Seriocomican aristocracy with irresistible powers of social fascination, and he wore a loose-caped cloak over garments of closely-fitting black, which opened in front to display a mass of crumpled white, amidst which scintillated an enormous jewel. In his hand he held a curious black disc, with which he beat time to a ditty, of which Mr. Punch only succeeded in catching the following refrain:—
"Oh, I 'ave sech a w'y with the loydies! All the dorlins upon me are gorn!
For they soy—'Yn't he noice! you can tell by his vice,
He's a toff and a gentleman born!'"
And here the singer suddenly caused the black disc to expand with a faint report to a cylindrical form of head-dress, which he placed upon one side of his head, amidst thunders of approval.
But TIME seemed rather depressed than exhilarated by this performance.
"He ought to be kicked off the stage," he muttered. "I'd do it myself if I was younger!"
"You would make a mistake," said Mr. Punch; "he is just the person that a Music Hall audience idolises as their highest ideal of a man and gentleman—in Seriocomix."
"At least," said TIME, "you wouldn't stand such an outrageous cad as that in any of your Music Halls, I hope?"
A deeper tinge stole into Mr. Punch's already highly-coloured countenance. "Certainly not," he replied, with perhaps the slightest suspicion of a gulp. "Our 'Lion Comiques' are without exception, persons of culture and education, and, if they sing of love at all, it is only to treat the subject in a chaste and chivalrous spirit. They are worthy examples to all young people who are privileged to listen to their teachings."
"I wish you could send one or two out to Seriocomix, then, as missionaries," said TIME.
"I wish we could send them all," rejoined Mr. Punch, feelingly, and they went on to another Music Hall. Here TIME had no sooner perceived the artist who was upon the stage than he exclaimed indignantly, "Disgraceful, Sir. This man is in no condition to entertain a respectable audience—he is intoxicated, Sir—look at his tie!"
"I think not," said Mr. Punch, after observing him attentively through his opera-glass; "he merely affects to be so because the point and humour of the song depend on it. But he has evidently forced himself to make a close study of the symptoms, or he could hardly have produced so marvellous an imitation. Art does demand these sacrifices. You will observe that he represents another Music-Hall ideal—the hero who can absorb the largest known quantity of ardent spirits, and whose prowess has earned for him the proud title of the Boozer King."
It was a spirited chorus, and the accomplished vocalist reeled in quite a natural manner as he chanted:—
"So every pub I enter, boys,
With welcome the room will ring;
Make room for him, there, in the centre, boys!
For he is the Boozer King!
Yes, give him a seat in the centre, boys.
Three cheers for our Boozer King!"
But TIME's worn features exhibited nothing but the strongest disgust.
"Is it possible," he exclaimed, "that this sort of thing can be considered amusing anywhere!"
"It is considered extremely facetious," said Mr. Punch—"in Seriocomix."
"What would they think of such a—such an apotheosis of degradation in one of your Music Halls at home, eh?" demanded TIME.
Privately, Mr. Punch was of opinion that it would not be at all unpopular. However, he was not going to admit this:—
"It would be hissed off the stage," he said, courageously. "The fact is, that our Eccentric Vocalists have always shrunk from the responsibility of presenting a national vice under an attractive light, and so such exhibitions are absolutely unknown among us."
"I respect them for their scruples," said TIME; "they have their reward in a clear conscience," "No doubt," said Mr. Punch. "Shall we go on?" And as TIME had had enough of the Boozer King, they went on, and entered the next hall, just as a remarkably pretty young girl, with an innocent rosebud mouth and saucy bright eyes like a bird's, tripped daintily on to the platform.
"Come," said TIME, with more approval than he had yet shown, "this is better—much better. We need feel no shame is listening to this young lady, at all events. What is she going to give us? Some tender little love-ditty, I'll be bound?"
She sang of love, certainly, though she treated the subject from rather an advanced point of view, and this was the song she sang:—
"True love—you tyke the tip from me—'s all blooming tommy-rot!
And the only test we go by is—'ow much a man has got?
So none of you need now despair a girlish 'art to mash,—
So long as you're provided with the necessairy cash!"
And the chorus was:—
"You may be an 'owling cad;
Or be gowing to the bad;
Or a hoary centenarian, or empty-headed lad;
Or the merest trifle mad—
If there's rhino to be had,
Why, a modern girl will tyke you—yes, and only be too glad!"
As she carolled out this charming ditty in her thin high voice, TIME positively shivered in his stall, "Are all the girls like that in Seriocomix?" he moaned. "I trust not."
"It seems the fashion to assume so here, at any rate," said Mr. Punch, not without a hazy recollection of having heard very similar sentiments in Music Halls much nearer home than Seriocomix. "The young woman is probably an authority on the subject. Are you off already?"
"Yes," said TIME, as he made for the exit. "I think she is going to sing again presently. Come along!"
At the next Music Hall they were just in time to hear the announcement of a new Patriotic Song, and old TIME, who had in his day seen great and noble deeds accomplished by men who loved and were proud of their Fatherland, was disposed to congratulate both himself and the audience on the choice of topic.
Only, as the song went on, he seemed dissatisfied somehow, as if he had expected some loftier and more exalted strain. And yet it was a high-spirited song, too, and told the Seriocomicans what fine fellows they were, and how naturally superior to the inhabitants of all other planets, while the chorus ran as follows:—
"Yes, we never stand a foreigner's dictation!
No matter if we're wrong or if we're right;
We're a breed of good old bulldogs as a nation,
And we never stop to bark before we bite!"
And then the singer, a fat-necked man, in a kind of military uniform, drew a sword and struck an attitude, amidst red fire, which aroused vociferous enthusiasm.
TIME seemed to be getting restless again, so they moved on once. more, and presently entered a hall where they found a stout lady with a powdered face and extremely short skirts, about to sing a pathetic song, which had been expressly written to suit her talents.
She began in a quavering treble that was instinct with intense feeling:—
"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him;
My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme!
And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him,
But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme!
For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly,
As with seed and fresh water his glorsis I fill:
Though the poor little tyle which he waggled so lytely
Loys under the dysies all stiffened and still!"
—And then, to a subdued obbligato upon a bird-whistle, came the touching refrain:
"Yes, I hear him singing 'Tweet,' so melodious and sweet!
Till his shadder comes and flits about the room. 'Tweet-tweet-tweet!'
All my sorrer I forget. For I have the forncy yet,
That he twitters while he's loyin' in his tomb—'Tweet-tweet!'
Yes, he twitters to me softly from his tomb!"
Mr. Punch observed his elder attentively during this plaintive ditty, but there was no discernible moisture in TIME's hard old eyes, though among the rest of the audience noses were being freely blown.
"Well," he said, "it may be very touching and even elevating, for anything I know—but it's not my notion of cheerful entertainment. I'm off!"
"I should like," said TIME, rather wistfully, as they proceeded to visit yet another establishment, "yes, I should like to hear something comic before the evening is over."
"Now is your opportunity, then," said Mr. Punch, taking his seat and inspecting the programme, "for I observe that the gentleman who is to appear next is described as a 'Mastodon Mirth-moving Mome.'"
"And does that mean that he is funny?" inquired TIME, hopefully.
"If it doesn't, I don't know what it does mean," replied Mr. Punch, as the Mastodon entered.
His mere appearance was calculated to provoke—and did provoke—roars of laughter, though TIME only gazed the more sadly at him. He had coarse black hair falling about his ears, a white face, and a crimson nose; he wore a suit of dingy plaid, a battered hat, and long-fingered thread gloves. And he sang, very slowly and dolefully, this side-splitting ballad:—
"We met at the corner, Marire and me.
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
She took and invited me 'ome to tea;
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
I sat in the parler along with her,
Tucking into the eggs and the bread and but-tèr,—
When in come her Par with the kitching po-kèr!
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?"
There was a chorus, of course:—
"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?"
"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.