“That is easily explained,” he said.  “You had got within the circle of lunar influence, in which the Moon exerts a sort of sucking action on the fat of the body.  The same thing often happens to me.  Like you, I am a stranger on the Moon.  I was born on the Sun, but, being of a roving disposition, I like to explore one planet after another.  I have travelled a good deal in Europe, and conversed with several persons whose names you no doubt know.  I remember that I was once famous in ancient Greece as the Demon of Socrates.”

“Then you are a spirit?” I exclaimed.

“A kind of spirit,” he replied.  “I was one of the large company of the Men of the Sun who used to inhabit the Earth under the names of oracles, nymphs, woodland elves, and fairies.  But we abandoned our world in the reign of the Emperor Augustus; your people then became so gross and stupid that we could no longer delight in their society.  Since then I have stayed on the Moon.  I find its inhabitants more enlightened than the inhabitants of the Earth.”

“I don’t!” I exclaimed.  “Look how they treat me, as if I were a wild beast!  I am sure that if one of their men of science voyaged to the Earth, he would be better received than I am here.”

“I doubt it,” said the Man of the Sun.  “Your men of science would have him killed, stuffed, and put in a glass case in a museum.”

II.—­The Garb of Shame

At this point our conversation was broken off by my keeper.  He saw that the company was tired of my talk, which seemed to them mere grunting.  So he pulled my rope, and made me dance and caper until the spectators ached with laughter.

Happily, the next morning the Man of the Sun opened my cage and put me on his back and carried me away.

“I have spoken to the King of the Moon,” he said; “and he has commanded that you should be taken to his court and examined by his learned doctors.”

As my companion went on four feet, he was able to travel as fast as a racehorse, and we soon arrived at another town, where we put up at an inn for dinner.  I followed him into a magnificently furnished hall, and a servant asked me what I would begin with.

“Some soup,” I replied.

I had scarcely pronounced the words when I smelt a very succulent broth.  I rose up to look for the source of this agreeable smell; but my companion stopped me.

“What do you want to walk away for?” said he.  “Stay and finish your soup.”

“But where is the soup?” I said.

“Ah,” he replied.  “This is the first meal you have had on the Moon.  You see, the people here only live on the smell of food.  The fine, lunar art of cookery consists in collecting the exhalations that come from cooked meat, and bottling them up.  Then, at meal-time, the various jars are uncorked, one after the other, until the appetites of the diners are satisfied.”

“It is, no doubt, an exquisite way of eating,” I said; “but I am afraid I shall starve on it.”