“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-ter,—­
  When in come her Par with the kitching po-ker!
    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?”

[Illustration]

“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.”