And Mr. PUNCH, like Beauty, “drawing him with a single hair,” carried the Ancient Wanderer along with him, past galaxies of talent, musical, dramatic, and operatic, refusing to stop and gratify the old Gentleman’s pardonable curiosity.

“I know I’ve got Time for it all,” quoth the flying Sage, “but I haven’t space, that’s where the difficulty is.  As for Literary Stars, from TENNYSON and SWINBURNE, to LANG, STEVENSON, BLACK, BESANT, and our excellent friend, Miss BRADDON, with other novelists too numerous to mention, we must leave our cards on them, pay a flying visit, and just skirt the artistic quarter.”

“There’s the President!” exclaimed Old TIME.

“Ah! everyone knows him,” said Mr. Punch—­“artist and orator, and ever a Grand Young Man, the flower of the Royal Academy.”

“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-Paint
er-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.

[Illustration:  “PHYLLIS IS MY ONLY JOY!”

QUEEN OF SONG.

THE JERSEY LILY.]

* * * * *

’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.