Punch: Punch (81.1881)

[July 16, 1881.

THE COMET'S FAREWELL.

Yes, Punch, I'm off! As I shan't be back this way for a few j who had seen not only "men and cities" but constellations and
thousand years, I drop your preposterous old planet a line or two, ! galaxies, was " takin' notes" of his nonsense for the amusement
P.P.C. To you, old friend and fellow luminary, it's only au revoir, of a Centauri, the consciousness might have put his conceit out of
of course ; but for the rest, things will be a bit changed before I countenance and his moustache out of curl.

make my next call. At least I hope so. Really, Punch, with a I've made some mems during my short stay with you, which will
fixed star like yourself always steadily shining on them, men ought send Aldebaran into paroxysms, which I fear may interfere with his
to do better. Evidently the Earthites consider themselves quite the parallax. Bull's Eye, your clowns call him. Pity JohnJBull's eye
Metropolitans of the Solar System, but I can assure them that, j isn't as

from a Comet's point of view, they are very very provincial,
and amazingly behind the Age. The true Cosmic Age I mean,
which is not measured by your little terrestrial Time-ticks. A
Comet's_ tale—if I'd time to spin it—would rather astonish the
mannikins, for, in fulfilling my extensive round of engagements,
I witness performances which would show your Shakspeare that
if "all the world's a stage," it's a very penny-gafnsh affair in-
deed after all, mainly given up to coarse sensation and screaming
farce. Whether your political burlesque or your social spectacle
be the absurder, I hardly know. St. Hilaire perorating round
amidst the Abstract Virtues is side-splitting; Bismarck trotting
out Political Economy is as funny as Polyphemus on a spotted
horse; an Irish orator slanging the Saxon might make a nebula
shake like champagne jelly ; and as to little Lord Randolph baying

keen. In some things it's as dull as—say a Detective's.
Relieve your constables of their bull's eyes, dear Punch, and equip
them more fitly with Dogberry's dark lanthorn. Artless Holmes
would run Verges very close. And those Aldershot idiots are not
much better. I, innocently, helped to make it hot for the poor
soldiers; do you "of set purpose make it hotter for the dolts who
dispose of them. Tell them that Army management does not mean
treating the Regulars like salamanders, and throwing cold water on
the Volunteers. The Red-Tape-worms will eat the heart out of
J. B's Constitution if he doesn't mind. 'Ware Windsor!

"Thy forest, "Windsor, and thy green retreats,"

sounds cool and comfortable. But the Sun—highly Conservative old
Cockalorum Sol—rile him sometimes by calling him Aldebaran,
because he's 'alf a Tory (a Tauri)— the Sun I say is about as

the moon at midnight, ha ! ha ! ha !—had he known that a Comet | discriminating as—a Royal Duke. " G-reen retreats " may perhaps