tified with civilisation, social order, economic perfection, and
agricultural profusion. As a matter of fact, I've always been treated
badly, from the day when Jupiter dethroned me to that when, the Grand
Old Man--who _ought_ to have had more sympathy with me--banished
hither the strife-engendering Pedant's hotch-potch called Political
Economy."

"Be comforted, Saturn, old boy--_I_ am here!" cried _Mr. Punch_. "I
am 'personally conducting' Father TIME in a tour of the Planets. Let's
have a look round your realm!"

_Mr. Punch_ sums up much of what he saw in modern "Saturnian Verses."

_Punch_. Good gracious! my worthy old Ancient, who once held the sway
of the heavens,
Your realm seems a little bit shaky; what mortals call "sixes and
sevens"!

_Saturn_. That's scarcely god-lingo, my boy; but 'tis much as you
say, and no wonder.
Free imports have ruined my realm--I refer to Bad-Temper and Blunder,
Two brutish and boobyish Titans--they've wholly corrupted our morals,
And taught us "Boycotting," and "Strikes," and "Lock-outs," and all
sorts of mad quarrels.
I hope you don't know them down there, in your queer little speck of
a planet,
These humbugging latter-day Titans?

_Punch_. That cannot concern you--now can it?

_Saturn_. Just look at the shindy down yonder!

_Punch_. By Jove, what the doose are they doing?

_Saturn_. Oh, settling the Great Social Question!

_Father Time_. It looks as though mischief were brewing.

_Saturn_. Sort of parody of the old fight, which was splendid at least,
if tremendous,
'Twixt Jove and the Titans of old. That colossus, gold-armoured,
stupendous,
Perched high on the "Privilege" ramparts, and bastioned by big bags of
bullion,
Is "Capital"; he's the new Jove, and each Titan would treat as his
scullion,
But look at the huge Hundred-Handed One, armed with the scythe and the
sickle,
The hammer, the spade, and the pick!

_Father Time_. Things appear in no end of a pickle!

_Saturn_. Precisely! That's Labour-Briareus; backed up by "Bad Temper"
and "Blunder,"
And egged on by "Spout" (with a Fog-Horn); he's "going for" him of the
Thunder,
And Gold ramparts headlong, _a outrance_.

_Punch_. But look at the spectres behind them!

_Saturn_. Ah! Terrors from Tartarus, those to which only Bad Temper
can bli