Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, November 25th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.—"AFTER THE BALL."

[The authors of the various versions of this "popular song" will not, Mr. Punch is sure, object to its refrain being used in a far wider sense—being applied, so to speak, to a more extensive sphere—than they contemplated.]

Man, youth or maiden, amateurs, pros.,

Season of snow-storms, time of the rose,

'Tis the same story all have to tell!

Not even Kipling's go half as well.

Nay: and this story is real and true.

All England over, Colonies too,

Cricketers, golfers, footballers, all

One pursuit follow—they're After the Ball!

Chorus—

After one ball-game's over,

Promptly the next seems born;

Quickly the Blackburn Rover

Treads on the "Corn Stalk's" corn.

Grace, Gunn, and Read, the Brothers

Renshaw, fall off with the Fall;

But there come hosts of others—

After the Ball!

Lords and the Oval, crowded and bright,

Send King Willow's subjects wild with delight.

What are they doing 'midst shout and cheer?

Smiting and chasing a small brown sphere!

Fielded. Sir! Well hit!! Played, indeed!!! Wide!!!!

Oh, well returned, Sir! Caught! No! Well tried!

Cheering! Half-maddened! And what means it all?

Grown men grown boys again—After the Ball!

Chorus—

Sixer, or maiden over,

Misfield that moves young scorn,

Every true cricket-lover

Stares at from early morn.

Watching the "champion" scoring,

Ring and pavilion, all

Chattering, cheering, roaring,

After the Ball!

Then in October's chill and gloom,

Wickets for goals make reluctant room.

Talk is of "forwards," and "backs," and "tries."

"Footbawl Herdition!" the newsboy cries.

Fancy that, for a sportsman's fad!

Players go frantic, and critics mad;

Pros. and amateurs squabble and squall,

And cripples seek hospital—After the Ball!

Chorus—

After the Ball the "Rovers"

Rush, and the "Villans" troop;

"Wolves"—who have lamb-like lovers—

Worry and whirl and whoop.

Scrimmages fierce, wild jostles,

Many a crashing fall,

Follow as "Blade" hunts "Throstle,"

After the Ball!

Balls are not all of leather, alas!

Cricket, golf, tennis, and football pass;

But Roberts the marvellous, Peall the clever,

Like the Laureate's Brook, can go on for ever!

The ivory ball—like the carvings odd

In a Buddhist shrine—seems an ivory god;

And "A Million Up" will be next the call

Of the "exhibitionists"—After the Ball!

Chorus—

After the Ball is over?

Nay, it is never done!

All the year round some lover

Keeps up the spheric fun!

Ivory ball or leather,

Someone will run or sprawl,

Whate'er the hour or weather,

After the Ball!

Is't that our earth, which, after all,

Itself's a "dark terrestrial ball,"

Robs all "sportsmen" of sober sense

Within its "sphere of influence"?

"Special Editions" just to record

How many kicks at a ball are scored?!?!

Doesn't it prove that we mortals all

Have gone sheer "dotty"—After the Ball?

Chorus—

After the Ball!—as batter,

Handler of club, racquet, cue.

Or kicker of goals—what matter?

A Ballomaniac you!

Each is as mad as a hatter,

Who is so eager to sprawl,

Scrimmage, scout, smash, smite, clatter,

After the Ball!

THE HEIGHT OF COMFORT.

• Q. I want to consult you about Flats. You must know all about them, as you have tried this kind of "high life" for a year. And I am quite charmed with the idea of getting one. Now, don't you find that they have many advantages over the old-fashioned separate house system?
• A. Oh, a great many!
• Q. I suppose that even in such paradises a few drawbacks do exist?
• A. A few. For instance, did you notice, during your painful progress upstairs, a doctor coming out of the rooms just below us? No? Then you were fortunate. There's a typhoid case there, we hear.
• Q. Dear me! Now I think of it, I did meet a woman dressed as a hospital nurse. But she was coming down from somewhere above you.
• A. Yes. The people over our heads. It's a scarlet fever patient they have, I believe. We can hear the nurse moving about in the middle of the night. And chemists' boys with medicines call at our door, by mistake, at all hours.
• Q. Still, they can't get in. Your flat is your castle, surely?
• A. Quite so. It's a pity it isn't a roomier castle. Our bedrooms are like cupboards, and look out on a dark court. We have to keep the gas burning there all day.
• Q. Oh, indeed! But then, being on one floor, living must be much cheaper, because you can do with only one servant?
• A. That is true; but we find that the difficulty is to get servants to do with us. They hate being mastheaded like this; they miss the area, and the talks with the tradesmen, and so on.
• Q. But they must go downstairs to take dust and cinders away?
• A. No, those go down the shoot. At least, a good many of the cinders do, though some seem to stop on the way. Our downstair neighbours complain horribly, and threaten to summon us.
• Q. Do they? On the whole, however, you find your fellow-residents obliging?
• A. Oh, very! The landing window leads to some disputes. We like it open. The people upstairs prefer it shut. The case comes on at the police court next week.
• Q. You surprise me! Then, as regards other expenses, you save, don't you, by paying no rates?
• A. We do. That is why our landlord charges us for these eight rooms on one floor just double what we should have to pay for a large house all to ourselves.
• Q. Thanks for giving me so much information. Of course, I knew there must be some disadvantages. And you won't be surprised to hear that we have taken a flat after all, as they are so fashionable?
• A. On the contrary, I should be quite surprised if you didn't.

WELCOME TO "JOEY!"

SAD!

Sportsman (proud of his favourite). "Now that's a Mare I made entirely myself! Marvellously clever, I can tell you!"

Non-Sportsman (from town, startled). "Eh, what? Dear me! Wonderfully clever, certainly." (Mentally.) "Poor fellow, poor fellow! what a most extraordinary Hallucination!"

HOME RAILS.

(By a Mournful Moralist.)

Each day my heart with pity throbs;

Can sympathy refuse

The ready tears, the frequent sobs,

When reading City news?

Not long ago I daily found

That you were good and "strong"—

You gained but little, I'll be bound,

Nor kept that little long;

Yet I was happy, since it meant

That, for a blissful term,

You were so very excellent,

So "steady" and so "firm."

Prosperity brings pride to all;

You rose too high to sell.

Then—pride must always have a fall—

You lamentably fell.

Think what your altered state has cost.

Alas, you must confess

That you are ruined since you lost

Your noble steadiness!

"Unsettled" then—oh, feeble will!—

"Inactive" you were too.

There's Someone "finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do."

"Why be inactive? All should work.

Rise then, and do not seek

Good honest enterprise to shirk,

Because you're rather "weak."

Alas, what use exhorting that

Your fall you should annul?

When some remark that you are "flat,"

And others call you "dull."

At times I hoped that you would turn,

And mend your evil ways,

That you were "better," I would learn,

And "quiet" on some days.

But now your baseness fitly ends,

"Irregular"—and so

You are "neglected" by your friends,

Who all pronounce you "low."

This conduct gives me such a shock,

I wipe my streaming eyes—

I want to sell some railway stock;

I'm waiting for the rise!

The "Ultra Fashionable Dinner-hour" when Dickens wrote Martin Chuzzlewit.—It is mentioned by Montague Tigg, when that typical swindler gives Jonas Chuzzlewit an invitation to a little dinner. It was "seven." Very few have guessed it, but most correspondents have referred to the dinner-hour at Todgers's. But Todgers's was a very second-class establishment.

Somebody proposes another Dickensian query:—Scene—The wedding at Wardle's. Time—After the wedding breakfast:—"At dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty-mile walk." Where did they breakfast, and where did they dine, and how many hours did men of Mr. Pickwick's and Mr. Tupman's build take to do a twenty-five-mile walk in?

The Golfer's Paradise.—Link-ed sweetness long drawn out.

The real Roads To Success.—Cecil Rhodes.

REX LOBENGULA.

["Rhymes are difficult things, they are stubborn things, Sir."—Fielding: Amelia.]

Lobengúla! Lobengúla!

How do you pronounce your name?

How do those who call you ruler

Your regality proclaim?

Does the stalwart Matabele

Seared with many a cruel scar,

Ere he gives his life so freely,

Hail you King Lobengulá?

Have I read in British journals,

On a 'bus en route to Holborn,

Telegrams where British Colonels

Have the cheek to call you Ló-ben?

Has your name some fearful meaning

Redolent of blood and bones,

Or am I correct in weening

It's vernacular for Jones?

Kaiser! Potentate! Dictator!

Any title that's sublime

Choose, but send us cis-equator

For your name the proper rhyme.

AFTER THE CALL.

["A further call of £5 per share has recently been made on the shareholders in one of the companies in the Balfour group.">[

After the call is over,

What is there left to do,

All absolutely vanished,

Left not a single sou.

Furniture, trinkets, money,

Gone, gone, alas! are they all;

What is there left but the workhouse

After the call?

UNDER THE ROSE.

(A Story in Scenes.)

Scene XV.—The Drawing-room at Hornbeam Lodge. Time—Monday evening, about six. Althea is listlessly striking chords on the piano; Mrs. Toovey is sitting by one of the windows.

Mrs. Toovey (to herself). Where did Theophilus go last Saturday? He is either the most consummate hypocrite, or the most blameless lamb that ever breathed; and I'm sure I don't know which! But I'll find out when Charles comes. It would be almost a relief to find Pa was guilty; for, if he isn't—— But, thank goodness, he is not very likely ever to hear where I was that evening!

Althea (to herself). It couldn't really have been Mamma in that box; she has never made the slightest reference to it. I almost wish she had been there; it would have been easier to tell her. What would she say if she knew I had gone to such a place as the Eldorado?

[She drifts, half unconsciously, into the air of "The Hansom Cabman."

Mrs. Toov. What is that tune you are playing, Thea?

Alth. (flushing). N—nothing, Mamma. Only a tune I heard when I was in town. The—the boys in the street whistle it.

Mrs. Toov. Then it's hardly fit to be played upon my piano. I shouldn't wonder if it came out of one of those abominable music-halls!

Alth. (to herself). She must mean something by that. If she was there after all! (Aloud, distressed.) Mamma, what makes you say that? Do—do you know?

Mrs. Toov. (in equal confusion). Know! Explain yourself, child. How could I possibly——? (To herself.) I shall betray myself if I am not more careful!

Alth. I—I thought—I don't know—it was the way you said it. (To herself.) I very nearly did for myself that time!

Mrs. Toov. (as Althea strikes more chords). For goodness' sake, Thea, either play a proper piece, or shut up the piano and take up some useful work. There's the crazy-quilt I've begun for the Bazaar; you might get on with that.

Alth. (closing the piano). The colours are so frightful, Mamma!

Mrs. Toov. What does that signify, my dear? When it's for a charity! Really, I'm beginning to think this visit to town has not had at all a good effect upon you. You've come back unable to settle down to anything. Yes, I see a great change in you, Althea, and it's not confined to the worldly way you do your hair. I sincerely hope it will not strike Mr. Curphew as it does me. You know he is dining here this evening? I told him in my note that if he liked to come a little earlier——(Significantly.) I think he has something to say to you, Thea. Perhaps you can guess what?

Alth. (twisting her hands nervously). Oh no, Mamma. I—I can't see Mr. Curphew—not alone, I mean.

Mrs. Toov. Don't be ridiculous, my dear. You know perfectly well that he admires you. He has very properly spoken first to your father, and we both consider you a most fortunate girl. He is a truly excellent young man, which is the first consideration; and, what is even more important, he is, as far as I can gather, making an excellent income. And you can't deny that you were interested in him from the very first.

Alth. N—not in that way, Mamma. At least, not any longer.

Mrs. Toov. Nonsense. If Mr. Curphew proposes, I shall be seriously annoyed if you put him off with any foolish shilly-shallying. Mind that. And here he is—at least, it's somebody at the front door. I've mislaid my glasses as usual. And if it is Mr. Curphew, I shall send him in here at once; so remember what I've said. (She goes out into the hall, and discovers her nephew Charles.) So it is you, Charles! You're rather earlier than I expected.

Charles. Nothing much doing at the office, Aunt. And I thought I might have to dress for dinner, you know.

Mrs. Toov. You ought to know by this time that we are plain people and do not not follow the senseless fashion of dressing ourselves up for a family dinner, but I am glad you came early, all the same, Charles, as I should like a little talk with you before your Uncle comes in. We had better go into the study. (To herself, as she leads the way.) Now I shall get it out of him!

End of Scene XV.

Scene XVI.—In the Study.

Mrs. Toovey (fixing Charles with her eye). What is this I hear of your proceedings last Saturday night, Charles? Come, you can't deceive me, you know!

Charles. I never made any secret about my proceedings. I told Uncle we might probably drop into the Eldorado or somewhere after dinner.

Mrs. Toov. (to herself, in consternation). The Eldorado? they did go there then! If only they didn't see me! (Aloud.) Yes, Charles, go on. And while you were there, did you see anyone you—you thought you recognised?

Charles (to himself). She's heard! (Aloud.) I should rather think I did, Aunt. Never was more surprised in my life.

Mrs. Toov. (with a groan). And—and was your Uncle surprised, too, Charles?

Charles. Uncle? I haven't told him yet.

Mrs. Toov. But he was there, Charles, with you; he must have seen—whatever you did! Or didn't he?

Charles. At the Valhalla? my dear Aunt!

Mrs. Toov. Who's talking about a Valhalla? I mean the Eldorado, of course; that was where you said you went!

Charles. No—no, we couldn't get in at the El.; all the stalls gone, so we went to the Val. instead. Just the same sort of thing.

Mrs. Toov. (to herself, relieved). To the Val.! What a fright I've had for nothing! (Aloud.) I quite understand, Charles. You took your Uncle to a place called the Val., not the—er—El. What did you see there? that's the point!

Charles. I didn't take Uncle there; I was with a man from our office when I saw him. I must have seen him there often enough, but somehow I never spotted him before. It was the make-up, the disguise, you know, wig and moustache, and all that.

Mrs. Toov. Do you mean to say your Uncle attends music-halls disguised in a wig and moustache? Charles, who was he with? I will know!

Charles (in fits of laughter). Uncle? At the Val. in disguise? now, is it likely? I thought you knew all about it, or I shouldn't have said a word!

Mrs. Toov. You have said too much to stop now, Charles. It is useless to try to turn it off like that. If it was not Pa you recognised at this Val. place, who was it?

Charles (to himself). If I don't tell her she'll only go on suspecting poor old Uncle Theo. (Aloud.) Well, you're bound to find it out sooner or later; and I admire him all the more for it myself. I'd no idea he had it in him. Shows how mistaken you may be in fellows.

Mrs. Toov. I've yet to learn who and what you are talking about, Charles!

Charles. Why, that quiet, modest friend of yours, Mr. Clarence Curphew, if you must know!

Mrs. Toov. I don't believe it. Mr. Curphew is not at all the sort of young man to spend his money in such resorts.

"Dear, dear me!"

Charles. He don't spend it there—he makes it. My dear Aunt, you ought to feel honoured by having such a distinguished acquaintance. Don't you remember my mentioning the great music-hall star, Walter Wildfire? You must. Well, Clarence Curphew and Walter Wildfire are one and the same person—honour bright, they are!

Mrs. Toov. (sinking back with a gasp). A—a music-hall star! And I have been urging Althea to—— Oh, how fortunate it is I have been warned in time! He shall not see her—I will write and put him off—at once!

[Mr. Toovey enters blandly.

Mr. Toov. Ah, Charles, my boy, so here you are? that's right, that's right. You, too, Cornelia? (To her, in an undertone.) It's all right, my love—our dear young friend, Mr. Curphew, you know—we met on the doorstep just now, and I've left him and Thea together in the drawing-room. I thought it was best, eh?

[He looks to her for approval.

Mrs. Toov. You've left—— But there, I might have known! No, don't speak to me, Pa—there's no time to lose! Come with me, Charles, I may want you.

[She rustles out of the room, followed by Charles.

Mr. Toov. (looking after her in mild perplexity). Dear, dear me! I wonder what can be the matter now. Cornelia seems so very—— I hardly like to go and see—and yet, perhaps, I ought—perhaps I ought. There's one comfort, whatever it is, it can't have anything to do with that dreadful Eldorado. Yes, I'd better go and look into it!

[He goes out.—End of Scene XVI.

"USING LANGUAGE."

The Squire. "Well, Smith, I want your advice. Hadn't we better let them have their way this time?"

Smith. "No, no, Sir. Stick to your rights! What I say is—'Give such People a Hinch and they'll take a Hell'—if you'll pardon my usin' such Strong Language!"

MAGIC AND MANUFACTURES.

(A Fairy Fragment from the German.)

Little Alice was delighted with her surroundings. She had found her way into a lumber-room, which was filled with modern furniture and modern toys. "How pretty they are!" she exclaimed; "and how I would like to speak to them!"

Then the Cup and Saucer labelled a "Present from Ramsgate," and the Old Grandfather's Clock glowed with satisfaction. Evidently they wished to join in the conversation.

Then Alice thought that perhaps she might raise a sprite or a goblin of some magical person by reading Andersen's Fairy Stories backward. She had scarcely, with some difficulty, completed the first page (rendered reversely) of "The Shepherdess and the Brave Tin Soldier," when an old lady, about eighteen inches high, suddenly appeared before her.

"You want all these inanimate things to speak?" said the new comer. "Well, you will be disappointed if they do."

Alice protested that she would be delighted beyond measure if they would but talk. "It will be interesting, so very interesting, dear godmother," she cried; and then she added, "I suppose I may assume that you are my godmother?"

"You may assume anything you like," snapped out the little old lady; "only don't bother me. Here! I authorise all these things to talk. I will be back again by-and-by to see how you are getting on. Adieu." And then the little old lady disappeared. And then, as she had foretold, Alice suffered great disappointment.

The Cup and Saucer "A Present from Ramsgate," began speaking sixteen words to the dozen, but Alice could not make out the meaning. Then the Old Grandfather's Clock talked, but without better effect. Alice could not understand a syllable. And the box of tin Highlanders followed suit. So did a doll dressed as an Irish peasant. Then all sorts of things that seemed to be English to the backbone or last ounce of metal—scissors, books, and calico curtains—kept up a fire of conversation. But Alice could make out nothing. She was absolutely astounded. Here were heaps of British goods suddenly endowed with the power of speech, and yet she could not understand them!

And as she considered, the little old lady again appeared.

"Well, child!" she exclaimed. "What's the matter? You seem perplexed! Have not all the toys been talking?"

"Why, yes," faltered Alice; "but then you see I cannot understand a word they say!"

"Of course you cannot," replied the Fairy. "They speak only their native language."

"Their native language! Then why don't they speak English?"

"Because, my good girl," returned the Fairy, preparing to take her departure, "they cannot. You see, young lady, they don't know anything about the English language, and this is natural enough, for they were all made in Germany!"

THE FUTURE OF HOME RULE.

Mr. Gl-dst-ne: Another Telepathic Automatic Interview.

I had not seen Mr. Gl-dst-ne for two days, nor had I heard from him for three posts, neither knew I where he was. I knew he had been at Downing Street. That evening I found myself in an Inner Circle train, and no sooner there than I made up my mind to ask Mr. Gl-dst-ne if he would mind my interviewing him. My hand at once wrote—on the margin of my evening paper—that he was at Downing Street, and that I might have the interview. It was quite an ordinary one, except that I thought the questions and wrote the answers on my knee with my hand. "Well, Mr. Gl-dst-ne," I said, or, rather, thought, "what do you think of Home Rule?" My hand (not the Old Parliamentary Hand) wrote:—

"W. E. G. I do not think that I shall be in any way departing from what has long since become to be recognised as the practice applicable to this present set of circumstances, a practice to which I am able to speak from an experience of more than sixty years, when I say speaking, not merely for myself, but for the whole of the Members of the Cabinet, and, indeed, I may fairly say of the Government in its entirety, that we are not indisposed to grant to Ireland that measure of self-government for which she is asking in a constitutional way through her duly elected representatives, and that we earnestly hope that as a result of our efforts we may be enabled, with a reasonable prospect of finality, to put an end to a condition of affairs which for the whole of the present century has embittered our relations with our sister country, and has exposed us to the censures of every authority in the civilised world whose acknowledged competency entitles him to an opinion."

Then I ventured a question as to the future. "What about Home Rule next Session, Mr. Gl-dst-ne?"

"The question as to what position the Home Rule controversy will assume next Session is naturally one which can only be determined when we have before us all the facts which are essential for the purpose of enabling us to arrive at a definitive conclusion, and as soon as it becomes reasonably plain what the exact position of parties will be when it becomes necessary to decide on what lines the policy of the Government will proceed. I may, however, say that, whilst not forgetful in any way of the obligations of honour under which the Liberal party lie to the Irish people, and whilst it will be our duty at the earliest available moment to press forward measures which shall carry out our pledges in that direction, we shall not forget that the consideration of what are not unnaturally termed English reforms is an imperative necessity, to which the attention of the Government will be directed at the first opportunity."

By this time I had reached Charing Cross, and as I passed out the ticket-examiner handed me a postcard. It was in Mr. Gl-dst-ne's writing. Judge of my astonishment when I found that quite spontaneously he had written to me just what I had written in the interview. I at once wrote to him and informed him of what had happened. His answer was: "It is most extraordinary. If I didn't believe all you tell me, I should have come to the conclusion that you faked (I think that is the word) the interview up out of my old speeches." So there you have the whole story. Someone suggests I should publish the postcard. Curiously enough, I have mislaid it. But two and two make four, and you can go and ask the ticket-examiner.

Cause and Effect.

"I am occupied with my secretaries while I am dressing."—Lord Herschell to the deputation of Liberal Members, Nov. 16.

"Mr. K. Muir Mackenzie, Q.C., Permanent Sec. to the Lord Chancellor, has been made a Companion of the Bath."—Daily Paper.

PLEASANT SPOOKERY.

Yes, thanks to Brandon Thomas's skill, and Penley's comic nous, The lucky "Globe" may well be called the real 'Aunt-ed House!

BABY-WORSHIP. (THE POINT OF VIEW.)

"Your Nieces seem very fond of Babies, Mr. Sinnick. I suppose you are too?"

"Oh yes; like 'em awfully; especially when they begin to Cry."

"Ah, you think the dear little things are in pain?"

"Yes; and somebody rings the Bell, you know, and the Nurse comes, and the dear little things are taken away to the Nursery!"

THE HANDY BOY.

["In the office he held, which in reality was much too heavy for any single man to bear, it was necessary to live almost a monastic life, and the eight hours which some persons regarded as a maximum of toil seemed to those who occupied that position a dim and distant and golden vision."—Lord Rosebery, at the opening of the Battersea Town Hall.]

The Missis soliloquiseth:—

Ah! he's really the usefullest boy, that