VOL. 93. SEPTEMBER 17, 1887***


E-text prepared by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustrations.
      See 33717-h.htm or 33717-h.zip:
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33717/33717-h/33717-h.htm)
      or
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33717/33717-h.zip)





PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 93.

SEPTEMBER 17, 1887.


       *       *       *       *       *


OUR IGNOBLE SELVES.

(_Lament by a Reader of "Letters to the Papers."_)

[Illustration]

  OH! bless us and save us! Like men to behave us
    We Britons once held it our glory;
  Now Party bids fair to befool and enslave us.
    We're lost between Liberal and Tory!
  Some quidnunc inditeth a letter to GLADSTONE,
    The style of it, "Stand and deliver!"
  Its speech may be rude, and its tone quite a cad's tone,
    Its logic may make a man shiver.
  _Au contraire_ it _may_ be most lucid and modest,
    In taste and in pertinence equal
  (Though such a conjunction would be of the oddest),
    But what, anyhow, is the sequel?
  Rad papers _all_ cry, "We've once more before us
    An instance of folly inrushing."
  Whilst _all_ the Conservative Journals in chorus
    Declare "it is perfectly crushing!"
  "Little Pedlington's" snubbed by the Liberal Press,
    And urged such fool tricks to abandon.
  Cry Tories, "I guess the Old Man's in a mess,
    He hasn't a leg left to stand on!"
  Oh! save us and bless us! The shirt of old Nessus,
    Was not such a snare to the hero,
  As poisonous faction. Crass fools we confess us,
    With sense and with spirit at zero.
  If thus we comport us like blind sprawling kittens,
    Or pitiful partisan poodles,
  'Twill prove Party makes e'en of freeminded Britons,
    A race of incontinent noodles!

       *       *       *       *       *

"TO TEAPOT BAY AND BACK."

LONDONERS who like but are weary of the attractions of Eastend-on-Mud,
and want a change, can scarcely do better than spend twenty-four hours
in that rising watering-place Teapot Bay. I say advisedly "rising,"
because the operation has been going on for more than forty years. In
these very pages a description of the "juvenile town," appeared nearly
half a century ago. Then it was said that the place was "so infantine
that many of the houses were not out of their scaffold-poles, whilst
others had not yet cut their windows," and the place has been growing
ever since--but very gradually. The "ground plan of the High Street" of
those days would still be useful as a guide, although it is only fair to
say that several of the fields then occupied by cabbages are now to some
extent covered with empty villas labelled "To Let." In the past the High
Street was intersected by roads described as "a street, half houses,
half potatoes," "a street apparently doing a good stroke of business,"
"a street, but no houses," "a street indigent, but houseless," "a street
which appears to have been nipped in the kitchens," "a street thickly
populated with three inhabitants," and last but not least, "a street in
such a flourishing condition that it has started a boarding-house and
seminary." The present condition of Teapot Bay is much the same--the
roads running between two lines of cellars (contributions to houses that
have yet to be built) are numerous and testify to good intentions never
fulfilled. There is the same meaningless tower with a small illuminated
clock at the top of it, and if the pier is not quite so long as it was
thirty or forty years ago, it still seems to be occupying the same site.

[Illustration: Cheap and Picturesque Roots for Tourists.]

The means of getting to Teapot Bay is by railway. Although no doubt
numbered amongst the cheap and picturesque routes for tourists, the
place is apparently considered by the authorities as more or less of a
joke. Margate, Ramsgate, Westgate and Broadstairs, are taken _au
serieux_, and have trains which keep their time; but Teapot Bay,
seemingly, is looked upon as a legitimate excuse for laughter. If two
trains are fixed to start at 12, and 12.30, the twelve o'clock train
will leave at 12.30, and the 12.30 at 1. The authorities endeavour to
have a train in hand at the end of the day, and I fancy are generally
successful in carrying out their intentions. But between London and
Teapot Bay there are many slippery carriages, which stop at various
Junctions, and refuse to go any further in the required direction. When
this happens, the weary traveller has to descend, cross a platform, and
try another line. If he is a man of determination, and is not easily
disheartened, nine times out of ten he ultimately reaches Teapot Bay,
where his arrival causes more astonishment than gratification.

When I got to this "rising watering-place" the other day, I found an
omnibus in waiting, ready to carry me to the town, which is some little
distance from the station. We travelled by circular tour, which included
a trot through many of the fields of my boyhood, now, alas! potatoless,
and covered with weeds! In one of these fields I noticed a canvas booth,
three or four flags, and a group of about twenty spectators, inspecting
a gentleman in a scarlet coat, mounted on rather a large-boned horse.

"They still have a country-fair here?" I suggested to the person who had
collected my sixpence.

"That isn't a fair, Sir--them's the Races," was the reply.

"Not very well attended, I fear?" I observed.

[Illustration: A Circular Tour.]

"Better than they was last year--why the whole town has gone to see them
this time."

A little later we reached the principal inn of the place, which was
described in a local Handbook as "an old-established hotel, but
comfortable." Rather, to my annoyance (as I was anxious to preserve my
_incognito_), I was received by the landlord with respectful cordiality.
"Glad you have honoured us, Sir--proud of your presence."

I made a sign to him not to betray me, and asked for my room.

"Well, Sir, we must put _you_ into the Rotunda."

Again by a gesture inviting silence as to my identity, I mounted a
flight of stairs, and found myself in a room that once, I think, must
have been entirely arbour. Much of the arbour still remained, but a
large slice had been partitioned off affording space for a
chimney-piece, two chairs, a washstand and a bed. By opening a window
which reached to the ground, I found myself on a balcony covered in with
creepers, and beneath which was a gas-lamp labelled "Hotel Tap." In
front of me was a field with the foundation (long since completed) for
some houses at the end of it. On my left another field in the same state
of passive preparation, and on my right a side view of the Ocean. It was
growing dark, so after an "old-fashioned but comfortable" dinner, I went
out for a stroll.

"Pleased you should honour us," said the landlord, as he opened the door
to allow me to pass. Again to my annoyance, as it was vexatious to be
thus identified in this out-of-the-way place as one of the celebrities
of the hour.

The visitors and other inhabitants of Teapot Bay had returned from the
Races, and were walking on the pier listening to the band. The gentlemen
were in flannels, the ladies decorated with yards of white ribbon. The
band was more select than numerous. Its conductor beat time with his
left hand, while with his right he played the "air" of the tune at the
moment attracting his attention upon an elaborate instrument that looked
like a cross between a clarionet and an old-fashioned brass serpent.
There was not much drumming, because the drummer spent nearly all his
ample leisure on more or less successful efforts to vend programmes. The
band was in a gusty alcove at one end of the pier, a small room covered
with placards of a Wizard who, after making the acquaintance of "The
Crowned Heads of Europe," was to perform there "to-night," was at the
other. Having soon exhausted the pleasure derivable from listening to
the band, I sought out the wizard.

"Oh, he ain't going to do it again until next Saturday," was the answer
of a little girl who had charge of a turnstile, when I asked for a
ticket. "But you can see him then."

[Illustration: "You're up!"]

I retired. As all the shops (possibly a couple of dozen) were closed, I
returned to my hotel--really a very comfortable one. In the morning I
thought I would have a sea-bath. There were a few machines, which were
manipulated with ropes and windlasses. There was an elderly man in
charge, who informed me that he could not lower one of these vehicles
until his mate returned.

"Gone to breakfast?" I suggested.

"Breakfast--no one here has time for breakfast!" was the reply.

When I left, the landlord again murmured his thanks for the honour I had
done him by patronising his hotel. Still anxious to preserve my
_incognito_, in bidding him adieu I begged him not to allow my name to
appear in the Visitors' List.

"You may be sure I won't Sir," said he with a bow as he opened the door,
and a tip-inviting "boots" put my portmanteau on the omnibus starting
for the station,--"_as I don't know it!_"

On the whole I prefer Eastend-on-Mud to Teapot Bay!

       *       *       *       *       *

A PRETTY CENTEN