Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Vol. 93. September 17 1887 by Various Burnand F C Francis Cowley Editor

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Editor: F. C. Burnand

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 93.

SEPTEMBER 17, 1887.

OUR IGNOBLE SELVES.

"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 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.

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.

"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 , 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.

"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."

I retired. As all the shops 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.

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

A PRETTY CENTENARIAN.

You are getting a great girl now, And you know it, COLUMBIA, I trow. Philadelphia's "boom" Leaves for doubt little room That you're getting a great girl now.

You are getting a great girl now. With health and that radiant brow, One hardly would say You're a hundred to-day, Though you're getting a great girl now.

To your big birthday party 'twas kind to invite My WILLIAM; I'm sure he'd have come And danced at your ball with the greatest delight, But for years, and some business at home. He's really a marvel, you know, for his age; At your great Philadelphia pow-wow He'd have reeled you off columns of talk, I'll engage, Though he's getting an Old Boy now.

He's getting an Old Boy now, Yet but for our big Irish row, He'd have come like a shot, And orated a lot, Though he's getting an Old Boy now.

Your health, my COLUMBIA! A hundred? Seems queer! What a sweet Centenarian you make! I suppose it's your fine "Constitution," my dear; Which nothing, I hope, will e'er shake. You have proved you have not only swiftness, but stay; Well, long may you flourish and grow! Many happy--and hearty--returns of the Day! You are getting a great girl now!

THE FATHER OF THE MAN.

A CASE of some interest to Self-made Men, the conviction of a boy fined half-a-crown for playing, with some other boys, the game of "brag," occasioned Mr. SHIEL, on the Southwark Bench, to observe that "Gambling was the first step towards crime. Boys who began with gambling, very often ended by being thieves." Too often, perhaps, but, it may be hoped, not always. The boy who begins by playing at pitch-and-toss, surely doesn't always grow up to be a man who actually commits manslaughter. He may possibly stop short of larceny, burglary, or housebreaking, and do nothing worse than getting a useless, but not absolutely criminal livelihood, by betting on the Derby and the St. Leger, or speculating on the Stock Exchange.

WORDS IN SEASON.

NEWS are by no means wanting in the newspapers. A surprising telegram from Vienna announces that:--

"A large shark has been captured close to the harbour of Fiume. It is four and a half m?tres long, and weighs 1,460 kilogrammes. The stomach contained a pair of human feet with the boots on."

The gooseberry season is over, but if this were the height of it, the prodigious fruit of that family would be unmentionable to any scientific assembly. Nevertheless, Dr. C. FALBERG read a paper to an audience at the British Association upon "Saccharine, the New Sweet Product of Coal Tar," which, in connection with the John Hopkins' University he discovered in 1879. Coal tar has been brought to a pretty pitch. He averred this saccharine to be 250 times sweeter than sugar. Must have used nice means to calculate that quantity of the quality of sweetness. Said it had become an article of commerce--had a large sale in Germany, was perfectly harmless, he had himself used it for nine years, and it produced no injurious effect upon him. Apparently, then, he used to eat it, and if he didn't might have invited his hearers likewise to eat him. This "Saccharine" bears a somewhat long name, which, as it is a commercial article, might perhaps be compendiously replaced with "Sugarine."

The Duke's Motto.

MR. DUKE, Secretary to the Liberal-Unionists, says that they consider Liberal reunion as desirable, but "with one opinion" they decline to do anything until publicly authorised to do so by Lord HARTINGTON and the Liberal-Unionist leaders. This DUKE'S motto is evidently "Ditto to Lord HARTINGTON." DUKE'S "Dittos" may in future pair off with GLADSTONE'S "Items."

A VERY PRETTY TALE BY ANDERSON.

MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,

ONE WHO HAS GONE TO PIECES.

A PLEA FOR THE BIRDS.

Lo! the sea-gulls slowly whirling Over all the silver sea, Where the white-toothed waves are curling, And the winds are blowing free. There's a sound of wild commotion, And the surge is stained with red; Blood incarnadines the ocean, Sweeping round old Flamborough Head.

For the butchers come unheeding All the torture as they slay, Helpless birds left slowly bleeding, When the wings are reft away. There the parent bird is dying, With the crimson on her breast, While her little ones are lying Left to starve in yonder nest.

What dooms all these birds to perish, What sends forth these men to kill, Who can have the hearts that cherish Such designs of doing ill? Sad the answer: English ladies Send those men, to gain each day What for matron and for maid is All the Fashion, so folks say.

ROBERT AT MARLOW.

"HERE we are again!" as the Clown says in the Pantermine, at butiful Great Marlow, looking jest as bootiful as ever, though there is jest a few tears a falling from the dark clowds coz the sun doesn't shine as it did when we was in grand old Lundon last week, and turn all the drops of rain into reel dimons. My son WILLIAM has cum with us, and he says as how this lovely place makes quite a Poet of him, so he dashed off the following description of it larst nite when the rain was a coming down in palefuls, witch we all thinks to be amost as butiful as it's trew:--

"To Marlow have we come, a little city, Famous for pretty girls and boating, he Who has not seen it, will be much to pity, So says King ROBERT, and I quite agree Of all the towns on Thames there's none more pretty, Pangbourne perhaps, but that you soon may see. Our nice clean lodging's near the flowing river, A noble stream, much like the Guadalquiver."

I haven't corrected none of his rayther rum spelling, but writ it down jest as he wrote it all out of his hone hed. Not having ever herd of the place that he says the River is like, I natrally arsked him where it were, and he said in Sow Ameriky. What it is to be not only a Poet but a geolergist as well! ah, it's all owing to the Bellowsmender's Skool.

I don't find much difference in the old Place xcep that it's gitting bigger, witch it's a pity, but how can one be surprized. If peeple finds out a perfec pairodice they natrally tells their friends of it, and so more cums ewery year. Among others we've got a real live Hem Pea, but he's here on the sly, having told the Tory Whip as he's bin obligated to go to Swizzerland to see his pore sick Mother-in-Law! A nice sort of green Whip he must ha' bin to be so eesily gammond. His wally told me as he had shaved off his beard so nobody knowed him, but for fear of accidence he passes ewery Satterday and Sunday at a farm yard inland. Wot a lively life for a reel Swell!

When warking by the side of the River this arternoon, I was arsked by a young, but not werry successful angler, what o'clock it was. I told him, in course, and he said as he coudn't fish no more, as it was lunch time, so we warked along together, and he told me all his trubbels. He had bin at it for five days, and had never cort but one fish, and he was too little to keep. He was a nice brite young chap, so I simpathised with him. He said other peeple cort plenty of fish, but they came and looked at his bait, and then turned round and swum away; so I gave him a bit of adwice as I had wunce herd of. Don't buy your flys, I ses, but make 'em yourself. Anythink will do if it has 4 legs, and 2 wings made of gorze. And when the fishes sees it they will say to one another, "Hullo, BILL, here's a rum-looking fly--I never tasted one like him--so here goes," and he gobbles up your fly, and so you has him slick. How my young frend did larf. Ah, says he, that's the frute of indulging your curiossity. I'll set to work this evening and make one, as I've no dout he did.

I took a walk this morning in butiful Quarry Woods, but O what a site met my gaze! It used to be one of the atrakshuns of the place for anyboddy as could walk. What is it now? All the roads as bin dug up, and left so, and at the entrance to the lovely paths there are orrid bords put up, saying, "No path--trespassers persecuted." But it isn't true. They are Paths, and they leads everywhere, and I wasn't persecuted. All the finest trees are smeared over with dirty bills, saying, "No person allowed to camp, land, or picknick," and sumbody had added, "Or cough, or sneeze, without permission!" As a poor feller said to me, who was hobbling along on the horful road, and who knew the late propryeter, "Ah, a kind, Cristian Landlord ought to live as long as he posserbly can, for he never can tell what's to foller."

There's a place there where the Wolunteers practises firing, and I'm afraid they must be werry careless, for they writes up, "No one must damage the property of the Corpse," which is werry kind of 'em, so far.

ROBERT.

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