(_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."