Punch: Punch (89.1885)

September 26, 1885.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 153

HOW WE WORK THE PARCEL POST IN THE COUNTRY.

(A Sketch from Nature—dedicated to the Postmaster-General.)

"ARCADES AMBO."

Habcoubt will twit Sir Michael with " Kilmainham,"

Hicks-Beach, Sir William with "Maamtrasma" twit:
If truth from taradiddles won't restrain 'em.

They might be saved from silliness by wit!

And then the party papers need not bother
To shout—in many columns—" You're Another I"

" A Good Shillingswobth."—Not a very easy thing
to find nowadays. For instance a couple of copies of
Bradshaw's '' Official" Railway Guide are scarcely worth
the Bum, save as assistance in concocting rather cruel
practical jokes. Again, "A really Good Dinner for a
Shilling " is frequently an extremely bad. investment, in
spite of its title. Once more, a place in the gallery at
the theatres is never worth twelve pence, save and except
at Drury Lane, where the deservedly successful Human
Nature, the best of modern melodramas, is being played
nightly to overflowing audiences. However, it appears
just now that a " Good Shillingsworth " can be found not
only at Drury Lane, but at every bookstall in the kingdom,
in the shape (the convenient-for-the-pocket Bhape) of The
Dark House: a Knot Unravelled. This, the latest of
Mr. Geokge Manville Fenn's works, is also one of his
best—high praise where all are good. The exciting story
is capital reading, at all times, for the slowly-departing
" open air " or the gradually-coming fireside. The name
of its Author is appropriately suggestive of both seasons.
It not only hints at summer in the country, but carries
us half-way to the fender !

The Fun of the Fair.

Slanging Free Trade and lauding Trade that's Fair,
The Economic Tories never wearies.

The " Unprotected Female," they declare,

Is English Ceres!

_ Gbowl by a Russophobe.—Mb. M. E. Benson pub-
lishes a book called The Story of Russia. This is either
vague or invidious. Which " story " does he mean f Is
she not always telling them ?

THE TOURIST IN TOWN.

the innek cieole bailway.

On the Threshold.—You are struck by the appearance of the
Stations, ■which, are, as a rule, one-third, brick to two-thirds Adver-
tisement-boards, arguing that the majority of the Directors are not,
to say the least, quite as aesthetic as Ruskin. Taste is not considered
in the dividend, so " blowholes " appear amongst the trees of the
Embankment Gardens, and the lines of many a graceful building are
hidden beneath hideous posters telling of the triumphs of rapid loco-
motion. When the extension was made from Westminster to the
Mansion House, the line was facetiously described as the " Daylight
Station Route," on the strength of the Stations being either glazed
or open to the air at the top. Deceived by this announcement, many
a careless pleasure-seeker (missing the previous word, "Station")
descended into the bowels of the earth, promising himself a ride
beside riverian scenery of no uncommon excellence, to find that the
homoeopathic doses of daylight were lost in miles of sulphurous tun-
neling. But although the Directors showed something of the nature
of the wily serpent in describing the subterranean route in such a
way as to suggest soft summer breezes and gently-waving trees,
they exhibited less artfulness in their posters relative to the advan-
tages of their Stations. Whenever a new resting-place was opened
for the benefit of the Public, the Directors considered it advisable
to point out the special advantages of the site. Thus, passengers
booking for Mark Lane were informed that they would have the
great privilege of being near enough to the Tower of London " to pay
it a visit," and others going to Putney would find themselves, on
arriving at their destination, ripe for " Boating on the River."

At the Boohing Offices.—Every convenience for making mistakes.
Before each pigeon-hole is a barrier that seems to say, "If you
are in the least portly, you will be crushed to death while taking
your ticket," and over the opening appears a startling placard, which
distracts your attention from everything else, "Beware of Pick-
pockets." Squeezed and distrustful you approach the window, to find
it sometimes closed; but, should it be opened, there is usually a
Clerk behind it, seemingly doing anything rather than attending to
the public. " Second Bingle, Blackfriars, please," you murmur, in
a conciliatory tone. The Clerk continues adding up a row of

figures, or telling a story to a colleague. Tou repeat your request,
even in beseeching accents. Annoyed at being disturbed, the
Clerk looks at you superciliously, snaps out, " Next window ! " and
returns to his former employment. Having at length secured your
ticket, you descend a flight of badly-lighted stairs, to find a door
flung in your face the moment you arrive at the bottom. However,
you will "have something to look at—the train_ you were striving to
catch leisurely waiting before leaving the station.

The Carriage Accommodation.—Miserable. To begin with, the
handles to the doors are frequently dirty enough to spoil any kid
glove of an alternative colour to black. If you happen to be going
to a wedding in lavender or pale straw, you will find the_ palm of
your right hand quaintly decorated, if you attempt to get in or out
without assistance. To continue—at certain hours of the day or
night the carriages are cruelly overcrowded. In each compartment
you will find, besides the regulation number of seated occupants,
a crowd of people treading upon one another's toes, who have rushed
in, regardless of consequences,—it is to be hoped that an accident
will not happen on one of these occasions, or assuredly somebody or
other will be put on his trial for manslaughter. About half-a-minute
is the regulation time allowed for stopping at each Station, so that
if you happen to have taken a ticket for a carriage whose class is
situated at the end of the platform opposite to that of your entrance,
you have to scamper along the boards amidst an unruly mob until,
breathless from exertion, you reach your destination. The Guard,
seeing you coming, when you have completed about a third of your
way, raises his arm, and shouts, " All right! " This makes you
double your exertions, and, pale and exhausted, you are huddled in
with the demand, "Nowthen, Sir, are you going on ?" Once seated,
you would go to sleep were it not that at every Station you are kept
awake by the reckless banging of the doors. It may be added, to pre-
serve a balance, much time is consumed by pauses in the tunnels.

The Atmosphere.—Very bad, indeed; sometimes (especially in the
summer) it is intolerable. At Portland Road Station, for instance, a
descent to the platform means, to many people, a violent fit of cough-
ing. The mist of, sulphurous vapour often reminds one of a black
November fog—and is twice as disagreeable.

Conclusion.—Whenever it is more convenient to go another way,
do not insist upon the Inner Circle Railway!