Part 7

But to return to the drinking habit, which presents itself before you constantly: I was riding up to London from Margate with a hotel-keeper, at whose house, on the edge of the surf, I had been staying for a week, and I remarked that the drinking water at Margate was of good quality. “Is it?” said Mr. Knaggs, for this is the name of the agreeable gentleman who presided for three years over the destinies of the Nayland Rock Hotel. “Is it?” said mine host. “Well, you know more about it than I do, for I’ve never tasted it.”

On Sunday, while at dinner at Philp’s Cockburn Hotel, Edinburgh, just before dessert was served, a small box was passed around the table by a waiter and into it people were dropping sixpences, shillings and pieces of higher denomination. At once it occurred to me, here’s another overcharge or extra I had not counted on, and I began inwardly to rebel. “What’s this for?” I blurted out in a rather injured tone. “Collection for the Orphan School, sir,” and I gladly added my mite. Afterwards I saw money boxes in hotels and restaurants in other parts of Scotland and in England labelled, for example, “For Charing Cross Hospital; funds urgently needed,” etc. Little boys and young women go about the busy and better parts of London on Sundays with boxes in their hands, begging you to “drop a penny in” for this charity or that--and you find it very hard, indeed, in London to keep any coppers in your pocket, so strong are the appeals. On hospital days the number of hospital boxes is largely increased temporarily. At this time sheets are spread in churchyards, into which people throw their spare change liberally.

“The People’s Palace,” which was opened by the Queen in jubilee year, is a noble illustration of the charitable English heart. The “People’s Palace” is situated in one of the poorer quarters of London, and, as everybody knows, is the realization of an ideal conception of Walter Besant in his novel, “All Sorts and Conditions of Men.” The palace includes a well-stocked library; a reading-room, supplied with papers from all parts of the world; a large swimming bath and a hall for musical and literary entertainments. In the basement of one of the main buildings boys are taught trades by which they may earn their living. That the recipients of all this good may not feel that they are objects of cold charity, a slight charge per month is made for those who use the reading-room, library, swimming bath, etc., and there is a nominal charge, about four cents each person, for admission to the concerts and lectures, which are given gratuitously by musicians and lecturers of celebrity.

I visited that part of the Whitechapel neighborhood which “Jack the Ripper” made infamous as the scene of his murders. It was a vile place three years ago, but the scene has been changed as if by a fairy hand. The Baroness Rothschild opened wide her heart and purse and erected here, for the poor of this unfortunate quarter, blocks of modern model tenements. These she lets at very low rents, asking only three per cent. return for her investment. In connection with the tenements the noble woman has built a well-appointed “Club and Library,” with billiard-room, etc., for the amusement of her tenants. These premises are in charge of a custodian and his wife, who are paid for their services by the Baroness; and for the use of the “Club and Library” a merely nominal charge is made to any of the tenants who avail themselves of the privilege. It is not sectarian. In England they believe in “Faith, Hope and Charity,” and of these three that “the greatest is Charity.”

WHERE IS CHARING CROSS?

You hear a great deal about Charing Cross in London, but you may look in vain for a street sign bearing that name. Very few people in London know exactly where it is, nor does even the policeman on the “beat” know. Strange to say, neither the Charing Cross Hospital, the Charing Cross Station, nor the Charing Cross Hotel is in Charing Cross. Much as it is talked about, it is a very short street, extending easterly only from Cockspur street, then southerly, past the equestrian statue of Charles I. to Scotland Yard or Whitehall. Low’s Exchange is in Charing Cross, and within two or three hundred feet of that spot (No. 57), is the very centre of the city of London. From this spot cab fares are reckoned. Start from here and you can ride anywhere, within a radius of two miles, for one shilling. Low’s Exchange, by the way, is a very popular rendezvous in London for Americans. It is where they “most congregate,” and it offers many conveniences for travellers.

If you are traveling on the other side make this your headquarters. Telegrams, letters, and even printed matter are forwarded to you with the utmost promptness. A special work of the house is the securing of state rooms on board steamers. It saves you much worry and bother, and the service of this agency costs you nothing, Mr. Low getting his pay from the steamship companies. Edwin H. Low served his apprenticeship, as it were, to this business, in the office of the National Steamship Company in New York, many years ago, and since then he has had large experience. The headquarters of the concern are at 947 Broadway, and Mr. Low may be seen sometimes at his New York house, at other times in London, but there is a very capable man who acts as general manager for Mr. Low in Charing Cross--Mr. George Glanvill, who served Mr. Gillig for many years at the American Exchange, 449 Strand. By all means register at Low’s.

MARGATE,

AN ENGLISH WATERING PLACE.

I was ill in London, at the Windsor Hotel in the summer of 1890, and as my friend Dr. Walter M. Fleming of New York happened to be in London at the time, at the Savoy Hotel, I sent for him. The fact is that I had been receiving too much “attention” from my friends--dinners, drives, concerts, theatres, suppers, etc., all of which resulted in physical and nervous exhaustion.

Dr. Fleming’s prescription was simple--“rest and a change of air,” but as this was Dr. Fleming’s first visit to England, I began to question my friends and others as to the best pharmacy at which to have the prescription filled. The proprietor of the Windsor Hotel, Mr. J. R. Cleave, said “Margate;” so, too, said the intelligent manager of the house, Mr. Mann. An old and trusted friend wrote me, “Don’t go to Margate, go to Brighton or to Hastings.” Thus opinions differed. I knew all about Brighton and wanted to see a place new to me. I was much inclined to go to Hastings, but a consensus of opinion prevailed in favor of Margate.

“There’s a beautiful air at Margate,” is the response of everyone in England to whom you speak of that place, from the boys at Low’s exchange in Charing Cross to Mr. Richard Whiteing, editor of the London Daily News. This remark was also made to me by Major Arthur Griffiths, an English author and _litterateur_, who is known and esteemed on both sides of the Atlantic. So to Margate I went.

Margate is on the south coast of England, seventy-five miles from London, whence it is reached by the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. This is the road celebrated for the beautiful rural scenery that borders it; it passes through the prettiest parts of Kent, “the garden of England,” through Rochester and Canterbury, famous for their cathedrals, and other places of historic and scenic interest. You may also reach Margate by steamer from London Bridge. It is a pleasant sail on the Thames of ninety-three miles.

Having arrived at Margate, you can make it the starting point for many a delightful excursion. Boulogne on the French coast, for instance, across the channel, is directly opposite Margate; steamer fare round trip, six shillings--a dollar and a half.

Other pleasant excursions are made to Canterbury and to Ramsgate. To these places run “pleasure vans” accommodating twenty persons and the fare ranges from threepence to a shilling, according to the style of vehicle. If you do not care to patronize the pleasure vans, you may hire a victoria at two shillings per hour. Canterbury is the site of the famous cathedral. At Ramsgate lived the Jewish philanthropist, Sir Moses Montefiore, for nearly the length of his long and useful life--one hundred years.

Another interesting excursion is to the old-fashioned village of Broadstairs, for many years the home of Charles Dickens. The house Dickens occupied and which he called “Bleak House,” still stands on its commanding site at the top of the cliffs directly overlooking the sea. A description of Bleak House, with illustration, appeared in the Home Journal in January, 1891, and has been widely copied in this country as well as in England. Broadstairs is only a five-mile drive from Margate, fare by victoria four shillings.

Few Americans who cross the ocean go to Margate, but they may spend a couple of days or a couple of weeks there with advantage. Margate is a town with a history. Its foremost historical feature is the Church of St. John, built in 1050. It has seen the rise of Norman, Plantagenet and Tudor dynasties and still stands, the oldest of England’s possessions. In the time of Queen Anne, according to the chronicler, to be buried in a sheet cost sixpence, and a shilling was the extravagant price of a coffin, but the honor of being buried from St. John’s Church cost two shillings more! Marriage banns were to be had at St. John’s for three-and-six.

Modern Margate is one of England’s most popular watering-places. There are many pleasant walks and some fine buildings. One of the pleasure resorts is the ocean pier. Here, three times a week, a large band of picked musicians perform a good programme giving a promenade concert directly over the breakers.

It is the boast of the Britisher that his government is “parental;” it not only assumes to take charge of the individual, but it does in many particulars compel him to take care of himself. If, for instance, you are caught boarding or leaving a moving train you are fined “forty shillings” (ten dollars)--a favorite sum for a fine, by the way, is that same forty shillings.

The pier at Margate would seem to be an exception to the rule of safety; it cannot be called absolutely safe at night. The boat landing below is reached by several flights of wide stairs, and the lowest flight is open and unguarded, not only in daytime but also at night. In addition to this the lower part of the pier is not lighted at all, and it would be the easiest thing in the world on a dark night to walk off by accident into the water. Why more accidents and loss of life do not occur is surprising. Twopence admits you to the pier, and it is a popular democratic resort.

At night the scene near the pier is a lively one. Street restaurateurs, their barrows ablaze with flambeaux, line the highway and drive quite a business selling plates of oysters, mussels, cockles and snails, which are more or less tempting.

If you are fond of sea bathing by all means go to Margate. There is no high-rolling surf, but if you are a swimmer you will be all the better pleased. There are no ropes to lay hold of, none are necessary; you bathe in perfect safety and comfort, and, as at all English resorts, you bathe from a “machine.”

In America bathing facilities consist of long rows of commodious wooden boxes placed on the beach at some distance from the surf. You purchase a bathing ticket for twenty-five or fifty cents, the price depending on whether you prefer a woolen to a cotton costume. You receive the suit and the key of your box. Then you put your valuables in an envelope sealed by yourself and hand them to the custodian, who places them in a separate box in an enormous safe, returning you a check tied to a rubber band, which latter you pass over your head and wear while bathing. You proceed to your “house,” as we call it, disrobe and don your scant suit, lock your door and walk out and down to the edge of the water, where, as fancy dictates, you loll around on the beach, talking to your friends, or you plunge immediately into the breakers only to come out, dry yourself in the sun, cut up capers on the sand, chat or smoke, repeating the process _ad libitum_. Of course men and women bathe together.

Not so in England. There you bathe from “machines,” small wooden houses, five feet square by ten feet high, mounted on four wheels. They have entrances back and front, each approached by a low flight of steps. You enter by one door in street costume, and having disrobed and donned your bathing garments, you give the signal, a horse is attached to the “machine” which is drawn a short distance into the water. You step down and out, disport yourself in the water as long as you please and reënter your box, to emerge therefrom once more in everyday habiliments. No lolling about the beach, no unseemly display of person; all is conducted in a proper, staid and exemplary manner--on the beach.

And in sooth, why should you walk around and smoke and chat with your friends on this occasion, in a costume, or lack of costume, which if worn at other times or places would land you in jail for exposure of person? This with reference to the American custom or costume.

In England it is worse in some respects, for while the women dress as they do here, the men bathe in a nude state, so to speak. They wear small trunks or loin cloths only, and men and women bathe together indiscriminately. Notices are posted in prominent places near the beach, boldly printed and bearing the English coat of arms, to the effect that in the water men and women must remain separate, and further that you will be fined forty shillings (of course forty shillings) if you are found nearer to a female than one hundred yards; but it is a dead letter law, and is entirely disregarded. I am not the most prudish man in the world, but I confess to having been shocked. Trunks did not suit me; I preferred and obtained a bathing costume which is to be had upon special application.

The beach is hard and smooth, broad and gently sloping. The bluff at Long Branch is not to be mentioned, scarcely, with the bold, beautiful white chalk cliffs that rise abruptly and picturesquely from the beach at Margate to a height of seventy-five feet. Along this bluff are miles of grassy, serpentine walks, gardens prettily laid out, dotted with summer houses and bounded by hedges and clover fields--a beautiful, natural landscape, artificially enhanced.

The favorite bathing place on the beach is managed by Charlotte Pettman. It is reached by a “coast guard” cutting in the cliff, an inclined passageway sloping from the road to the beach under the bridge. It is a sort of artificial cañon. Bathers are charged sixpence each, “six baths for two-and-six, twelve for four-and-six.”

Mrs. Pettman advertises her baths by a circular which contains the following touching verse, no doubt assisting trade materially.

“I pitied the dove, for my bosom was tender, I pitied the sigh that she gave to the wind; But I ne’er shall forget the superlative splendor Of Charlotte’s sea baths, the pride of mankind.”

In his early days of struggle the great Charles Dickens, for a few shillings, penned these lines as a “puff” of Day & Martin’s blacking.

So far as the waves are concerned, the cliff is as solid as it appears to be, but it has yielded to the hand of man, and at Charlotte Pettman’s baths there is a statue sculptured in the cliff, entitled “My first plunge.” It is the life-size figure of a young and beautiful girl in bathing costume, just about to take “a header” from the platform. It is by Priestman, an English artist. The door is opened to art lovers for twopence each, or as much more as the generously disposed may be inclined to give, the proceeds being handed over to a local hospital.

One of Margate’s architectural features, as seen in the accompanying illustration, is its handsome clocktower, standing in a conspicuous position on the Marine drive. It was erected in honor of the Queen’s Jubilee in 1887, and has a musical chime of bells.

Like Brighton and some other seaside resorts, Margate is democratic in the height of summer, but select in the autumn. In olden times the season commenced in June and continued until October. Margate offers every inducement to a prolonged season. While London is miserable under November fogs and humid atmosphere, Margate is brilliant with glorious days and bright skies; fine weather from August until Christmas.

Americans, of course, must flock to the largest hotel. They like size, and many of them patronize the Cliftonville Hotel, which, to be sure, is a large establishment in the most fashionable, and certainly the most attractive part of the town, near the grand cliffs, and overlooking the sea--a splendid site and a beautiful house exteriorly, but not as well kept as an American host might care for it.

The White Hart Hotel, on the principal street, is a commercial house, and has a comfortable appearance from the outside, but the Nayland Rock Hotel, not far from the two railway stations, yet overlooking the sea, and from the windows of which you may toss a biscuit into the water (provided you have the biscuit), is to my knowledge a well-appointed hotel, with bedrooms as clean and comfortable and dining-room as cheerful as any hotel in the world. The cuisine is of the best. If great variety be absent, quality is present. The food is choice, and served in a neat, tempting and scrupulously clean manner.

European hotels, as a rule, are kept on the European plan; at the Nayland Rock you have your choice. If you choose the American plan, the terms are very low for the accommodation afforded. Two dollars and a half a day secures you pleasant room, three good meals, lights and service. There are no extras. The wines are of first quality.

But I almost forgot an important item. I went to Margate for health and rest; I found both there. After one week I returned to London “like a lion refreshed,” and I shall always say, as everybody in London says, “there’s a beautiful air at Margate.”

TWO BRIGHTON HOTELS.

The company that owns the Grand Hotel and the Métropole in London, opened in March, 1890, a magnificent house at Brighton, on the English southern sea coast. “Magnificent” is the word. It is built of stone; it faces the sea; it has an acre or two at the back laid out in gardens, tennis courts, and pretty walks, after the style of the United States Hotel at Saratoga; there is a separate building on the grounds for a ball-room, in this respect resembling the Grand Union Hotel at the same American spa; the elegant drawing-room on the ground floor looks on the King’s Road and the ocean; the library, which faces the garden, contains a large and choice selection of books by leading authors, and in the basement there are Turkish and Russian baths fitted up with a luxury and perfection of appointment not equalled in any other hotel. The proprietors have availed themselves of all the latest ideas in the construction and furnishing of hotels, and nothing that money can supply, or good taste can suggest, has been left undone to make the Métropole at Brighton what it is--one of the most beautiful and luxurious hotels in the world. It is said to accommodate six or seven hundred guests.

Besides this hotel, and the Grand and Métropole hotels in London, the same company owns another hotel in London, “The First Avenue,” in Holborn; also the Burlington at Eastbourne; the Royal Pier Hotel at Ryde, Isle of Wight; the Métropole at Monte Carlo; and the Métropole at Cannes--all of them luxurious establishments.

Brighton attracts visitors the year round; in fact it is a city of no mean size, having a permanent population numbering an eighth of a million. It enjoys two seasons--one for the _hoi polloi_, which begins in June and lasts three months, and another for the fashionable world, which begins in September and continues till near Christmas. During the second season the prices at Brighton are greatly increased.

I entered one of the leading hotels one day about lunch time, and as is my custom before engaging rooms or partaking of a meal at an English hotel, I asked: “What is the charge for a _table d’hôte_ lunch here?” “Two-and-six,” replied the porter. As for seeing the lessee or manager of an English hotel, you can almost as easily secure an audience with the czar of all the Russias.

But to return to my muttons--or to the lunch, which, truth to tell, was good in quality and nicely served. My daughter heard the following conversation between the head waiter and the said porter as we were passing in to the “coffee-room.” Quoth the former:--“How much did you tell these people for lunch?” “Two-and-six,” replied that blue-coated, gold-embroidered official. “That’s wrong,” remarked the head waiter, who almost lost his head as well as his temper. “Three shillings is the price to strangers,” and three shillings each we had to pay.

This reminds me of the old story of the Englishman who was heard to remark about a man passing, who had a foreign look: “’Ere’s a stranger, Bill, ’eave ’arf a brick at ’im.”

That they call these apartments in English hotels “Coffee Rooms,” when they never serve in them a cup of coffee after dinner without a separate and extra charge, is rather exasperating.

The porters and officials at some English hotels are not, though it appears as if they were, in league with the cabmen. If you ask them about rates just before taking a drive they will occasionally mislead you and name a higher rate than the usual or legal one. For instance, I asked the clerk at another hotel in Brighton, what was the fare by the hour for a drive in an open cab or victoria holding two persons. “Four shillings per hour,” quickly responded my misinformant. I knew better, for this was not my first visit to Brighton, but said nothing. To a cabman with a good-looking victoria who stood immediately opposite the hotel entrance I popped this question: “What will you charge us for an hour’s drive along the beach and about the town?” “Two-and-six,” briskly replied cabbie and we drove about the pretty place for a whole hour for the half crown.

A VISIT TO BLEAK HOUSE.

Bleak House, the scene of the novel of that name, is near the village of St. Albans, about twenty miles from London, and is described in the early part of the story as an “old-fashioned house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch.” That there was more than one Bleak House in the mind of Dickens “there can be no possible probable manner of doubt,” as Gilbert sings in “The Gondoliers,” because at the close of the story one of the characters in it is made to say, “Both houses are your home, my dear, but the older Bleak House claims priority.”

But the “Bleak House” which was for many years the home of Charles Dickens, and where he wrote many of his novels, was so named by the author after his famous story. It is located in the old-fashioned village of Broadstairs, on the North Sea, in the county of Kent, the garden of England, and is seventy-two miles from London, on the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. The population is given in the latest census as two thousand two hundred and sixty-three.

The house was formerly called Fort House, from its proximity to the British fortifications on the coast. It stands directly on the top of the chalk cliffs, seventy-five feet above the water, quite alone, and so near to the edge that from the portico a stone might be easily thrown into the surf--what little surf there is. It