Part 2

Long way from London--no matter--fast train--soon here--once here don't wish to leave--palatial hotels--every luxury--good _tables d'hote_--pleasant balls--lively society! Exhilarating air--good as champagne without "morning after"--up early--go to bed late--authorities provide something better than a broken-down pier, a circulating library, and a rickety bathing-machine--authorities disburse large sums for benefit of visitors--visitors spend lots of money in town--mutual satisfaction--place crowded--capital bands--excellent theatricals --varied entertainments--right way to do it! The Spa--first discovered 1620--people been discovering it ever since--some drink it--more walk on it--lounge on it--smoke on it--flirt on it--wonderful costumes in the morning--more wonderful in the afternoon--most wonderful in the evening! North Sands--South Sands--fine old Castle well placed--picturesque old town--well-built modern terraces, squares and streets--pony-chaises--riding-horses--Lift for lazy ones! Capital excursions--Oliver's Mount--Carnelian Bay--Scalby Mill--Hackness--Wykeham--Filey! Delightful gardens--secluded seats --hidden nooks--shady bowers--well-screened corners--Northern Belles--bright eyes--soft nothings--eloquent sighs--squozen hands--before you know where you are--ask papa--all up--dangerous very! Overcome by feelings--can't write any more--friend asks me to drink waters--query North Chalybeate or South Salt Well--wonder which--if in doubt try soda qualified with brandy--good people scarce--better run no risk!

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COSTUME IN KEEPING.--"Of all sweet things", said Bertha, "for the seaside, give me a serge." The Ancient Mariner shook his head. He didn't see the joke.

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BOARD AND LODGING!--_Landlady._ "Yes, sir, the board were certingly to be a guinea a week, but I didn't know as you was a-going to bathe in the sea before breakfast and take bottles of tonic during the day!"

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SEASIDE SOLITUDE

HIGHBURYBARN-ON-SEA

(_From our Special Commissioner_)

Dear Mr. Punch,--This is a spot, which, according to your instructions, I reached last evening. In these same instructions you described it as "a growing place." I fancy it must be of the asparagus order, that vegetable, as you are well aware, taking three years in which to develop itself to perfection. Highburybarn-on-Sea is, I regret to say, in the first stage--judged from an asparagus point of view. I cannot entertain the enthusiastic description of the candid correspondent (I refer to the cutting forwarded by you from an eminent daily paper under the heading, "By the Golden Ocean.") He describes it as "an oasis on the desert coast of Great Britain." Far be it from me to deny the desert--all I object to is the oasis.

I ask you, sir, if you ever, in the course of the travels in which you have out-rivalled Stanley, Cameron, Livingstone, Harry de Windt, and, may I add, De Rougemont, ever came across an oasis, consisting of two score villas, built with scarcely baked bricks, reposing on an arid waste amid a number of tumbled-down cottages, and surmounted by a mighty workhouse-like hotel looking down on a pre-Adamite beershop?

The sky was blue, the air was fresh, the waves had retreated to sea when I arrived in a jolting omnibus at Highburybarn-on-Sea, and deposited myself and luggage at the Metropolitan Hotel. A page-boy was playing airs on a Jew's-harp when I alighted on the sand-driven steps of the hostelry. He seemed surprised at my arrival, but in most respectful fashion placed his organ of minstrelsy in his jacket pocket, the while he conveyed my Gladstone bag to my apartment, secured by an interview with an elderly dame, who gave an intelligent but very wan smile when I suggested dinner. She referred me to the head waiter. This functionary pointed in grandiose fashion to the coffee-room, wherein some artistic wall-papering wag had committed atrocities on which it would be libel to comment.

There was only one occupant, a short clean-shaven gentleman with white hair and a red nose, who was apparently chasing space. This turned out to be a militant blue-bottle. Meantime, the head-waiter produced his bill of fare, or rather the remains of it. Nearly every dish had apparently been consumed, for the most tempting _plats_ were removed from the _menu_ by a liberal application of red pencil. Finally, I decided on a fried sole and a steak. The white-haired man still pursued the blue-bottle.

I went up to my room, and after washing with no soap I returned to the coffee-room. The blue-bottle still had the best of it. The head-waiter, after the lapse of an hour, informed me that the sole would not be long. When it arrived, I found that he spoke the truth. If you have any recollection of the repast which _Porthos_ endured when entertained by _Madame Coquenard_, you will have some notion of my feast. The head-waiter told me that some bare-legged persons who had waded into the water were shrimp-catchers. I only wished that I were one of them, for at least they found food.

Later on I retired to rest. I was visited in the hours of darkness, to which I had consigned myself, by a horde of mosquitoes, imported, so I was informed in the morning, by American travellers, who never tipped the waiters. I fulfilled their obligations, still gazing on the auburn sand-drift, still looking on the sea, still feeling hungry and murmuring to myself, "Highburybarn-on-Sea would be a capital place for children, if I could only see any cows." A melancholy cocoa-nut shy by the station appeared to afford all the milk in the place.

Yours despondently, NIBBLETHORPE NOBBS.

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EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES: MARGATE.--_Mother._ "Now, Tommy, which would you rather do--have a donkey ride or watch father bathe?"

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TO THE FIRST BATHING-MACHINE

(_After Wordsworth_)

O Blank new-comer! I have seen, I see thee with a start: So gentle looking a Machine, Infernal one thou art!

When first the sun feels rather hot, Or even rather warm, From some dim, hibernating spot Rolls forth thy clumsy form.

Perhaps thou babblest to the sea Of sunshine and of flowers; Thou bringest but a thought to me Of such bad quarter hours.

I, grasping tightly, pale with fear, Thy very narrow bench, Thou, bounding on in wild career, All shake, and jolt, and wrench.

Till comes an unexpected stop; My forehead hits the door, And I, with cataclysmic flop, Lie on thy sandy floor.

Then, dressed in Nature's simplest style, I, blushing, venture out; And find the sea is still a mile Away, or thereabout.

Blithe little children on the sand Laugh out with childish glee; Their nurses, sitting near at hand, All giggling, stare at me.

Unnerved, unwashed, I rush again Within thy tranquil shade, And wait until the rising main Shall banish child and maid.

Thy doors I dare not open now, Thy windows give no view; 'Tis late; I will not bathe, I vow; I dress myself anew.

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HOW TO ENJOY A HOLIDAY

_A Social Contrast_

I.--THE WRONG WAY

_Pater._ Here at last! A nice reward for a long and tedious journey!

_Mater._ Well, you were always complaining in town.

_Pater._ Broken chairs, rickety table, and a hideous wall-paper!

_Mater._ Well, I didn't buy the chairs, make the table, or choose the wall-paper. Discontent is your strong point.

_Pater._ And is likely to remain so. Really, that German band is unbearable!

_Mater._ My dear, you have no ear for music. Why, you don't even care for my songs! You used to say you liked them once.

_Pater._ So I did--thirty years ago!

_Mater._ Before our marriage! And I have survived thirty years!

_Pater._ Eh? What do you mean by that, madam?

_Mater._ Anything you please. But come--dinner's ready.

_Pater._ Dinner! The usual thing, I suppose--underdone fish and overdone meat!

_Mater._ Well, I see that you are determined to make the best of everything, my dear!

_Pater._ I am glad you think so, my darling!

[_And so they sit down to dinner._

II.--THE RIGHT WAY.

_Pater._ Here at last! What a charming spot! A fitting sequel to a very pleasant journey!

_Mater._ And yet you are very fond of town!

_Pater._ This room reminds me of my own cozy study. Venerable chairs, a strange old table, and a quaintly-designed wall-paper.

_Mater._ Well, I think if I had had to furnish the house, I should have chosen the same things myself. But had they been ever so ugly, I feel sure that you would have liked them. You know, sir, that content is your strong point.

_Pater._ I am sure that I shall find no opportunity of getting any merit (after the fashion of _Mark Tapley_) for being contented in this pleasant spot. What a capital German band!

_Mater._ I don't believe that you understand anything about music, sir. Why, you even pretend that you like my old songs!

_Pater._ And so I do. Every day I live I like them better and better. And yet I heard them for the first time thirty years ago!

_Mater._ When we were married! And so I have survived thirty years!

_Pater._ Eh? What do you mean by that, madam?

_Mater._ That I am a living proof that kindness never kills. How happy we have been! But come--dinner's ready.

_Pater._ Dinner! The usual thing, I suppose--a nice piece of fish and a juicy joint. Now, that's just what I like. So much better than our pretentious London dinners! Not that a London dinner is not very good in its proper place.

_Mater._ Well, I see that you are determined to make the best of everything, my dear.

_Pater._ I am glad you think so, my darling!

[_And so they sit down to dinner._

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SWEETS OF THE SEASIDE.

_Shingleton, near Dulborough._

SYMPATHISING MR. PUNCH,

With the desire of enjoying a few days of tranquillity and a few dips in the sea, I have arrived and taken lodgings at this "salubrious watering-place" (as the guide-books choose to call it), having heard that it was quiet, and possessed of a steep, cleanly, and bathe-inviting beach. As to the latter point, I find that fame has not belied it; but surely with a view to tempt me into suicide, some demon must have coupled the term "quiet" with this place. Quiet! Gracious Powers of Darkness! if this be your idea of a quiet spot to live in, I wonder what, according to your notion, need be added to its tumult to make a noisy town. Here is a list of aural tortures wherewith we are tormented, which may serve by way of time-table to advertise the musical attractions of the place:--

1 A.M.--Voices of the night. Revellers returning home.

1.30 A.M.--Duet, "_Io t'amo_", squealed upon the tiles, by the famous feline vocalists Mademoiselle Minette and Signor Catterwaulini.

2 A.M.--Barc-arole and chorus, "_Bow wow wow_" (BACH), by the Bayers of the Moon.

3 A.M.--Song without words, by the early village cock.

3.30 A.M.--Chorus by his neighbours, high and low, mingling the treble of the Bantam with the Brahma's thorough bass.

4 A.M.--Twittering of swallows, and chirping of early birds, before they go to catch their worms.

4.45 A.M.--Meeting of two natives, of course _just_ under your window, who converse in a stage-whisper at the tip-top of their voices.

5 A.M.--Stampede of fishermen, returning from their night's work in their heavy boots.

6 A.M.--Start of shrimpers, barefooted, but occasionally bawling.

7 A.M.--Shutters taken down, and small boys sally forth and shout to one another from the two ends of the street.

7.15 A.M.--"So-holes! fine fresh so-holes!"

7.30 A.M.--"Mack'reel! fower a shillun! Ma-a-ack'reel!"

8 A.M.--Piano play begins, and goes on until midnight.

8.25 A.M.--Barrel-organ at the corner. Banjo in the distance.

9 A.M.--German band to right of you. Ophicleide out of time, clarionette out of tune.

9.30 A.M.--"Pa-aper, mornin' pa-aper! _Daily Telegraft!_"

9.45 A.M.--German band to left of you. Clarionette and cornet both out of time and tune.

10.15 A.M.--A key-bugler and a bag-piper a dozen yards apart.

11 A.M.--Performance of Punch and Toby, who barks more than is good for him.

11.30 A.M.--Bellowing black-faced ballad-bawlers, with their banjoes and their bones.

Such is our daily programme of music until noon, and such, with sundry variations, it continues until midnight. Small wonder that I have so little relish for my meals, and that, in spite of the sea air, I can hardly sleep a wink. I shall return to Town to-morrow, for surely all the street tormentors must be out of it, judging by the numbers that now plague the sad seaside.

MISERRIMUS.

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_Our Poetess._ "Do not talk to me of dinner, Edwin. I must stay by this beautiful Sea, and _drink it all in_!"

_Bill the Boatman._ "Lor! She's a thirsty one too!"

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THE TREACHEROUS TIDE

I sat on a slippery rock, In the grey cliff's opal shade, And the wanton waves went curvetting by Like a roystering cavalcade. And they doffed their crested plumes, As they kissed the blushing sand, Till her rosy face dimpled over with smiles At the tricks of the frolicsome band.

Then the kittywake laughed, "Ha! ha!" And the sea-mew wailed with pain, As she sailed away on the shivering wind To her home o'er the surging main. And the jelly-fish quivered with rage, While the dog-crabs stood by to gaze, And the star-fish spread all her fingers abroad, And sighed for her grandmothers' days.

And the curlew screamed, "Fie! fie!" And the great gull groaned at the sight, And the albatross rose and fled with a shriek To her nest on the perilous height.

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Good gracious! the place where I sat With sea-water was rapidly filling, And a hoarse voice cried, "Sir, you're caught by the tide! And I'll carry ye off for a shilling!"

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"LOCAL COLOUR."--PLACE: South Parade, Cheapenham-on-Sea.--_Edith._ "Mabel dear, would you get me _Baedeker's Switzerland_ and the last Number of the _World_."

_Mabel._ "What do you want _them_ for?"

_Edith._ "Oh, I'm writing letters, and we're in the Engadine, you know, and I just want to describe some of our favourite haunts, and mention a few of the people who are staying there--here, I mean."

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THE LAY OF THE LAST LODGER

I.

Oh dreary, dreary, dreary me! My jaw is sore with yawning-- I'm weary of the dreary sea, With its roaring beach Where sea-gulls screech, And shrimpers shrimp, And limpets limp, And winkles wink, And trousers shrink; And the groaning, moaning, droning tide Goes splashing and dashing from side to side, With all its might, from morn to night, And from night to morning's dawning.

II.

The shore's a flood of puddly mud, And the rocks are limy and slimy-- And I've tumbled down with a thud--good lud!-- And I fear I swore, For something tore; And my shoes are full Of the stagnant pool; And hauling, sprawling, crawling crabs Have got in my socks with star-fish and dabs; And my pockets are swarming with polypes and prawns, And noisome beasts with shells and horns, That scrunch and scrape, and goggle and gape, Are up my sleeve, I firmly believe-- And I'm horribly rimy and grimy.

III.

I'm sick of the strand, and the sand, and the band, And the niggers and jiggers and dodgers; And the cigars of rather doubtful brand; And my landlady's "rights", And the frequent fights On wretched points Of ends of joints, Which disappear, with my brandy and beer, In a way that, to say the least, is queer. And to mingle among the throng I long, And to poke my joke and warble my song-- But there's no one near On sands or pier, For everyone's gone and I'm left alone, The Last of the Seaside Lodgers!

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NOTE BY OUR MAN OUT OF TOWN--Watering places--resorts where the visitor is pumped dry.

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A WET DAY AT THE SEASIDE

Why does not some benefactor to his species discover and publish to a grateful world some rational way of spending a wet day at the seaside? Why should it be something so unutterably miserable and depressing that its mere recollection afterwards makes one shudder?

This is the first really wet day that we have had for a fortnight, but what a day! From morn to dewy eve, a summer's day, and far into the black night, the pitiless rain has poured and poured and poured. I broke the unendurable monotony of gazing from the weeping windows of my seaside lodging, by rushing out wildly and plunging madly into the rainy sea, and got drenched to the skin both going and returning. After changing everything, as people say but don't mean, and thinking I saw something like a break in the dull leaden clouds, I again rushed out, and called on Jones, who has rooms in an adjacent terrace, and, with some difficulty, persuaded him to accompany me to the only billiard table in the miserable place. We both got gloriously wet on our way to this haven of amusement, and were received with the pleasing intelligence that it was engaged by a private party of two, who had taken it until the rain ceased, and, when that most improbable event happened, two other despairing lodgers had secured the reversion. Another rush home, another drenching, another change of everything, except the weather, brought the welcome sight of dinner, over which we fondly lingered for nearly two mortal hours.