Part 3

But one cannot eat all day long, even at the seaside on a wet day, and accordingly at four o'clock I was again cast upon my own resources. I received, I confess, a certain amount of grim satisfaction at seeing Brown--Bumptious Brown, as we call him in the City, he being a common councilman, or a liveryman, or something of that kind--pass by in a fly, with heaps of luggage and children, all looking so depressingly wet,--and if he had not the meanness to bring with him, in a half-dozen hamper, six bottles of his abominable Gladstone claret! He grinned at me as he passed, like a Chester cat, I think they call that remarkable animal, and I afterwards learnt the reason. He had been speculating for a rise in wheat, and, as he vulgarly said, the rain suited his book, and he only hoped it would last for a week or two! Ah! the selfishness of some men! What cared he about my getting wet through twice in one day, so long as it raised the price of his wretched wheat?

My wife coolly recommended me to read the second volume of a new novel she had got from the Library, called, I think, _East Glynne_, or some such name, but how can a man read in a room with four stout healthy boys and a baby, especially when the said baby is evidently very uncomfortable, and the four boys are playing at leap-frog? Women have this wonderful faculty, my wife to a remarkable extent. I have often, with unfeigned astonishment, seen her apparently lost in the sentimental troubles of some imaginary heroine, while the noisy domestic realities around her have gone on unheeded.

I again took my place at the window, and gazed upon the melancholy sea, and remembered, with a smile of bitter irony, how I had agreed to pay an extra guinea a week for the privilege of facing the sea!--and such a sea! It was, of course, very low water--it generally is at this charming place; and the sea had retired to its extremest distance, as if utterly ashamed of its dull, damp, melancholy appearance. And there stood that ridiculous apology for a pier, with its long, lanky, bandy legs, on which I have been dragged every evening to hear the band play. Such a band! The poor wheezy cornet was bad enough, but the trombone, with its two notes that it jerked out like the snorts of a starting train, was a caution. Oh! that poor "_Sweetheart_", with which we were favoured every evening! I always pictured her to myself sitting at a window listening, enraptured, to a serenade from that trombone!

But there's no band to-night, not a solitary promenader on the bandy-legged pier, I even doubt if the pier master is sitting as usual at the receipt of custom, and I pull down the blind, to shut out the miserable prospect, with such an energetic jerk that I bring down the whole complicated machinery, and nearly frighten baby into a fit, while the four irreverent boys indulge in a loud guffaw.

Thank goodness, on Saturday I exchange our miserable, wheezy, asthmatic band for the grand orchestra of the Covent Garden Promenade Concerts, and the awful perfume of rotten seaweed for the bracing atmosphere of glorious London.

AN OUTSIDER.

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SEASIDE SPLITTERS

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TRUE DIPSOMANIA.--Overbathing at the seaside.

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AN IDLE HOLIDAY.

When the days are bright and hot, In the month of August, When the sunny hours are not Marred by any raw gust, Then I turn from toil with glee, Sing a careless canto, And to somewhere by the sea Carry my portmanteau.

Shall I, dreaming on the sand, Pleased with all things finite, Envy Jones who travels and Climbs an Apennine height-- Climbs a rugged peak with pain, Literally speaking, Only to descend again Fagged with pleasure-seeking?

Smith, who, worn with labour, went Off for rest and leisure, Races round the Continent In pursuit of pleasure: Having lunched at Bale, he will At Lucerne his tea take, Riding till he's faint and ill, Tramping till his feet ache.

Shall I, dreaming thus at home, Left ashore behind here, Envy restless men who roam Seeking what I find here? Since beside my native sea, Where I sit to woo it, Pleasure always comes to me, Why should I pursue it?

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EXTRA SPECIAL.--_Paterfamilias_ (_inspecting bill, to landlady_). I thought you said, Mrs. Buggins, when I took these apartments, that there were no extras, but here I find boots, lights, cruets, fire, table-linen, sheets, blankets and kitchen fire charged.

_Mrs. Buggins._ Lor' bless you, sir, they're not extras, but necessaries.

_Paterfamilias._ What, then, do you consider extras?

_Mrs. Buggins._ Well, sir, that's a difficult question to answer, but I should suggest salad oil, fly-papers, and turtle soup.

[_Paterfamilias drops the subject and pays his account._

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THE MARGATE BATHING-WOMAN'S LAMENT

It nearly broke my widowed art, When first I tuk the notion, That parties didn't as they used, Take reglar to the ocean.

The hinfants, darling little soles, Still cum quite frequent, bless 'em! But they is only sixpence each, Which hardly pays to dress 'em.

The reason struck me all at once, Says I, "It's my opinion, The grown-up folks no longer bathes Because of them vile Sheenions."

The last as cum drest in that style, Says, as she tuk it horf her, "I'm sure I shall not know the way To re-arrange my quoffur!"

By which she ment the ed of air, Which call it wot they will, sir; Cum doubtless off a convict at Millbank or Pentonville, sir.

The Parliament should pass a law, Which there's sufficient reason; That folks as wear the Sheenions should Bathe reg'lar in the season.

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"MERRY MARGIT"

(_Another communication from the side of the dear sea waves_)

I was told it was greatly improved--that there were alterations in the sea-front suggestive of the best moments of the Thames Embankment--that quite "smart" people daily paraded the pier. So having had enough of "Urn-bye", I moved on. The improvements scarcely made themselves felt at the railway station. Seemingly they had not attracted what Mr. Jeames would call "the upper suckles." There were the customary British middle-class matron from Peckham, looking her sixty summers to the full in a sailor hat; the seaside warrior first cousin to the billiard-marker captain with flashy rings, beefy hands, and a stick of pantomime proportions, and the theatrical lady whose connection with the stage I imagine was confined to capering before the footlights. However, they all were there, as I had seen them any summer these twenty years.

But I had been told to go to the Pier, and so to the Pier I went, glancing on my way at the entertainers on the sands, many of whom I found to be old friends. Amongst them was the "h"-less phrenologist, whose insight into character apparently satisfied the parents of any child whose head he selected to examine. Thus, if he said that a particularly stupid-looking little boy would make a good architect, schoolmaster, or traveller for fancy goods, a gentleman in an alpaca-coat and a wide-awake hat would bow gratified acquiescence, a demonstration that would also be evoked from a lady in a dust cloak, when the lecturer insisted that a giggling little girl would make a "first-rate dressmaker and cutter-out."

Arrived at the Pier, I found there was twopence to pay for the privilege of using the extension, which included a restaurant, a band, some talented fleas, and a shop with a window partly devoted to the display of glass tumblers, engraved with legends of an amusing character, such as "Good old Mother-in-Law", "Jack's Night Cap", "Aunt Julia's Half Pint", and so on. There were a number of seats and shelters, and below the level of the shops was a landing-stage, at which twice a day two steamers from or to London removed or landed passengers. During the rest of the four-and-twenty hours it seemed to be occupied by a solitary angler, catching chiefly seaweed. The Band, in spite of its uniform, was not nearly so military as that at "Urn Bye." It contained a pianoforte--an instrument upon which I found the young gentleman who sold the programmes practising during a pause between the morning's selection and the afternoon's performances. But still the Band was a very tuneful one, and increased the pleasure that the presence of so many delightful promenaders was bound to produce. Many of the ladies who walked round and round, talking courteously to 'Arry in all his varieties, wore men's _habits_, _pur et simple_ (giving them the semblance of appearing in their shirt-sleeves), while their heads were adorned with fair wigs and sailor hats, apparently fixed on together.

These free-and-easy-looking damsels did not seem to find favour in the eyes of certain other ladies of a sedater type, who regarded them (over their novels) with undisguised contempt. These other ladies, I should think, from their conversation and appearance, must have been the very flowers of the flock of Brixton Rise, and the _creme de la creme_ of Peckham Rye society. Of course there were a number of more or less known actors and actresses from London, some of them enjoying a brief holiday, and others engaged in the less lucrative occupation of "resting."

However, the dropping of "h's", even to the accompaniment of sweet music, sooner or later becomes monotonous, and so, after awhile, I was glad to leave the Pier for the attractions of the Upper Cliff. On my way I passed a Palace of Pleasure or Varieties, or Something wherein a twopenny wax-work show seemed at the moment to be one of its greatest attractions. This show contained a Chamber of Horrors, a scene full of quiet humour of Napoleon the Third Lying in State, and an old effigy of George the Third. The collection included the waxen head of a Nonconformist minister, who, according to the lecturer, had been "wery good to the poor", preserved in a small deal-box. There was also the "Key-Dyevie" of Egypt, General Gordon, and Mrs. Maybrick. Tearing myself away from these miscellaneous memories of the past, I ascended to the East Cliff, which had still the "apartments-furnished" look that was wont to distinguish it of yore. There was no change there; and as I walked through the town, which once, as a watering-place, was second only in importance to Bath,--which a century ago had for its M.C. a rival of Beau Nash,--I could not help thinking how astonished the ghosts of the fine ladies and gentlemen who visited "Meregate" in 1789 must be, if they are able to see their successors of to-day--"Good Old Chawlie Cadd", and Miss Topsie Stuart Plantagenet, _nee_ Tompkins.

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SEASIDE ASIDES

(_Paterfamilias in North Cornwall_)

Oh! how delightful now at last to come Away from town--its dirt, its degradation, Its never-ending whirl, its ceaseless hum. (A long chalks better, though, than sheer stagnation.)

For what could mortal man or maid want more Than breezy downs to stroll on, rocks to climb up, Weird labyrinthine caverns to explore? (There's nothing else to do to fill the time up.)

Your honest face here earns an honest brown, You ramble on for miles 'mid gorse and heather, Sheep hold athletic sports upon the down (Which makes the mutton taste as tough as leather).

The place is guiltless, too, of horrid piers. And likewise is not Christy-Minstrel tooney; No soul-distressing strains disturb your ears. (A German band has just played "_Annie Rooney_".)

The eggs as fresh as paint, the Cornish cream The boys from school all say is "simply ripping." The butter, so the girls declare, "a dream." (The only baccy you can buy quite dripping.)

A happiness of resting after strife, Where one forgets all worldly pain and sorrow, And one contentedly could pass one's life. (A telegram will take _me_ home to-morrow.)

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SCENE: MARGATE BEACH ON EASTER MONDAY.--_First Lady._ "Oh, here comes a steamer. How high she is out of the water."

_Second Lady._ "Yes, dear, but don't you see? It's because the tide's so low."

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THE SEASIDE VISITOR'S VADE MECUM.

_Question._ Is it your intention to leave London at once to benefit by the ocean breezes on the English coast?

_Answer._ Certainly, with the bulk of my neighbours.

_Q._ Then the metropolis will become empty?

_A._ Practically, for only about three and a half millions out of the four millions will be left behind.

_Q._ What do you consider the remaining residuum?

_A._ From a West End point of view a negligible quantity.

_Q._ Do not some of the Eastenders visit the seaside?

_A._ Yes, at an earlier period in the year, when they pay rather more for their accommodation than their neighbours of the West.

_Q._ How can this be, if it be assumed that the East is poorer than the West?

_A._ The length of the visit is governed by the weight of the purse. Belgravia stays a couple of months at Eastbourne, while three days at Margate is enough for Shoreditch.

_Q._ Has a sojourn by the sea waves any disadvantages?

_A._ Several. In the first instance, lodgings are frequently expensive and uncomfortable. Then there is always a chance that the last lodgers may have occupied their rooms as convalescents. Lastly, it is not invariably the case that the climate agrees with himself and his family.

_Q._ And what becomes of the house in town?

_A._ If abandoned to a caretaker, the reception rooms may be used by her own family as best chambers, and if let to strangers, the furniture may be injured irretrievably.

_Q._ But surely in the last case there would be the certainty of pecuniary indemnity?

_A._ Cherished relics cannot be restored by their commonplace value in money.

_Q._ Then, taking one thing with another, the benefit of a visit to the seaside is questionable?

_A._ Assuredly; and an expression of heartfelt delight at the termination of the outing and the consequent return home is the customary finish to the, styled by courtesy, holiday.

_Q._ But has not the seaside visit a compensating advantage?

_A._ The seaside visit has a compensating advantage of overwhelming proportions, which completely swallows up and effaces all suggestions of discomfort--it is the fashion.

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BRILLIANT SUGGESTION (_Overheard at the Seaside_).--_She._ "So much nicer now that all the visitors have gone. Don't you think so?"

_He._ "Yes, by Jove! So jolly nice and quiet! Often wonder that _everybody_ doesn't come now when there's nobody here, don't you know!"

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