Part 5
"What does t'lass want wi' yon _boostle_ for? It aren't big enough to _smoggle_ things, and she can't _steer_ herself wi' it!"]
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THE TRIPPER
(_By a Resident_)
What does he come for? What does he want? Why does he wander thus Careworn and gaunt? Up street and down street with Dull vacant stare, Hither and thither, it Don't matter where?
What does he mean by it? Why does he come Hundreds of miles to prowl, Weary and glum, Blinking at Kosmos with Lack-lustre eye? He doesn't enjoy it, he Don't even try!
Sunny or soaking, it's All one to him, Wandering painfully-- Curious whim! Gazing at china-shops. Gaping at sea, Guzzling at beer-shops, or Gorging at tea.
Why don't he stay at home, Save his train fare, Soak at his native beer, Sunday clothes wear? No one would grudge it him, No one would jeer. Why does he come away? Why is he here?
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ROBERT AT THE SEASIDE
I've bin spending my long Wacation of a fortnite at Northgate.
Northgate's a nice quiet place, Northgate is, tho' it quite fails in most things that constitoots reel injoyment at the seaside, such as Bands and Niggers and Minstrels and all that.
It's a grand place for weather, for it generally blows hard at Northgate, and wen it doesn't blow hard it rains hard, which makes a nice change, and a change is wot we all goes to the seaside for.
It seems a werry favrite place for inwaleeds, for the place is full on 'em, Bath cheers is in great demand and all the seats on the Prade is allus occypied by 'em.
Dr. Scratchem too sends most of his favrite cases there, and you can't walk on the Peer without facing lots on 'em.
Brown says the place makes him as sollem as a Common Cryer, and he hasn't had a good hearty larf since he came here, but then Brown isn't quite sattisfied with his Lodgings, and has acshally recommended his Land Lady to turn her house into the Norfolk Howard Hotel, _Unlimited_, so perhaps she may account for his want of spirits. Northgate's rather a rum place as regards the tide. Wen it's eye it comes all over the place and makes such a jolly mess, and wen it's low it runs right out to sea and you can't see it. Brown tried to persuade me as how as one werry eye tide was a spring tide, but as it was in September I wasn't so green as to beleeve that rubbish.
It seems quite a pet place for Artists, I mean Sculpchers, at least I s'pose they must be Sculpchers, and that they brings their Moddels with 'em, for the Bathing Machines is stuck close to the Peer, so dreckly after breakfast the Moddels goes and bathes in the Sea, and the Sculpchers goes on the Peer, and there's nothink to divert their attention from their interesting studdys, and many on 'em passes ours there quietly meditating among the Bathing Machines.
Brown says, in his sarcastic way, it's the poor Sculpchers as comes here, who can't afford to pay for their Moddels, so they comes here and gets 'em free gratis for nothink.
There's sum werry nice walks in the nayberhood but I never walks 'em, for it seems to me that the grate joke of every Buysicler and Trysicler, and the place swarms with 'em, is to cum quietly behind you and see how close he can go by you without nocking you down. I'm sure the jumps and the starts and the frites as I had the fust day or too kep my Art in my mouth till I thort it would have choked me.
How Ladys, reel Ladys too, can expose theirselves on such things I can't make out. I herd a young Swell say that wot with them and what with the Bathing Moddels it was as good as a Burlesk!
We've got werry cumferrabel Lodgings, we have, just opposite the Gas Works and near a Brick Field. When the wind is South or West we smells the bricks and when its East we smells the Gas, but when its doo North we don't smell nuffen excep just a trifle from the Dranes, and so long as we keeps quite at the end of the werry long Peer we don't smell nuffen at all excep the sea weed.
Our Landlord's a werry respeckabel man and the Stoker on our little Railway, and so werry fond of nussing our little children that they are allus as black as young Sweeps. Their gratest treat is to go with him to the Stashun and stand on the ingin when they are shuntin, so preshus little they gits of the sea breezes.
We've had a fust rate Company staying here. I've seen no less than 2 Aldermen, and 1 Warden of a City Compny, but they didn't stay long. I don't think the living was good enuff for 'em. It must be a werry trying change, from every luxery that isn't in season, to meer beef and mutton and shrimps! and those rayther course.
I think our Boatmen is about the lazyest set of fellows as ever I seed. So far from begging on you to have a soft Roe with the Tide, or a hard Roe against it, they makes all sorts of egscewses for not taking you, says they're just a going to dinner, or they thinks the wind's a gitting up, or there ain't enough water!
Not enuff water in the Sea to flote a Bote! wen any one could see as there was thousands of galluns there.
I saw some on 'em this mornin bringin in sum fish, and asked the price of a pair of Souls, but they axshally said they didn't dare sell one, for every man Jack of 'em must be sent to Billingsgate! but werry likely sum on 'em might be sent back again in the arternoon, and then I could get some at the Fishmonger's!
What a nice derangemunt!
There was the butiful fresh fish reddy for eating, there was me and my family reddy to eat 'em, but no, they must be packed in boxes and carried to the Station and then sent by Rale to London, and then sent by Wan to Billingsgate, and that takes I'm told ever so many hours, and then carried back to the London Stashun, and then sent by Rale to Northgate, and then carried from the Stashun to the Fishmonger's, and then I'm allowed to buy 'em!
Well if that isn't a butiful business like arrangement, my Lord Mare, I should like to know what is.
However, as I wunce herd a Deputy say, when things cums to their wust, things is sure to mend, and I don't think that things can be much wusser than that.
(_Signed_) ROBERT.
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THE SPIRIT OF THE THING.--_Landlady_ (_to shivering lodger_). No, sir, I don't object to your dining at a restorong, nor to your taking an 'apenny paper, but I must resent your constant 'abit of locking up your whiskey, thereby himplying that me, a clergyman's daughter, is prone to larceny.
[_Lodger immediately hands her the key as a guarantee of good faith._
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A SEASIDE ROUNDEL
On the sands as loitering I stand Where my point of view the scene commands, I survey the prospect fair and grand On the sands.
Niggers, half a dozen German bands, Photographic touts, persistent, bland, Chiromancers reading dirty hands,
Nursemaids, children, preachers, skiffs that land Trippers with cigars of fearful brands, Donkeys--everything, in short, but sand-- On the sands.
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COMMON OBJECTS OF THE SEASHORE.
The "disguised minstrel", believed by the public to be a peer of the realm collecting coin for a charity, but who is in reality the sentimental singer from a perambulating troop of nigger banjoists, "working on his own."
The preacher whose appreciation of the value of logic and the aspirate is on a par.
The intensely military young man whose occupation during eleven months in the year is the keeping of ledgers in a small city office.
The artist who guarantees a pleasing group of lovers for sixpence, frame included.
The band that consists of a cornet, a trombone, a clarionet, some bass, and a big drum, which is quite as effective (thanks to the trombone) when all the principals have deserted in search of coppers.
And last (and commonest of all) the cockney who, after a week's experience of the discomforts of the seaside, is weary of them, and wants to go home.
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A WINDY CORNER AT BRIGHTON
(_By an Impressionist_)
Old lady first, with hair like winter snows, Makes moan. And struggles. Then, with cheeks too richly rose, A crone, Gold hair, new teeth, white powder on her nose; All bone And skin; an "Ancient Mystery", like those Of Hone. Then comes a girl; sweet face that freshly glows! Well grown. The neat cloth gown her supple figure shows Now thrown In lines of beauty. Last, in graceless pose, Half prone, A luckless lout, caught by the blast, one knows His tone Means oaths; his hat, straight as fly crows, Has flown. I laugh at him, and----Hi! By Jove, there goes My own!
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ON THE SANDS
(_A Sketch at Margate_)
_Close under the Parade wall a large circle has been formed, consisting chiefly of Women on chairs and camp-stools, with an inner ring of small Children, who are all patiently awaiting the arrival of a troupe of Niggers. At the head of one of the flights of steps leading up to the Parade, a small and shrewish Child-nurse is endeavouring to detect and recapture a pair of prodigal younger Brothers, who have given her the slip._
_Sarah_ (_to herself_). Wherever can them two plegs have got to? (_Aloud; drawing a bow at a venture._) Albert! 'Enery! Come up 'ere this minnit. _I_ see yer!
_'Enery_ (_under the steps--to Albert_). I say--d'ye think she _do_?--'cos if----
_Albert._ Not she! Set tight.
[_They sit tight._
_Sarah_ (_as before_). 'Enery! Albert! You've bin and 'alf killed little Georgie between yer!
_'Enery_ (_moved, to Albert_). Did you 'ear that, Bert? It wasn't _me_ upset him--was it now?
_Albert_ (_impenitent_). 'Oo cares? The Niggers'll be back direckly.
_Sarah._ Al-bert! 'Enery! Your father's bin down 'ere once after you. You'll _ketch_ it!
_Albert_ (_sotto voce_). Not till father ketches _us_, we shan't. Keep still, 'Enery--we're all right under 'ere!
_Sarah_ (_more diplomatically_). 'Enery! Albert! Father's bin and left a 'ap'ny apiece for yer. Ain't yer comin' up for it? If yer don't want it, why, stay where you are, that's all!
_Albert_ (_to 'Enery_). I _knoo_ we 'adn't done nothin'. An' I'm goin' up to git that 'ap'ny, I am.
_'Enery._ So 'm I.
[_They emerge, and ascend the steps--to be pounced upon immediately by the ingenious Sarah._
_Sarah._ 'Ap'ny, indeed! You won't git no 'apence _'ere_, I can tell yer--so jest you come along 'ome with me!
[_Exeunt Albert and 'Enery, in captivity, as the Niggers enter the circle._
_Bones._ We shall commence this afternoon by 'olding our Grand Annual Weekly Singing Competition, for the Discouragement of Youthful Talent. Now then, which is the little gal to step out first and git a medal? (_The Children giggle, but remain seated._) Not one? Now I arsk _you_--What _is_ the use o' me comin' 'ere throwin' away thousands and thousands of pounds on golden medals, if you won't take the trouble to stand up and sing for them? Oh, you'll make me so wild, I shall begin spittin' 'alf-sovereigns directly--I _know_ I shall! (_A little Girl in a sun-bonnet comes forward._) Ah, 'ere's a young lady who's bustin' with melody, _I_ can see. Your name, my dear? Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the pleasure to announce that Miss Connie Cockle will now appear. Don't curtsey till the Orchestra gives the chord. (_Chord from the harmonium--the Child advances, and curtsies with much aplomb._) Oh, lor! call _that_ a curtsey--that's a _cramp_, that is! Do it all over again! (_The Child obeys, disconcerted._) That's _worse_! I can see the s'rimps blushin' for yer inside their paper bags! Now see Me do it. (_Bones executes a caricature of a curtsey, which the little Girl copies with terrible fidelity._) That's _ladylike_--that's genteel. Now sing _out_! (_The Child sings the first verse of a popular music-hall song, in a squeaky little voice._) Talk about nightingales! Come 'ere, and receive the reward for extinguished incapacity. On your knees! (_The little Girl kneels before him while a tin medal is fastened upon her frock._) Rise, Sir Connie Cockle! Oh, you _lucky_ girl!
[_The Child returns, swelling with triumph, to her companions, several of whom come out, and go through the same performance, with more or less squeakiness and self-possession._
_First Admiring Matron_ (_in audience_). I do like to see the children kep' out o' mischief like this, instead o' goin' paddling and messing about the sands!
_Second Ad. Mat._ Just what _I_ say, my dear--they're amused and edjucated 'ow to beyave at the same time!
_First Politician_ (_with the "Standard"_). No, but look here--when Gladstone was asked in the House whether he proposed to give the Dublin Parliament the control of the police, what was his answer. Why....
_The Niggers_ (_striking up chorus_). "'Rum-tumty diddly-umty doodah-dey! Rum-tumty-diddly-um was all that he could say. And the Members and the Speaker joined together in the lay. Of 'Rum-tumty-diddly-umty doodah-dey!'"
_Second Pol._ (_with the "Star"_). Well, and what more would you have _'ad_ him say? Come, now!
_Alf_ (_who has had quite enough ale at dinner--to his fiancee_). These Niggers ain't up to much Loo. Can't sing for _nuts_!
_Chorley_ (_his friend, perfidiously_). You'd better go in and show 'em how, old man. Me and Miss Serge'll stay and see you take the shine out of 'em!
_Alf._ P'raps you think I can't. But, if I was to go upon the 'Alls now, I should make my fortune in no time! Loo's 'eard me when I've been in form, and she'll tell you----
_Miss Serge._ Well, I will say there's many a professional might learn a lesson from Alf--whether Mr. Perkins believes it or not.
[_Cuttingly, to "Chorley"._
_Chorley._ Now reelly, Miss Loo, don't come down on a feller like that. I want to see him do you credit, that's all, and he couldn't 'ave a better opportunity to distinguish himself--now _could_ he?
_Miss Serge._ _I'm_ not preventing him. But I don't know--these Niggers keep themselves very select, and they might object to it.
_Alf._ I'll soon square _them_. You keep your eye on me, and I'll make things a bit livelier!
[_He enters the circle._
_Miss Serge_ (_admiringly_). He has got a cheek, I must say! Look at him, dancing there along with those two Niggers--they don't hardly know what to make of him yet!
_Chorley._ Do you notice how they keep kicking him beyind on the sly like? I wonder he puts up with it!
_Miss S._ He'll be even with them presently--you see if he isn't.
[_Alf attempts to twirl a tambourine on his finger, and lets it fall; derision from audience; Bones pats him on the head and takes the tambourine away--at which Alf only smiles feebly._
_Chorley._ It's a pity he gets so 'ot dancing, and he don't seem to keep in step with the others.
_Miss S._ (_secretly disappointed_). He isn't used to doing the double-shuffle on sand, that's all.
_The Conductor._ Bones, I observe we have a recent addition to our company. Perhaps he'll favour us with a solo. (_Aside to Bones._) 'Oo _is_ he? 'Oo let him in 'ere--_you_?
_Bones._ _I_ dunno. I thought _you_ did. Ain't he stood nothing?
_Conductor._ Not a brass farden!
_Bones_ (_outraged_). All right, you leave him to me. (_To Alf._) Kin it be? That necktie! them familiar coat-buttons! that paper-dicky! You are--you _are_ my long-lost convick son, 'ome from Portland! Come to these legs! (_He embraces Alf, and smothers him with kisses._) Oh, you've been and rubbed off some of your cheek on my complexion--you _dirty_ boy! (_He playfully "bashes" Alf's hat in._) Now show the comp'ny how pretty you can sing. (_Alf attempts a music-hall ditty, in which he, not unnaturally, breaks down._) It ain't my son's fault, Ladies and Gentlemen, it's all this little gal in front here, lookin' at him and makin' him shy! (_To a small Child, severely._) You oughter know _worse_, you ought! (_Clumps of seaweed and paper-balls are thrown at Alf who by this time is looking deplorably warm and foolish._) Oh, what a popilar fav'rite he is, to be sure!
_Chorley_ (_to Miss S._). Poor fellow, he ain't no match for those Niggers--not like he is now! Hadn't I better go to the rescue, Miss Loo?
_Miss S._ (_pettishly_). I'm sure I don't care _what_ you do.
[_"Chorley" succeeds, after some persuasion, in removing the unfortunate Alf._
_Alf_ (_rejoining his fiancee with a grimy face, a smashed hat, and a pathetic attempt at a grin_). Well? I _done_ it, you see!
_Miss S._ (_crushingly_). Yes, you _have_ done it! And the best thing you can do now, is to go home and wash your face. _I_ don't care to be seen about with a _laughing-stock_, I can assure you! I've had my dignity lowered quite enough as it is!
_Alf._ But look 'ere, my dear girl, I can't leave you here all by yourself you know!
_Miss S._ I dare say Mr. Perkins will take care of me.
[_Mr. P. assents, with effusion._
_Alf_ (_watching them move away--with bitterness_). I wish all Niggers were put down by Act of Parliament, I do! Downright noosances--that's what _they_ are!
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DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS.--_Young Housekeeper._ "I'm afraid those soles I bought of you yesterday were not fresh. My husband said they were not nice at all!"
_Brighton Fisherman._ "Well, marm, that be your fault--it bean't mine. I've offered 'em yer every day this week, and you might a' 'ad 'em o' Monday if you'd a loiked!"
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AT MARGATE.--_Angelina_ (_very poetical, surveying the rolling ocean_). "Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink."
_Edwin_ (_very practical_). No drink! Now, hang it all, Angy, if I've asked you once I've asked you three times within the last five minutes to come and do a split soda and whiskey! And _I_ can do with it!
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How Belinda Brown appeared with "waves all over her hair" before taking a bath in the sea--and
How she looked after having some more "waves all over it."]
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THE HUSBANDS' BOAT, A MARGATE MELODY