SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.
Chill-sea.
My Nautical Drama is not making much progress. Must go more amongst men and things. That is the only way to gain ideas. World full of dramatis personæ, who will provide their own dialogue, if you can only find them a good part. Interview old sailor; capital character—the very man to be "discovered drinking," (which must have frequently occurred to him) as curtain rises. Talk to him half-an-hour, but without hearing a single really telling line. Half-a-crown wasted! Pleasure-boat just "putting off,"—which is naturally a dilatory operation—Skipper says they are only waiting for me. I hesitate; does Art demand this sacrifice? Hitherto my voyages have been chiefly confined to journeyings in a penny steamer from Chelsea to Lambeth. But can I reasonably expect to become familiar with marine matters without some actual experience? If M. Zola could go and live for weeks down a coal-mine, surely I may trust myself in a pleasure-boat for one short half-hour? It is only sixpence.
I subdue my diffidence, and embark—that is, I fall over the stern, and stumble to the only vacant seat—a thwart in the middle. Should have preferred a place nearer the gunwale.... We are off; boat pretty full, twenty-four passengers, to crew of two boatmen and a cornet-player. People enjoying what they call "a blow on the jetty," wave handkerchiefs to us as we pass. Curious, this blind impulse to wave greetings to perfect strangers—does it spring from vague enthusiasm for humanity? Chatty old gentleman next to me will talk: he tells me confidentially that it is a singular thing, but it does so happen that he has never been on the sea without an accident of some sort occurring,—never! There is no superstitious nonsense about him, it seems, so he thought he would "chance it" once more. Very creditable—but more considerate if he would chance it in a canoe. The Cornet-player quite a cockney Arion (though nobody thinks, somehow, of pitching him overboard). He performs appropriate airs during trip. A Life on the Ocean Wave, as we start; Only a Pansy Blossom, (though I don't see the precise connection of this) as we tack; and the Harbour Lights, when we turn. Somehow, this rather vulgarises the Ocean—for me. Sea fortunately smooth: nobody at all unwell. I feel nothing—except perhaps a growing conviction that a very young infant opposite should not be permitted to eat a jam-puff in public. Boatmen use no nautical expressions. Passengers lively at first, though, by time we turn, the expression on our features, like that of young lady who wore the wreath of roses, seems "more thoughtful than before." We are close in now—the musician is sending round his hat. Resent this privately, it is not seamanlike! In beaching, yacht swings round with her broadside to breakers, causing sudden wave to drench the Jonah gentleman and myself before we can disembark. He seems rather gratified than otherwise by so apposite an illustration of his ill-luck. The brown-eyed girl on sands watches me alight—on all fours, dripping. Sea-trip a mistake, I feel damped rather than fired.
On the Beach again.—Cheap photographers, galvanic machines, chiropodist, tea-stalls, grim old ladies eating shrimps, as if they were cherries, out of paper bags. Open-air music-hall, where comic songs are shouted from platform by dreary men in flaxen wigs to harmonium—this always crowded. Enjoyment at Starmouth hearty perhaps—but hardly refined. Constantly haunted by song from open-air platform about "The Gurls," with refrain describing how "they squeeze, And they tease. And they soy, 'Oh, what joy!'" (or perhaps it should be—"sigh, 'Oh, what jy!'") Either way, it has hit the popular taste here. I may be prudish—but, even if a couple are engaged, it seems to me that a nicer sense of propriety would deter them from dozing in a sand-pit, coram publico, with their arms around one another's neck. Nobody thinks anything of this at Starmouth, however.
Lamb-bath.
What a matter of circumstance are our prejudices! I should once have thought that nothing would induce me to drive about on a char-à-banc—like one of the band in a circus procession. Yet I have just returned from a drive in one—and enjoyed it!
She—my brown-eyed divinity of the Phrenology lecture—was on one of the seats, which redeemed a drive otherwise prosaic. We went to ruined castle; scenery unpicturesque (she showed, I thought, delicate perception of this by reading Family Herald all the way). Starmouth children ran by side of carriage, turning head-over-heels, and gasping comic songs for coppers. Had last glimpse of them standing gratefully in a row on their heads.
We did not alight to see castle, as coachman said there was nothing to see. On way home, conductor made collection on his own account. (The hat is not much worn at Starmouth.) Yet I was happy—I have made her acquaintance! Charming as she is beautiful—so simple and naïve in the few remarks she made. She is called Louise, and the person I took to be her maid is, it appears, her aunt—a most shrewd and sensible old lady, full of quiet good sense. We became friendly at once.
A Week later.—No time for notes lately—too absorbed in study of Louise's character—most complex and fascinating. Am I drifting into love? Why not—who could help it? The rank she occupies is not, perhaps, a lofty one; but at least there is nothing unfeminine in the duty of providing old ladies and children with light refreshment from behind the counter of an Oxford Street confectioner. And her tastes are refined; she is a gentlewoman by nature and instinct. The lady-phrenologist has delineated her (privately), and declared that Louise "could learn science easily, and play the piano, if she turns her attention that way." As a matter of fact, she has not, because neither science nor the piano is in demand at a confectioner's; but still she undoubtedly possesses a superior intellect; no ordinary girl would enter into the Nautical Drama, for instance, as she does.
"A Blow on the Jetty."
We have been to see Caste at the theatre. Louise very grave and critical; she only laughed once, and that was when Eccles blew rather loudly down his pipe to clear it. So many girls have an inconvenient sense of humour—quite unsexing, I have always thought.
Her aunt is not precisely patrician in her manner, which would be totally out of place in a Fancy Wool Repository—but, after all, I shall not have to go through any experiences like poor D'Alroy's. And I am sure my uncle's heart will warm to Louise at once. Why hesitate, then? I will not.
I have taken the plunge—Louise has consented. She tells me that she was won by my appearance in the Professor's chair, and still more by the character he gave me. How our choicest blessings masquerade! Drama, for the moment, in the background—but only apparently so. Literature has no stimulus like love, and I am constantly talking the play over with Louise. She has made one suggestion that convinces me she has a keen sense of dramatic effect—a hornpipe in one of the Acts. I am to read her the first Scene, as soon as it is put into shape.
Her brother "Alf" is expected down to-night. Louise is certain we shall "take to one another," he has "such spirits," and is "quite a cure." Always thought a "cure" was a kind of jumping clown—but Alf is a clerk in a leading establishment, somewhere in Marylebone—a steady, industrious young fellow, no doubt. However, I shall meet him to-morrow.
I have met Alf. Although I love Louise with the first real passion of a lifetime, I cannot disguise from myself that her brother is an unmitigated Blazer. I would almost rather that he did not take to me—but he does. In half an hour he is addressing me as "Old gooseberry-pudden." If he is going to do this often, I shall have to hint that I do not like it.
I have been strolling with him on the sands, where he has already found several of his acquaintance. He will introduce me to all of them. Hearty, high-spirited fellows, full of rough but genuine British humour. From the manner in which they all inquire "How my bumps are getting on," I infer they were amongst Professor Skittles' audience the other day. But they mean to be friendly enough—I must not let them see how they annoy me.... It is absurd to be stiff at Starmouth.