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.