Is-linked-on.
I am becoming gradually aware that Starmouth, though full, is not exactly fashionable. I infer this, partly from the fact that already I instinctively turn round to look curiously at the speaker, when I hear a duly aspirated "h," à la mode d'Islington, partly from the prevalence and popularity of the whelk-stalls on the Esplanade. Really good society, even in its laxest mood, would scarcely support quite so many.
On the Pier. Military Band. View of Beach from sea very beautiful at night, fairy-like effect of continuous line of light from whelk-stalls. Yet one would hesitate to put a touch of description like that into a novel—curious the prudery of fiction, your realistic French author would describe contents of all the little saucers. That is Art, and I shall see if I can work it in to my drama somehow.
Leave Pier. Back to Esplanade. Crowd round young man singing to concertina a ditty about a certain Jemima who though "so fond of her beer, was always a Mug."
Sentimental Song, to harp, at next corner. About a Stowaway, with golden curls, and "dear baby lips," and "sweet little eyes," how a cruel Mate found him in the hold, and was so touched that he kissed him on the forehead for speaking the "tree-youth," and the crew wept. Most pathetic—Singer himself compelled to retire to public-house at conclusion.
Bed. Dream my Nautical Drama accepted by Mr. Irving—a waking dream, too!
Sunday.—Breakfast. My landlady evidently person of strict propriety. My two boiled eggs come in dressed in little red-worsted petticoats. It never occurred to me before that a bare egg was calculated to call up a blush—but really they make me feel almost shy now—they do look so coy, so modest in their simple attire. Possibly, though, Starmouth eggs are not very strong, and require artificial warmth.
Holloway.
Bells. Stream of people, looking good, in tall hats and best things, going inland—unregenerate stream, in tweeds, making for sands. Salvation Army, with fervent but tactless drum. Sunday not a day for Nautical Drama. Beach, "Will I take a tract?" Hate being rude, so accept.... I have gone a hundred yards, and I have fourteen tracts—almost enough to start distributing on my own account.