MR. PUNCH AT THE SEASIDE

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.

Some pages of this work have been moved from the original sequence to enable the contents to continue without interruption. The page numbering remains unaltered.

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J. A. Hammerton

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch", from its beginning in 1841 to the present day.

"BY THE SILVER SEA"

This is not Jones's dog.

MR. PUNCH AT THE SEASIDE

AS PICTURED BY
CHARLES KEENE, JOHN LEECH,
GEORGE DU MAURIER, PHIL MAY,
L. RAVEN-HILL, J. BERNARD
PARTRIDGE, GORDON BROWNE,
E. T. REED, AND OTHERS ...
WITH 200 ILLUSTRATIONS

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"
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THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo. 192 pages
fully illustrated
LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN

EDITOR'S NOTE

One of the leading characteristics of the nineteenth century was the tremendous change effected in the social life of Great Britain by the development of cheap railway travel. The annual holiday at the seaside speedily became as inevitable a part of the year's progress as the milkman's morning call is of the day's routine. What at first had been a rare and memorable event in a life-time developed into a habit, to which, with our British love for conventions, all of us conform.

Whether or not our French critics are justified in saying that we Britishers take our pleasures sadly, these pages from the seaside chronicles of Mr. Punch will bear witness, and while at times they may seem to support the case of our critics, at others the evidence is eloquent against them. This at least is certain, that whatever the temperament of the British as displayed during the holiday season at our popular resorts, the point of view of our national jester, Mr. Punch, is unfailingly humorous, and such sadness as some of our countrymen may bring to their pleasures is but food for the mirth of merry Mr. Punch, who, we are persuaded, stands for the sum total of John Bull's good humour in his outlook on the life of his countrymen.

As the real abstract and brief chronicler of our time, Mr. Punch has mirrored in little the social history of the last sixty-five years, and apart from the genuine entertainment which this book presents, it is scarcely less instructive as a pictorial history of British manners during this period. One may here follow in the vivid sketches of the master-draughtsmen of the age the ceaseless and bewildering changes of fashion—the passing of the crinoline, the coming and going of the bustle, the chignon, and similar vanities, and the evolution of the present-day styles of dress both of men and women.

It is also curious to notice how little seaside customs, amusements, troubles and delights, have varied in the last half-century. Landladies are at the end what they were at the beginning; the same old type of bathing-machine is still in use; our forefathers and their womenfolk in the days when Mr. Punch was young behaved themselves by "the silver sea" just as their children's children do to-day. Nothing has changed, except that the most select of seaside places is no longer so select as it was in the pre-railway days, and that the wealthier classes, preferring the attractions of Continental resorts, are less in evidence at our own watering-places.

The motto of this little work, as of all those in the series to which it belongs, is "Our true intent is all for your delight", but if the book carry with it some measure of instruction, we trust that may not be the less to its credit.

A FASHIONABLE WATERING PLACE

Mrs. Dorset (of "Dorset's Sugar and Butter Stores",
Mile End Road). "Why on earth can't we go to a more
dressy place than this, 'Enery?
I'm sick of this dreary 'ole, year after year.
It's nothing but sand and water, sand and water!"

Mr. Dorset. "If it wasn't for sand and water,
you wouldn't get no 'olerday."

Seaside Mem.—The Society recently started to abolish Tied-houses will not include Bathing Machines within the scope of its operations.

BIDDY-FORD

"WHERE'S RAMSGATE?"

[Mr. Justice Hawkins. Where is Ramsgate?
Mr. Dickens. It is in Thanet, your lordship.
Report of Twyman v. Bligh.]

"Where's Ramsgate?" Justice Hawkins cried.

"Where on our earthly planet?"

The learned Dickens straight replied,

"'Tis in the Isle of Thanet.

"Ramsgate is where the purest air

Will make your head or leg well,

Will jaded appetite repair,

With the shrimp cure of Pegwell.

"Where's Ramsgate? It is near the place

Where Julius Cæsar waded,

And nearer still to where his Grace

Augustine come one day did.

"All barristers should Ramsgate know:

I speak of it with pleasure",

Quoth Dickens. "There I often go

When wanting a refresher.

"Where's Ramsgate? Where I've often seen.

Both S-mb-rne and Du M-r-er,

When I have gone by 3.15

Granville Express, Victorier.

"With Thanet Harriers, when you are

Well mounted on a pony,

You'll say, for health who'd go so far

As Cannes, Nice, or Mentone?

"With Poland, of the Treasury,

Recorder eke of Dover,

I oft go down for pleasurey.

Alack! 'tis too soon over!

"O'er Thanet's Isle where'er you trudge,

My Lud, you'll find no land which——"

"Dickens take Ramsgate!" quote the Judge.

"Luncheon! I'm off to Sandwich!"

A JUDGE BY APPEARANCE

Bathing Guide. "Bless 'is 'art! I know'd he'd take to it kindly—by the werry looks on 'im!"

THE WONDERS OF THE SEA-SHORE

Contributed by "Glaucus", who is staying at a quiet watering-place, five miles from anywhere, and three miles from a Railway Station.

Monday(?) after breakfast, lying on the beach.

Wonder if it is Monday, or Tuesday?

Wonder what time it is?

Wonder if it will be a fine day?

Wonder what I shall do if it is? On second thoughts, wonder what I shall do if it isn't?

Wonder if there are any letters?

Wonder who that is in a white petticoat with her hair down?

Wonder if she came yesterday or the day before?

Wonder if she's pretty?

Wonder what I've been thinking about the last ten minutes?

Wonder how the boatmen here make a livelihood by lying all day at full length on the beach?

Wonder why every one who sits on the shore throws pebbles into the sea?

Wonder what there is for dinner?

Wonder what I shall do all the afternoon?

Same day, after lunch, lying on the beach.

Wonder who in the house beside myself is partial to my dry sherry?

Wonder what there is for dinner?

Wonder what's in the paper to-day?

Wonder if it's hot in London? Should say it was.

Wonder how I ever could live in London?

Wonder if there's any news from America?

Wonder what tooral looral means in a chorus?

Children playing near me, pretty, very?

Wonder if that little boy intended to hit me on the nose with a stone?

Wonder if he's going to do it again? Hope not.

Wonder if I should like to be a shrimp?

Same day, after an early dinner, lying on the beach.

Wonder why I can never get any fish?

Wonder why my landlady introduces cinders into the gravy?

EXMOUTH

Wonder more than ever who there is at my lodgings so partial to my dry sherry?

Wonder if that's the coast of France in the distance?

Feel inclined for a quiet conversation with my fellow-man.

A boatman approaches. I wonder (to the boatman) if it will be a fine day tomorrow? He wonders too? We both wonder together?

Wonder (again to the boatman) if the rail will make much difference to the place? He shakes his head and says "Ah! he wonders!" and leaves me.

Wonder what age I was last birthday?

Wonder if police inspectors are as a rule fond of bathing?

Wonder what gave me that idea?

Wonder what I shall do all this evening?

Same day, after supper, Moonlight, lying on the beach.

A HIGH SEA OVER THE BAR

Wonder if there ever was such a creature as a mermaid?

Wonder several times more than ever who it is that's so fond of my dry sherry?

Wonder if the Pope can swim?

Wonder what made me think of that?

Wonder if I should like to go up in a balloon?

Wonder what Speke and Grant had for dinner to-day?

Wonder if the Zoological Gardens are open at sunrise?

Wonder what I shall do to-morrow?

Fruit to be Avoided by Bathers.—Currants.

DEA EX MACHINÂ!

(A Reminiscence)

SHOPPING

Lady (at Seaside "Emporium"). "How much are those—ah—improvers?"

Shopman. "Improv—hem!—They're not, ma'am"—(confused)—"not—not the article you require, ma'am. They're fencing-masks, ma'am!"

[Tableau!

A LARGE BUMP OF CAUTION

Flora. "Oh, let us sit here, aunt, the breeze is so delightful."

Aunt. "Yes—it's very nice, I dare say; but I won't come any nearer to the cliff, for I am always afraid of slipping through those railings!"

A BOAT FOR AN HOUR

Stout Gentleman. "What! is that the only boat you have in?"

A SEASIDE REVERIE

I think, as I sit at my ease on the shingle,

And list to the musical voice of the Sea,

How gaily my Landlady always will mingle

From my little caddy her matutine tea.

And vainly the bitter remembrance I banish

Of mutton just eaten, my heart is full sore,

To think after one cut it's certain to vanish,

And never be seen on my board any more.

Some small store of spirit to moisten my throttle

I keep, and indulge in it once in a way;

But, bless you, it seems to fly out of the bottle

And swiftly decrease, though untouched all the day.

My sugar and sardines, my bread and my butter,

Are eaten, and vainly I fret and I frown;

My Landlady, just like an Æsthete's too utter

A fraud, and I vow that I'll go back to Town.

THE MORNING PAPERS

Sketch from our window, 10 a.m., at Sludgeborough Ness.

THE NURSEMAID'S FRIEND

Science has given us the baby-jumper, by which we are enabled to carry out the common exclamation of "Hang those noisy children" without an act of infanticide, by suspending our youngsters in the air; and perhaps allowing them to have their full swing, without getting into mischief; but the apparatus for the nursery will not be complete until we have something in the shape of coops for our pretty little chickens, when they are "out with nurse", and she happens to have something better—or worse—to do than to look after them.

YARMOUTH

How often, in a most interesting part of a novel, or in the midst of a love passage of real life, in which the nurse is herself the heroine, how often, alas! is she not liable to be disturbed by the howl of a brat, with a cow's horn in his eye, a dog's teeth in his heels, or in some other awkward dilemma, which could not have arisen had the domestic Child-coop been an article of common use in the Metropolitan parks, or on the sands at the seaside?

There is something very beautiful in the comparison of helpless infancy to a brood of young chickens, with its attendant imagery of "mother's wing", and all that sort of thing, but the allegory would be rendered much more complete by the application of the hencoop to domestic purposes. We intend buying one for our own stud of piccoli—which means little pickles—and we hope to see all heads of families taking it into their heads to follow our example.

Midsummer Madness.—Going to the seaside in search of quiet.

LOCAL INTELLIGENCE

"D'year as 'ow old Bob Osborne 'ave give up shrimpin' an took ter winklin'?"

"Well, I'm blest!"

THE INGRATITUDE OF SOME SERVANTS

You give them a change by taking them to the seaside—all they have to do is to look after the children—and yet they don't seem to appreciate it.

ON THE SPOT

Shall we like Pierpoint, to which favourite and healthy seaside resort we finally resolved to come, after a period of much indecision and uncertainty, and where we arrived, in heavy rain, in two cabs, with thirteen packages, on Saturday?

A NATIVE HOISTER

Shall we be comfortable at 62, Convolution Street, dining-room floor, two guineas and a half a week, and all and perhaps rather more than the usual extras?

Shall we like Mrs. Kittlespark?

Shall we find Kate all that a Kate ought to be?

GOING DOWN TO A WATERING PLACE

Shall we lock everything up, or repose a noble confidence in Mrs. Kittlespark and Kate?

Shall we get to know the people in the drawing-room?

Shall we subscribe to the Pier, or pay each time we go on it?

Shall we subscribe to that most accommodating Circulating Library, Pigram's, where we can exchange our books at pleasure, but not oftener than once a day?

Shall we relax our minds with the newest novels, or give our intellects a bracing course of the best standard works?

Shall we dine late or early?

Shall we call on the Denbigh Flints, who, according to the Pierpoint Pioneer, are staying at 10, Ocean Crescent?

GOING TO BRIGHTON

Shall we carefully avoid the Wilkiesons, whom the same unerring guide reports at 33, Blue Lion Street?

Shall we be satisfied with our first weekly bill?

Shall we find in it any unexpected and novel extras, such as knife-cleaning, proportion of the water-rate, loan of latch-key, &c.?

Shall we get our meat at Round's, who displays the Prince of Wales's Feathers over his shop door, and plumes himself on being "purveyor" to His Royal Highness; or at Cleaver's, who boasts of the patronage of the Hereditary Grand Duke of Seltersland?

A VIEW OF COWES

Shall we find everything dearer here than it is at home?

Shall we be happy in our laundress?

Shall we be photographed?

Shall we, as Mrs. Kittlespark has a spare bed-room, invite our Cousin Amelia Staythorp, from whom we have expectations, and who is Constance Edith Amelia's Godmother, to come down and stay a week with us?

Shall we be praiseworthily economical, and determine not to spend a single unnecessary sixpence; or shall we, as we have come to Pierpoint, enjoy ourselves to the utmost, go in for all the amusements of the place—pier, public gardens, theatre, concerts, Oceanarium, bathing, boating, fishing, driving, riding, and rinking—make excursions, be ostentatiously liberal to the Town Band, and buy everything that is offered to us on the Beach?

A month hence, shall we be glad or sorry to leave Pierpoint, and go back to Paddington?

Postscript To a Seaside Letter.—"The sea is as smooth, and clear, as a looking-glass. The oysters might see to shave in it."

WHAT WE COULD BEAR A GOOD DEAL OF

SCENE AT SANDBATH

The Female Blondin Outdone! Grand Morning Performance on the Narrow Plank by the Darling ----

A LITTLE FAMILY BREEZE

Mrs. T. "What a wretch you must be, T.; why don't you take me off? Don't you see I'm overtook with the tide, and I shall be drownded!"

T. "Well, then—will you promise not to kick up such a row when I stop out late of a Saturday?"

ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK

"And look here! I want you to take my friend here and myself just far enough to be up to our chins, you know, and no further!"

WHAT THE WILD WAVES ARE SAYING

BANGOR

That the lodging-house keepers are on the look out for the weary Londoners and their boxes.

That the sea breezes will attract all the world from the Metropolis to the coast.

That Britons should prefer Ramsgate, Eastbourne, Scarborough, and the like, to Dieppe, Dinard, and Boulogne.

That paterfamilias should remember, when paying the bill, that a two months' letting barely compensates for an empty house during the remainder of the year.

That the shore is a place of recreation for all but the bathing-machine horse.

That the circulating libraries are stocked with superfluous copies of unknown novels waiting to be read.

That, finally, during the excursion season, 'Arry will have to be tolerated, if not exactly loved.

The "Lancet" advocates taking holidays in Midwinter instead of Midsummer.

View of the sands of Anywhere-on-Sea if the suggestion is adopted.
Time—December or January.

Mrs. Fydgetts (screaming). "My child! My child!"

Mr. Fydgetts. "What's the use of making that noise? Can't you be quiet?"

Mrs. F. "You're a brute, sir."

Mr. F. "I wish I were; for then I should be able to swim."

Mrs. F. "Mr. Fydgetts! Ain't you a-coming to help me?"

Mr. F. "No! It serves you right for bringing me down to this stupid place."

Mrs. F. "I, indeed. Why, I wanted to go to Brighton and you would come to Margate—you said it was cheaper".

Mr. F. "It's false; I said no such thing".

Mrs. F. "You did, you did!"

Mr. F. "O, woman! woman! Where do you expect to go to?"

Mrs. F. "To the bottom; unless you come and help me!"

Mr. F. "Help yourself. I'm s-i-n-k-i-n-g"—

Mrs. F. "My child! My child!"

Mr. F. (rising from the water). "Be quiet, can't you! Woo-o-m—" (the rest is inaudible, but the watery pair are saved just in time, and renew their dispute in the boat as soon as they are rescued from their perilous position).

Mabel (soliloquising). "Dear me, this relaxing climate makes even one's parasol seem too heavy to hold!"

HOLIDAY HAUNTS

By Jingle Junior on the Jaunt
I.—GREAT YARMOUTH

PUFFINS

Why Great?—where's Little Yarmouth?—or Mid-Sized Yarmouth?—give it up—don't know—hate people who ask conundrums—feel well cured directly you get here—good trademark for dried-fish sellers, "The Perfect Cure"—if you stay a fortnight, get quite kipperish—stay a month, talk kipperish! Principal attractions—Bloaters and Rows—first eat—second see—song, "Speak gently of the Herring"—"long shore" ones splendid—kippers delicious—song, "What's a' the steer, Kipper?"—song, "Nobody's rows like our Rows"—more they are—varied—picturesque—tumbledown—paradise for painters—very narrow—capital support for native Bloater going home after dinner—odd names—Ramp, Kitty Witches—Gallon Can, Conge! Fancy oneself quite the honest toiler of the sea—ought to go about in dried haddock suit—feel inclined to emulate Mr. Peggotty—run into quiet taverns—thump tables violently—say "gormed!" Whole neighbourhood recalls Ham and Little Em'ly—David, Steerforth, Mrs. Gummidge—recall ham myself—if well broiled—lunch—pleasant promenades on piers—plenty of amusement in watching the bloateric commerce—fresh water fishing in adjacent Broads, if you like—if not, let it alone—broad as it's long! The Denes—not sardines—nor rural deans—good places for exercise—plenty of antiquities—old customs—quaint traditions! Picturesque ancient taverns—capital modern hotels—stopping in one of the latter—polite waiter just appeared—dinner served—soup'll get cold—mustn't wait—never insult good cook by being unpunctual—rather let Editor go short than hurt cook's feelings[1]—so no more at present—from Yours Truly.

II.—LITTLEHAMPTON.

Emphatically the Sea on the strict Q T—no bustle at railway-station—train glides in noiselessly—passengers ooze away—porters good-tempered and easy-going—like suffragan Bishops in corduroys—bless boxes—read pastorals on portmanteaux—no one in a hurry—locomotive coos softly in an undertone—fly-drivers suggest possibility of your requiring their services in a whisper! Place full—no lodgings to be had—visitors manage to efface themselves—no one about—all having early dinners—or gone to bed—or pretending to be somewhere else—a one-sided game of hide and seek—everybody hiding, nobody seeking! Seems always afternoon—dreamy gleamy sunshine—a dense quietude that you might cut in slices—no braying brass-bands—no raucous niggers—no seaside harpies—Honfleur packet only excitement—no one goes to see it start—visitors don't like to be excited! Chief amusements, Common, Sands, and Pony-chaises—first, good to roll on—second, good to stroll on—first two, gratuitous and breezy—third, inexpensive and easy—might be driven out of your mind for three-and-six—notwithstanding this, everybody presumably sane. Capital place for children—cricket for boys—shrimping for girls—bare legs—picturesque dress—not much caught—salt water good for ankles—excellent bathing—rows of bathing-tents—admirable notion! Interesting excursions—Arundel Castle—Bramber—Bognor—Chichester—Petworth House! Good things to eat—Arundel mullet—Amberley trout—Tarring figs! Delightful air—omnipotent ozone—uninterrupted quiet—just the place to recover your balance, either mental or monetary—I wish to recover both—that's the reason I'm here—send cheque at once to complete cure.[2]

[1]

Don't like this sentiment. Is J. J. a Cook's Tourist?—Ed.

[2]

We have sent him the price of a third-class fare to town, with orders to return instantly: possibly this is hardly the sort of check that our friend "J. J." expected.—Ed.

III.—SCARBOROUGH.

RAMSGATE

A CUTTER MAKING FOR THE PEER HEAD

Long way from London—no matter—fast train—soon here—once here don't wish to leave—palatial hotels—every luxury—good tables d'hôte—pleasant balls—lively society! Exhilarating air—good as champagne without "morning after"—up early—go to bed late—authorities provide something better than a broken-down pier, a circulating library, and a rickety bathing-machine—authorities disburse large sums for benefit of visitors—visitors spend lots of money in town—mutual satisfaction—place crowded—capital bands—excellent theatricals—varied entertainments—right way to do it! The Spa—first discovered 1620—people been discovering it ever since—some drink it—more walk on it—lounge on it—smoke on it—flirt on it—wonderful costumes in the morning—more wonderful in the afternoon—most wonderful in the evening! North Sands—South Sands—fine old Castle well placed—picturesque old town—well-built modern terraces, squares and streets—pony-chaises—riding-horses—Lift for lazy ones! Capital excursions—Oliver's Mount—Carnelian Bay—Scalby Mill—Hackness—Wykeham—Filey! Delightful gardens—secluded seats —hidden nooks—shady bowers—well-screened corners—Northern Belles—bright eyes—soft nothings—eloquent sighs—squozen hands—before you know where you are—ask papa—all up—dangerous very! Overcome by feelings—can't write any more—friend asks me to drink waters—query North Chalybeate or South Salt Well—wonder which—if in doubt try soda qualified with brandy—good people scarce—better run no risk!

Costume in Keeping.—"Of all sweet things", said Bertha, "for the seaside, give me a serge." The Ancient Mariner shook his head. He didn't see the joke.

Board and Lodging!—Landlady. "Yes, sir, the board were certingly to be a guinea a week, but I didn't know as you was a-going to bathe in the sea before breakfast and take bottles of tonic during the day!"

THE DONKEYS' HOLIDAY

With compliments to the S.P.C.A.

LABELLED!

NAUGHTICAL?

Yachting Friend (playfully). "Have you any experience of squalls, Brown?"

Brown. "Squalls!" (Seriously.) "My dear sir, I've brought up ten in family!"

SOCIAL BEINGS

Wearied by London dissipation, the Marjoribanks Browns go, for the sake of perfect quiet, to that picturesque little watering-place, Shrimpington-super-Mare, where they trust that they will not meet a single soul they know.

Oddly enough, the Cholmondeley Joneses go to the same spot with the same purpose.

Now, these Joneses and Browns cordially detest each other in London, and are not even on speaking terms; yet such is the depressing effect of "perfect quiet" that, as soon as they meet at Shrimpington-super-Mare, they rush into each other's arms with a wild sense of relief!

HEARTS OF OAK

Angelina (who has never seen a revolving light before). "How patient and persevering those sailors must be, Edwin! The wind has blown that light out six times since they first lit it, and they've lighted it again each time!"

"Now, mind, if any of those nasty people with cameras come near, you're to send them away!"

SEASIDE SOLITUDE

Highburybarn-on-Sea
(From our Special Commissioner)

A CUTTER ROUNDING THE BUOY

Dear Mr. Punch,—This is a spot, which, according to your instructions, I reached last evening. In these same instructions you described it as "a growing place." I fancy it must be of the asparagus order, that vegetable, as you are well aware, taking three years in which to develop itself to perfection. Highburybarn-on-Sea is, I regret to say, in the first stage—judged from an asparagus point of view. I cannot entertain the enthusiastic description of the candid correspondent (I refer to the cutting forwarded by you from an eminent daily paper under the heading, "By the Golden Ocean.") He describes it as "an oasis on the desert coast of Great Britain." Far be it from me to deny the desert—all I object to is the oasis.

Limpets

I ask you, sir, if you ever, in the course of the travels in which you have out-rivalled Stanley, Cameron, Livingstone, Harry de Windt, and, may I add, De Rougemont, ever came across an oasis, consisting of two score villas, built with scarcely baked bricks, reposing on an arid waste amid a number of tumbled-down cottages, and surmounted by a mighty workhouse-like hotel looking down on a pre-Adamite beershop?

The sky was blue, the air was fresh, the waves had retreated to sea when I arrived in a jolting omnibus at Highburybarn-on-Sea, and deposited myself and luggage at the Metropolitan Hotel. A page-boy was playing airs on a Jew's-harp when I alighted on the sand-driven steps of the hostelry. He seemed surprised at my arrival, but in most respectful fashion placed his organ of minstrelsy in his jacket pocket, the while he conveyed my Gladstone bag to my apartment, secured by an interview with an elderly dame, who gave an intelligent but very wan smile when I suggested dinner. She referred me to the head waiter. This functionary pointed in grandiose fashion to the coffee-room, wherein some artistic wall-papering wag had committed atrocities on which it would be libel to comment.

TAKING A DIP AND GETTING A BLOW

There was only one occupant, a short clean-shaven gentleman with white hair and a red nose, who was apparently chasing space. This turned out to be a militant blue-bottle. Meantime, the head-waiter produced his bill of fare, or rather the remains of it. Nearly every dish had apparently been consumed, for the most tempting plats were removed from the menu by a liberal application of red pencil. Finally, I decided on a fried sole and a steak. The white-haired man still pursued the blue-bottle.

I went up to my room, and after washing with no soap I returned to the coffee-room. The blue-bottle still had the best of it. The head-waiter, after the lapse of an hour, informed me that the sole would not be long. When it arrived, I found that he spoke the truth. If you have any recollection of the repast which Porthos endured when entertained by Madame Coquenard, you will have some notion of my feast. The head-waiter told me that some bare-legged persons who had waded into the water were shrimp-catchers. I only wished that I were one of them, for at least they found food.

BIRCHINGTON

Later on I retired to rest. I was visited in the hours of darkness, to which I had consigned myself, by a horde of mosquitoes, imported, so I was informed in the morning, by American travellers, who never tipped the waiters. I fulfilled their obligations, still gazing on the auburn sand-drift, still looking on the sea, still feeling hungry and murmuring to myself, "Highburybarn-on-Sea would be a capital place for children, if I could only see any cows." A melancholy cocoa-nut shy by the station appeared to afford all the milk in the place.

Yours despondently,

Nibblethorpe Nobbs.

Embarrassment of Riches: Margate.—Mother. "Now, Tommy, which would you rather do—have a donkey ride or watch father bathe?"

THE BATHING QUESTION

Master Tommy is emphatically of the opinion that the sexes ought not to bathe together.

WHITBOROUGH. LOW TIDE. ARRIVAL OF THE SCARBY STEAMER

"DENUDATION"

Niece (after a header). "Oh, aunt, you're not coming in with your spectacles on?"

Aunt Clarissa (who is not used to bathe in the "open"). "My dear, I positively won't take off anything more, I'm determined!!"

Bathing Woman. "Master Franky wouldn't cry! No! Not he!—He'll come to his Martha, and bathe like a man!"

TO THE FIRST BATHING-MACHINE

(After Wordsworth)

MOORINGS

O Blank new-comer! I have seen,

I see thee with a start:

So gentle looking a Machine,

Infernal one thou art!

When first the sun feels rather hot,

Or even rather warm,

From some dim, hibernating spot

Rolls forth thy clumsy form.

Perhaps thou babblest to the sea

Of sunshine and of flowers;

Thou bringest but a thought to me

Of such bad quarter hours.

I, grasping tightly, pale with fear,

Thy very narrow bench,

Thou, bounding on in wild career,

All shake, and jolt, and wrench.

Till comes an unexpected stop;

My forehead hits the door,

And I, with cataclysmic flop,

Lie on thy sandy floor.

Then, dressed in Nature's simplest style,

I, blushing, venture out;

And find the sea is still a mile

Away, or thereabout.

Blithe little children on the sand

Laugh out with childish glee;

Their nurses, sitting near at hand,

All giggling, stare at me.

Unnerved, unwashed, I rush again

Within thy tranquil shade,

And wait until the rising main

Shall banish child and maid.

Thy doors I dare not open now,

Thy windows give no view;

'Tis late; I will not bathe, I vow;

I dress myself anew.

"THALATTA! THALATTA!"

General chorus (as the children's excursion nears its destination). "Oh, I say! There's the sea! 'Ooray!!"

Small boy. "I'll be in fust!"

HOW TO ENJOY A HOLIDAY

A Social Contrast
I.—The Wrong Way

ILE OF MAN

Pater. Here at last! A nice reward for a long and tedious journey!

Mater. Well, you were always complaining in town.

Pater. Broken chairs, rickety table, and a hideous wall-paper!

Mater. Well, I didn't buy the chairs, make the table, or choose the wall-paper. Discontent is your strong point.

Pater. And is likely to remain so. Really, that German band is unbearable!

Mater. My dear, you have no ear for music. Why, you don't even care for my songs! You used to say you liked them once.

Pater. So I did—thirty years ago!

Mater. Before our marriage! And I have survived thirty years!

Pater. Eh? What do you mean by that, madam?

Mater. Anything you please. But come—dinner's ready.

Pater. Dinner! The usual thing, I suppose—underdone fish and overdone meat!

Mater. Well, I see that you are determined to make the best of everything, my dear!

Pater. I am glad you think so, my darling!

[And so they sit down to dinner.

II.—The Right Way.

Pater. Here at last! What a charming spot! A fitting sequel to a very pleasant journey!

Mater. And yet you are very fond of town!

Pater. This room reminds me of my own cozy study. Venerable chairs, a strange old table, and a quaintly-designed wall-paper.

Mater. Well, I think if I had had to furnish the house, I should have chosen the same things myself. But had they been ever so ugly, I feel sure that you would have liked them. You know, sir, that content is your strong point.

Pater. I am sure that I shall find no opportunity of getting any merit (after the fashion of Mark Tapley) for being contented in this pleasant spot. What a capital German band!

A GOAT AND TWO KIDS

Mater. I don't believe that you understand anything about music, sir. Why, you even pretend that you like my old songs!

Pater. And so I do. Every day I live I like them better and better. And yet I heard them for the first time thirty years ago!

Mater. When we were married! And so I have survived thirty years!

Pater. Eh? What do you mean by that, madam?

Mater. That I am a living proof that kindness never kills. How happy we have been! But come—dinner's ready.

Pater. Dinner! The usual thing, I suppose—a nice piece of fish and a juicy joint. Now, that's just what I like. So much better than our pretentious London dinners! Not that a London dinner is not very good in its proper place.

Mater. Well, I see that you are determined to make the best of everything, my dear.

Pater. I am glad you think so, my darling!

[And so they sit down to dinner.

AWFUL SCENE ON THE CHAIN PIER, BRIGHTON

Nursemaid. "Lawk! There goes Charley, and he's took his mar's parasol. What will missus say?"

Temperance Enthusiast. "Look at the beautiful lives our first parents led. Do you suppose they ever gave way to strong drink?"

The Reprobate. "I 'xpect Eve must 'a' done. She saw snakes!"

A POWERFUL QUARTET

(At all events it looks and sounds like one)

SWEETS OF THE SEASIDE.

Shingleton, near Dulborough.

Sympathising Mr. Punch,

With the desire of enjoying a few days of tranquillity and a few dips in the sea, I have arrived and taken lodgings at this "salubrious watering-place" (as the guide-books choose to call it), having heard that it was quiet, and possessed of a steep, cleanly, and bathe-inviting beach. As to the latter point, I find that fame has not belied it; but surely with a view to tempt me into suicide, some demon must have coupled the term "quiet" with this place. Quiet! Gracious Powers of Darkness! if this be your idea of a quiet spot to live in, I wonder what, according to your notion, need be added to its tumult to make a noisy town. Here is a list of aural tortures wherewith we are tormented, which may serve by way of time-table to advertise the musical attractions of the place:—

1 a.m.—Voices of the night. Revellers returning home.

1.30 a.m.—Duet, "Io t'amo", squealed upon the tiles, by the famous feline vocalists Mademoiselle Minette and Signor Catterwaulini.

2 a.m.—Barc-arole and chorus, "Bow wow wow" (Bach), by the Bayers of the Moon.

3 a.m.—Song without words, by the early village cock.

REDCAR

3.30 a.m.—Chorus by his neighbours, high and low, mingling the treble of the Bantam with the Brahma's thorough bass.

4 a.m.—Twittering of swallows, and chirping of early birds, before they go to catch their worms.

4.45 a.m.—Meeting of two natives, of course just under your window, who converse in a stage-whisper at the tip-top of their voices.

5 a.m.—Stampede of fishermen, returning from their night's work in their heavy boots.

6 a.m.—Start of shrimpers, barefooted, but occasionally bawling.

7 a.m.—Shutters taken down, and small boys sally forth and shout to one another from the two ends of the street.

ENJOYING THE HEIGHT OF THE SEAS-ON

7.15 a.m.—"So-holes! fine fresh so-holes!"

7.30 a.m.—"Mack'reel! fower a shillun! Ma-a-ack'reel!"

8 a.m.—Piano play begins, and goes on until midnight.

8.25 a.m.—Barrel-organ at the corner. Banjo in the distance.

9 a.m.—German band to right of you. Ophicleide out of time, clarionette out of tune.

MEETING OF THE OLD AND NEW PEERS AT BRIGHTON

9.30 a.m.—"Pa-aper, mornin' pa-aper! Daily Telegraft!"

9.45 a.m.—German band to left of you. Clarionette and cornet both out of time and tune.

10.15 a.m.—A key-bugler and a bag-piper a dozen yards apart.

11 a.m.—Performance of Punch and Toby, who barks more than is good for him.

WALTON ON THE NAZE

11.30 a.m.—Bellowing black-faced ballad-bawlers, with their banjoes and their bones.

Such is our daily programme of music until noon, and such, with sundry variations, it continues until midnight. Small wonder that I have so little relish for my meals, and that, in spite of the sea air, I can hardly sleep a wink. I shall return to Town to-morrow, for surely all the street tormentors must be out of it, judging by the numbers that now plague the sad seaside.

Miserrimus.

"THE MEAT SUPPLY"

Bathing-man. "Yes, mum, he's a good old 'orse yet. And he's been in the salt water so long, he'll make capital biled beef when we're done with him!!!"

Our Poetess. "Do not talk to me of dinner, Edwin. I must stay by this beautiful Sea, and drink it all in!"

Bill the Boatman. "Lor! She's a thirsty one too!"

HOW TO KILL TIME AT THE SEASIDE

Hire bath-chairs, put the bath-chairmen inside, and drag them as fast as you can up and down the parade.

INOPPORTUNE

Enthusiast of the "No Hat Brigade" (to elderly gentleman, who has just lost his hat). "Fine idea this, sir, for the hair, eh?"

Jones. "Hullo, Brown, what's the matter with you and Mrs. Brown?"

Brown. "Matter? Why, do you know what they call us down here? They call us Beauty and the Beast! Now I should like to know what my poor wife has done to get such a name as that!"

THE TREACHEROUS TIDE

I sat on a slippery rock,

In the grey cliff's opal shade,

And the wanton waves went curvetting by

Like a roystering cavalcade.

And they doffed their crested plumes,

As they kissed the blushing sand,

Till her rosy face dimpled over with smiles

At the tricks of the frolicsome band.

Then the kittywake laughed, "Ha! ha!"

And the sea-mew wailed with pain,

As she sailed away on the shivering wind

To her home o'er the surging main.

And the jelly-fish quivered with rage,

While the dog-crabs stood by to gaze,

And the star-fish spread all her fingers abroad,

And sighed for her grandmothers' days.

And the curlew screamed, "Fie! fie!"

And the great gull groaned at the sight,

And the albatross rose and fled with a shriek

To her nest on the perilous height.

* * * * *

Good gracious! the place where I sat

With sea-water was rapidly filling,

And a hoarse voice cried, "Sir, you're caught by the tide!

And I'll carry ye off for a shilling!"

"Local Colour."—Place: South Parade, Cheapenham-on-Sea.—Edith. "Mabel dear, would you get me Baedeker's Switzerland and the last Number of the World."

Mabel. "What do you want them for?"

Edith. "Oh, I'm writing letters, and we're in the Engadine, you know, and I just want to describe some of our favourite haunts, and mention a few of the people who are staying there—here, I mean."

THE LAY OF THE LAST LODGER

I.

Oh dreary, dreary, dreary me!

My jaw is sore with yawning—

I'm weary of the dreary sea,

With its roaring beach

Where sea-gulls screech,

And shrimpers shrimp,

And limpets limp,

And winkles wink,

And trousers shrink;

And the groaning, moaning, droning tide

Goes splashing and dashing from side to side,

With all its might, from morn to night,

And from night to morning's dawning.

II.

The shore's a flood of puddly mud,

And the rocks are limy and slimy—

And I've tumbled down with a thud—good lud!—

And I fear I swore,

For something tore;

And my shoes are full

Of the stagnant pool;

And hauling, sprawling, crawling crabs

Have got in my socks with starfish and dabs;

And my pockets are swarming with polypes and prawns,

And noisome beasts with shells and horns,

That scrunch and scrape, and goggle and gape,

Are up my sleeve, I firmly believe—

And I'm horribly rimy and grimy.

III.

I'm sick of the strand, and the sand, and the band,

And the niggers and jiggers and dodgers;

And the cigars of rather doubtful brand;

And my landlady's "rights",

And the frequent fights

On wretched points

Of ends of joints,

Which disappear, with my brandy and beer,

In a way that, to say the least, is queer.

And to mingle among the throng I long,

And to poke my joke and warble my song—

But there's no one near

On sands or pier,

For everyone's gone and I'm left alone,

The Last of the Seaside Lodgers!

Note by Our Man Out of Town—Watering places—resorts where the visitor is pumped dry.

A STARTLING PROPOSITION

Seedy Individual (suddenly and with startling vigour)—

"Aoh! Floy with me ercross ther sea,

Ercross ther dork lergoon!!"

CROWDED STATE OF LODGING HOUSES

Lodging-House Keeper. "On'y this room to let, mem. A four-post—a tent—and a very comfortable double-bedded chest of drawers for the young gentlemen."

A WET DAY AT THE SEASIDE

FILEY

Why does not some benefactor to his species discover and publish to a grateful world some rational way of spending a wet day at the seaside? Why should it be something so unutterably miserable and depressing that its mere recollection afterwards makes one shudder?

This is the first really wet day that we have had for a fortnight, but what a day! From morn to dewy eve, a summer's day, and far into the black night, the pitiless rain has poured and poured and poured. I broke the unendurable monotony of gazing from the weeping windows of my seaside lodging, by rushing out wildly and plunging madly into the rainy sea, and got drenched to the skin both going and returning. After changing everything, as people say but don't mean, and thinking I saw something like a break in the dull leaden clouds, I again rushed out, and called on Jones, who has rooms in an adjacent terrace, and, with some difficulty, persuaded him to accompany me to the only billiard table in the miserable place. We both got gloriously wet on our way to this haven of amusement, and were received with the pleasing intelligence that it was engaged by a private party of two, who had taken it until the rain ceased, and, when that most improbable event happened, two other despairing lodgers had secured the reversion. Another rush home, another drenching, another change of everything, except the weather, brought the welcome sight of dinner, over which we fondly lingered for nearly two mortal hours.

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?

BOATMAN SECURING A LIVELY-HOOD

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.

ON HIS HONEYMOON TOO!

Man with Sand Ponies. "Now then, Mister, you an' the young lady, a pony apiece? 'Ere y'are!"

Snobley (loftily). "Aw—I'm not accustomed to that class of animal."

Man (readily). "Ain't yer, sir? Ne' mind." (To boy.) "'Ere, Bill, look sharp! Gent'll have a donkey!"

SEASIDE SPLITTERS

LIFE WOULD BE PLEASANT, BUT FOR ITS "PLEASURES."—Sir Cornewall Lewis

In consequence of the English watering-places being crowded, people are glad to find sleeping accommodation in the bathing-machines.

Boots (from Jones's Hotel). "I've brought your shaving water, sir; and you'll please to take care of your boots on the steps, gents: the tide's just a comin' in!"

RETURNING HOME FROM THE SEASIDE

All the family have colds, except the under-nurse, who has a face-ache. Poor materfamilias, who originated the trip, is in despair at all the money spent for nothing, and gives way to tears. Paterfamilias endeavours to console her with the reflection that "he knew how it would be, but that, after all, St. John's Wood, where they live, is such a healthy place that, with care and doctoring, they will soon be nearly as well as if they had never left it!"

[Two gay bachelors may be seen contemplating paterfamilias and his little group. Their interest is totally untinged with envy.

OVERHEARD AT SCARBOROUGH

"Do you know anything good for a cold?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Have you got the price of two Scotch whiskies on you?"

"No."

"Then it's no use my telling you."

Snobson (to inhabitant of out-of-way seaside resort). "What sort of people do you get down here in the summer?"

Inhabitant. "Oh, all sorts, zur. There be fine people an' common people, an' some just half-an'-half, like yourself, zur."

THE OYSTERS AT WHITSTABLE FROZEN IN THEIR BEDS!

(See Daily Papers)

A DELICIOUS DIP.

Bathing Attendant. "Here, Bill! The gent wants to be took out deep—take 'im into the drain!!"

She. "How much was old Mr. Baskerville's estate sworn at by his next-of-kin?"

He. "Oh—a pretty good lot."

She. "Really? Why, I heard he died worth hardly anything!"

He. "Yes, so he did—that's just it."

EVIDENCE OLFACTORY

Angelina (scientific). "Do you smell the iodine from the sea, Edwin? Isn't it refreshing?"

Old Salt (overhearing). "What you smell ain't the sea, miss. It's the town drains as flows out just 'ere!"

OBLIGING.

Excursionist (to himself). "Ullo! 'ere's one o' them artists. 'Dessay 'e'll want a genteel figger for 'is foreground. I'll stand for 'im!!!"

True Dipsomania.—Overbathing at the seaside.

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 Bâle, 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?

THE MURMUR OF THE TIED

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.

SUSPICION

Stout Visitor (on discovering that, during his usual nap after luncheon, he has been subjected to a grossly personal practical joke). "It's one o' those dashed artists that are staying at the 'Lord Nelson' 'a' done this, I know!"

Aunt Jane. "It's wonderful how this wireless telegraphy is coming into use!"

A DREAM OF THE SEA

Ethel, who is not to have a seaside trip this year, dreams every night that she and her mamma and aunt and sisters spread their sash-bows and panniers and fly away to the yellow sands.

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.

A LANCASHIRE WATERING-PLACE

"MERRY MARGIT"

(Another communication from the side of the dear sea waves)

DEAL

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 crème de la crême 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, née Tompkins.

Boy (to Brown, who is exceedingly proud of his sporting appearance). "Want a donkey, mister?"

"NICE FOR THE VISITORS"

(Sketch outside a fashionable hotel)

INCORRIGIBLE

Visitor. "Well, my man, I expect it must have cost you a lot of money to paint your nose that colour!"

Reprobate. "Ah, an' if Oi cud affoord it, Oi'd have it varnished now!"

"NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTE"

Materfamilias (just arrived at Shrimpville—the children had been down a month before). "Well, Jane, have you found it dull?"

Nurse. "It was at fust, M'm. There was nothink to improve the mind, M'm, till the niggers come down!!"

BY THE SAD SEA WAVES

"But, are you sure?"

"Yus, lady. 'E's strong as an 'orse!"

"But how am I to get on?"

"Oh, I'll lift yer!"

DELICATE ATTENTION

Confiding Spinster. "I'm afraid the sea is too cold for me this morning, Mr. Swabber."

Bathing Man. "Cold, miss! Lor' bless yer, I just took and powered a kittle o' bilin' water in to take the chill off when I see you a comin'!"

HOLIDAY PLEASURES

Injured Individual. "Heigho! I did think I should find some refuge from the miseries of the seaside in the comforts of a bed! Just look where my feet are, Maria!"

His Wife. "Well, John! it's only for a month, you know!"

BLIGHTED HOPES

Extract of letter from Laura to Lillie:—"I declare, dear, I never gave the absurd creature the slightest encouragement. I did say, one evening, I thought the little sandy coves about Wobbleswick were charming, especially one. The idea!—of his thinking I was alluding to him!"—— &c., &c.

SENSITIVE

"I think I told you, in my letter of the first of October, of his absurd interpretation of an innocent remark of mine about the sandy shores of Wobbleswick. Well, would you believe it, dear! we were strolling on the Esplanade, the other day, when he suddenly left Kate and me, and took himself off in a tremendous huff because we said we liked walking with an object!!"

[Extract from a later letter of Laura's to Lillie.

PREHISTORIC PEEPS

"No bathing to-day!"

PREHISTORIC PEEPS

A Nocturne which would seem to show that "residential flats" were not wholly unknown even in primeval times!

Blinks. "The sun 'll be over the yard-arm in ten minutes. Then we'll have a drink!"

Jinks. "I think I'll have one while I'm waiting!"

TRIALS OF A CONVALESCENT

Tompkins (in a feeble voice, for the fourth or fifth time, with no result). "Chairman!!! chairman!!!"

That Awful Boy. "Lydies and gentlemen——!!"

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.)

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."

AWKWARD

The aristocratic Jones (rather ashamed of his loud acquaintance, Brown). "You must excuse me, but if there's one thing in the world I particularly object to, it's to having anybody take my arm!"

Brown. "All right, old fellow!—you take mine!"

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.

PARIS?

"Not if I know it! Give me a quiet month at the seaside, and leave me alone, please!"

CONVERSATIONAL PITFALLS

Irene. "Do you remember Kitty Fowler?"

Her Friend. "No, I don't."

Irene. "Oh, you must remember Kitty. She was the plainest girl in Torquay. But I forgot—that was after you left!"