BOURNEMOUTH.--Imagine a few houses set down in the midst of a forest of
pines on two great cliffs overhanging the sea; with a sandy soil, and
you have Bournemouth. There are shops, indeed, and a principal street,
but they are so mixed up with the pines and so divided, one from the
other, that they do not give an impression of town life at all, and one
easily imagines oneself to be in the depths of the country. The pines
are the fetishes of Bournemouth. You breathe in their healing balsam,
you bathe in pine juice and sleep on pine pillows. You walk in pine
groves, and sit on furniture made exclusively of pine and, when you
die, you are laid under the shade of the pines. I don't doubt the fact
that pines are healthy in moderation, but they are monotonous.
Bournemouth is a new place, for everything dates back only forty years.
Before that there were only plantations of pines on the cliff. The
name of the discoverer of Bournemouth is unknown, but the man who has
"made" the place, and made it, too, with wonderful taste and skill,
building all the houses in the pine woods and cutting hardly any of
them down, is Sir George Meyrick, ably assisted by the Lord of the
Manor who owns the half not belonging to Sir George. One cannot call
Bournemouth wildly gay, but it is eminently select--so are the prices,
which are high enough to frighten away any one under the rank (and
income) of a Marquis. There is no theatre in the town, the aforesaid
Lord of the Manor who owns most of the freehold objecting to such
worldly amusements; but the inhabitants have managed to get around him
by fitting up the town hall as an amateur play-house, where occasional
third-rate companies perform.
But people hardly come here to go to the play. They come for rest and
change. Bournemouth is a good long way from London: three hours from
Waterloo station, and in Hampshire, on the border line of Dorset.
The climate is wonderfully dry, and milder than that of London, but
not warm. Indeed, there is little difference between the climates of
Geneva and Bournemouth, except that, of course, there is more snow in
Geneva, and the air is less relaxing. One can easily understand how
consumptives may derive benefit from it (lately many have hurried off
to Berlin to place themselves in Dr. Koch's clinic), but to healthy
people it is debilitating, even more so than the climate of Nice and
San Remo.
The scenery around is lovely. Great hollows (locally called chines)
extend to the sea between the cliffs, and a drive along the coast
reminds one forcibly of the drive along the Corniche road between
Monte Carlo and Mentone. Indeed, this part of the Hampshire coast is
beginning to be called the British Riviera, and it deserves the name,
although the sea is less blue and the sky has a duller tinge than those
of the Mediterranean coast can show. The neighbouring drives are full
of interest. The ruins of Corfe Castle will repay a visit, and Canford
Manor, Lord Wimborne's place, is well worth seeing. There are drives
to Poole, a sea-port near, and to Christchurch, with which Bournemouth
is incorporated for the purpose of Parliamentary representation.
Boscombe Chine and Branksome Chine are lovely spots, a little way out
of Bournemouth.
Bournemouth is rich in churches. St. Peter's is a noble bit of
architecture, and Holy Trinity is a remarkable building, whose steeple
is a tower distinct from the main building. Its rector, Canon Eliot,
has recently been appointed Dean of Windsor and Domestic Chaplain to
the Queen; and people are lamenting his departure, for he has been here
twenty years and during that time has gained for his church, by his own
efforts, the sum of £40,000.
The inhabitants of Bournemouth have been anxious for some time to
have the place granted a charter of incorporation, so that they might
rejoice in a _bona fide_ Mayor of their own instead of having to put
up with a simple Chairman of Commissioners. A member of Her Majesty's
Privy Council came down to inspect the town and advised the Queen to
grant the charter, which she did last month. Lately political feeling
has been running high over the election of the Mayor, and there have
been several Richmonds in the field, one of whom put forward the fact
that he had been for seven years caterer to H. R. H. the Prince of
Wales and to the Guards' Club in London as a claim to the office. He
came within a few votes of election, but was beaten by the leading
stationer of the town.
Now to celebrate this important epoch in the history of Bournemouth,
Lord and Lady Portarlington, who live very near, decided to give
a _conversazione_ in the Winter Garden of the Hotel Mont Doré. Of
course, the Mayor and Aldermen appeared; and now the current of
feeling in Bournemouth is at fever heat, for "the right worshipful,
the Mayor," to give him his proper title, appeared in robes and chains
of office--_hinc illæ lachrymæ_. England is divided equally on this
subject; about half the Mayors of provincial towns wearing robes and
badges, with cocked hats and the other half confining themselves to
a simple chain of office. The Bournemouth papers are fighting the
matter tooth and nail, and one worthy Alderman (an Irish-American
green-grocer) has resigned office rather than submit to wear "these
relics of mediævalism." It will be news to most of us that cocked hats
were _en evidence_ in the middle ages.
But Bournemouth is really a charming place and well worth a visit.
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