as this was Dr. Fleming’s first visit to England, I began to question my
friends and others as to the best pharmacy at which to have the
prescription filled. The proprietor of the Windsor Hotel, Mr. J. R.
Cleave, said “Margate;” so, too, said the intelligent manager of the
house, Mr. Mann. An old and trusted friend wrote me, “Don’t go to
Margate, go to Brighton or to Hastings.” Thus opinions differed. I knew
all about Brighton and wanted to see a place new to me. I was much
inclined to go to Hastings, but a consensus of opinion prevailed in
favor of Margate.
“There’s a beautiful air at Margate,” is the response of everyone in
England to whom you speak of that place, from the boys at Low’s exchange
in Charing Cross to Mr. Richard Whiteing, editor of the London Daily
News. This remark was also made to me by Major Arthur Griffiths, an
English author and _litterateur_, who is known and esteemed on both
sides of the Atlantic. So to Margate I went.
Margate is on the south coast of England, seventy-five miles from
London, whence it is reached by the London, Chatham and Dover Railway.
This is the road celebrated for the beautiful rural scenery that borders
it; it passes through the prettiest parts of Kent, “the garden of
England,” through Rochester and Canterbury, famous for their cathedrals,
and other places of historic and scenic interest. You may also reach
Margate by steamer from London Bridge. It is a pleasant sail on the
Thames of ninety-three miles.
Having arrived at Margate, you can make it the starting point for many a
delightful excursion. Boulogne on the French coast, for instance, across
the channel, is directly opposite Margate; steamer fare round trip, six
shillings--a dollar and a half.
Other pleasant excursions are made to Canterbury and to Ramsgate. To
these places run “pleasure vans” accommodating twenty persons and the
fare ranges from threepence to a shilling, according to the style of
vehicle. If you do not care to patronize the pleasure vans, you may hire
a victoria at two shillings per hour. Canterbury is the site of the
famous cathedral. At Ramsgate lived the Jewish philanthropist, Sir Moses
Montefiore, for nearly the length of his long and useful life--one
hundred years.
Another interesting excursion is to the old-fashioned village of
Broadstairs, for many years the home of Charles Dickens. The house
Dickens occupied and which he called “Bleak House,” still stands on its
commanding site at the top of the cliffs directly overlooking the sea. A
description of Bleak House, with illustration, appeared in the Home
Journal in January, 1891, and has been widely copied in this country as
well as in England. Broadstairs is only a five-mile drive from Margate,
fare by victoria four shillings.
Few Americans who cross the ocean go to Margate, but they may spend a
couple of days or a couple of weeks there with advantage. Margate is a
town with a history. Its foremost historical feature is the Church of
St. John, built in 1050. It has seen the rise of Norman, Plantagenet and
Tudor dynasties and still stands, the oldest of England’s possessions.
In the time of Queen Anne, according to the chronicler, to be buried in
a sheet cost sixpence, and a shilling was the extravagant price of a
coffin, but the honor of being buried from St. John’s Church cost two
shillings more! Marriage banns were to be had at St. John’s for
three-and-six.
Modern Margate is one of England’s most popular watering-places. There
are many pleasant walks and some fine buildings. One of the pleasure
resorts is the ocean pier. Here, three times a week, a large band of
picked musicians perform a good programme giving a promenade concert
directly over the breakers.
It is the boast of the Britisher that his government is “parental;” it
not only assumes to take charge of the individual, but it does in many
particulars compel him to take care of himself. If, for instance, you
are caught boarding or leaving a moving train you are fined “forty
shillings” (ten dollars)--a favorite sum for a fine, by the way, is that
same forty shillings.
The pier at Margate would seem to be an exception to the rule of safety;
it cannot be called absolutely safe at night. The boat landing below is
reached by several flights of wide stairs, and the lowest flight is open
and unguarded, not only in daytime but also at night. In addition to
this the lower part of the pier is not lighted at all, and it would be
the easiest thing in the world on a dark night to walk off by accident
into the water. Why more accidents and loss of life do not occur is
surprising. Twopence admits you to the pier, and it is a popular
democratic resort.
At night the scene near the pier is a lively one. Street restaurateurs,
their barrows ablaze with flambeaux, line the highway and drive quite a
business selling plates of oysters, mussels, cockles and snails, which
are more or less tempting.
[Illustration: MARGATE.]
If you are fond of sea bathing by all means go to Margate. There is no
high-rolling surf, but if you are a swimmer you will be all the better
pleased. There are no ropes to lay hold of, none are necessary; you
bathe in perfect safety and comfort, and, as at all English resorts, you
bathe from a “machine.”
In America bathing facilities consist of long rows of commodious wooden
boxes placed on the beach at some distance from the surf. You purchase a
bathing ticket for twenty-five or fifty cents, the price depending on
whether you prefer a woolen to a cotton costume. You receive the suit
and the key of your box. Then you put your valuables in an envelope
sealed by yourself and hand them to the custodian, who places them in a
separate box in an enormous safe, returning you a check tied to a rubber
band, which latter you pass over your head and wear while bathing. You
proceed to your “house,” as we call it, disrobe and don your scant suit,
lock your door and walk out and down to the edge of the water, where, as
fancy dictates, you loll around on the beach, talking to your friends,
or you plunge immediately into the breakers only to come out, dry
yourself in the sun, cut up capers on the sand, chat or smoke, repeating
the process _ad libitum_. Of course men and women bathe together.
Not so in England. There you bathe from “machines,” small wooden houses,
five feet square by ten feet high, mounted on four wheels. They have
entrances back and front, each approached by a low flight of steps. You
enter by one door in street costume, and having disrobed and donned your
bathing garments, you give the signal, a horse is attached to the
“machine” which is drawn a short distance into the water. You step down
and out, disport yourself in the water as long as you please and reënter
your box, to emerge therefrom once more in everyday habiliments. No
lolling about the beach, no unseemly display of person; all is
conducted in a proper, staid and exemplary manner--on the beach.
And in sooth, why should you walk around and smoke and chat with your
friends on this occasion, in a costume, or lack of costume, which if
worn at other times or places would land you in jail for exposure of
person? This with reference to the American custom or costume.
In England it is worse in some respects, for while the women dress as
they do here, the men bathe in a nude state, so to speak. They wear
small trunks or loin cloths only, and men and women bathe together
indiscriminately. Notices are posted in prominent places near the beach,
boldly printed and bearing the English coat of arms, to the effect that
in the water men and women must remain separate, and further that you
will be fined forty shillings (of course forty shillings) if you are
found nearer to a female than one hundred yards; but it is a dead letter
law, and is entirely disregarded. I am not the most prudish man in the
world, but I confess to having been shocked. Trunks did not suit me; I
preferred and obtained a bathing costume which is to be had upon special
application.
The beach is hard and smooth, broad and gently sloping. The bluff at
Long Branch is not to be mentioned, scarcely, with the bold, beautiful
white chalk cliffs that rise abruptly and picturesquely from the beach
at Margate to a height of seventy-five feet. Along this bluff are miles
of grassy, serpentine walks, gardens prettily laid out, dotted with
summer houses and bounded by hedges and clover fields--a beautiful,
natural landscape, artificially enhanced.
The favorite bathing place on the beach is managed by Charlotte Pettman.
It is reached by a “coast guard” cutting in the cliff, an inclined
passageway sloping from the road to the beach under the bridge. It is a
sort of artificial cañon. Bathers are charged sixpence each, “six baths
for two-and-six, twelve for four-and-six.”
Mrs. Pettman advertises her baths by a circular which contains the
following touching verse, no doubt assisting trade materially.
“I pitied the dove, for my bosom was tender,
I pitied the sigh that she gave to the wind;
But I ne’er shall forget the superlative splendor
Of Charlotte’s sea baths, the pride of mankind.”
In his early days of struggle the great Charles Dickens, for a few
shillings, penned these lines as a “puff” of Day & Martin’s blacking.
So far as the waves are concerned, the cliff is as solid as it appears
to be, but it has yielded to the hand of man, and at Charlotte Pettman’s
baths there is a statue sculptured in the cliff, entitled “My first
plunge.” It is the life-size figure of a young and beautiful girl in
bathing costume, just about to take “a header” from the platform. It is
by Priestman, an English artist. The door is opened to art lovers for
twopence each, or as much more as the generously disposed may be
inclined to give, the proceeds being handed over to a local hospital.
One of Margate’s architectural features, as seen in the accompanying
illustration, is its handsome clocktower, standing in a conspicuous
position on the Marine drive. It was erected in honor of the Queen’s
Jubilee in 1887, and has a musical chime of bells.
Like Brighton and some other seaside resorts, Margate is democratic in
the height of summer, but select in the autumn. In olden times the
season commenced in June and continued until October. Margate offers
every inducement to a prolonged season. While London is miserable under
November fogs and humid atmosphere, Margate is brilliant with glorious
days and bright skies; fine weather from August until Christmas.
Americans, of course, must flock to the largest hotel. They like size,
and many of them patronize the Cliftonville Hotel, which, to be sure, is
a large establishment in the most fashionable, and certainly the most
attractive part of the town, near the grand cliffs, and overlooking the
sea--a splendid site and a beautiful house exteriorly, but not as well
kept as an American host might care for it.
The White Hart Hotel, on the principal street, is a commercial house,
and has a comfortable appearance from the outside, but the Nayland Rock
Hotel, not far from the two railway stations, yet overlooking the sea,
and from the windows of which you may toss a biscuit into the water
(provided you have the biscuit), is to my knowledge a well-appointed
hotel, with bedrooms as clean and comfortable and dining-room as
cheerful as any hotel in the world. The cuisine is of the best. If great
variety be absent, quality is present. The food is choice, and served in
a neat, tempting and scrupulously clean manner.
European hotels, as a rule, are kept on the European plan; at the
Nayland Rock you have your choice. If you choose the American plan, the
terms are very low for the accommodation afforded. Two dollars and a
half a day secures you pleasant room, three good meals, lights and
service. There are no extras. The wines are of first quality.
But I almost forgot an important item. I went to Margate for health and
rest; I found both there. After one week I returned to London “like a
lion refreshed,” and I shall always say, as everybody in London says,
“there’s a beautiful air at Margate.”
TWO BRIGHTON HOTELS.
The company that owns the Grand Hotel and the Métropole in London,
opened in March, 1890, a magnificent house at Brighton, on the English
southern sea coast. “Magnificent” is the word. It is built of stone; it
faces the sea; it has an acre or two at the back laid out in gardens,
tennis courts, and pretty walks, after the style of the United States
Hotel at Saratoga; there is a separate building on the grounds for a
ball-room, in this respect resembling the Grand Union Hotel at the same
American spa; the elegant drawing-room on the ground floor looks on the
King’s Road and the ocean; the library, which faces the garden, contains
a large and choice selection of books by leading authors, and in the
basement there are Turkish and Russian baths fitted up with a luxury and
perfection of appointment not equalled in any other hotel. The
proprietors have availed themselves of all the latest ideas in the
construction and furnishing of hotels, and nothing that money can
supply, or good taste can suggest, has been left undone to make the
Métropole at Brighton what it is--one of the most beautiful and
luxurious hotels in the world. It is said to accommodate six or seven
hundred guests.
Besides this hotel, and the Grand and Métropole hotels in London, the
same company owns another hotel in London, “The First Avenue,” in
Holborn; also the Burlington at Eastbourne; the Royal Pier Hotel at
Ryde, Isle of Wight; the Métropole at Monte Carlo; and the Métropole at
Cannes--all of them luxurious establishments.
Brighton attracts visitors the year round; in fact it is a city of no
mean size, having a permanent population numbering an eighth of a
million. It enjoys two seasons--one for the _hoi polloi_, which begins
in June and lasts three months, and another for the fashionable world,
which begins in September and continues till near Christmas. During the
second season the prices at Brighton are greatly increased.
I entered one of the leading hotels one day about lunch time, and as is
my custom before engaging rooms or partaking of a meal at an English
hotel, I asked: “What is the charge for a _table d’hôte_ lunch here?”
“Two-and-six,” replied the porter. As for seeing the lessee or manager
of an English hotel, you can almost as easily secure an audience with
the czar of all the Russias.
But to return to my muttons--or to the lunch, which, truth to tell, was
good in quality and nicely served. My daughter heard the following
conversation between the head waiter and the said porter as we were
passing in to the “coffee-room.” Quoth the former:--“How much did you
tell these people for lunch?” “Two-and-six,” replied that blue-coated,
gold-embroidered official. “That’s wrong,” remarked the head waiter, who
almost lost his head as well as his temper. “Three shillings is the
price to strangers,” and three shillings each we had to pay.
This reminds me of the old story of the Englishman who was heard to
remark about a man passing, who had a foreign look: “’Ere’s a stranger,
Bill, ’eave ’arf a brick at ’im.”
That they call these apartments in English hotels “Coffee Rooms,” when
they never serve in them a cup of coffee after dinner without a separate
and extra charge, is rather exasperating.
The porters and officials at some English hotels are not, though it
appears as if they were, in league with the cabmen. If you ask them
about rates just before taking a drive they will occasionally mislead
you and name a higher rate than the usual or legal one. For instance, I
asked the clerk at another hotel in Brighton, what was the fare by the
hour for a drive in an open cab or victoria holding two persons. “Four
shillings per hour,” quickly responded my misinformant. I knew better,
for this was not my first visit to Brighton, but said nothing. To a
cabman with a good-looking victoria who stood immediately opposite the
hotel entrance I popped this question: “What will you charge us for an
hour’s drive along the beach and about the town?” “Two-and-six,” briskly
replied cabbie and we drove about the pretty place for a whole hour for
the half crown.
[Illustration]
A VISIT TO BLEAK HOUSE.
Bleak House, the scene of the novel of that name, is near the village of
St. Albans, about twenty miles from London, and is described in the
early part of the story as an “old-fashioned house with three peaks in
the roof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch.” That there
was more than one Bleak House in the mind of Dickens “there can be no
possible probable manner of doubt,” as Gilbert sings in “The
Gondoliers,” because at the close of the story one of the characters in
it is made to say, “Both houses are your home, my dear, but the older
Bleak House claims priority.”
But the “Bleak House” which was for many years the home of Charles
Dickens, and where he wrote many of his novels, was so named by the
author after his famous story. It is located in the old-fashioned
village of Broadstairs, on the North Sea, in the county of Kent, the
garden of England, and is seventy-two miles from London, on the London,
Chatham and Dover Railway. The population is given in the latest census
as two thousand two hundred and sixty-three.
The house was formerly called Fort House, from its proximity to the
British fortifications on the coast. It stands directly on the top of
the chalk cliffs, seventy-five feet above the water, quite alone, and so
near to the edge that from the portico a stone might be easily thrown
into the surf--what little surf there is. It
[Illustration: BLEAK HOUSE.]
commands a wide view of the ocean. In the southwest it looks toward
Ramsgate, a seaside pleasure resort, distant five miles; in the
northeast toward Kingsgate. The house is appropriately named, for it is
indeed bleak from Christmas until April, when the cold, biting northeast
winds, for which these parts are noted, blow with all their might.
It was natural for Dickens to select such a spot for a residence. If he
was not actually fond of the sea, he certainly had a great liking for
the sea-coast, with which were associated the earliest memories of his
childhood. It will be remembered that he was born at Portsmouth, a
fortified seaport town, and the principal naval station of Great
Britain, about one hundred miles southwest of London. Dickens lived at
Portsmouth until he arrived at his majority. At Portsmouth he studied
law, but he found Blackstone and Coke rather dry reading, and so went to
London where, as every body knows, he entered upon his literary career
by reporting parliamentary debates for the _Morning Chronicle_.
Bleak House is a plain, substantial, compact, three-story structure of
burnt brick. It has grounds of one and a quarter acres in extent, and
the property is what is called in England “freehold;” value, two
thousand seven hundred pounds sterling. A stone wall five feet high,
encloses the house on two sides. One side of the house is a flat, blank
wall, evidently planned so that an extension could be easily made, and
the lower part of the front is protected by plain iron railings. The
entrance is by a low flight of five steps leading up to a portico and
doorway supported by Doric columns. Next the doorway, on the first
story, a semi-circular bay window projects, and on the second story are
two deep windows which open upon a pretty ornamental iron balcony,
having a curved, sloping roof. A great deal of ivy softens the bareness
of the architecture. It climbs up the walls and around the bay windows.
Dickens was very partial to the ivy plant, as his lyric, “The Ivy
Green,” testifies. He wrote several lyrics, but “The Ivy Green” which
appeared originally in “Pickwick Papers” is the only one that has become
familiar. It was first published as a song in the United States, and
when a London publisher wished to reproduce it in England, Dickens
refused the privilege except on the condition that the publisher pay ten
guineas to the composer, Henry Russell.
Dickens was more thoughtful concerning Henry Russell’s rights than this
English composer is of the rights of others. I well remember that my
predecessor on the _Home Journal_, the much beloved poet, George P.
Morris, had a grudge against Russell, because Russell, in England,
claimed to be the author of the words, “Woodman, Spare that Tree,” as
well as the composer of the music; and it is my humble opinion that the
music in merit is far below Morris’s poetry. The sentiment is beautiful,
the words breathe a true, manly spirit and are full of deep feeling,
while the music is plaintive, weak, childish--namby-pamby expresses it.
Russell did better with the English poet Mackay’s song, “Cheer, Boys,
Cheer,” making it go with life and spirit, and he set appropriate music
to our own Epes Sargent’s song, “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” in which you
may fancy you almost see the good old sailing ship bowling along before
the wind. Henry Russell, who, by the way, is a father of Clark Russell,
the novelist, is still living in London--February, 1892.
As to the melody, “The Ivy Green,” an astute critic says: “It seems to
me the composer has failed to catch the poet’s meaning. Dickens’s words
are as sombre and tender as the vine that deepens the shadows and
softens the ruggedness of decaying grandeur; while Russell’s music is
as free and sturdy as the hardiest oak.” The song opens with this
stanza:
A dainty plant is the ivy green
That creepeth o’er ruins old,
Of rich choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold;
The wall must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim,
And the mould’ring dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
The house is about fifty years old, and contains ten rooms. Dickens’s
study was on the second floor, front. It has a southeastern outlook; he
was fond of the rising sun. The furniture and appointments of the room,
which the writer saw in the autumn of 1891, remain as when Dickens left
them--table with telescope, bookcase, plain wooden armchair, etc.--a
very simply furnished study. He did not die at Bleak House, however, but
at a short distance from it, on June 9, 1870, at Gads’ Hill, “Higham by
Rochester, Kent,” as he was in the habit of dating from.
Dickens, at Bleak House, was a tenant of a Mr. Fosbury, but the house
was sold after Dickens’s death, and is at present owned in Broadstairs
by “W. S. Blackburn, house and estate agent, undertaker, builder and
decorator, and upholsterer and mover of furniture,” by which
man-of-many-trades the house was leased for a very short term to a Mrs.
Whitehead, sister of the vicar of St. Peter’s of Broadstairs, at an
annual rent of six hundred dollars. Mr. Blackburn now offers the
property for sale. It would make a cool and charming summer retreat for
some American prince. Or let some large-hearted and large-pursed man
like George W. Childs buy the precious property and present it to the
village of Broadstairs.
[Illustration: BLEAK HOUSE FROM THE NORTH SEA.]
TAKIN’ NOTES
IN EDINBORO’ TOWN.
Singular that more Americans do not “take in” Scotland when they are
making the grand tour. Its historic interest and its scenic beauty are
great. Glasgow is reached direct from New York by the fine fleet of
Anchor boats, numbered among which are the “Furnessia,” the “Devonia”
and the “City of Rome.” Excepting the last named the Scotch boats are
slow in these days of “racers” and “greyhounds,” but they are very
comfortable vessels, as I know, from experience, and I have crossed in
seven days by the “Rome”--crossed, that is, from Queenstown to New York.
If you don’t care about bustling, busy Glasgow, with its smoke and its
dirt, bonnie Edinburgh is distant only sixty-five minutes by express
trains of the Caledonian railway, one of the best built and best
equipped roads in Great Britain.
It hasn’t the commerce of Glasgow, not being a seaport, but it is the
cleanest city I ever visited, and one of the most beautiful. Many
travellers consider London the most interesting city in the world, but
to a casual observer, the four most attractive cities in Europe are
Rome, Paris, Brussels and Edinburgh.
The whole city is built of granite and freestone. You don’t see a brick
excepting in a very few and very tall factory chimneys. To some eyes
this is monotonous; to mine it is pleasing. It looks, and it is,
substantial, solid and strong.