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MR. PUNCH AT THE SEASIDE
[Illustration]
PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON
Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in
itself, the cream of 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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "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_
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.
* * * * *
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
[Illustration]
* * * * *
EDITOR'S NOTE
[Illustration]
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.
MR. PUNCH AT THE SEASIDE
_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."
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FASHIONABLE WATERING PLACE]
* * * * *
SEASIDE MEM.--The Society recently started to abolish Tied-houses will
not include Bathing Machines within the scope of its operations.
* * * * *
"WHERE'S RAMSGATE?"
[Illustration: BIDDY-FORD]
[_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 Caesar 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, Victori_er_.
"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!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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_.
[Illustration]
_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?
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.
[Illustration: EXMOUTH]
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?
[Illustration: A HIGH SEA OVER THE BAR]
_Same day, after supper, Moonlight, lying on the beach._
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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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!_
]
* * * * *
[Illustration: DEA EX MACHINA! (_A Reminiscence_)]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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_!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A BOAT FOR AN HOUR
_Stout Gentleman._ "What! is that the only boat you have in?"]
* * * * *
A SEASIDE REVERIE
[Illustration]
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 AEsthete's too utter
A fraud, and I vow that I'll go back to Town.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE MORNING PAPERS
Sketch from our window, 10 A.M., at Sludgeborough Ness.]
* * * * *
[Illustration]
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.
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?
[Illustration: YARMOUTH]
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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LOCAL INTELLIGENCE
"D'year as 'ow old Bob Osborne 'ave give up shrimpin' an took ter
winklin'?"
"Well, I'm blest!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A NATIVE HOISTER]
* * * * *
[Illustration: GOING DOWN TO A WATERING PLACE]
* * * * *
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?
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?
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?
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?
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?
* * * * *
[Illustration: GOING TO BRIGHTON]
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT WE COULD BEAR A GOOD DEAL OF]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A VIEW OF COWES]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SCENE AT SANDBATH
The Female Blondin Outdone! Grand Morning Performance on the Narrow
Plank by the Darling ----]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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?"]
* * * * *
POSTSCRIPT TO A SEASIDE LETTER.--"The sea is as smooth, and clear, as a
looking-glass. The oysters might see to shave in it."
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: BANGOR]
* * * * *
WHAT THE WILD WAVES ARE SAYING
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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: [_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.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _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_).]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _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
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration]
[Footnote 1:] Don't like this sentiment. Is J. J. a Cook's
Tourist?--ED.
II.--LITTLEHAMPTON.
[Illustration]
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]
[Footnote 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.
[Illustration: RAMSGATE]
III.--SCARBOROUGH.
Long way from London--no matter--fast train--soon here--once here don't
wish to leave--palatial hotels--every luxury--good _tables
d'hote_--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!
[Illustration: A CUTTER MAKING FOR THE PEER HEAD]
* * * * *
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!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DONKEYS' HOLIDAY
With compliments to the S.P.C.A.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: LABELLED!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: NAUGHTICAL?
_Yachting Friend_ (_playfully_). "Have you any experience of squalls,
Brown?"
_Brown._ "Squalls!" (_Seriously._) "My dear sir, I've brought up ten in
family!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SHANKLIN]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SCILLY]
* * * * *
[Illustration: HAYLING ISLAND]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MUMBLES]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "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_)
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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?"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Bathing Woman._ "Master Franky wouldn't cry! No! Not
he!--He'll come to his Martha, and bathe like a man!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BATHING QUESTION
Master Tommy is emphatically of the opinion that the sexes ought not to
bathe together.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHITBOROUGH. LOW TIDE. ARRIVAL OF THE SCARBY STEAMER]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "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!!"]
* * * * *
TO THE FIRST BATHING-MACHINE
(_After Wordsworth_)
[Illustration: 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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "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_
[Illustration: ILE OF MAN]
I.--THE WRONG WAY
_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!
_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._
* * * * *
[Illustration: A GOAT AND TWO KIDS]
* * * * *
[Illustration: AWFUL SCENE ON THE CHAIN PIER, BRIGHTON
_Nursemaid._ "Lawk! There goes Charley, and he's took his mar's parasol.
What _will_ missus say?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _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!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A POWERFUL QUARTET
(At all events it looks and sounds like one)]
* * * * *
[Illustration]
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.
3.30 A.M.--Chorus by his neighbours, high and low, mingling the treble
of the Bantam with the Brahma's thorough bass.
[Illustration: ENJOYING THE HEIGHT OF THE SEAS-ON]
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: REDCAR]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MEETING OF THE OLD AND NEW PEERS AT BRIGHTON]
* * * * *
[Illustration: WALTON ON THE NAZE]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "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!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: INOPPORTUNE
_Enthusiast of the "No Hat Brigade"_ (_to elderly gentleman, who has
just lost his hat_). "Fine idea this, sir, for the hair, eh?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _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
[Illustration]
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!"
* * * * *
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A SAIL OVER THE BAY]
* * * * *
"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."
* * * * *
[Illustration: SCENT BEES]
* * * * *
THE LAY OF THE LAST LODGER
[Illustration]
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 star-fish 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!
* * * * *
[Illustration: FILEY]
* * * * *
NOTE BY OUR MAN OUT OF TOWN--Watering places--resorts where the visitor
is pumped dry.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A STARTLING PROPOSITION
_Seedy Individual_ (_suddenly and with startling vigour_)--
"Aoh! Floy with me ercross ther sea,
Ercross ther dork lergoon!!"
]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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
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?
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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BOATMAN SECURING A LIVELY-HOOD]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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
[Illustration:
LOW-TIED
ROCKS
SEE-WEED
MUSCLE GATHERERS
A KNAW WESTER
HIGH TIED]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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._
]
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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."]
* * * * *