In order to satisfy myself as to truth in conflicting reports about
Bournemouth as a summer resort, I take express 12·30 from Waterloo,
and go straight away to my terminus, stopping, if I remember rightly,
only twice on the road. First-rate run, through lovely scenery, with
the London and South-Western Pack; found at Waterloo, and, with the
exception of a slight check of only three minutes at Southampton
Water--scent generally lost where water is, I believe--and another
of a few seconds at Brockenhurst, ran into our quarry at Bournemouth
Station West, in just two hours and a half. [_Happy Thought_.--Lunch
_en route_, between 12·30 and 3. Pullman cars attached to some trains,
not all. Certainly recommend Pullman, where possible; all comforts at
hand for eating and drinking: likewise smoking-room, &c., &c.]
[Illustration: "WELCOME THE COMING--"
"There, my dear Sir; there's your room, and I'm only charmed to have
your company."--_Extract from Speech of the Hearty Hotel-Proprietor to
Un-illustrious Visitor_.]
Generally understood that Bournemouth is the Monte Carlo, or Nice,
or Monaco, or Riviera of England. May be it is; if so, Monte Carlo,
and the rest can't be so hot in summer as they are painted, for
Bournemouth just now is (I speak of the last week in July) at a
delightfully mean temperature,--if I may be allowed to use the word
"mean" without implying any sort of disrespect for the Bournemouthers.
Bournemouth apparently crowded. Do not remember it on any previous
occasional visit, in autumn or spring, so crowded as at this present
moment. Odd!
"Not at all," explains flyman; "British Medical Association here. All
sorts of festivities. Hotels all crowded. Lodgings too."
If the worst come to the worst, I shall have to spend a night in a
bathing-machine. Not bad: if fine. Can be called early; then sea-bath;
also man to bring hot water and towels. While speculating on this
probability, we arrive at
_Royal Bath Hotel_.--Flag flying, showing that British Medical
Association Family are at home. Other flags elsewhere express same
idea. B.M.A. at home everywhere, of course. Array of servants in
brown liveries and gilt buttons in outer hall, preparing to receive
visitors. Pleasant and courteous Manager--evidently Manager--with
foreign accent receives me smilingly. "Any difficulty about rooms?"
I ask, nervously. "None whatever in your case," returns courteous
Manager, bowing most graciously as he emphasises the possessive
pronoun. In the hall are trim young ladies, pleasant matronly ladies,
chorus of young porters and old porters, all smiling, and awaiting
my lightest bow and heaviest baggage. I am "to be shown up." (_Absit
omen!_) However, I am shown up. Charming room: sea-view, nearly all
the views from the windows of Royal Bath are sea-views, take the Bath
which way you will; and the welcome is so warm, it ought to be The
Warm Bath Hotel.
I am looking for something which has probably been left in the hall.
"Let me see," I say, musingly, to myself, as I look round; "where's my
waterproof with two capes? I've missed--er--" I hesitate, being still
uncertain.
A sprightly Boots is going hurriedly out of the room. He pauses in
his swift career, as if catching my last words. I hear him repeat,
"Missed--er--" and then "Capes." To this he adds, sharply, "Yes, Sir,
I'll tell him," and vanishes.
"_Tell him?_" Oh, probably he means that he will tell the other
Boots to bring up my waterproof with the double capes. But to make
assurance doubly sure, I go to the top of the stairs and call out,
"Wrapper--with two capes--probably in the hall--don't see it here."
To which, from somewhere down below in obscurity, the voice of the
Boots comes up to me, "Capes in the hall," then something inaudible,
finishing with, "up there."
I return to my apartment. Lovely view. Open window. Balmy and
refreshing breeze. Becoming aware of the fact that I have left the
door open, expecting return of Boots with waterproof wrapper, I am
turning to shut it, when "to me enters" as the old stage-directions
have it, a distinguished-looking gentleman, bearded and moustached,
white-vested, and generally "in full fig."--(_Mem._--Write to _Notes
and Queries, Unde derivatur_--"Full fig?") who advances briskly but
quietly towards me. My visitor has evidently made some mistake in the
number of his room. At least, I hope the mistake isn't on _my_ part,
or on the urbane Manager's part, in putting me up here. Smart visitor
bows. I am about to explain that he is in error, and that this is my
room, when he deprecates any remark by saying, "Delighted to meet you;
my name is CAPES. The porter told me you wished to see me. I am sure,
Sir, I am more than delighted to see _you_!" and he proffers his hand,
which I take and shake heartily, at the same time wondering where on
earth we have met before, and why he should be so effusively joyful
at seeing me again. Suddenly, as I release his hand, I see where the
mistake is, and how it has arisen. A brilliant flash of memory recalls
to my mind that in an advertisement I have read how this hotel belongs
to Mr. CAPES,--Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S., &c., &c. This amiable
gentleman who bids me welcome so heartily is the Proprietor himself. I
also am delighted. "Very kind of him to take this trouble," I say.
"Not at all," he won't hear of there being any special kindness on his
part. And as to trouble!--well, he scouts that idea with an energetic
wave of his hand. Now, he wants to know, what will I do, where will I
go, what will I take? Section A. of the Medical Association is meeting
in the Town Hall, but I shall be late for that; or "perhaps," suggests
the considerate Proprietor, "you would like to rest a bit before
dinner at seven. Then there's the Concert afterwards. I have tickets
for you, and no doubt on your return you'll have a cigar in the
smoking-room with your friends, and be glad to get to bed."
I thank him: most kind. I say, smilingly, that "No doubt, shall meet
some friends;" a remark which seems to tickle him immensely. As a
matter of fact, however, I confide to him that I should prefer keeping
myself quiet this evening, as I have so much to do to-morrow morning.
"Of course you have," assents the Proprietor most sympathetically.
"And you'd like to rest as much as possible to-night after your
journey. You'd like a table to yourself a little later. No--no--no
thanks, I'm only too delighted."
And, so saying, the kind Proprietor leaves me to see to the
hundred-and-one things he has to do to-day, only stopping the Boots,
who now arrives with the double-caped waterproof I had sent him for,
to point me out to him, and to tell him to order a private table
for me in the _salle à manger_ "at--at?"--he queries--and I reply by
inquiring if I may fix it for 7·45, as the room will be quieter then.
"Certainly," says Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, without making the slightest
difficulty about it. Then, turning to Boots, he says, "7·45,"
whereupon Boots repeats the mystic formula. And thus 'tis arranged.
Delightful gardens of Hotel. Stroll out on to cliff. Beautiful air,
not the least enervating. On the contrary, refreshing. Returning
later on to dress, I see the _salle à manger_ full to overflowing.
The Medicals are all feeding well and wisely, as Medicals ought to
do. A pleasant company. Only a few of the younger and idler spirits
remain when I sit down to my dinner about eight. Excellent _cuisine_.
Couldn't be better. Salmon-trout from Christchurch, Poole pickles,
beef from Boscombe, Hampshire ham with Bournemouth beans. For wine,
Peter Pommery '80; and the whole to finish with Corfe Castle
Korffee, a Lyndhurst liqueur, and cigar in the sea-garden, or garden
o'erlooking the sea.
Lovely night. Then, after a stroll, "to bed," as _Lady Macbeth_
observes. Sensible person, _Lady Mac_.
On second thoughts will look at papers in smoking-room. Am alone at
first, but in a few minutes room crowded. Medical Association has
returned in force. I catch occasional bits in conversation:--
"Pity MCSIMMUM (or some name very like this) couldn't come. Great
pity; missed him immensely." (Here several stories about MCSIMMUM, all
evidently more or less good, and all interesting. I myself begin to
wish that MCSIMMUM had arrived. He would have been an acquisition.)
More medical men of various ages and with variety of spectacles.
All enjoying themselves thoroughly,--quite medical boys out for
a holiday,--but every one of them, individually and collectively,
intensely regretting the absence of Dr. MCSIMMUM. I hear the voice of
my friend Mr. CAPES in the passage. I will ask Mr. CAPES about this
celebrated Dr. MCSIMMUM, whom evidently I ought to know, at least by
repute. Perhaps I have known him by sight for years; perhaps he is a
man with whom I often dine at the Club, and who entertains us in the
smoking-room with strange stories of odd patients. His name I have
heard long ago. Was it MCSIMMUM? Not unlikely. Can't remember.
Mr. CAPES is energetically explaining and protesting to everybody.
Amid the hum and buzz of voices, I catch what he is saying. It is, "My
dear Sir, Dr. MCSIMMUM _is_ here. I've seen him. He dined alone. He
said he preferred it, as he had so much to do to-morrow." Then several
exclaim, "But _where_ is he _now_?"
"I don't know," replies the Proprietor. "Most likely, being tired,
he has gone to bed. I myself showed him to his room, No. 142, on his
arrival."
Heavens! The number of my room--is 142! Not another man in _there_!
No.... I see it all now, _I am Dr. MCSIMMUM!_ The real MCSIMMUM hasn't
arrived, and he hasn't sent a message. This accounts for my welcome,
and the absence of all difficulty in obtaining a room. But if he
arrives now! where shall _I_ be?
"What's that about MCSIMMUM?" says a jovial voice, coming right into
the midst of them.
To which inquiry responds a chorus, "He's here! Mr. CAPES says so, but
no one's seen him."
"And no one's likely to." returns the cheery speaker. "He's staying
with some friends a little way out of the town. He has just sent me a
note by hand to say that he won't occupy his room till to-morrow, and
will be much obliged if Mr. CAPES will forward by bearer a bag that
was labelled and addressed to the room taken for him here, No. 142."
[Illustration: "---- Speed the Parting Guest."]
"But--" exclaims the Proprietor, aghast, "but--"
At this moment I catch sight of the man with the cheery voice. Saved!
I know him. It is my old friend, Sir JOHN HARTLEY, M.D., who, years
ago, told me there was nothing the matter with me, only I must take a
holiday and go abroad to get better (most excellent advice, and I've
never been quite well since), and who now exclaims, with all his old
breadth of manner, "What _you_ here! Bravo! We'll make you an honorary
member!"
The Proprietor looks at me, and I at the Proprietor. I know what is
passing through the mind of Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S. and P.R.B.H.
I hasten to relieve his anxiety by saying, "Thanks; I'm here only for
the night; I'm off to-morrow. I've just come down here to look for a
house. By the way, I rather think that Dr. MCSIMMUM's bag must be in
my room. Let's see."
So I depart with the Proprietor. Explanations _en route_. Dr.
MCSIMMUM's bag has been placed in my room, I should say in _his_ room.
But I've got the apartment, and if it hadn't been for the mistake, I
should have been homeless and houseless, and a wanderer on the face
of the sand at Bournemouth. Must write to that best of all doctors,
MCSIMMUM, and thank him for not coming to-night.
As it is I spend a delightful evening with the Members of the B.M.A.
here assembled, in the smoking-room. The conversation is chiefly
about the use of alcohol and tobacco as poisons. The decision arrived
at towards one o'clock A.M., or, more correctly speaking, the
Inn-decision, is that, on this particular occasion, one glass more of
something or other, and just one last pipe or cigar, cannot possibly
hurt anybody. This is carried _nem. con._: and so, subsequently, we
adjourn, not carried but walking, soberly and honestly, to bed.
Next morning up with the lark, indeed a trifle earlier, and after
examining Bournemouth and finding excellent residences up above in
beautiful air where it must always be breezy, I thank Mr. NORFOLK
CAPES, F.R.G.S. and P.R.B.H for the Hospitality shown me in his
exceptionally pleasant house, and I return by the swift 2·5 P.M.
train, which lands me at Vauxhall at 4·30 to the moment. Of course I
am now expecting my diploma as Honorary Member of the British Medical
Association.
* * * * *
ANOTHER JUBILEE.--That of the Old Stagers at Canterbury. Free List
entirely suspended at the Theatre, with the exception of just _A Scrap
Of Paper_ in the house.
* * * * *