SITTING, on a bright September morning, among my books and papers at my
open window on the cliff overhanging the sea-beach, I have the sky and
ocean framed before me like a beautiful picture. A beautiful picture,
but with such movement in it, such changes of light upon the sails of
ships and wake of steamboats, such dazzling gleams of silver far out at
sea, such fresh touches on the crisp wave-tops as they break and roll
towards me—a picture with such music in the billowy rush upon the
shingle, the blowing of morning wind through the corn-sheaves where the
farmers’ waggons are busy, the singing of the larks, and the distant
voices of children at play—such charms of sight and sound as all the
Galleries on earth can but poorly suggest.
So dreamy is the murmur of the sea below my window, that I may have been
here, for anything I know, one hundred years. Not that I have grown old,
for, daily on the neighbouring downs and grassy hill-sides, I find that I
can still in reason walk any distance, jump over anything, and climb up
anywhere; but, that the sound of the ocean seems to have become so
customary to my musings, and other realities seem so to have gone aboard
ship and floated away over the horizon, that, for aught I will undertake
to the contrary, I am the enchanted son of the King my father, shut up in
a tower on the sea-shore, for protection against an old she-goblin who
insisted on being my godmother, and who foresaw at the font—wonderful
creature!—that I should get into a scrape before I was twenty-one. I
remember to have been in a City (my Royal parent’s dominions, I suppose),
and apparently not long ago either, that was in the dreariest condition.
The principal inhabitants had all been changed into old newspapers, and
in that form were preserving their window-blinds from dust, and wrapping
all their smaller household gods in curl-papers. I walked through gloomy
streets where every house was shut up and newspapered, and where my
solitary footsteps echoed on the deserted pavements. In the public rides
there were no carriages, no horses, no animated existence, but a few
sleepy policemen, and a few adventurous boys taking advantage of the
devastation to swarm up the lamp-posts. In the Westward streets there
was no traffic; in the Westward shops, no business. The water-patterns
which the ’Prentices had trickled out on the pavements early in the
morning, remained uneffaced by human feet. At the corners of mews,
Cochin-China fowls stalked gaunt and savage; nobody being left in the
deserted city (as it appeared to me), to feed them. Public Houses, where
splendid footmen swinging their legs over gorgeous hammer-cloths beside
wigged coachmen were wont to regale, were silent, and the unused pewter
pots shone, too bright for business, on the shelves. I beheld a Punch’s
Show leaning against a wall near Park Lane, as if it had fainted. It was
deserted, and there were none to heed its desolation. In Belgrave Square
I met the last man—an ostler—sitting on a post in a ragged red waistcoat,
eating straw, and mildewing away.
If I recollect the name of the little town, on whose shore this sea is
murmuring—but I am not just now, as I have premised, to be relied upon
for anything—it is Pavilionstone. Within a quarter of a century, it was
a little fishing town, and they do say, that the time was, when it was a
little smuggling town. I have heard that it was rather famous in the
hollands and brandy way, and that coevally with that reputation the
lamplighter’s was considered a bad life at the Assurance Offices. It was
observed that if he were not particular about lighting up, he lived in
peace; but that, if he made the best of the oil-lamps in the steep and
narrow streets, he usually fell over the cliff at an early age. Now, gas
and electricity run to the very water’s edge, and the South-Eastern
Railway Company screech at us in the dead of night.
But, the old little fishing and smuggling town remains, and is so
tempting a place for the latter purpose, that I think of going out some
night next week, in a fur cap and a pair of petticoat trousers, and
running an empty tub, as a kind of archæological pursuit. Let nobody
with corns come to Pavilionstone, for there are breakneck flights of
ragged steps, connecting the principal streets by back-ways, which will
cripple that visitor in half an hour. These are the ways by which, when
I run that tub, I shall escape. I shall make a Thermopylæ of the corner
of one of them, defend it with my cutlass against the coast-guard until
my brave companions have sheered off, then dive into the darkness, and
regain my Susan’s arms. In connection with these breakneck steps I
observe some wooden cottages, with tumble-down out-houses, and back-yards
three feet square, adorned with garlands of dried fish, in one of which
(though the General Board of Health might object) my Susan dwells.
The South-Eastern Company have brought Pavilionstone into such vogue,
with their tidal trains and splendid steam-packets, that a new
Pavilionstone is rising up. I am, myself, of New Pavilionstone. We are
a little mortary and limey at present, but we are getting on capitally.
Indeed, we were getting on so fast, at one time, that we rather overdid
it, and built a street of shops, the business of which may be expected to
arrive in about ten years. We are sensibly laid out in general; and with
a little care and pains (by no means wanting, so far), shall become a
very pretty place. We ought to be, for our situation is delightful, our
air is delicious, and our breezy hills and downs, carpeted with wild
thyme, and decorated with millions of wild flowers, are, on the faith of
a pedestrian, perfect. In New Pavilionstone we are a little too much
addicted to small windows with more bricks in them than glass, and we are
not over-fanciful in the way of decorative architecture, and we get
unexpected sea-views through cracks in the street doors; on the whole,
however, we are very snug and comfortable, and well accommodated. But
the Home Secretary (if there be such an officer) cannot too soon shut up
the burial-ground of the old parish church. It is in the midst of us,
and Pavilionstone will get no good of it, if it be too long left alone.
The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great Hotel. A dozen years ago, going
over to Paris by South-Eastern Tidal Steamer, you used to be dropped upon
the platform of the main line Pavilionstone Station (not a junction
then), at eleven o’clock on a dark winter’s night, in a roaring wind; and
in the howling wilderness outside the station, was a short omnibus which
brought you up by the forehead the instant you got in at the door; and
nobody cared about you, and you were alone in the world. You bumped over
infinite chalk, until you were turned out at a strange building which had
just left off being a barn without having quite begun to be a house,
where nobody expected your coming, or knew what to do with you when you
were come, and where you were usually blown about, until you happened to
be blown against the cold beef, and finally into bed. At five in the
morning you were blown out of bed, and after a dreary breakfast, with
crumpled company, in the midst of confusion, were hustled on board a
steamboat and lay wretched on deck until you saw France lunging and
surging at you with great vehemence over the bowsprit.
Now, you come down to Pavilionstone in a free and easy manner, an
irresponsible agent, made over in trust to the South-Eastern Company,
until you get out of the railway-carriage at high-water mark. If you are
crossing by the boat at once, you have nothing to do but walk on board
and be happy there if you can—I can’t. If you are going to our Great
Pavilionstone Hotel, the sprightliest porters under the sun, whose
cheerful looks are a pleasant welcome, shoulder your luggage, drive it
off in vans, bowl it away in trucks, and enjoy themselves in playing
athletic games with it. If you are for public life at our great
Pavilionstone Hotel, you walk into that establishment as if it were your
club; and find ready for you, your news-room, dining-room, smoking-room,
billiard-room, music-room, public breakfast, public dinner twice a-day
(one plain, one gorgeous), hot baths and cold baths. If you want to be
bored, there are plenty of bores always ready for you, and from Saturday
to Monday in particular, you can be bored (if you like it) through and
through. Should you want to be private at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel,
say but the word, look at the list of charges, choose your floor, name
your figure—there you are, established in your castle, by the day, week,
month, or year, innocent of all comers or goers, unless you have my fancy
for walking early in the morning down the groves of boots and shoes,
which so regularly flourish at all the chamber-doors before breakfast,
that it seems to me as if nobody ever got up or took them in. Are you
going across the Alps, and would you like to air your Italian at our
Great Pavilionstone Hotel? Talk to the Manager—always conversational,
accomplished, and polite. Do you want to be aided, abetted, comforted,
or advised, at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel? Send for the good
landlord, and he is your friend. Should you, or any one belonging to
you, ever be taken ill at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not
soon forget him or his kind wife. And when you pay your bill at our
Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not be put out of humour by anything
you find in it.
A thoroughly good inn, in the days of coaching and posting, was a noble
place. But no such inn would have been equal to the reception of four or
five hundred people, all of them wet through, and half of them dead sick,
every day in the year. This is where we shine, in our Pavilionstone
Hotel. Again—who, coming and going, pitching and tossing, boating and
training, hurrying in, and flying out, could ever have calculated the
fees to be paid at an old-fashioned house? In our Pavilionstone Hotel
vocabulary, there is no such word as fee. Everything is done for you;
every service is provided at a fixed and reasonable charge; all the
prices are hung up in all the rooms; and you can make out your own bill
beforehand, as well as the book-keeper.
In the case of your being a pictorial artist, desirous of studying at
small expense the physiognomies and beards of different nations, come, on
receipt of this, to Pavilionstone. You shall find all the nations of the
earth, and all the styles of shaving and not shaving, hair cutting and
hair letting alone, for ever flowing through our hotel. Couriers you
shall see by hundreds; fat leathern bags for five-franc pieces, closing
with violent snaps, like discharges of fire-arms, by thousands; more
luggage in a morning than, fifty years ago, all Europe saw in a week.
Looking at trains, steamboats, sick travellers, and luggage, is our great
Pavilionstone recreation. We are not strong in other public amusements.
We have a Literary and Scientific Institution, and we have a Working
Men’s Institution—may it hold many gipsy holidays in summer fields, with
the kettle boiling, the band of music playing, and the people dancing;
and may I be on the hill-side, looking on with pleasure at a wholesome
sight too rare in England!—and we have two or three churches, and more
chapels than I have yet added up. But public amusements are scarce with
us. If a poor theatrical manager comes with his company to give us, in a
loft, Mary Bax, or the Murder on the Sand Hills, we don’t care much for
him—starve him out, in fact. We take more kindly to wax-work, especially
if it moves; in which case it keeps much clearer of the second
commandment than when it is still. Cooke’s Circus (Mr. Cooke is my
friend, and always leaves a good name behind him) gives us only a night
in passing through. Nor does the travelling menagerie think us worth a
longer visit. It gave us a look-in the other day, bringing with it the
residentiary van with the stained glass windows, which Her Majesty kept
ready-made at Windsor Castle, until she found a suitable opportunity of
submitting it for the proprietor’s acceptance. I brought away five
wonderments from this exhibition. I have wondered ever since, Whether
the beasts ever do get used to those small places of confinement; Whether
the monkeys have that very horrible flavour in their free state; Whether
wild animals have a natural ear for time and tune, and therefore every
four-footed creature began to howl in despair when the band began to
play; What the giraffe does with his neck when his cart is shut up; and,
Whether the elephant feels ashamed of himself when he is brought out of
his den to stand on his head in the presence of the whole Collection.
We are a tidal harbour at Pavilionstone, as indeed I have implied already
in my mention of tidal trains. At low water, we are a heap of mud, with
an empty channel in it where a couple of men in big boots always shovel
and scoop: with what exact object, I am unable to say. At that time, all
the stranded fishing-boats turn over on their sides, as if they were dead
marine monsters; the colliers and other shipping stick disconsolate in
the mud; the steamers look as if their white chimneys would never smoke
more, and their red paddles never turn again; the green sea-slime and
weed upon the rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obsolete high
tides never more to flow; the flagstaff-halyards droop; the very little
wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the sun. And here I may
observe of the very little wooden lighthouse, that when it is lighted at
night,—red and green,—it looks so like a medical man’s, that several
distracted husbands have at various times been found, on occasions of
premature domestic anxiety, going round and round it, trying to find the
Nightbell.
But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilionstone Harbour begins
to revive. It feels the breeze of the rising water before the water
comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little shallow waves
creep in, barely overlapping one another, the vanes at the mastheads
wake, and become agitated. As the tide rises, the fishing-boats get into
good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists a bright red flag, the
steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses and carriages dangle in the air,
stray passengers and luggage appear. Now, the shipping is afloat, and
comes up buoyantly, to look at the wharf. Now, the carts that have come
down for coals, load away as hard as they can load. Now, the steamer
smokes immensely, and occasionally blows at the paddle-boxes like a
vaporous whale-greatly disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both the tide
and the breeze have risen, and you are holding your hat on (if you want
to see how the ladies hold their hats on, with a stay, passing over the
broad brim and down the nose, come to Pavilionstone). Now, everything in
the harbour splashes, dashes, and bobs. Now, the Down Tidal Train is
telegraphed, and you know (without knowing how you know), that two
hundred and eighty-seven people are coming. Now, the fishing-boats that
have been out, sail in at the top of the tide. Now, the bell goes, and
the locomotive hisses and shrieks, and the train comes gliding in, and
the two hundred and eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now, there is not
only a tide of water, but a tide of people, and a tide of luggage—all
tumbling and flowing and bouncing about together. Now, after infinite
bustle, the steamer steams out, and we (on the Pier) are all delighted
when she rolls as if she would roll her funnel out, and all are
disappointed when she don’t. Now, the other steamer is coming in, and
the Custom House prepares, and the wharf-labourers assemble, and the
hawsers are made ready, and the Hotel Porters come rattling down with van
and truck, eager to begin more Olympic games with more luggage. And this
is the way in which we go on, down at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, if
you want to live a life of luggage, or to see it lived, or to breathe
sweet air which will send you to sleep at a moment’s notice at any period
of the day or night, or to disport yourself upon or in the sea, or to
scamper about Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoyment of all or
any of these pleasures, come to Pavilionstone.