Punch (67.1874)

August 15, 1874.]

PUNCH, OK THE LONDON CHAKIVAK1.

71

i

A TRIP TO SPABOROUGH.

From Your Private Red Rover.

)eak Punch,

La Saison est
morte, vive la Saison!
“ The Rover is free.”
Where, 0 where shall
the Rover go ? To some
cool grot where he could
remember the oyster,
and beard him in his
native shell, when there’s
an “ R ” in the month ?

The Rover’s eye was
on a place. It had been
attracted, long since, by
a picture of the Grand
Hotel, Spaborough,
Yorkshire.

“ If Spaborough,” said
the Rover to himself,
“is all that Fancy has
painted it, then it must
be a very charming
place.”

Here let me pause to
say that it is all that
Fancy has painted it:
and I am bound to admit
that the representation
in the advertisement is
not sufficiently flatter-
ing. My imagination
may be, like a Hotel
Company, “ Limited,”
but I can not picture to
myself a more perfect
site for a Grand Hotel
at any fashionable
watering-place, than that occupied by the Grand Hotel of Spaborough.

Fn passant, when you are comfortably, lodged, well served, and most civilly treated, it
is but fair and just to make public mention of it, as it is also good and wholesome to take
notice of the reverse of the medal. Other Hostelries may be as good, they can’t be better ;
and indeed from its size, extent, and adaptability to all classes (even down to the base-
ment on the sands, where the Cheap Trippers are accommodated, without any detriment to
the Upper Ten, i.e. the Upper-stairs Ten), the Grand Hotel is Spaborough. Externally
and internally it is a magnificent building.

The Journey thither.—We reached Spaborough, in spite of all such obstacles as a Railway
Company can put in your way if it only takes the trouble. The train started unpunctually,
it never made up for lost time; the engine was like the donkey in the old song, “Wot
wouldn’t go,” and panted, and snorted, and groaned as if painfully appealing to some
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Engines. Poor creature! it was obliged to stop at a
place where it ought not to have stopped, in order to take in water.

The Guard cheerfully observed to me, “You’re for Spaborough, Sir? ’Fraid you won’t
catch your train to-night.” He was quite happy over it, and evidently accustomed to it. I
wasn’t.

Spaborough.—Arrived. A furious driver, rendered probably more furious by having had
to wait for the train, whisks me through broad streets, narrow streets, round corners anyhow,
depositing me at last at the door of the Grand Hotel.

The Hotel.—I was prepared for something, not for all this. In the train they had given
me no lights, and here all was ablaze. I was emerging from the darkness like a mole. To
describe it briefly in stage-direction phrase, which is familiar to your Red Rover, (whose
portrait may still be seen, a penny plain and twopence coloured, wherever toy-theatres are
on sale,) I should give it thus:—Lights full up. The Hotel is illuminated as if for some grand
occasion. Sounds of revelry heard within. Music. Guests are discovered walking about.
Ladies in elegant costumes, &c., &c.

Yes, after a seven-hours-and-a-half journey, the Rover had arrived at the Grand Hotel,
Spaborough, in. the middle of a ball. Men in dress clothes regard me superciliously. The
ladies are making remarks. 1 am the travel-stained wanderer. They do not seem to be
aware that in my portmanteau is such an evening suit as will astonish them. My entrance,
however, is dramatic and mysterious. I throw a mist of romance about it by having luckily
a large waterproof cloak, which would be perfect if I hadn’t got on a modern hat. However,
with the exception of the hat, the situation does seem to be part of a drama. I ascend the
stairs to music. On the disappearance of the gloomy stranger, the guests recover their
hilarity, and the dancing is resumed.

When I come down to supper, half an hour afterwards, it is as somebody else, and,
except the polite and attentive assistant Manager, the hall-porter, and perhaps two of the
waiters, no one knows that I am not an habitue.

For those who can’t rest and be thankful, or for those to whom rest means a varied round
of amusements peculiar to sea-side places, and who love refreshing themselves after their
laborious London pleasures with public balls, theatre^, prQmenades, and the daily pro-
gramme of the Spa, there cannot be a much better place than Spaborough.

Your Rover likes to be free, and, when he leaves London, he likes to leave Mister Dress-
coat and white tie and chimneypot hat at home. He would leave his polished boots behind

him. By the way, a good title for a song,
“ The Boots I Left Behind Me.” More of
this anon. In changing the scene, he would
have no such directions for the dramatis
personce as, “ First dress, morning suit.
Second dress, fashionable afternoon walking
suit, with hat. Third dress, evening suit."

No ; and a few days at Spaborough
decide the Rover on avoiding as much as
possible his fellow-man, and seeking a
humble cot in a Welsh valley. Of this,
also, anon. Nous verrons.

A Friend in Need.—Being an entire
stranger here, I am delighted to meet a
friend who hasn’t seen me for years, and
“who knows this place, Spaborough, down
to the ground.” He is a knowing fellow ;
but is evidently full of information. What
can he do for me ? In the kindliest manner
he does everything he can, including intro-
ducing me to the Manager of the Hotel,
Mr. Fbicour, who is evidently the right
man in the right place, and who, with
enlightened and liberal ideas of manage-
ment, will, if any one can, make this huge
place a huge success.

My confidentially knowing friend takes
me under his wing. His first item of infor-
mation is startling and curious: he says,
“I’ll tell you something funny here.”—
(By the way, I find subsequently that he
generally prefaces all his morsels of intelli-
gence with a few words which would lead
you to suppose you were going to hear one
of the best jokes ever told. And he in-
variably whispers — in a noisy whisper
which attracts general attention at table—
and he generally finishes with a hearty
laugh at what he considers “the fun of
it,” or with a prodigious chuckle.) He
continues, “You see the waiters here?
Well,” in a loud whisper, “ they ’re all
retired Dons from Oxford and Cambridge.
They come down here to spend the summer,
and pick up a trifle.”

Was it possible or probable ? I know
that the ultimate end of donkeys and post-
boys is still a mystery, but that College
Dons should subside into waiters ! On my
questioning his accuracy, he says, “ Dons?
No. I meant Oxford scouts and Cambridge
gyps,”—which, I need not say, is quite
another pair of shoes. We walk on the
terrace. He stops abruptly, and, taking
my arm confidentially, points to a building
below, and says, always whispering, as if
this were a most important secret, “ Here’s
some fun here.”

I don’t see it; perhaps there is. I only
see a dingy building below where we 're
standing. I can only say, inquiringly, “ Is
there?”

“ Yes,” he replies, squeezing my elbow
in his, and becoming almost red in the
face with suppressed chuckles. “That’s
where they wash. The washing of the
house is done there.”

I was obliged to laugh, out of compli-
ment. But what at ? He could have told
me quite seriously that that building was
the Laundry. But no, he wouldn’t. He
sees something ridiculous in it, I suppose,
but I don’t. I humour him, however, and
hope he doesn’t often do this. But he does.

We walk to another part of the terrace.
At the end there is a Restaurant’s closed
for the day. He stops and jogs my elbow.
Then confidentially as before he points
towards the Restaurant’s, and says,
“ Rather a lark here. Such rum people
come here.” Then he goes off into more
chuckles. We turn. He points below. He
says to me, “ You don’t see the fun of this.”
If it is anything he is doing, certainly not;
but I reply, “ No, what is it ? ”

“Well,” he replies, chuckling heartily,