Punch: Punch (83.1882)

120

FUNCH, OR, THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

^September 9, 1882.

LIFE AT THE SEA-SIDE.

[By an Outsider.')

With that good fortune which, as we are told, always attends the
brave, I have been invited by a kind Corporation friend to "spend
three or four days with him and his interesting family at this very
paradise of a place. I am forbidden to mention
its name, “Oh, no, we never mention it,” at
least in our correspondence, lest we should be
invaded by the usual swarm of sea-side abomi-
nations. Adam called his Paradise, Eden, so I
should call mine Eden Bridge; but, unless
memory no longer “ keeps her place in this
distracted globe,” there is already a place so
called. My friend discovered our Eden, last
year, by perfect accident, and has kept his
secret splendidly.

We are, of course, on a somewhat small scale.
We have a nice little Pier on long spider-legs,
and two or three nice little Bathing Machines,
The Band on the Pier, though they are seldom required, for our nice
little drop of sea runs out so playfully at low
water, and we never have it high, that you can walk straight out for
nearly a mile without wetting your shoulders, and at a distance of a
luarter of a mile we can sit down in the sea and play at chess, as they
do at the baths at Loesch, in Switzerland. One of our special luxuries
is our blue sky. I have been here now for only three days, and seen
more blue sky than I saw in London all last month. We are so fond of
blue that one of our best houses is all blue, blue blinds, blue gates, blue
everything —a fit residence for Neptune himself—and the charming
young ladies of the establishment all wear blue ribbons. Our public
roads run under overhanging trees, and rustic seats are placed for the
comfort of the tired traveller. Here and there are to be seen elegant
little tombs, raised to the memory of departed little dogs, with
touching little epitaphs, such as, “ In memory of Towzer, a Bull
Terrier, Fast ana True ! ” No doubt about it, if he got a chance.

We are quiet; oh, so deliciously quiet. Even the thoughtful
workman pauses in his labour as you pass, fearing the noise might
annoy you. Our little railway never whistles above a whisper, and
always waits ten or fifteen minutes after its time, rather than compel
anybody to hurry.

We are celebrated all over the County for our exquisite flowers,
which blossom in every garden, and bloom in every window. Our
own buxom landlady, the model of what a real Land Lady should be,
is so anxious not to offend any visitor on the ground of his nation-
ality, that she cultivates, in her front garden, the Rose, the
Shamrock, and the Thistle, and I have induced her to send to Wales
for a Leek, having given her a distinct pledge that it flowers beauti-
fully, which I sincerely trust it does.

Our garden is so celebrated, that I sometimes sit at the window
for hours, pretending to read, just to have the pleasure of seeing
all the pretty girls of the place, and I never saw so many elsewhere,
stop as they pass (if that’s a thing that can be done), and exclaim
with rapture, “ Oh, how beautiful! how handsome ! how charming! ”
&c , till I am compelled to leave the window to hide my blushes.

We are strict Sabbatarians. Horses are allowed to be used at
discretion. That is to say, if anybody drives out, he is expected to
look as much like an invalid as possible, not a very easy task with
the bronzed faces caused by the sun and the sea. I have heard of one
very conscientious family who always take out an invalid from the
neighbouring Asylum, to condone the offence as it were. Be that as it
may, we strictly draw the line at Donkeys. Where those patient
and useful animals are hidden on Sundays no one has ever discovered.
We have fewer of them here than usual, but I observe they are of
the true American breed, with the stars on their faces and the stripes
on Iheir backs.

We don’t seem very large consumers of beef. The careful Butcher
goes round the place on Monday—it does not take him long—to ascer-
tain what quantity the inhabitants will pledge themselves to take
before deciding to purchasing a whole ox. When he has accom-
plished this, he drives it in triumph down all the four streets, the
same as Mr. Sanger drives his troupe, to give the inhabitants a fore-
taste of their coming joy.

I need hardly say there are no Poor in our Paradise. If you want
anything done, you must make your request known with proper
humility, and behave with becoming liberality. But we are all
eminently loyal;. in fact, our loyalty, like the Lord Mayor’s,
approaches the divine. So much so indeed, that a very small hos-
telry, devoted to the supply of fine ales and stout, is dedicated
with becoming humility to H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.

Everything here is ludicrously cheap. You may buy beautiful
household grapes, I think they call them, even in a shop, at the
ridiculous price of three shillings a pound, or from a barrow oppo-
site the door, at one-and-sixpence. Being rather lordly swells after
our fashion, of course no one ever buys at the barrow.

There are no boot-makers in this Elysium, so, presumably, no
corns ; but there is one little cobbler’s-stall, about ten feet square,
but even here the reigning spirit of beauty finds a place, no less than
a score of cages, each with its singing bird or birds, make the poor
cobbler’s-stalt a very Babel of sweet sounds.

The good Samaritans of the place sell machines by which you can
regulate the sunny beam and the whistling wind. With their aid a
cloudless sky is not too hot, nor a gale of wind too strong.

Our streets are kept as neat as a pin and as clean as a whistle—
which, I presume, is always clean. Our one ancient and aristocratic-
looking scavenger, the very image of an illustrious statesman, wheels
his little barrow gently along. We have no dust, as we lay what
little there would otherwise be by a daily supply of sea-water,
which of course seldom dries.

Would I might disclose the name of this earthly Paradise, but
honour forbids, and its commands I obey.

<Jw

COURAGE AND COMMISSARIAT.

As usual amongst British troops on active service in any part of
the globe, the Egyptian campaign presents innumerable examples-
of incomparable valour and endurance. In
particular, by telegram from the seat of war,
we are told that—

“ One proof mentioned by the Duke of Con-
naught of the spirit of Ms men was that, for
twenty-four hours after starting from Ismailia, they
had nothing served out to them; yet, hungry,
thirsty, worn-out as they were, dirty and unshaved,
they were most anxious to be led forward against
the enemy.”

This anxiety on the part of our gallant fel-
lows of course simply and solely evidenced a
combative inclination, coupled with a desire A Left-tenant,
to do their duty, superior to depressing circumstances, and to
get it over and feed as soon as possible. Quite right too. “ Dirty
and unwashed”—did the Duke, or the Correspondent who seems
to be quoting H.R.H.’s words, expect the men to be as neat
and trim as when on parade ? Other soldiers, similarly situated,
might also possibly evince a longing to be led against the enemy;
but that would merely betray impatience, and show them simply
tired of their lives. Though not always shorn and pipeclayed
for duty in Pall Mall, our own heroes are never too untidy for
action; and, alike whether hungry and thirsty or replete with
rations, they uniformly exhibit an indomitable and unbounded
stomach for the fight. More might be said, but that foreigners
would, perhaps pretend to mistake it for brag, apparently a little
too like blowing our own trumpet. Besides, the. question chiefly
suggested by the statement that our men had to fight upon empty
stomachs is, obviously,—who ought to be hanged ?

HOLIDAY HAUNTS.

By Jingle Junior on the Jaunt.

GREAT YARMOUTH.

Why GreatF—where’s Little Yarmouth?—or Mid-Sized Yar-
mouth ?—give it up-don’t know—hate people who ask conundrums
—feel well cured, directly you get here—good trade-mark 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 Km'fy—
David, Steerforth, Mrs. Gum7nidge—recall ham myself—if well
broiled—lunch—pleasant promenades on piers—plenty of amuse-
ment 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*
so no more at present—from Yours Truly.

* Don’t like this sentiment. Is J. J. a Cook’s Tourist ?—Ed.