DOI issue:
December 7, 1889
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17688#0272
December 7, 1889.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
267
A WORD FROM THE MOUTH OF THE BOURNE.
Now that the subject of winter resorts is before the
world, some account may appropriately be given of that
Bournemouth to which so many visitors return. The
town seems to have been built in the midst of pine-
forests, through which roads have been cut in different
directions ; and it is significant that every thoroughfare
in Bournemouth, with hut one exception, is still called a
“road.” The whole place, as Haydn, or his librettist,
might have put it, is “with verdure clad”; the rich
greens of the pine-trees and the firs being, in many places,
relieved by the scarlet berries of the mountain ash, or
the pink flowers of the rhododendrons. Snowdrops and
winter roses may here and there be seen ; hut the general
uniform of the place is green sprinkled with red.
At Bournemouth I was, for the first time in my life—
but not, I hope, the last—inveigled into taking up my
abode at a temperance establishment. It was not even
an hotel—not at least by name—the proprietor of the
house being specially forbidden by the terms of his lease
from calling it one. He was prevented, moreover, by a
clause in this formidable lease from applying for a wine
and spirit licence. A feeling of depression comes over
the visitor, when on crossing the threshold of the “ Im-
perial,” he finds an announcement staring him in the
face, to the effect that the proprietor does not possess a
wine licence, and is bound not even to ask for one.
“ All ye who enter here, leave drink behind,” the solemn
inscription seems to say.
But an hotel, even though it he furnished like a well-
appointed private house, and bear no special designation,
is still an hotel; and though an hotel-keeper may have
bound himself not to apply for a wine licence, this does
not prevent him from enabling his customers to order
wine from another hotel. A sort of cheque-book is
brought to the visitor, who draws for whatever draughts
he happens to require ; whether for lunch, dinner, or the
intervals between regular meals. This plan of ordering
wine beforehand might advantageously be adopted at
all hotels. It would save delay, and that rushing to and
fro on the part of the waiters, which must necessarily
take place when wine is ordered only at the moment of
sitting down to table.
The rivers of Bournemouth and its neighbourhood are
full of fish. The Bourne contains tittlebats; the Avon,
near Christchurch, is famous for its salmon—“ saumon
de Christchurch,” as it is called in our London menus;
while the Stour, on the other side of Christchurch, is
celebrated for its pike—the turnpike—that stands on the
bridge by which it is crossed.
In the beautiful cathedral-like church of the village
of Christchurch, fine stone architecture and droll wooden
sculpture are to be seen; a remarkable example of the
latter being an admirably-carved representation of a
preacher in the form of a fox, holding forth to a congre-
gation of geese; the duty of the clerk being performed
by a crowing cock. In the churchyard I noticed an
epigram and an enigma—both excellent. The former is
as follows
“ Live well, die never ;
Die well, live for ever.”
The enigma runs thus : —
“ Wewerenotslavnebvt rays’d;
Rays’d not to life
Bvt to be bvried twice
By men of strife.
“ Hen
“ What rest eovld th livinghave
When dead had none ?
Agree amongst yov.
Heere we ten are one.”
Rogers Died Aprill 17, 1641.”
The ancient explanation of this epitaph in the form of
a riddle was a most unsatisfactory one—“that ten men
having been drowned, their bodies were recovered, and
buried together in one grave.” What is evidently the
true solution has been found by the present Rector of
Christchurch, who, starting from the fact indicated by
the date, that the re-interment took place during the
Civil War, came to the conclusion that Cromwellian
troops, in want of bullets, must have dug up the ten
bodies with a view to their leaden coffins, and then
re-buried them in one common grave.
Boscombe, an interesting suburb of Bournemouth, is
remarkable for the fineness of its sea-view and the
humour of its inhabitants. At the entrance to its pretty
little pier may be read this exhilarating announcement:
“Dogs are not allowed on this pier for promenading
purposes.” I have made a copy of this strangely worded
CHARITY THAT BEGINNETH NOT WHERE IT SHOULD.
1 ‘ And what’s all this I hear, Barbara, about tour wanting to find
some Occupation ? ”
“Well, you see, it’s so bull at home, Uncle. I’ve no Brothers or
Sisters—and Papa’s paralysed—and Mamma’s going blind—so I want to
be a Hospital Nurse.”
regulation, and sent it as a rare curiosity to the Academie des Inscriptions of
Paris. Close to the pier is a lofty sand-hill, absolutely destitute of vegetation;
on which some facetious member of the Town Council has caused a notice to be
set up, entreating the public to “protect the grass on this Blope.”
Ultimately, I discovered on the top of the sand-hill, widely dispersed, just
thirteen blades of grass; and I have opened a subscription for the exhibition of
a second notice which, I propose, shall be in these words :—
If you’d seen this grass before it grew,
You’d give the gardener all is due.
With a contented mind, a cheerful spirit, and enough experience of musical
and dramatic performances, to render an occasional absence from them a
pleasant change, one may pass a few days, or even weeks, agreeably enough at
Bournemouth. The open sea, the jagged, many-coloured and picturesque
cliffs, the golden sands, the green pine-woods, the hedges of laurel and rhodo-
dendron, are delightful to the lover of Nature. But no amusements are provided
which, to a Londoner, would seem worthy of the name; and in this, above all,
lies the inferiority of Bournemouth, as of all other English watering-places, to
Nice, Monte Carlo, and the favourite health-resorts of the Riviera.
THE GOOD MUSICIAN.
Poor dear Freddy Clay! No common Clay. Gone from us last week after
seven years of suffering. His disposition was as sweet as were his melodies.
He had collected about him a band of devoted friends; nothing false or dis-
cordant ever fell from his lips, or from his pen ; he never made an enemy,
and lived in harmony with all who knew him, for all who knew him loved
him. I knew him well. Hequiescat! F. C. B.
The Next Pope.—There can no longer be any doubt of it, the next Pope
must be Mr. Stead, of the P. M. G. What title will he assume ? Pope Linus
was the immediate successor of St. Peter, so Mr. Stead, on the strength of
his “Letters from the Vatican,” might appropriately style himself .Pope
Penny-a-Linus.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
267
A WORD FROM THE MOUTH OF THE BOURNE.
Now that the subject of winter resorts is before the
world, some account may appropriately be given of that
Bournemouth to which so many visitors return. The
town seems to have been built in the midst of pine-
forests, through which roads have been cut in different
directions ; and it is significant that every thoroughfare
in Bournemouth, with hut one exception, is still called a
“road.” The whole place, as Haydn, or his librettist,
might have put it, is “with verdure clad”; the rich
greens of the pine-trees and the firs being, in many places,
relieved by the scarlet berries of the mountain ash, or
the pink flowers of the rhododendrons. Snowdrops and
winter roses may here and there be seen ; hut the general
uniform of the place is green sprinkled with red.
At Bournemouth I was, for the first time in my life—
but not, I hope, the last—inveigled into taking up my
abode at a temperance establishment. It was not even
an hotel—not at least by name—the proprietor of the
house being specially forbidden by the terms of his lease
from calling it one. He was prevented, moreover, by a
clause in this formidable lease from applying for a wine
and spirit licence. A feeling of depression comes over
the visitor, when on crossing the threshold of the “ Im-
perial,” he finds an announcement staring him in the
face, to the effect that the proprietor does not possess a
wine licence, and is bound not even to ask for one.
“ All ye who enter here, leave drink behind,” the solemn
inscription seems to say.
But an hotel, even though it he furnished like a well-
appointed private house, and bear no special designation,
is still an hotel; and though an hotel-keeper may have
bound himself not to apply for a wine licence, this does
not prevent him from enabling his customers to order
wine from another hotel. A sort of cheque-book is
brought to the visitor, who draws for whatever draughts
he happens to require ; whether for lunch, dinner, or the
intervals between regular meals. This plan of ordering
wine beforehand might advantageously be adopted at
all hotels. It would save delay, and that rushing to and
fro on the part of the waiters, which must necessarily
take place when wine is ordered only at the moment of
sitting down to table.
The rivers of Bournemouth and its neighbourhood are
full of fish. The Bourne contains tittlebats; the Avon,
near Christchurch, is famous for its salmon—“ saumon
de Christchurch,” as it is called in our London menus;
while the Stour, on the other side of Christchurch, is
celebrated for its pike—the turnpike—that stands on the
bridge by which it is crossed.
In the beautiful cathedral-like church of the village
of Christchurch, fine stone architecture and droll wooden
sculpture are to be seen; a remarkable example of the
latter being an admirably-carved representation of a
preacher in the form of a fox, holding forth to a congre-
gation of geese; the duty of the clerk being performed
by a crowing cock. In the churchyard I noticed an
epigram and an enigma—both excellent. The former is
as follows
“ Live well, die never ;
Die well, live for ever.”
The enigma runs thus : —
“ Wewerenotslavnebvt rays’d;
Rays’d not to life
Bvt to be bvried twice
By men of strife.
“ Hen
“ What rest eovld th livinghave
When dead had none ?
Agree amongst yov.
Heere we ten are one.”
Rogers Died Aprill 17, 1641.”
The ancient explanation of this epitaph in the form of
a riddle was a most unsatisfactory one—“that ten men
having been drowned, their bodies were recovered, and
buried together in one grave.” What is evidently the
true solution has been found by the present Rector of
Christchurch, who, starting from the fact indicated by
the date, that the re-interment took place during the
Civil War, came to the conclusion that Cromwellian
troops, in want of bullets, must have dug up the ten
bodies with a view to their leaden coffins, and then
re-buried them in one common grave.
Boscombe, an interesting suburb of Bournemouth, is
remarkable for the fineness of its sea-view and the
humour of its inhabitants. At the entrance to its pretty
little pier may be read this exhilarating announcement:
“Dogs are not allowed on this pier for promenading
purposes.” I have made a copy of this strangely worded
CHARITY THAT BEGINNETH NOT WHERE IT SHOULD.
1 ‘ And what’s all this I hear, Barbara, about tour wanting to find
some Occupation ? ”
“Well, you see, it’s so bull at home, Uncle. I’ve no Brothers or
Sisters—and Papa’s paralysed—and Mamma’s going blind—so I want to
be a Hospital Nurse.”
regulation, and sent it as a rare curiosity to the Academie des Inscriptions of
Paris. Close to the pier is a lofty sand-hill, absolutely destitute of vegetation;
on which some facetious member of the Town Council has caused a notice to be
set up, entreating the public to “protect the grass on this Blope.”
Ultimately, I discovered on the top of the sand-hill, widely dispersed, just
thirteen blades of grass; and I have opened a subscription for the exhibition of
a second notice which, I propose, shall be in these words :—
If you’d seen this grass before it grew,
You’d give the gardener all is due.
With a contented mind, a cheerful spirit, and enough experience of musical
and dramatic performances, to render an occasional absence from them a
pleasant change, one may pass a few days, or even weeks, agreeably enough at
Bournemouth. The open sea, the jagged, many-coloured and picturesque
cliffs, the golden sands, the green pine-woods, the hedges of laurel and rhodo-
dendron, are delightful to the lover of Nature. But no amusements are provided
which, to a Londoner, would seem worthy of the name; and in this, above all,
lies the inferiority of Bournemouth, as of all other English watering-places, to
Nice, Monte Carlo, and the favourite health-resorts of the Riviera.
THE GOOD MUSICIAN.
Poor dear Freddy Clay! No common Clay. Gone from us last week after
seven years of suffering. His disposition was as sweet as were his melodies.
He had collected about him a band of devoted friends; nothing false or dis-
cordant ever fell from his lips, or from his pen ; he never made an enemy,
and lived in harmony with all who knew him, for all who knew him loved
him. I knew him well. Hequiescat! F. C. B.
The Next Pope.—There can no longer be any doubt of it, the next Pope
must be Mr. Stead, of the P. M. G. What title will he assume ? Pope Linus
was the immediate successor of St. Peter, so Mr. Stead, on the strength of
his “Letters from the Vatican,” might appropriately style himself .Pope
Penny-a-Linus.