INVOLVING QUESTIONS OF COMPANIONSHIP — ECONOMY, DOMESTIC AND FOREIGN — MORALS FOR TRAVELLERS — DEDUCTIONS FROM THE EXPERIMENTAL PROCESS — METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS MADE ON THE COAST — HARRIDGE — THE GRAND HOTEL — THE FERRY — VIEW OF WORLTON — THE SIGNALS — THE ROAD TO FLICKSTOW — PECULIARITIES OF SIGNBOARDS — ARRIVAL AT THE BATH HOTEL, FLICKSTOW.

YOUR Commissioner, deputed by the government of "London Society" to examine into, and to report upon this important question, flatters himself that he has done it this time, rather. The plan that your Commissioner (originally "we," that is myself, henceforth "I,") first of all determined upon, was the excellent one of examining witnesses, who, by personal explanation and reference to their diaries, enabled your humble servant to give the public a connected and, let him hope, an interesting account of his carefully-managed investigation.

       The result of this protracted inquiry was to raise envious thoughts in the generally placid breast of your overworked official. He heard of the fresh air, but he breathed, it not. There were whispers of invigorating iodine, but far from him was the sniffing thereof. He yearned for the much-sounding sea; but if anybody mentioned Brighton, Margate, Scarborough, or Ramsgate to him, he shook his weary head, saying, "These places cannot give me what I so much need — the luxury of quiet."

       At length, the witnesses either came to an end suddenly, or, excusing themselves from attendance by reason of the fine weather, the heat in London, or the fact that their holiday time had arrived, flatly refused to appear. What was to be done?

       Yes, what was to be done? Should the public suffer loss? Perish the thought! Are there not many thirsty souls yet in the metropolis gasping for iodine and the sad sea wave? To these my words may perchance come as those of the oracle, and my pen be to them as the sign-post of destiny, directing them to what part of the coast they shall betake themselves.

       I have said, by way of quotation, the sad sea wave; and if you'll allow the printer to put that epithet into italics, I shall be much obliged to you; for I mean it, every bit of it. "By the sad sea waves I" did something or other, says the song. Not by the wild waves that were in the habit of talking sentiment to little Paul Dombey; no, nor by the "sunlit dancing waves" of the happy poet; but by the sad, the soul-subduing waves, I and my public wish to sit; and those whom it may concern I will now inform, how I sought out the saddest sea wave that could be found anywhere; and I will put them also in the way of going and doing likewise, if they choose.

       It has often occurred to me that the question of, Where shall we go? is intimately mixed up with that other one, With whom shall we go?

       To a married man the answer is simple, if dictated by his wife. She will say (and who shall contradict a lady?), "What better companion can you find than I am? What relaxation more perfect than digging sandpits for your children with their wooden spades on the beach, or playing at being buried alive under pebbles?"

       The husband will, if he be peaceably inclined, give a wary answer. His views will coincide with those of his partner. But (supposing him wary, and longing for an entire change, he will pooh-pooh the hackneyed watering places; he will imagine a fever at Worthing, sigh over the great expense of Brighton, deplore the distance of Scarborough, ridicule the notion of any lady of his wife's quality sojourning either at Margate or Ramsgate, and finally offer to make a martyr of himself for the benefit of his family, by going away alone, as, he will pleasantly (if he be wise) style it, an avant-courier, to test some hitherto unattempted shore, "just to see if it will do; and if it will he'll take a place, and they can all come down and join him."

       Ladies, a most admirable plan, I do assure you. (Gentlemen, I am not going to betray your confidence.)

       To this proposal Madame, not without some slight misgivings, agrees, and Monsieur "regrets that he must go alone on his mission," "wishes she could go with him," and says to himself, says he . . . . (No, gentlemen, as I'm a man, I protest I will not betray you).

       Having thus reduced two to a unit without a division, we find that the quotient gives us a bachelor pro tem., and he is brought by this process under that common denomination to which the second question, "With whom shall we go?" is more especially applicable.

       I was bemoaning my fate, which (unlike Desdemona's) would not give me, this year, to the moor (I allude to where the grouse are wont to disport themselves), in the presence of an entertaining young friend of mine, who does me the honour of dining with me at my club occasionally, when he, so to speak, "up and said," "Why don't you go to Flickstow?"

       "Flickstow?" said I, "where's Flickstow?" not having heard of it before.

       "In Suffolk," he replied. "The quietest place in the world."

       "I'll go," I said decisively. "Will you come too?"

       Come! of course he would. Not next week, however; he couldn't manage that, as he had to be at his father's next week. Well, the week after? Ah! the week after, let's see — no, he couldn't the week after, because he was coming back from his father's, and it wouldn't do, you know, to — you see — in fact — in short ——

       "Well, then," I cut in, seeing he was becoming hazy, "the week after that? You can say that for certain."

       It turned out, however, that he couldn't say that or anything else for certain; he would "let me know — he would see when he could manage it," and so on.

       I hate being put off. If he didn't want to go, why didn't he say so? I looked sternly at him and asked —

       "What are you going to do to-morrow?"

       He was going to the theatre to-morrow, to see what's his name, in the new piece.

       "The day after?"

       I had meshed him at last. He hesitated, but feeling that my eye was upon him, had not the face to keep on being engaged for ever.

       "Will you go the day after to-morrow?"

       I asked him this, as if it was "money or your life." He looked up half-laughing: my mouth didn't move a muscle. He tried to turn the conversation by imitating Compton or Buckstone, I am not clear which it was, in consequence of his forgetting to name the specimen beforehand. He generally makes me laugh by this move. His drollery failed to raise a smile except on a young waiter's face, who had probably heard one of these comedians the night before. I said severely, "Take away;" whereupon the attendant went off with the cheese, and I fancy I heard him afterwards retailing Buckstone to another waiter behind the screen. Be that as it may, I was not going to laugh, and I didn't.

       "Will you go down with me to Flickstow the day after to-morrow?" I asked.

       "I will," said he, with the decision of a god-father at a christening.

       "You won't disappoint me?" I asked, knowing my man.

       "Disappoint you! Far be it from me to disappoint you!" he returned; as Compton this time.

       "Then that's settled," I said, relaxing into a smile.

       "Precisely." Buckstone.

       We sent for a "Bradshaw," an "A. B. C.," and a waiter. Hooper, my friend, took the "A. B. C.," I opened "Bradshaw," and we both referred to the waiter.

       "Can't make much out of this," observed Hooper, in the character of Buckstone; whereat the waiter didn't even laugh, thinking it to be his natural voice.

       The waiter knew all about it — waiters always do. The waiter was wrong, however, but soon got on the right scent; and having found a train at Bishopsgate, ran it to earth, or rather to sea, at no great distance from Flickstow.

       We fixed on a mid-day train, in order, as we said, to split the difference; and to prevent disappointment, I engaged to call for Hooper.

       The next day I spent in making preparations for my journey, and with a view to guarding against any chance of ennui at Flickstow, I selected two or three books of such a portable size as could be carried in my satchel bag, which, being slung round my back by a shoulder-strap, is always handy. In this I placed my note book, my pencils, my pens, my portable inkstand, paper, blotting-paper, penknife, my pipes and tobacco (solace of my weary hours!), and — that's all.

       High were our hopes on the morning of our settled departure from town.

       Everything was packed, including my sponge and scissors, and I had sat upon the top, making myself as heavy as possible, while the maid coaxed the fastenings together, and was now only debating as to whether I should take my hat box or not, when the second post brought a letter.

       For me: from Hooper.

       I tore it open.

       "Dear old Boy" (under the circumstances this style of address is very trying), "I'm so sorry, but what am I to do? Our butler got locked up in the police station last night, and I must go and see after the fellow. My mother comes home, and will be alarmed. Must stop to see her. I am so vexed. Better luck next time. Adieu, yours grieved,

"T. HOOPER.       

       "P.S. Next week I go away. See you when I return."

       My very natural exclamation after reading this will not bear repetition.

       "You may unpack that portmanteau," I said, gloomily, to Mary. "I shan't go to-day."

       The idea was not abandoned entirely for this day, however, on account of my disappointment.

       I tried to run through a list of friends generally available as companions at short notice.

       A cab brought me to the first of them; he had lodgings in the neighbourhood of St. James' Street.

       "At home?" I inquired.

       "No, sir; Mr. Hodgson went out of town this morning early."

       "Do you know where he is?" was my next question; as, if he had gone on a solitary tour, I would catch him up.

       "Yes, sir; Mr. Hodgson's at his grandfather's, in Wales."

       "Oh, thank you."

       His grandfather's in Wales! — why hadn't I a grandfather in Wales? It suddenly flashed across my mind that I had an uncle in Cumberland; but I didn't know the address; and, if I did, as he had never asked me to come, perhaps he wouldn't be best pleased to see me without an invitation.

       My next friend near Portland Place was at home, and at a late breakfast, in a dressing-gown.

       "Would I have anything?" I would; just a little bit to keep him company. You see I wanted to show myself peculiarly jovial and sociable, in order to be successful in my canvass. With my first mouthful I told him my plan. I informed him (with a slight suppression of facts, and a little colouring for his particular benefit), that it had suddenly struck me, being tired of town, that a quiet watering-place would be most enjoyable for a few days, and that I had immediately fixed upon him as the fellow of all others who would delight in a trip of this sort. I didn't mention my previous failures, and said nothing about Hooper. Willard (my friend at breakfast in his dressing-gown) jumped at the idea, and closed with it on the spot.

       Willard is a capital fellow; so impulsive and enthusiastic: no humbug about Willard. "Here's a bit of luck, after all," thought I to myself.

       I suggested that he'd better pack up at once and dress, as he couldn't travel in his dressing-gown.

       Willard jumped up. He's such an impulsive fellow, is Willard.

       "By Jove!" cries Willard, slapping the pocket of his dressing-gown.

       "What is it?" I ask, with a slight misgiving.

       "I've got no money," returns Willard; "I can't go without money."

       My nature is not a peculiarly generous one as regards lending money; but on this occasion the man was worth it, and I offered to advance him such a sum as would enable him to accompany me, and then, when we were settled at our sea-side quarters, he could get his remittances, and reimburse his disinterested benefactor.

       He thanked me: it was very kind, he said, very kind; but the fact was, he couldn't well leave town for a day or two, now he came to think of it. On the whole, jolly as it would be, he'd better not go.

       To this I said "pooh!" and was very nearly getting angry with him.

       There was a silence for a minute or two, which I broke by expostulating with him on his conduct.

       But he had made up his mind. Willard is as obstinate as a pig when he has made up, what he calls, his mind.

       In no very good humour I quitted Willard. It was now nearly four o'clock; and after five there was no train to Flickstow, even if there was one at five.

       The question, "with whom shall we go?" is not so easily answered, you see, as "where shall we go?"

       I would put it off till to-morrow, I determined, and see if any one turned up in the course of the evening. By a sudden inspiration, I wrote to Fuzzer, in a Government-office.

       Fuzzer sent word that he'd join me, if he was back in time from Twickenham, whither he was on the point of starting for a dinner-party. Anyhow, he'd follow me if I went on by myself, and would write from my sea-side quarters. He wanted change, he said; and finished up his letter by a quotation from some song or other, about the pleasant breezes or the stormy winds.

       This was to the purpose, at all events. Should I wait for him? On thinking the matter over, I came to the conclusion that I had better not stop in town any longer, but depart by the first train in the morning. Hope disappointed had made me heartily sick of London; and I felt so disturbed and restless, that I scarcely got any sleep all that night; and in consequence I dropped off into the soundest slumber when I ought to have been getting up, thereby missing the first train in the morning, and rising with a slight headache, which was a pleasant state of things for a commencement.

       There was an 11.42 train, however, that just suited me.

       The readers I am addressing are those who, fatigued by the season, anxious to get away, tired of hackneyed routes, of everlasting marine parades, of populous, popular, and much-frequented places on the English or any other coast, are in search of some quiet, healthy, cheerful, out-of-the-way spot, where the snobbish cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

       Such a one was I. Such a one am I still.

       Tenez! I will tell you all about Flickstow. Fairly and without prejudice, I will bear witness in the Editor's court of "London Society," wherein you, my readers, sit as jury to draw your own conclusions from what you shall hear, and a true verdict find for, or against the place, according to the evidence.

       "That's the place for us;" or "That's not the place for us" — placet or non placet, as the Academical senates have it, will be the form of your honest decision.

       By permission of the court I will, from time to time, refresh my memory from my notes and diary.

       "Now, sir," says the counsel engaged for the public interest, after satisfying himself as to my personal identity, "on what day did you go down to Flickstow?"

       I gave him the date, having no reason for concealment. Candidly, then, it was the 5th of July.

       "The 5th of July," says counsel, turning slightly towards my Lord and the Gentlemen of Jury. "Now, sir, will you have the kindness to tell us what you did on that day?"

       "What I did?" I inquire, a little puzzled.

       "Yes, sir," repeats counsel blandly, "what you did."

       The learned Judge explains, "What course did you pursue in order to reach Flickstow?"

       Ascertaining that I have permission to tell my story in my own way, after the manner of a Parliamentary witness before a Committee of the House, I commence:—

       "From my note-book of that date. Something written about 'packing books and pipes.' Oh! I recollect. Having heard of the supernatural quiet of Flickstow, I ordered my servant to put up certain entertaining books, viz. Tennyson's 'Princess,' the Emperor's 'Julius Cæsar' (capital opportunity for reading 'Julius Cæsar!'); a volume of De Quincey; an elementary metaphysical work (splendid opportunity for studying metaphysics!); 'Roderick Random' (never having read it through, now was my time); 'The Student's Hume,' and a compressed 'History of France' (so as not to waste a moment). My bag, as I have already informed you, was well and carefully filled. Thus was I furnished for my flight."

       Counsel. "What did you then?"

       Commissioner (still witnessing). "I sent for a Hansom cab, and, seeing my portmanteau placed on the roof, and having deposited my bag at my feet, was driven off for Bishopsgate Station.

       "Being short of time, there were plenty of stoppages, and the horse behaved in the most aggravating manner. At the station-gate there was a block, and in three minutes the train would start.

       "Out I jumped, seized my portmanteau, which the man (after receiving sixpence over his fare, because he couldn't give me change — pooh!) handed down to me, and was up at the clerk's office with a celerity that would have, at any other time, been incredible to myself.

       "Flickstow," said I to the clerk.

       "Harridge, for Flickstow," replies the clerk. I informed the porter that I'd take my portmanteau inside with me.

       Having given him a threepenny-bit, for no other reason than that he was the porter (for he hadn't helped me in the least, in fact rather the contrary, having caused bother and delay by attempting to wrest my baggage from me and put it in the van), I jumped into the carriage, showed my ticket to the guard, and sank down on a soft seat, with my back to the engine, in high spirits at saving my train, and getting away from smoky choking London.

       I find in my notes the words, "Guard whistling, stoker whistling, more whistling, as if to encourage the engine. The engine won't be encouraged. 'All right!' The engine don't care. Right or wrong, she won't move. The stoker uses violence, I suppose, for with a wild shriek of agony that goes to the heart, she jerks herself painfully out of the station. Probably she has become stiff with standing still so long; anyhow, with a few more snorts she gives up her obstinacy, and will show them what she can do."

       Judging from this note I should say I was in a very good humour. The next pencil-marks are zig-zaggy, as if the writer's hand had staggered about over the paper: a sort of tipsy scribble. Deciphered, it appears to be, "Confound it! hang it! my bagpipes."

       "Bagpipes" puzzles me for a moment. I can't play them, I am glad to say. I certainly never travelled with them. Very odd. Oh no, "bag," "pipes," two words. I'll explain. At what exact moment I became aware that I had sustained a severe loss, I do not recollect. I know that, contrary to all the bye-laws thereto made and provided, I was going to smoke a pipe, when the horrid thought flashed across me that I had lost my bag. For some time I fought against the conviction. Alas! it was gone. I searched above, and I searched below, like the servants for the unfortunate young lady who paid so sad a forfeit for running away from a mistletoe-bough, but not a vestige of a bag could I find.

       At this point I was overwhelmed by the utter helplessness of my situation.

       I would ask the guard at the next station as to what should be done.

       We arrived at the next station. I began, from the carriage window, detailing my accumulated losses to the guard, who was a stern man with a sandy beard, and an impatient manner that was not natural to him. I could see that it had grown upon him from never stopping anywhere more than five minutes, and being off directly somewhere else.

       He came to the point at once — "Where had I left it?"

       I was about to explain that this was precisely what I didn't know, but it was either ——

       "Ah!" says he, holding up his hand with such suddenness that I drew in my head involuntarily, thinking he was going to hit me for delaying him — "all right!" He then looked down the train, and waved his hand again; then blew a little plated whistle that hung by a little plated chain from his button-hole, and then, as we began to move, he shook his head at me and said, "I'm afraid you won't get it, sir," with which he disappeared, into the air apparently, but really (as I believe) up the side, and on to his perch on the roof of the next carriage.

       At the next station I stop him (much against his will) to inform him that I am sure I left it in the cab.

       "The policeman at the gate takes the numbers of all the cabs that come up for each train." After this information he wants to run away, but I won't let him.

       "But," I am obliged to tell him, "my cab didn't come inside the station."

       He is evidently annoyed at what he considers my waste of time, and shaking his head sharply breaks away from me, throws up his hand, whistles briskly, disappears and gets out of my way for the rest of the journey.

       What with the shock of this bag affair, the hurry to catch the train, and the sleeplessness of the previous night, I was fairly overcome, and while endeavouring to adapt the noise of the wheels to an air from Sonambula, I dropped off into the soundest sleep that I had enjoyed for some time.

       Often have I travelled by night from Edinburgh to London, from Boulogne to Paris, from London to the Lakes, but never yet have I succeeded in getting what is called a comfortable nap. That most disagreeable person who puts on a Scotch cap, who wraps a railway rug round his legs, and knows all about placing cushions in imitation of a bed, is a man to be envied. He may snore horribly and disgust his fellow travellers, but he is to be envied. He boasts that he can go to sleep anywhere, like Napoleon, and get up at any time, like Wellington. Often have I watched him during those dreary lamp-lit hours, and vainly tried to imitate his proceedings. The attitude which he found most conducive to sleep made me more wakeful even than sitting upright. I have attempted to play at it by shutting my eyes firmly, in order to delude myself into the idea that I am asleep, but have only woke up again more wide awake than ever. Therefore for me to fall asleep in a train is an exceptional and remarkable event.

       When I awoke, I found that it was within fifteen minutes of the time of arrival at Harridge. While congratulating myself on not having overslept myself and passed by the station, our pace gradually slackened.

       "Kellshun!" shouted one voice, making much of the last syllable.

       "Kaypeljunsh!" shouted another, making, for variety, a good deal of the first.

       "Klshute!" bellowed a third, dwelling on no syllables at all, and swallowing the last.

       The station-master, an obliging gentleman, with papers in his hand, condescended to give me the correct name: it was Kapel Junction, and you changed here for Melbury, Dornton, and Chilcot.

       Thanking him for the information which would be most valuable at any time that I might be inclined to change at Melbury, Dornton, or Chilcot, it occurred to me to ask how long it would be before we reached Harridge?

       "Harridge?" says he, as if he'd not heard of the place before.

       "Yes, Harridge for Flickstow," I explain.

       "Oh!" he returns, "you ought to have got out at Lindentree for Harridge."

       "Lindentree!" I gasped.

       "Two stations before this."

       My hope is now solely in the station-master. "What shall I do, please, sir, what shall I do?"

       The station-master is a practical man, gifted with admirable presence of mind. The consequence is that the station-master says simply, —

       "Get out." And I got out accordingly.

       "All right!" cries the guard, avoiding me instinctively. Whistle! Shriek! Off!

       "It's very lucky," I said, conversationally, to the station-master, who seemed to have forgotten my existence, "that I asked you."

       "Very," says he, not looking at me. "Here, go and take this parcel," &c., and he leaves me to give orders to his merry men.

       When's the next train back to Lindentree? — there's no train-list that I see. Where's my Bradshaw? In my bag. Oh dear! Fortunate. I've still got my portmanteau — eh? This is too much!

       I call myself fool and idiot. Having finished, I abuse the guard, who must have seen it, and the porter in London, for having stowed it away under the seat.

       "Where is the station-master?"

       I must tell him all my woes. I began with the last — the crowning misery: "I have lost my portmanteau — it has gone on by the train!" I tell him what was in it. He (being a practical man) would rather hear what was outside it.

       "Your name?"

       "It was — it was," I say gratefully, seeing a ray of hope. The moment after it strikes me that my last address written on it was "Gwll, Wales," where I had passed a few weeks last summer.

       "You should have had it labelled," says the station-master, in a tone of gentle rebuke.

       "I should — I know I should," I confess plaintively. I then told him all about my bag, and my going to sleep, and how (this in extenuation) no one had ever warned me of the change to be made at Lindentree.

       "Gentlemen should always ask — it's the safest way." He is more in sorrow than in anger, like the Ghost of Hamlet's father.

       He considers for a moment. The fate of my portmanteau hangs on his lips.

       "Telegraph," says he, "to the terminus. It'll get there before the train, and the guard will bring it back."

       I marvelled at his wisdom, and acted upon his advice. Oh! the anxious two hours I spent before the arrival of that up-train. At last, it came, and with it my portmanteau. In it (the train I mean) I went up to Lindentree; whence, having changed carriages, I proceeded to Harridge; and, nearly three hours after my proper time, at Harridge I arrived.

       In my "Notes" I find this moral deduced from experience: "Always ask if you change anywhere for anywhere else; never worry a guard lest he desert you in the hour of need; never yield yourself up to sleep, until you are certain that the guard will wake you at your destination. For this there is a gratuity expected, at your own discretion; and well worth the money."

       It is not my purpose to say anything about Harridge; no one would go down there by way of seaside enjoyment. As a matter of fact no one does go there to stop for amusement, only on business. Pleasure seekers come from different places to Harridge, by rail or boat, by land, sea, or river, and having looked at it, depart again in different directions.

       At Harridge the objects of interest are, the omnibus which takes you to the pier, the pier itself, the ferryman with "Flickstow," in gold letters on his tarpaulin hat, and the Grand Hotel. The Grand Hotel makes up eighty beds daily, that is, it would make up that number and more, for aught I know, if eighty people would sleep there all at once. Not but that the Grand Hotel is equal to any other Grand Hotel with its regiment of waiters, bootses, chambermaids, porters, lifts, housemaids, cooks, and so forth. But that's not it. The public that visits Harridge, comes in at one end by train, and goes out at the other by boat, every hour; or else, it arrives in a steamer from somewhere, and departs in another steamer for somewhere else; so that Harridge does not receive abiding families or sojourners for a week at a time, and therefore for the present the Grand Hotel has not many opportunities for displaying its grandeur. If you are fond of shipping and mariners, you have plenty of both from the windows of the Grand Hotel. If you are fond of mariners' language, of the choicest and most elegant description, you can have that also, and no extra charge, from the windows of the Grand Hotel.

       What the hundred and sixty chambermaids do (I put it at this number, as I never recollect having seen more or less than two chambermaids engaged in making up one bed) all day is a puzzle to me.

       Perhaps they rehearse making up beds; and the waiters, no doubt, ring the bells, and answer them themselves; and to keep up the illusion, they probably give imaginary dinners to one another, and find fault with the cook. I wish the Hotel every success, as being decidedly one of the most comfortable that I've ever dined at, slept at, or stayed at for twenty-two hours. The Flickstow ferryman will pay your halfpenny toll for the pier (observe that the ticket is not transferable), and take you down the steps into the boat, which you will find manned by another stalwart ferryman, wearing a similar hat. The owner of the ferry will accompany you, and steer you safely across the wide river mouth, on the other side of which is Worlton, where you will disembark for your destination.

       "Is that Flickstow?" is the traveller's first question to the intelligent ferryman.

       No that's Worlton. Oh, that's Worlton, is it? then Flickstow's beyond? Yes, Flickstow's beyond, out of sight. Is Flickstow a large place? you ask. Well, not so large as Worlton. Oh, indeed; but as there only seems to be one house at Worlton ——

       The ferryman explains that that is his house. Does the gentleman, asks the man at the stroke oar, intend to walk up to Flickstow? No, he doesn't, if he can be driven? If! can't he, that's all. The steerer will soon show him that, and forthwith hoists a flag bearing the device of three stars and a crescent. The Worlton standard? you inquire. No, that's an old pocket-handkerchief, as his mate (the bow oar, who grins and nods at this allusion) picked up at a shop ashore. "You see we don't want to be like other folks," explains Bow, grinning from ear to ear, whereat Stroke, Steerer, and Bow all laugh heartily, and you will join them out of politeness.

       "They sees this ashore," Steerer says, "and David, he's my son, comes down with a boat directly."

       Steerer is eminently tickled with this piece of ingenuity.

       "There's a telegraph for you," says Bow, who's evidently the wag of the boat, and they all laugh again. I came to the conclusion, on a subsequent visit to the ferry, that these were old jokes, repeated to every passenger, and laughed at, as fresh, by the same crew.

       "David sees it all this way off," says Steerer, shaking the flag, "David does." But it appears on this occasion, at all events, that David doesn't, which disconcerts Steerer amazingly.

       "What's come to the boy?" Steerer grumbles, and shakes the flag-post violently. This has no effect whatever on David, of whom there is no sign whatever. At last a dark speck on a white line makes its appearance.

       "That's David," says his father, with great satisfaction. David doesn't hurry himself in the least.

       "What's he thinking of?" says his father, seeing that the pony (a white one) doesn't go out of a walk. "Hi! come on!"

       "Hi!" shouts the Stroke, turning in his seat.

       "Hi!" shouts the Bow, outdoing the Stroke by a tone and a half.

       "Hi!" shout the three in chorus.

       "Hi!" comes back from shore a weak voice, like that of the man in a box, or up the chimney, so popular with ventriloquists. The pony trots, and the boat is rowed on; we stick in the sand, so does the pony; we can't move out of it; the pony lifts his legs daintily, and is up alongside of us in a couple of minutes.

       Through shady lanes, reminding one of those of Devonshire in miniature, we, that is, I and David, drove: David driving, of course. David's knack of turning corners, and his steeple-chase way of taking the deep ruts, was a thing to be shuddered at. I didn't hint at my feelings to David, who was a lanky young fellow of about seventeen with a difficulty as to the stowage of his legs, because I felt that David probably knew all about it, and was confident in himself, his springs and his pony. I wasn't.

       A turning, and a bump that nearly sent me on to the white pony's back, brought us in sight of three separate signposts. One pointed to the right and said ☞ to SMITH'S. Another pointed to the left, and directed us on ☞ to BROWN'S. While the third suggested a middle course ☞ TO THE BEACH. We tried Smith: David knew all about it, of course. The lane to Smith's, however, brought us, with another bump, and a jerk against David, in sight of a white board that announced ☞ TO THE BATH HOTEL, and a smaller white board informed us that by keeping to the right we should get to THE SOUTH BEACH, all of which was very gratifying as a proof of thoughtfulness and care on the part of the authorities at Flickstow. By authorities I mean Smith, Brown, the Bath and the Beaches, North and South.

       The houses at Flickstow are not known by their numbers, as for instance, 3 Marine Parade, because there is no Marine Parade to be numbered. You go to Smith's, or Brown's, or Thomas's, or Thompson's; to Cleaver's Cottage, or Copple's property; but arithmetic as applicable to house doors, is comparatively, if not entirely, unknown to the natives of Flickstow.

       In lodgings you're at the mercy of your tradesmen, who live two miles away, and drive to Brown's or Smith's, down the roads or over the sands. However, it's all good, whatever it is, at Flickstow; only if you're going for a short time, drive at once to the Bath Hotel, and don't bother yourself about Brown's, Smith's, or Thomas's.

       David bumps me through a plantation, with an atmosphere redolent of the choicest flowers (I can notice this at the time in spite of the difficulties of giving my attention to anything except the laws of gravity), and having risked our necks down a short hill, he pulls up short, and almost pitches me, like a bundle, into the door of the Bath Hotel, Flickstow.
 

CHAPTER II.

THE ADVANTAGES OF FLICKSTOW TO FAMILIES — DISAD­VAN­TAGES TO BACHELORS — ADVANTAGES TO DITTO — RULES FOR NURSERYMAIDS — THE BEACH OF FLICKSTOW — THE CHILDREN — THE DOGS — THE COWS — THE HORSES — THE DONKEYS — THE FLIES — INDUCEMENT TO THE NATURALIST.

       One of the many advantages that Flickstow undoubtedly offers to families, is that the children can disport themselves on the extensive sands without fear of being run over. The benefits accruing from these sands to nurses and nursemaids are to be found in the facilities thus afforded for enjoying themselves in their own way, without any particular reference to their respective charges. The duty of a nurse is evidently to look after the children; and how can she look after them unless they stray away and require looking after? From observation, I am inclined to lay down the following rules for nursemaids at Flickstow, or any other seaside places presenting similar conveniences:—

       Rule 1. The nurse must be careful to dress as much like her mistress as possible; that is, if her mistress dresses well, and as a lady should, of which the nurse will be, of course, the best judge; her reason for this being, 1st, her own personal appearance; 2ndly, her example to others in the same branch of the domestic service; 3rdly, for the honour of the family of which she is an adopted member; 4thly, to cut out the nursery-governess, if there be one; 5thly, to obtain respect from the lower classes, such as boatmen, flymen, donkey-boys, and the like; and 6thly, to win admiration from the lounging bachelors, officers, even non-commissioned, if in uniform, and failing these, to strike dumb the dapper young grocer's apprentice. This last object is, perhaps, included under the first head. However, I am an economist, and make both ends meet.

       Now, at Flickstow, the nurse has only to take the children on to the sands, and there she can leave them; the little things will meet lots of other little things, and the amalgamated manikins will go a digging, a burying one another in the sand, a wetting their boots, a blowing of trumpets, a beating of drums, and a beating of one another "all for love," like the Irishmen at Donnybrook, until recalled to early dinner by the charming young lady, who having passed her morning entirely to her own satisfaction, perhaps in taking rather a lengthy stroll, stands in need of that meal herself.

       She can thus avoid being mixed up with the troublesome little brats, and may be taken, by a disinterested lounger, for a lady of independent means, or a countess in disguise.

       If subsequently seen, by her temporary adorer, with the children, he may, by a very little management on her part, be puzzled as to her exact relationship to them. "Temporary adorer" is advisedly said; for beach-flirtations are of an evanescent character, and the nurse, who may do us the honour to peruse these lines while the children under her care are playing about in different directions, is earnestly warned not to give her heart to anybody so permanent as the butcher. She must be torn away after three months at the longest. He remains, and the last state of that poor purveyor will be pitiable. Besides, if you visit the same spot next year, the butcher may be married, or grown more butcherly, and, perhaps, some little change may have even come over yourself. Of course your master and mistress like to see you enjoy yourself, and would prefer that their children should learn the lesson of life early in their career, by being left to shift for themselves, and to make acquaintances that may be useful to them hereafter. And, again, the spying system which you would have to adopt, if you were so peculiarly careful of the little wretches, is utterly repugnant to an English education.

       Final advice to Nursemaids. — By the way, never speak of your masters and mistresses (especially the latter) with anything like respect. If elderly, they are "old things," "old cats," and must be considered as ever on the watch to catch you tripping, or doing their best to make you slaves, and to render your lives a burden. Be demure in their presence; this is a mere act of Christian courtesy; but never lose any opportunity of abusing them behind their backs. If they are young, you can teach them their proper position, and let them learn how to manage their own children themselves.

       After this digression — scarcely a digression by the way, so naturally does it spring out of the main subject, accompany me to the beach of Flickstow.

       The nurses intuitively obey the above rules as regards the children, and the consequence is, that to a retiring middle-aged bachelor, who has come down for the pleasure of sweet contemplation and the luxury of abandoning shirt-collars, the beach between the hours of nine and twelve A.M., is scarcely the place most congenial to his literary pursuits or plan of meditation. He will at first be struck with the numbers of happy laughing children on the sands. Being of a contra-liberal spirit, he will with grim satisfaction, quote all to himself, or to the sea, or to a dog, or to a post of the breakwater, where he may be seated, Gray's delightful sentiment about the young Etonians:

"Regardless of their doom the little victims play."

Now, their doom being probably an interview with the head master, and a penitential attitude on a sort of mediæval headsman's block, between a couple of collegers (the holders-down), this line always seems to me an indication of the poet's latent animosity towards sportive youth.

       He will seat himself on the beach, will our bachelor, and select the most comfortable attitude that the shingle permits. Having got over the difficulty of shingles, he will then have to make an agreement between his hat and the sun. Having achieved this, it is necessary that he should so place his book as to be able to read with perfect ease and comfort. For the attainment of this end, he must enter into further arrangements with the breeze, or else page 12 will be page 24, and page 24 will have changed to 52 before he has got a hint of the argument, or has read seventeen consecutive words. The wind is a superficial student, and skips chapters at a time. Having ingeniously made provision for this, by putting stones on the page, he will begin to enjoy himself in reality. Nay, he may even remark that "the Flickstow sands are first-rate for children."

       After a little time (the little things are shy at first, and otherwise engaged), they will begin "to take notice of you," and all their Lilliputian powers of waggery and practical joking will be expended upon you.

       Be angry with them; show yourself averse to their proceedings, and they will at once treat you as an open enemy. Pretend friendship, and they'll never leave you. Roars of laughter will accompany a shovelful of sand on the nape of your neck. Shouts will announce the humorous feat of trying to make your hat into an amateur sail of the line. Your nose will be a mark for the pebble of the juvenile rifleman; your ear will be startled by the drums and fifes of the infantry, until at length you give up study on the beach as impracticable, and betake yourself to the coffee-room, where you will spend five minutes in fidgetting, or to your bedroom, which will be occupied by large flies, when you will take up Bradshaw, and try to find the earliest means of quitting Flickstow.

       This process will induce calmer thoughts (if there are no flies), and you will discover that Flickstow offers, even to the bachelor, advantages which few other quiet places can boast. If the flies do not wish you to study Bradshaw, you will not be able to do it. Don't try anything against the wish of these insects, or it will spoil your temper for some time to come. Fly-hunting will amuse a leisure hour, and provide you with capital exercise.

       Visitors to Flickstow should bring their own fly-papers. A carpet-bag full of catch-'em-alive-ohs, would be a sweet addition to the impedimenta. What an admirable word that impedimenta is!

       The Bath Hotel, Flickstow, possesses a well-stocked garden, wherein you can wander undisturbed. Here few flies will annoy you; here no children are allowed, because of the wells, which are generally left uncovered by the thoughtful proprietor of the hotel. Hither take your book, and note-book, and your camp-stool, if you've got one, for there's only one chair in the garden, whose back and seat being curiously contrived out of sharp conical shells with the points sticking out, is less for use than ornament.

       The Beach of Flickstow further considered as a place for study and comfort. — I should say no, decidedly, for many reasons. Understand me, to allude to the beach proper to Flickstow, is not to mention the beach to the right of it, nor the beach to the left of it; but the shingle whence the middle-aged bachelor has been driven by the rightful possessors, the children.

       When the children are not there, the dogs are.

       Such dogs! Familiar dogs, comic dogs, savage dogs, cowardly dogs, all more or less ugly dogs, or dogs of some peculiar colour unmistakable among a crowd of dogs. The familiar dog has a grievance in his coat, and once patted, will rub himself against you at short intervals, until somebody else pats him, when he'll try to rid himself of his affliction in another quarter.

       The comic dog plays with your boots, barks and jumps at the sea, comes back with his fore-paws all sandy, and wipes them on your trousers. Kick at him, and he takes it for fun; speak savagely to him, and he'll growl playfully: like the previous one, there's no getting rid of him until he finds another playfellow.

       The savage dog is black, and sniffs at you. Address him, and he growls; move, and he lifts his upper lip unpleasantly. He won't stop long, but will trot off in a dignified manner.

       The water-dog belongs to some one in the distance. You say, at a venture, "Hi! Neptune there!" and throw a bit of wood or a stone into the sea. He'll bark at you until you do it again; and by threatening to jump on you (he is an uncertain dog), will keep you throwing pebbles for him until your arm aches.

       Don't throw your stick for him to fetch. Not that he won't fetch it; Oh no: he'll do that beautifully; only being of a faithful instinct, he will insist on carrying it after he has brought it out of the water; in which case, as he won't give it up without a struggle, you will have to follow him until he reaches his owner.

       When the dogs are not there, the cows are. Why they come, I don't know; except that Flickstow is one of those places where the grass of the verdant cliff meets the beach, and perhaps affords pasturage. The cows will only smell you and pass on.

       If the cows are not there, the horses are. They are brought down to be washed; and their drivers holloa and shout at them during the operation. When the horses are gone, the donkeys come to be watered and rest, while their drivers take their dinner.

       These drivers are boys, who, having got into a habit of yelling at their animals, can't lower their tone in addressing one another.

       From all this you will escape by walking over the cliff and through the fields, or along the shore as far as ever you can go without being caught in a storm; for it never condescends to anything so common as rain at Flickstow; it hails, it thunders, it lightens — but it never rains. Nor has the weather any rule at Flickstow. The sun shines, and down comes the hail: the sun goes in, and it is lovely weather — calm, cool, and serene. Even thunder and lightning don't see the necessity of companionship at Flickstow: now the lightning comes without the thunder, or the thunder without the lightning; and everybody is perfectly satisfied and contented in the happy marine village of Flickstow.

       The butterfly-collector and ardent naturalist will be glad to learn that a curious moth, peculiar to this part of the island, appears here in the summer. By day it haunts the flowers, and looks like an enormous hornet, its powers of buzzing being equal to the combined efforts of a swarm of wasps. By night it appears in the bedrooms, where the collector may be glad of having the opportunity of getting a good view of it at close quarters. The non-collector will, it is probable, not be so overjoyed at its appearance.

       This creature's tenacity of life is remarkable: after you have, as you may imagine, killed it, it generally manages to crawl away on the floor, and breathes its last in one of your stockings. It doesn't sting; at least so they say. The naturalist will now have an opportunity of verifying the statement.
 

CHAPTER III.

FLICKSTOW — ITS AIR — THE FACULTY — TALES OF MY LANDLORD — THE BATH-HOUSE — ISOLATION OF FLICKSTOW — THE OMNIBUSES — THE LIBRARIES — MY QUIET DISTURBED — AN ARRIVAL — THE SYBARITE — THE WEATHER — THE DINNER — GOING TO CHURCH — DISSATISFACTION — HAPPINESS RESTORED — THE SEASON BEGINS — THE ORGAN — INCURSION OF HORDES — FIGHT OF THE PERSECUTED — PROMISES — OFF TO THE QUIETEST PLACE.

       That Flickstow is most pleasantly situated, is an opinion held by the Flickstowians, the visitors to this quiet watering-place, and the proprietor of the Bath Hotel. The last-mentioned gentleman has no other name for it, when talking to his customers, than a "little Paradise." Flickstow, according to his unprejudiced and disinterested view, is equally beneficial to the convalescent, the downright invalid, the lusty healthy Englishman, or the consumptive delicate girl, whose only apparent chance is the South of France or Madeira.

       The first question that anyone meditating a stay at Flickstow will be likely to put to the landlord, will be — "The air of Flickstow is considered very good, isn't it?"

       It will be given in this form as more complimentary to the people of Flickstow than supposing for one moment that they were accustomed to anything of an inferior quality, even in the way of air. The landlord's answer is guarded. He does not yet know whether you are a bachelor on the wing, a married man looking for lodgings, or one or the other wishing for apartments in his hotel.

       From long practice he can, in a few minutes, tell your business in these parts, as easily as a naturalist can classify a peculiar beetle. This talent does not render him proud, but he will still "play" you, as it were, and his guess will conclude in a certainty.

       "The air of Flickstow is considered very good," says he. "Yes, sir, very good."

       "Not bracing?" you say half-inquiring, half-asserting.

       As a method for irritating the landlord into a violent defence of Flickstow air, and thereby exposing Flickstow's defects in the heat of his partisanship, this question must be considered as a failure. It elicits a most cautious reply, conveyed in the very quietest tone that belongs to an unruffled mind.

       "Flickstow is considered decidedly bracing by the Faculty, sir," answers the landlord, rubbing his chin very slowly. At a glance, scarcely perceptible, he sees that "the Faculty" has disarmed you. He stoops down and plucks a blade of grass with, apparently, the same amount of purpose that guides the waiter's hand when he dusts nothing on a sideboard. This action gives you time for recovery, and the visitor comes up to the next round smiling. "But," objects the visitor, "there are figs, and pears, and all sorts of fruits and flowers growing luxuriantly around, and reaching almost down to the sea. It must be a soft air."

       The landlord does not see the necessity. It is the most healthy place in England; the air is most bracing; and yet in the parts, where the fig-trees are, as the gentleman rightly says, a consumptive person might thrive and get strong. This is his (the landlord's) opinion, and the Faculty back him up in it. The Faculty includes the leading medical men of the day, who, it appears, have all pronounced unanimously in favour of Flickstow for everybody in every possible circumstance.

       You may think the air somewhat soft. The landlord pities you as unhappily opposed to the Faculty. Well, you admit, if bracing, not sufficiently bracing. Wrong again; the landlord is almost wearied with pitying you, so perversely do you put yourself in antagonism to the Faculty. The Faculty have pronounced Flickstow sufficiently bracing; so did the late Baron Alderson.

       "Did he?" you say, as if this was the very last thing you would have expected.

       "Yes," says the landlord, slowly shaking his head.

       The reminiscence being to all appearance painful, you refrain from further inquiries concerning the late lamented judge's connection with Flickstow, and the circumstances under which he intrusted the landlord with his confidence on this point of Flickstow's salubrity.

       The visitor, with a wholesome dread of the Faculty, shifts his ground, and observes, with something of a knowing manner —

       "The winter must be a wretched time here."

       Poor gentleman! the landlord really does pity him now. Why, if there is a time when Flickstow is only one degree less delightful than in the summer, it is in the winter.

       "Why, sir," the landlord exclaims, "everything 's a'most as green as you see it now; and to walk in that av'nue of figs, you'd think as it was summer. Ah! that you would."

       The visitor looks down the avenue, and says "Indeed!" Not that he doubts the landlord, but he hasn't, at that moment, any other remark to make on the subject.

       The landlord will adroitly follow up his blow, and settle the visitor once and for ever.

       "There's capital wild-fowl shooting about here; first-rate, sir, all through the winter. The Maharajah Mint Julip Sing stays here in the winter, a purpose for the shooting."

       The visitor says, "Does he indeed?" and probably repeats the name of the Indian potentate in a puzzled manner. "Oh, the Maharajah comes here, does he?" says the visitor, as much as to infer that he (the visitor) had never, up till that moment, been able to make out where the Maharajah did go to in the winter; as if he was a dormouse.

       The landlord finds that his visitor is unacquainted with the Maharajah, and pities him more than ever.

       "When first the Maharajah come down here, he took nearly the whole hotel for his friends and his servants, and such like," says the landlord. All his recollections of the Maharajah henceforth appear as an institution of so many personal comparisons between the Maharajah and the unfortunate visitor. The latter feels almost inclined to beg his host's pardon for not immediately ordering all the rooms in his hotel, and, in a general way, for not being the Maharajah Mint Julip Sing.

       "Yes, he took the whole house," the landlord repeats, laughing gently to himself, as if the fact was some most excellent joke, as indeed it was to him, "and had a yacht down here, and a punt, and went out shooting every day. 'Browning,' says he to me, 'Browning,' says he, 'don't call me your Royal Highness,' says he. 'Why not, your Royal Highness?' I says to him; I used always to call the prince that. 'Because,' says he — he could talk English as well as you or me could, sir, — 'because,' says he, 'I'd rather be a plain Suffolk squire, Browning, than all the Royal Highnesses in the world.' That's what the prince wanted. The prince says to me, 'Browning,' says he, 'I only wishes to be a Suffolk man, and if they'd let me be it, I would.' And he would too," adds the landlord, knocking a few ashes out of his pipe, "he's a most affable gentleman is the Maharajah, and there ain't no nonsense about him."

       The visitor, in deference to Mr. Browning's opinion, tries to look as affable as he can, and have as little nonsense about him as possible under the circumstances. In the due carrying out of this attempt, he does not like to cut short the landlord's narrative by leaving him suddenly, or by expressing himself to the effect that the story of Julip Sing might, without any diminution of the interest, be carried over until to-morrow, and continued in the next evening's series of "Tales of my Landlord."

       Mr. Browning, however, knows when he has got a listener, and fixes him.

       "He wanted me," continues the landlord, scarcely keeping his pipe alight, so fully is he enjoying the luxury of an undisturbed narration, "to take him in last year. 'I'm very sorry, your Royal Highness,' says I, — it was about this time, when we're always quite full" (Flickstow quite full in July, says the visitor to himself), — "'I'm very sorry,' says I, 'but I can't do it.' 'Oh yes you can,' the prince says to me. 'I can't do it,' I told him; 'if you was to offer me all your jewels, your highness,' says I jokingly."

       The visitor supposes that the Maharajah must have laughed at this humorous conceit of Mr. Browning's.

       "He did," says the landlord more to himself than to the questioner, as if a prince's laughter was not a matter for vulgar joking. "I couldn't take him in. I was obliged to say to him, as I would to any one" (Visitor notes the landlord's independence), "'If your Royal Highness wants rooms in the hotel, you must give us notice some time beforehand, or else we're full.'"

       The visitor learns the moral thus pleasantly conveyed. He also learns that Flickstow at certain seasons is full; and this intelligence, if he really be in search of quiet, will naturally enough scare him away from Flickstow.

       But Flickstow might be full to suffocation, and yet remain the home of the solitary, that is, within certain limits. These boundaries are the Martello tower on the right, and the second breakwater beyond the flight of steps that leads up to the top of the cliff on the left.

       Again, Flickstow, as a rule, dines at midday, and sleeps like a boa-constrictor until the evening, when Flickstow, being lively in the prospect of tea or supper, disports itself on the beach. If the lover of solitude dines at seven, and takes his walks abroad during the afternoon, he will be unmolested by children, and the only creature at all resembling his fellow man that he will meet is one of the coastguard.

       Mr. Browning's house is the Bath Hotel, so called because there is a bath-house in the garden. Were Flickstow anything but what it is, the bath-house of a hotel, where hot and cold baths are given, situated in a garden at ever so short a distance from the house (and you have to go down hill to it), would be an inconvenience.

       Dress as you will, no one will see you, and if they do none will notice you, except the boys who drive the goat chaises and wallop the donkeys. The latter, however, will not be astonished by your appearance.

       At Flickstow the world may be soon forgotten; that is, if you rise before Flickstow is out of bed, sit on a part of the beach unfrequented by Flickstow, walk when Flickstow dines, and dine while Flickstow walks, and be asleep before Flickstow is even thinking of feeling tired. An occasional tourist, or some one in search of lodgings, whom you may come across in the parlour (there is no coffee-room), will give you tidings of the outer world, and will present you with the "Times" of that day. The arrival of a newspaper or letters at Flickstow is a matter of much excitement, on account of its uncertainty.

       A letter may take two days or more in reaching London, and your paper has probably afforded much amusement to several people on its journey to you.

       No one can get nearer to Flickstow than five miles, including a ferry, on one side, and twelve miles in an omnibus on the other.

       The omnibuses are divided into two classes, one is pretty fair, and the other is execrably bad. Both will serve your turn in fine weather, but only the former when it pours, as the latter lets in the rain through some cracks in the roof, and the windows are of such a peculiarly ingenious construction, that, once being let down in order to obtain air for the half-stifled damp "insides," no available leverage is sufficiently powerful to bring them up again; so that, what with the shower-bath of a roof, and the douche at your back, but for the look of the thing and the cleanliness of your boots, you might as well have been walking, as the contented Irishman said when the bottom of the sedan-chair fell out.

       Both these vehicles run to and fro between Flickstow and Ipswich.

       Flickstow possesses a church. When you ask where it is, you are told it is "across the fields." No one here has any distinct idea of distance, nor of the existence of any means of conveyance beyond a 'bus and a ferry-boat. Every place inland is "across the fields."

       Flickstow also boasts of a circulating library adjoining the tap, and situated in a corner of the hotel garden, where the lending of books is combined with a trade in wooden spades, envelopes, sand-boots, and china ornaments. Mudie's list of two years ago still finds favour in the eyes of the higher educated classes of Flickstow.

       There is another circulating library of a conservative character (the Mudie one is of liberal and progressive tendencies), which is contained in a wooden toyshop (itself as much like a toy as anything within) on the beach. From these shelves the middle-aged and elderly readers of Flickstow gather their literary honey, and denounce the other shop near the tap, Mudie and all his works. Here, wishing to patronise the indigenous merchandize, the visitor may purchase some stones, supposed to be "precious," and certainly deserving the epithet in one sense, any tin ornaments that may suit his fancy, studs of a dullish metal under a glass case, spades and sand-boots in opposition to the other circulating library, and by paying a penny a day he may store his mind with such specimens of an elegant style as "The Wonderful Adventures of Mrs. Seacole," "The Confessor," "The Albatross," "Father Darcey" (author unknown), "Aristomenes," "The Idol demolished by its own Priest" (No. 87 in the book), "Incidents of Missionery Enterprise (including the spelling), and "Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia." The last was in hand when we asked for it.

       In ten days' time I became accustomed to the dulness. I was cheerful, but subdued. A friend of mine, a Sybarite, wrote to me to say that he would come and spend a day or two with me, on his road somewhere else. I was pleased, but not excited. When he arrived he was excited, but not pleased. He had travelled with eight very wet peasants, some odd baskets, and a hip-bath, in the miserable conveyance hereinbefore mentioned; and had been sitting in a pool of water with the impracticable window open at his back, and a boy smoking bad cigars (and allowed so to do by the admiring rustics within) by his side. Within two miles of Flickstow, he with four of the gentler sex, and a baby who, when it was not taking suction out of a bottle, was crying bitterly, was taken out of the 'bus to finish his journey in a fly; when the Sybarite was obliged to ride outside to oblige the ladies.

       The Sybarite insisted upon having a view of the sea, both from his sitting-room and his bed-room, and, in fact, from any part of the house where he might happen to be. What had I ordered for dinner? asked the Sybarite.

       Now hitherto I had, for the sake of peace and quiet, left it to the landlady, who invariably catered for me to the very best of her ability, and therewith I had been content. When, therefore, I told the Sybarite that I didn't know, he evidently began to question my sanity. "Fish, of course," said he.

       I said, "Yes, I hope so;" and I really did hope so, for previous experience of Sybarites informs me that an undined Sybarite is the most disagreeable companion possible for one entire evening. He was sitting at what it amused me to call "my end of the coffee-room," at a window commanding the sea. This end of the public parlour (coffee-room by courtesy) I had, by the ingenious device of getting the waitress to close the folding-doors, fashioned into a private dining-room for my own particular use. With this contrivance I confess to have been as much pleased as was Robinson Crusoe with his original hut.

       The Sybarite found fault with it on the spot. Why couldn't we have a private room? he asked. I felt that my interest, somehow or another, was bound up with the landlord's. I explained to him that the hotel was full.

       "Full!" cried the Sybarite. "Do people come here! What's this room?"

       I explained, in order to put him in a good humour, that it was my dodge — dodge was the playful word I used — for being private.

       My ideal privacy was somewhat unduly disturbed by the entrance of a party of six persons at least, whom we couldn't see, but could hear, who had come into the adjoining compartment to have some tea, and who did not possess a single "H" among them.

       "Very quiet," sneered my friend.

       I knew it was not very quiet as well as he did, but I was getting angry, and felt bound to defend the general still life of Flickstow. I told him that this was not Brighton. He thanked me for the information sarcastically. I explained that he must expect to rough it a little at Flickstow. He replied, that if he had known, that he would have seen Flickstow — in fact, he'd have gone elsewhere. He wished me distinctly to understand that it was my presence at Flickstow that had induced him to come out of his way, when he was, in point of fact, actually on his road, as he had before informed me, "elsewhere." I was annoyed at his assuming this tone with me, but I struggled heroically with my feelings, and trusted in the emollient effects of dinner.

       It came at last.

       "Soles," said I, rubbing my hands, "capital!"

       Of course they were the only fish he couldn't touch. Never mind him, he said, in a resigned tone, he would wait for the meat. In the mean time, what wine was there.

       Sherry? bring some sherry, a pint.

       The sherry came. The Sybarite with a sneer asked me if I drank that muck every day. Now I pride myself on being rather a judge of wine, and I did not like to confess, that not only had I drank that muck every day since my arrival, but that I had rather liked it than otherwise. So I pretended not to know anything about it, and laid down, as a general rule, that it was better not to take sherry at such small inns as this.

       "What did I drink, then?" he wanted to know.

       I informed him that my invariable beverage was the lightest possible claret, with, I added guardedly, water, or soda-water.

       That wouldn't do for him.

       "What meat was there? "A nice dish of veal cutlets, done on purpose for me: come, let me help you."

       This I said in my cheeriest tone.

       "What did I say? Cutlets?"

       "Yes," I answered. "Veal cutlets."

       Ah! of all the things that the Sybarite detested, veal cutlets were the most loathsome.

       His dislike almost took away my appetite. Luckily they found him some cold beef, which he ordered to be minced, and salad, which he mixed himself.

       After dinner, feeling more charitable towards the world, my friend lighted his cigar. His enjoyment was of short duration. I had forgotten that we were still in the public coffee-room, and that through the folding-doors the smoke could penetrate. And that it did this, was very soon evident by the feminine coughing in the next division, and after a short duet between basso and soprano, a bell was rung, and in another three minutes the landlord himself came in and rebuked me for allowing the Sybarite to smoke. I could not plead ignorance of the rules, nor the fact of the folding-doors being illicitly closed. After appeasing the landlord, I beguiled my wrathful friend into the greenhouse, where he was bothered by the large moths, and utterly losing his temper retired to bed, vowing that he would be off the first thing in the morning.

       The next day being Sunday (he had intended staying from Saturday till Monday), he determined to pick his way to church. As he generally carries a small library with him, the proceeding was somewhat tedious, seeing that the roads were in some places almost impassable, on account of yesterday's heavy rains. He had heard that there was to be a Grand High Church service two miles off at a neighbouring village; and eschewing the Use of Flickstow, he took his road "across the fields."

       We reached the church at half-past eleven, and the people were just coming out. It appeared that the service had commenced at ten o'clock on that Sunday, as the clergyman had to serve two other parishes in the day. This visit did not strike me as in any way improving the Sybarite's temper. On Sunday he ordered dinner, complained of the cooking, found the bitter beer (bottled) flat, the draught beer sour, and was impatient of the claret. He subsided into brandy and water, and an early bed.

       He went away grumbling on Monday. What account he gave of the place and my mode of living, I am at a loss to know.

       He had come like the serpent into Paradise, and had left me dissatisfied with my position.

       I became restless. I couldn't read, I couldn't write. I fell to complaining that the papers did not arrive daily, and of the postal irregularity. I ordered no more sherry, and became suspicious of the lightest claret. On the third day after his departure, my equanimity was partially restored. On the fourth day a stranger visiting the inn praised the sherry, and was delighted with Flickstow. He was an elderly man, and, from what I gathered from his conversation, was a member of the Athenæum, and was on speaking terms with five members of parliament and a couple of Bishops.

       Such an authority was of greater weight than the Sybarite, and my placid happiness was re-established.

       I should have remained there, but that, alas! the season began in real earnest.

       An organ began it. While I was meditating over a metaphysical work, and inventing a theory about the complex action of memory and will, I heard La mia Letizia played by a whistling itinerant musician.

       I shook my fist at him, and stopped my ears with my fingers. He laughed at my expressive pantomime, as if I was doing it to amuse him, and touched his cap to me. I betake me to my notes.

       "Go away!" He won't: not a bit of it. Children belonging to a recently-arrived family are at the window, whistling, chuckling, crowing, dance a baby diddy! Ha! ha! Out I go, far over the sands.

       Flickstow, according to matutinal custom, is out on the beach.

       What is this change that has come over the spirit of my dream?

       What is this pop, pop, popping? Can I believe my eyes? Near the circulating library is a large target, and a woman making a fortune at two shots a penny, and prizes in untold nuts.

       I hear some one say that the Volunteers will meet here next week, and that there are going to be fireworks on the sands.

       I am a mile away from Flickstow. Quiet reigns around me. (This is a note I find in my pocket-book, dated on the identical day of the incursion of the savage hordes.) A boat full of people comes on shore. They jump out. They are calling to other people somewhere else in my neighbourhood. Hampers are appearing. Other people from somewhere else halloa back again, and exchange badinage. It appears that the latter party have just dined, and are consequently exhilarated. Another halloa, more distant still (just where I was going to walk quietly), announces a party actually at dinner. I see it all. I have dropped down right in the middle of a pic-nic. As I continue my walk onwards, they make remarks on my personal appearance. When I return, two hours afterwards, they are still there, dancing with a fiddle, and, as far as badinage goes, as lively as ever: as far as practical joking is concerned, livelier.

       The landlord informed me that there are pic-nics on the beach "a'most every day."

       The next morning the proceedings were opened by a brass band. I wandered into the garden; but people were beforehand with me, walking up and down, looking at the sea and the ships through glasses.

       I went on to the beach: there were the children, the donkeys, the two shots a penny for nuts, two negro delineators, bathers, and further on the pic-nic parties.

       I walked inland by the marine cottages, and working men rushed out upon me, supposing that I was in search of lodgings. I was driven back to my room. The band had not moved. Such a band! Five small boys, with the largest and worst specimens of wind instruments, and a drum, led by an elderly fiend on a cornet.

       I looked at the map. To-morrow, said I, I go to Suthold.

       That evening, while the landlord was recounting to me, for the twenty-second time, the doings of his friend the Maharajah Julip Sing, I took occasion to mention to him how much it grieved me to be obliged to leave Flickstow. Flickstow quiet, said I, is beyond comparison delightful; but Flickstow noisy is execrable.

       Mr. Browning, albeit a landlord, owned that he preferred Flickstow quiet; although Flickstow, quiet or noisy, was undeniably recommended by the Faculty, I must recollect that. He begged me to see it in the winter, when I might have the opportunity of going out shooting wild ducks with his Royal Highness the Prince Maharatta Mint Julip Sing, with the great gun, and in the punt bestowed upon our obliging landlord by that munificent foreigner.

       If I could, I said heartily, I would. And if I can, I will: for Flickstow is like "Charley Mount, a pleasant place in the glorious month of July;" and in every other month, were it not for the festive incursions, which may delight some good folks, but did not me. The ancient name of this marine village was Felix Stow; but modern pronunciation has clipped it into the form Flickstow, as I have here written it.

       My last moments at the hotel were rendered miserable by three juvenile members of one family attempting to play "Pop goes the weasel" with one family finger, on the untuned notes of a cabinet piano. Bedtime and nurse removed them. The next morning I took — having previously ordered it with much attention to detail — the best phaeton that Flickstow could provide. This is what Flickstow produced.

       In this melancholy machine I made for Suthold, which was, I was told, without exception the quietest place on the east coast, or, in fact, in England.

       So to Suthold I went. By the way, my landlord didn't say that the Faculty recommended Suthold.

(THE END)