Volume 93 — SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.

An outcast once more! I exchange the blessing invoked on the perfidious Plapper for curse of equal calibre. On—on—like the Wandering Jew, or the Pilgrim of Love. No rest but the hotel for me! Starmouth landladies beginning to enter into the humour of the thing—they appear now with a broad grin, repeated on faces of accepted lodgers at windows. They evidently do not consider me a sound investment. Meet other homeless ones, searching—we scowl at one another jealously.

Sound Investment.

Evening is getting on—which is more than I am. Sinking into a state of maudlin self-pity. My poor Drama—and all the things I ordered to be sent in to Plapper's! He, or his lodger, will read by my lamp, bathe in my bath, feed on my jam—while I ... but I cannot trust myself to think of it—or Starmouth may lose one of its leading opticians?.... Later—saved! It still seems incredible to me—but I have rooms at last! At Mrs. Surge's—a widow lady, who, as she tells me herself, has not been in a hurry to put up her card, as she likes "to pick her lodgers." And she has picked Me—me, the Blighted, the scorned of Starmouth! No sea-view—but plenty of horsehair. Sunflowers and mignonette in long front garden; bow-window, and regiment of geraniums drawn up in pots on little table. Go back, and recover luggage.

Return to Mrs. Surge's roof, not without nervous apprehensions—she may repent, or I might find the house a smoking ruin. Can't get over an idea that the Fates are pursuing me. However, they seem to be taking a rest just now. I am free at last to study Starmouth. Hitherto I have had eyes for nothing but little cards with "Apartments" on them.

No doubt about Starmouth being full. Streets crowded. Most of the young men promenading in flannels and cricket "blazers," of startling brilliancy. Children, young girls, and stout matrons in striped linen yachting-caps. (When you are elderly, and at all stout, you do not appear to advantage in this form of head-dress.) Chars-à-bancs, flys, tricycles, goat-chaises. Always thought Starmouth was a picturesque fishing-village, with windmills, wooden huts, and drying-nets along beach. It isn't.

Still, of course, the change from all London associations, the absolute quiet must have tendency to refresh the fagged brain. (Always rather a gratifying reflection somehow, to think one has a fagged brain.) I observe they are doing Our Boys at the theatre. At the Aquarium are the Buffon Brothers with their celebrated Acrobatic Ass "from all the London Music-Halls." Switchback Railway, too, on the beach, and automatic machines about every five yards. Plenty of life here.

Is-linked-on.

I am becoming gradually aware that Starmouth, though full, is not exactly fashionable. I infer this, partly from the fact that already I instinctively turn round to look curiously at the speaker, when I hear a duly aspirated "h," à la mode d'Islington, partly from the prevalence and popularity of the whelk-stalls on the Esplanade. Really good society, even in its laxest mood, would scarcely support quite so many.

On the Pier. Military Band. View of Beach from sea very beautiful at night, fairy-like effect of continuous line of light from whelk-stalls. Yet one would hesitate to put a touch of description like that into a novel—curious the prudery of fiction, your realistic French author would describe contents of all the little saucers. That is Art, and I shall see if I can work it in to my drama somehow.

Leave Pier. Back to Esplanade. Crowd round young man singing to concertina a ditty about a certain Jemima who though "so fond of her beer, was always a Mug."

Sentimental Song, to harp, at next corner. About a Stowaway, with golden curls, and "dear baby lips," and "sweet little eyes," how a cruel Mate found him in the hold, and was so touched that he kissed him on the forehead for speaking the "tree-youth," and the crew wept. Most pathetic—Singer himself compelled to retire to public-house at conclusion.

Bed. Dream my Nautical Drama accepted by Mr. Irving—a waking dream, too!

Sunday.—Breakfast. My landlady evidently person of strict propriety. My two boiled eggs come in dressed in little red-worsted petticoats. It never occurred to me before that a bare egg was calculated to call up a blush—but really they make me feel almost shy now—they do look so coy, so modest in their simple attire. Possibly, though, Starmouth eggs are not very strong, and require artificial warmth.

Holloway.

Bells. Stream of people, looking good, in tall hats and best things, going inland—unregenerate stream, in tweeds, making for sands. Salvation Army, with fervent but tactless drum. Sunday not a day for Nautical Drama. Beach, "Will I take a tract?" Hate being rude, so accept.... I have gone a hundred yards, and I have fourteen tracts—almost enough to start distributing on my own account.

Evening.—Sacred Music. That is, I go to pier when Military Band is playing. Band certainly broad in its views—I find them performing an unmistakable polka. There are sacred dances, I know, in Oratorios—but surely not polkas? As they follow it up with Faust, and the Jeunesse Dorée Valse, I realise that I am on the secular, or Trafalgar Pier—it is Waterloo Pier that has the Sacred Band.

My Lend.

Crush tremendous; all the art, chivalry, and beauty of Holloway and Mile End pass in dazzling procession before me. "Shouldn't you laugh if this old pier was to come down, eh? There's a tidy lot on it," observes a Blazer to a Yachting Cap. "I should 'ang on to you if it did," responds the Cap, tenderly—"we'd all gow down together!"

The pier is certainly crowded—is it strong? Don't like the idea of going down with my Drama unwritten. Shall retire—good night's rest, and then start fresh with Drama in morning.

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