Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, September 3, 1887

Excerpt

SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.

3 p.m.—Arrive at Starmouth—the retired Watering-place at which I propose to write the Nautical Drama that is to render me famous and wealthy. Leave luggage at Station, and go in search of lodgings. Hotel out of the question—table d'hôte quite fatal to inspiration. On the Esplanade, noting likely places with critical eye. Perhaps I am a little fastidious. What I should really like is a little cottage; two bow-windows, clematis on porch, flagstaff, and cannon (if it wouldn't go off) in front. I could achieve immortality in a place like that. Sea-view, of course, indispensable. Must be within sight of the ever-changing ocean, within hearing of "the innumerable laughter of the waves"—I know what the phrase means, though I shouldn't like to have to explain it, and the waves just now are absolutely roaring.

Down by the Sea.

3·15.—Still noting; plenty of time, and Starmouth "all before me where to choose." More than a mile of Esplanade, and several brass plates and cards advertising "Apartments." Must be cautious—not throw the handkerchief in a hurry. Haven't seen the ideal place yet.

3·30.—Better make a beginning. Try "Blenheim House" (all the houses here either bear ducal, naval, or frankly plebeian names, I observe). Ring: startling effect—grey-mouldy old person, with skeleton hands folded on woollen tippet, glides in a ghastly manner down passage. They really ought to put up a warning to people with nerves, as M. Van Beers does at his Salon Parisien. Feel as if I had raised a ghost. Wonder if she waits on lodgers—if so, my dinners will be rather like the banquet Gulliver had at Laputa. "Has she rooms to let at once?" "No?" "Oh!" Well out of that!

3·45.—Warming to my work. Ring at door in "Amelia Terrace." Maid appears—nice-looking girl, rather. "Have you"—I begin—when I see a boy at the ground-floor window. Don't object to boys, as a class, but this particular boy is pallid, with something round his throat, and an indescribable air about him of conscious deadliness, and pride in the unusual terror he inspires, which can only be accounted for by recent Measles. Never under the same roof with that boy! He eyes me balefully, and I stare back, fascinated. "Have you," I begin again—(I am full of resource, thank goodness!) "a Mrs. Walker—(first appropriate name that occurs to me)—staying here?" By a horrible coincidence, they have! She has taken the ground-floor—where that boy is! Awkward—very.... I manage to gasp out, "Then will you please mention that I called?" and retire before she can ask my name. Presence of mind, again!

4 p.m.—Still seeking. Not so fastidious as I was. Have given up the cottage, and clematis, and flagstaff. Only place answering that description belongs—or so I inferred, from his language—to a retired sea-captain, whom I disturbed in his nap to inquire whether he let lodgings. As it happened, he didn't. Then (as I very nearly went back and told him) what right had he to sport a brass plate?...