Mr. Punch at the Seaside Part 20

A Brighton bath-chairman's idea of a suitable route for an invalid lady]

A SEASIDE ROUNDEL

On the sands as loitering I stand Where my point of view the scene commands, I survey the prospect fair and grand On the sands.

n.i.g.g.e.rs, half a dozen German bands, Photographic touts, persistent, bland, Chiromancers reading dirty hands,

Nursemaids, children, preachers, skiffs that land Trippers with cigars of fearful brands, Donkeys--everything, in short, but sand-- On the sands.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LETTER BUT NOT THE SPIRIT

Old Mr. de Cramwell, being bilious and out of sorts, is ordered to go to the sea, and take plenty of exercise in the open air. (He begins at once.)]

COMMON OBJECTS OF THE SEASh.o.r.e.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TAKING A ROW]

The "disguised minstrel", believed by the public to be a peer of the realm collecting coin for a charity, but who is in reality the sentimental singer from a perambulating troop of n.i.g.g.e.r banjoists, "working on his own."

The preacher whose appreciation of the value of logic and the aspirate is on a par.

The intensely military young man whose occupation during eleven months in the year is the keeping of ledgers in a small city office.

The artist who guarantees a pleasing group of lovers for sixpence, frame included.

The band that consists of a cornet, a trombone, a clarionet, some ba.s.s, and a big drum, which is quite as effective (thanks to the trombone) when all the princ.i.p.als have deserted in search of coppers.

And last (and commonest of all) the c.o.c.kney who, after a week's experience of the discomforts of the seaside, is weary of them, and wants to go home.

A WINDY CORNER AT BRIGHTON

(_By an Impressionist_)

Old lady first, with hair like winter snows, Makes moan.

And struggles. Then, with cheeks too richly rose, A crone, Gold hair, new teeth, white powder on her nose; All bone And skin; an "Ancient Mystery", like those Of Hone.

Then comes a girl; sweet face that freshly glows!

Well grown.

The neat cloth gown her supple figure shows Now thrown In lines of beauty. Last, in graceless pose, Half p.r.o.ne, A luckless lout, caught by the blast, one knows His tone Means oaths; his hat, straight as fly crows, Has flown.

I laugh at him, and----Hi! By Jove, there goes My own!

ON THE SANDS

(_A Sketch at Margate_)

_Close under the Parade wall a large circle has been formed, consisting chiefly of Women on chairs and camp-stools, with an inner ring of small Children, who are all patiently awaiting the arrival of a troupe of n.i.g.g.e.rs. At the head of one of the flights of steps leading up to the Parade, a small and shrewish Child-nurse is endeavouring to detect and recapture a pair of prodigal younger Brothers, who have given her the slip._

_Sarah_ (_to herself_). Wherever can them two plegs have got to?

(_Aloud; drawing a bow at a venture._) Albert! 'Enery! Come up 'ere this minnit. _I_ see yer!

_'Enery_ (_under the steps--to Albert_). I say--d'ye think she _do_?--'cos if----

_Albert._ Not she! Set tight.

[_They sit tight._

_Sarah_ (_as before_). 'Enery! Albert! You've bin and 'alf killed little Georgie between yer!

_'Enery_ (_moved, to Albert_). Did you 'ear that, Bert? It wasn't _me_ upset him--was it now?

_Albert_ (_impenitent_). 'Oo cares? The n.i.g.g.e.rs'll be back direckly.

_Sarah._ Al-bert! 'Enery! Your father's bin down 'ere once after you.

You'll _ketch_ it!

_Albert_ (_sotto voce_). Not till father ketches _us_, we shan't. Keep still, 'Enery--we're all right under 'ere!

_Sarah_ (_more diplomatically_). 'Enery! Albert! Father's bin and left a 'ap'ny apiece for yer. Ain't yer comin' up for it? If yer don't want it, why, stay where you are, that's all!

_Albert_ (_to 'Enery_). I _knoo_ we 'adn't done nothin'. An' I'm goin'

up to git that 'ap'ny, I am.

_'Enery._ So 'm I.

[_They emerge, and ascend the steps--to be pounced upon immediately by the ingenious Sarah._

_Sarah._ 'Ap'ny, indeed! You won't git no 'apence _'ere_, I can tell yer--so jest you come along 'ome with me!

[_Exeunt Albert and 'Enery, in captivity, as the n.i.g.g.e.rs enter the circle._

_Bones._ We shall commence this afternoon by 'olding our Grand Annual Weekly Singing Compet.i.tion, for the Discouragement of Youthful Talent.

Now then, which is the little gal to step out first and git a medal?

(_The Children giggle, but remain seated._) Not one? Now I arsk _you_--What _is_ the use o' me comin' 'ere throwin' away thousands and thousands of pounds on golden medals, if you won't take the trouble to stand up and sing for them? Oh, you'll make me so wild, I shall begin spittin' 'alf-sovereigns directly--I _know_ I shall! (_A little Girl in a sun-bonnet comes forward._) Ah, 'ere's a young lady who's bustin' with melody, _I_ can see. Your name, my dear? Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the pleasure to announce that Miss Connie c.o.c.kle will now appear. Don't curtsey till the Orchestra gives the chord. (_Chord from the harmonium--the Child advances, and curtsies with much aplomb._) Oh, lor!

call _that_ a curtsey--that's a _cramp_, that is! Do it all over again!

(_The Child obeys, disconcerted._) That's _worse_! I can see the s'rimps blushin' for yer inside their paper bags! Now see Me do it. (_Bones executes a caricature of a curtsey, which the little Girl copies with terrible fidelity._) That's _ladylike_--that's genteel. Now sing _out_!

(_The Child sings the first verse of a popular music-hall song, in a squeaky little voice._) Talk about nightingales! Come 'ere, and receive the reward for extinguished incapacity. On your knees! (_The little Girl kneels before him while a tin medal is fastened upon her frock._) Rise, Sir Connie c.o.c.kle! Oh, you _lucky_ girl!

[_The Child returns, swelling with triumph, to her companions, several of whom come out, and go through the same performance, with more or less squeakiness and self-possession._