“PLAIN OR RINGLETS?”
CHAPTER I
ROSEBERRY ROCKS
T was the Comet year—a glorious summer hastened the seasons and forced the country into early maturity. The hay was “oop” before Giles Jolter generally gets it “doon”; the corn trod fast on the heels of the hay, and harvest-bitten M.P.’s magnified the aroma of the bouquet de mille sewers of the Thames, in order to get away to their turnips, their tares, and under shade of their umbrageous trees. All people rushed out of town that could get. The West End tradesmen alone looked blank, though many of them took wing also, and followed the broken coveys of company to their basking places in the provinces, there to respread the labyrinths of their allurements, revolve their white hands, show their white teeth, and simper blandly, “What’s the next article, mem?”
A real continental summer having visited England, people showed their appreciation of the boon by making the most of the luxury. It was out-of-door life for every one—Turkey carpets, red curtains, fur cloaks, thick boots, umbrellas, no longer commanded respect, but were superseded by the lightest, airiest muslins, gossamers, and slippers. Coals, save for cooking purposes, might have been slates altogether, for anything that anybody cared. To seal a letter became an act of fortitude. Splashing and dabbling in the sea was the only way of keeping cool. All the watering-places swarmed to repletion. Thanks to George Stephenson, George Hudson, and the many other Georges, who invested their talents and valuable money in the invaluable undertakings, railways have brought wealth and salubrity to every one’s door. It is no longer the class distribution that used to exist, this place for that set, that for another; but a sort of grand quadrille of gaiety in which people change places continually, and whirl about until they finally settle down, thoroughly satisfied with some particular selection. They then take the pet place under their wings, talk it up and run other places down, finding out beauties that none can see but themselves.
Large and looming as London is, and undeniably adapted for what we may call the great wholesale commerce and intercourse of life, it is, nevertheless, to these minor branch establishments that we are mainly indebted for lasting friendships and plain gold ring connections that have so much to do with the comforts and happiness of mankind. To put it in a sporting way, London is a capital cover to find the game in; but the country is the place to run it down. London has too many attractions, too much bustle and excitement, for quiet business—like intercourse; but down in the country, or at one of these sauntering, simpering watering-places—where people meet at every turn—they must come to, sooner or later, or run away for fear of being caught.
And here let us record our decided conviction, that of all watering-places under the sun, Roseberry Rocks undoubtedly bears the belle. She combines within her four parallel lines the breezy atmosphere of Salisbury Plain or Newmarket Heath, the varied trinkety, tinselly attractions of Regent Street, the equestrian liveliness of Rotten Row, with a broad expanse of nobly swelling sea. Other places may boast their specialties; Scarborough her pay bridge and newly built Dovecote, Hastings her castle, St. Leonard’s her silence, Weymouth her sands, Dover her castle, Margate her merriment, and Broadstairs her lugubrious solemnity; but the individual attractions of each particular place will be found concentrated at the Rocks, together with the freedom of London and the independence of the country. No sign of trade is visible, no stranded vessel delivering her cargo, no nauseous fish-curer polluting the shore, no noisy boat-builder hammering at his craft—the whole place has a never-ending holiday air, and everything seems to come ready made from afar. From end to end she is a continuous line of palaces and mansions and beautifully designed buildings. Her population moves gaily and jauntily along, the ladies are all beautiful and elegantly attired, and the men look as if £ s. d. were for once banished from their thoughts—a combination of circumstances extremely favourable to authorship.
