Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  To our friend Mr. Bunting their criticisms were more pertinent and severe. That man was always playing the fool with some one. Mrs. Salter had seen him dangling after Miss Meadowbank at Baden, Miss Granite said he had behaved extremely ill to a first cousin of hers, while Mrs. Bolsterworth observed, that it would be an act of kindness to tell Rosa’s Mamma what sort of a man he was. And here mark the merits of a regatta — just as the hostile criticism was at its height, and there is no saying what mischief might have ensued, “BANG” went a gun on the bathing-machine battery, with such a stunning sound as caused the nervous ones to shriek and turn the current of indignation against the invisible agent who had ordered it to be fired. How could they make such a noise! What was the use of making such a noise! Reader, that gun denoted that the aquatic amusements were about to commence, an amusement in which there always appear to be two distinct and separate interests, those on the water and those on the shore, between whom there is no sort of tie, sympathy, or community of interest. Who there were in the boats we will not stop to inquire — there were no pretty bonnets — youths in shallow-crowned straws, with clay pipes in their mouths, at if to make sickness a certainty — stout ladies eating prawns and enjoying the breeze, in charge of amphibious landsmen, who may be seen wheeling about baskets of dirty linen on a Monday, and a bunch of portly gentlemen in round jackets and white trousers in the lugger-yacht, who stand consequentially on deck with, as they think, the eyes of England upon them. —

  Those latter are the great patrons and promoters of the regatta, men who have put down their fives and their threes, and their twos and their ones, and who call themselves the committee of management, though if they can manage not to be sick that is about all they can do. They are just as much in the hands of the Neptune of the place as non-racing stewards are in the hands of a sharp clerk of the course at a country meeting. Still they are flattered by the compliment, and, as honest Sancho Panza says, it is good to have command if it is only over a flock of sheep; so they it is who say when the next BANG from the gun is to start alike the people and the boats, and less we think the promoters could hardly have for their money. The fatties have one advantage in their favour — though it is all against the briskness of the sailing part of the regatta — namely, that there is very little wind, and the too well adjusted boats sail and separate and come together again in a very dull uninteresting way, the owners making the same sort of sham struggle that a field of leather plates make in running on the reciprocity system for a town plate or an apocryphal vase, with a purse of gold (a five pound note perhaps) in it. But though the boats are off, no one seems to care whether the Prince Consort, Lord Derby, the Sarah Ann, or the Mary Jane is first, the whole thing being merely the means to another end, and the longer they dawdle and flutter and chop and change, the more opportunity they afford the landsmen to “avail themselves of the regatta;” as the French beau said to the lady who praised her daughter’s performance on the piano, “Mademoiselle Delphine a là un bien beau talent,” said she, pointing significantly to her as she fingered away; “Allons, faut avaler le concerto,” said the gallant, making up to Mamma.

  And of all the parties who availed themselves of the regatta none were more industrious than our hero Mr. Bunting, who, despite his nautical pedigree, managed to lose three pairs of gloves to the fair Rosa in the first three matches that were sailed.

  But the stout gentlemen with the worshipful white stomachs are going to change the performance, and at a given signal a score of hobbledehoys begin stripping in a boat in the offing, in a way that but at the sea-side would have a very embarrassing effect.

  It is wonderful what a difference the locality makes in these Apollo Belvidere matters. If those great naked men we now see proceeding so leisurely from Underdown Cliff to the sea, were to exhibit themselves that way in a secluded wood in the country, there would be such a running and shrieking and sending for Sergeant Bluemottles, and such a carrying before Squire Lazyman or Mr. Pheasantry. But because they come down upon the open coast, with a grand sea before them, people think nothing of it; and those fair ladies in the mushroom hats, with their back hair spread over their shoulders, sit as unconcernedly by as so many dowagers in a statue gallery.

  So again with the fair. What lady would traverse the passages of a house with nothing on but a bathing-gown and slippers? What peeping and prying and listening there would be at the door before she broke cover, and what a hurrying and scuttling there would be after she once got away. If she should happen to meet a man she would never get over it. Yet here in the broad face of day, with myriads of gazers and regiments of telescopes, they come out with the greatest coolness and deliberation, and walk unconcernedly into the sea! So much for a “puremind in a pure body,” as the advertisement says — But, to the boys.

  They go on stripping like the grave-digger in Hamlet, until they have all the appearance of Robinson Crusoe’s group of savages, when they are bundled out of the boats like a tub full of eels, and told to swim to another boat further up. Away they go, struggling and splashing and gasping and spouting, with an evident desire to be first, a boat following to take up the weakly ones who soon begin tailing, but as the foremost boy’s own mother wouldn’t know that lank head of hair in the water, it can hardly be expected that the elegant spectators can take more interest in the matter than is comprised in the old saying of “may the best boy win.”

  This scene, like the flopping ones, must therefore be classed under the “avaler le concerto” ones, and doubtless many of the spectators availed themselves of the opportunity. We know one who did, at all events.

  Last scene of all — the pantomime of the sea — is the dirty boys in the tubs, a performance that corresponds with the “make a scramble, gents! make a scramble!” of the mud-larks under the windows at Greenwich. A dozen dirty boys in buckets and barrels and wooden contrivances of all sorts, come paddling and rowing alongshore, upsetting themselves and each other in their eager contests and dives alter half-pence. This is the most interesting performance, verifying the truth of the saying, that there is nothing so popular as a little excitement in which every one can take a part. Hitherto the fatties have had it all their own way — at least, have thought they had — now all have a finger in the pie, and there is a rushing and running and shouting and screaming and mixing of classes quite different to the late orderly, stationary, line-keeping company.

  But this is not for our friends. Miss Rosa has no taste for the boisterous, nor Mr. Bunting for having his neat laquer-toed boot trampled upon, so as the last group of vociferating urchins go yelling past — some backing Geordey Bacon! others Billy Brown! our ladies rise from their seats; and Mamma, having seen that Miss’s tournure is all straight, gives the approving nod, and forthwith they turn from the receding performance to retrace their steps to the quieter regions of the west. Then our fair friend and her beau became an object of attention to the forlorn left-at-home damsels. Miss Curling’s maid thinking Rosa had “got plenty of sail on hooiver,” while Mrs. Broadmeadows’s pin-sticker rather stands up for quantity. She wears hoops herself. As women always fall foul of their own sex first, and Rosa’s was a face that bore investigation — that is to say, was worth running down, our friend Mr. Jack did not come in for much observation until the return trip, when as he was airing some of his poetry apparently much to our heroine’s satisfaction, he was denounced as a conceited-looking man, and one that they wondered Miss Simpers could look so well pleased with. They then began speculating upon who he was. One said, it was young Sir Stephen Sappy; another, Captain Hubbub; a third, Mr. Lounger Hall. Just whoever they happened to have heard of, and didn’t know by sight. It takes a longish apprenticeship in a place like the Rocks, with its ever-moving panorama of company, to be able to pelt a man off-hand with his name as the sages of the Clubs in St. James’s Street do. There’s Brown, there’s Jones, there’s Robinson, even before the worthies heave well in sight.

  But the field of observation is soon to be extended, fo
r the competitive coppers having caused the urchins to desert their boats, a running scramble takes place on shore, which presently resolves itself into a general fight, bringing the cocked-hatted brown and gold-robed Bumble, down with his gilt-headed staff, followed by a suitable number of police, before whom the little ragged army flies in dismay to their homes.

  The regatta is over. The large-stomached gentlemen are then released from their labours, and come ashore to dine, with such appetites as the dip, dip, dippings of the boat has left them, Mr. Chousey charging them five shillings a-head extra for dinners, as well on account of the great local event, as because it happened to be the anniversary of the day on which the Clown at Astleys was drawn in a tub on the Thames by two geese.

  The general company then distend their crinoline, and set sail, some to the north, some to the east, some to the west, where our friend Mr. Bunting, now in the full intoxication of ardour, was inwardly exclaiming as he looked devotedly at Rosa,

  “Full many a lady

  I hare eyed with best regard many a time;

  The harmony of their tongues hath unto bondage

  Drawn my too diligent eyes;

  But you, oh! you

  So perfect and so peerless are created,

  Of every creature’s best”

  And so he proceeded, now a little in advance, now alongside the Mamma-guarded beauty past the formidable green blinds and jalousies of Promenade Gardens, through whose light barriers no one knew what envy, hatred, and malice, might be lurking; until they met the tide of regatta-returning company in the narrower pass of Somerset Shore, where the oft-recurring collision of crinoline at length caused away in such style, that it soon became current that Admiration Jack was going to be married. And when Herr Staub, whose real name was Tom Snooks, gave the signal for striking up “God save the Queen,” the trio wheeled off to Sea-view Place, where at the door of No. 5, Jack begged one of Rosa’s pretty little primrose-coloured gloves, as a pattern for bet-paying. So ended the famous Roseberry Rocks’ Regatta — an event that was duly chronicled in the newspapers of the day, but without the great advantage that we possess, of having our narrative illustrated.

  CHAPTER XV.

  PIC-NIC NO. II.

  IT IS A good thing to be able to leave well alone — to finish with a pleasant reminiscence instead of the recollection of a failure. But as it is easier to perceive the wrong than to pursue the right, the difficulty is to say when is the right time to stop. Our former pic-nic had given such general satisfaction — had been so much talked about — praised by those who were présent to those who were absent — and the weather, despite Baccoman’s daily prognostications to the contrary, seemed so determinedly settled, that little blame could attach to any one for wishing to have another. Indeed, the atmosphere was so clear, and calm, and pure, that it would almost have looked like ingratitude to hint a suspicion that fogs, and storms, and vapours would ever return. It looked as if Alpacas and Silks and Siphonias might be banished with over-shoes altogether. So thought everybody, ladies included, who, by the bye, are not in general the best judges of weather. Did any of our fox-hunting friends ever hazard the inquiry, what sort of a morning it is to the lady’s maid, “in reply to the early knock,” without being answered with a shivering “v-a-a-ry c-o-old.” It’s always “v-a-a-ry c-o-old” with them. If, however they want to get the “Missus” away, then it is always going to be very fine. Never mind what the glass says, even though it be down to much rain. If it comes and dashes the fair dresses, so much the better for them. Ladies shouldn’t wear their clothes too long — we mean too long a time, for, of course, sweeping the streets with them is a luxury which they must not be denied, to say nothing of its promoting the same desirable end as the rain.

  Well, as we said before, it is a good thing to be able to leave well alone, but the thing is to know when to stop. Our former pic-nic had been eminently successful, and there was no reason why another should not be equally fortunate. The weather — the weather — was the chief consideration, and that was settled for good. — No fear about the weather. There was nothing to do but beat up for recruits. So said Mrs. Maloney to Mr. Lounger Hall, who repeated it to Mr. Kenworthy, who mentioned it at the full tide of Lipscombe’s library, and the thing began to move. The ladies all declared there was nothing so nice as a pic-nic, where every one did what they liked without ceremony or obligation. Names poured in apace; then came the contribution of effects, the assignment of pie, and apportionment of hams, and demands on the cellars, and injunctions for salt, of which latter article there is always either a great abundance, or else a total deficiency.

  We dare say it has occurred to many of our readers, in the overconfidence of fine weather security, to postpone their excursions until the very day on which the weather breaks, and such, we regret to say, was the case on the present occasion. Not that it broke in a downright unmistakeable storm, but what is far worse for the fine bonnets, went down in a flickering light of delusion so difficult to realise when we wish the contrary. We know the signs, and we know what they have led to before; but we hope they won’t be the true prophets this time. It is true the rays of the sun fall like watered silk on the passage walls; it is true that the cattle go roaming discontentedly about the parched glazy pastures, and we predict rain ere long, but not to-day, the next day perhaps, or the one after that.

  Country people are far wiser than town ones in the matter of weather. Town people go solely by their smells and their Aneroids, while an intelligent countryman has his signs and his land marks that never deceive him. There isn’t a shepherd on the Cheviot hills but sees the coming storm, and takes measures accordingly. The ladies, however, have never any fear about the matter so long as the sun shines. A drop of rain is no warning to them; indeed, they generally pocket the affront, lest noticing it, should bring down some more.

  On this occasion, the weather, we are sorry to say, was more than ordinarily deceptive. The sun rose with such resplendent glory, as almost to pull people out of bed, causing the lazy ones to listen to the ticking of their watches, to see that it wasn’t eight o’clock instead of six. Then, as the slugs

  — “on their beds

  Turned their sides and their shoulders and their great heavy heads,’’

  the dazzling rays shot into the rooms as much as to say, if you won’t get up, we’ll make your bed too hot to hold you. And as day advanced, and the buff-slippered prawn-eaters turned out of doors, to lay the foundation of appetites for dinner, and the blue and white clad sea-nymphs began dancing and splashing and disporting themselves in the water, appearances still kept up, and though the sun was not quite so indignant at being looked at, as usual, yet none but the churlish would ever have predicted a change in the weather, let alone rain. One o’clock came, and with it the concomitant tinkling and ringing of bells, and the usual transference of John Thomas from trousers into plush shorts, after which came the sending up of luncheon, and then the exchange of easy morning robes for the rotundity of discomfort, when the inflated ladies became “at home,” and sat looming on their chairs, like hens upon broods of chickens.

  But it is with the pic-nicers that our more immediate business lies, and as they are supposed (though erroneously) to take this meal out of doors, we must get them underway to the scene as soon as we can. Formerly these sorts of excursions were called “gipsyings,” and people dressed themselves accordingly; but since the glorious days of “nothing-to-wear,” they come as smart as they can make themselves. Ladies are always very obliging to each other in the matter of attire, always begging each other not to think of dressing — to come just as they are — they will not dress they can assure them, and so on; but somehow they always do dress, and the unfortunate believers are left in the lurch. It is a hard thing for a young lady to find herself a “guy” in the midst of splendour. All our Rocks’ friends, however, were well up to the “come as you are” injunction, and treated it accordingly. “A delusion and a snare” Mrs. Thomas Trattles called it. As a
popular German Baron once said when remonstrated with by his valet on the extravagance of hunting in a rich cut velvet waistcoat with steel buttons, “By my vord, there is nothing too good for foxing in!” so our fair friends seemed to think there was nothing too good for pic-nic-ing in. The best of everything was produced for the occasion, and tender-hearted beauties who would rush to the rescue of a fly in a cream jug, kept the poor sickly milliner girls sewing all night, in order that they might be gay and smart on the morrow. And very gay, and very smart, and very beautiful many of them were, each ambitious maid predicting as she remitted her young lady to the gaze and admiration of the assembled household down below, that she would be the greatest beauty there. It is wonderful how competition destroys this delusion, and how difficult it is to pick out the real belle when a large party of English ladies are assembled. One thinks one is, another another, but few two men agree upon the same one.