becomes indeed a blessed spot. Half awake and half asleep, this
idle morning in our sunny window on the edge of a chalk-cliff in
the old-fashioned watering-place to which we are a faithful
resorter, we feel a lazy inclination to sketch its picture.
The place seems to respond. Sky, sea, beach, and village, lie as
still before us as if they were sitting for the picture. It is
dead low-water. A ripple plays among the ripening corn upon the
cliff, as if it were faintly trying from recollection to imitate
the sea; and the world of butterflies hovering over the crop of
radish-seed are as restless in their little way as the gulls are in
their larger manner when the wind blows. But the ocean lies
winking in the sunlight like a drowsy lion – its glassy waters
scarcely curve upon the shore – the fishing-boats in the tiny
harbour are all stranded in the mud – our two colliers (our
watering-place has a maritime trade employing that amount of
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Dickens, Charles – Reprinted Pieces
shipping) have not an inch of water within a quarter of a mile of
them, and turn, exhausted, on their sides, like faint fish of an
antediluvian species. Rusty cables and chains, ropes and rings,
undermost parts of posts and piles and confused timber-defences
against the waves, lie strewn about, in a brown litter of tangled
sea-weed and fallen cliff which looks as if a family of giants had
been making tea here for ages, and had observed an untidy custom of
throwing their tea-leaves on the shore.
In truth, our watering-place itself has been left somewhat high and
dry by the tide of years. Concerned as we are for its honour, we
must reluctantly admit that the time when this pretty little
semicircular sweep of houses, tapering off at the end of the wooden
pier into a point in the sea, was a gay place, and when the
lighthouse overlooking it shone at daybreak on company dispersing
from public balls, is but dimly traditional now. There is a bleak
chamber in our watering-place which is yet called the Assembly
‘Rooms,’ and understood to be available on hire for balls or
concerts; and, some few seasons since, an ancient little gentleman
came down and stayed at the hotel, who said that he had danced
there, in bygone ages, with the Honourable Miss Peepy, well known
to have been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of
innumerable duels. But he was so old and shrivelled, and so very
rheumatic in the legs, that it demanded more imagination than our
watering-place can usually muster, to believe him; therefore,
except the Master of the ‘Rooms’ (who to this hour wears kneebreeches,
and who confirmed the statement with tears in his eyes),
nobody did believe in the little lame old gentleman, or even in the
Honourable Miss Peepy, long deceased.
As to subscription balls in the Assembly Rooms of our wateringplace
now, red-hot cannon balls are less improbable. Sometimes, a
misguided wanderer of a Ventriloquist, or an Infant Phenomenon, or
a juggler, or somebody with an Orrery that is several stars behind
the time, takes the place for a night, and issues bills with the
name of his last town lined out, and the name of ours ignominiously
written in, but you may be sure this never happens twice to the
same unfortunate person. On such occasions the discoloured old
Billiard Table that is seldom played at (unless the ghost of the
Honourable Miss Peepy plays at pool with other ghosts) is pushed
into a corner, and benches are solemnly constituted into front
seats, back seats, and reserved seats – which are much the same
after you have paid – and a few dull candles are lighted – wind
permitting – and the performer and the scanty audience play out a
short match which shall make the other most low-spirited – which is
usually a drawn game. After that, the performer instantly departs
with maledictory expressions, and is never heard of more.
But the most wonderful feature of our Assembly Rooms, is, that an
annual sale of ‘Fancy and other China,’ is announced here with