– and we have two or three churches, and more chapels than I have
yet added up. But public amusements are scarce with us. If a poor
theatrical manager comes with his company to give us, in a loft,
Mary Bax, or the Murder on the Sand Hills, we don’t care much for
him – starve him out, in fact. We take more kindly to wax-work,
especially if it moves; in which case it keeps much clearer of the
second commandment than when it is still. Cooke’s Circus (Mr.
Cooke is my friend, and always leaves a good name behind him) gives
us only a night in passing through. Nor does the travelling
menagerie think us worth a longer visit. It gave us a look-in the
other day, bringing with it the residentiary van with the stained
glass windows, which Her Majesty kept ready-made at Windsor Castle,
until she found a suitable opportunity of submitting it for the
proprietor’s acceptance. I brought away five wonderments from this
exhibition. I have wondered ever since, Whether the beasts ever do
get used to those small places of confinement; Whether the monkeys
have that very horrible flavour in their free state; Whether wild
animals have a natural ear for time and tune, and therefore every
four-footed creature began to howl in despair when the band began
to play; What the giraffe does with his neck when his cart is shut
up; and, Whether the elephant feels ashamed of himself when he is
brought out of his den to stand on his head in the presence of the
whole Collection.
We are a tidal harbour at Pavilionstone, as indeed I have implied
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Dickens, Charles – Reprinted Pieces
already in my mention of tidal trains. At low water, we are a heap
of mud, with an empty channel in it where a couple of men in big
boots always shovel and scoop: with what exact object, I am unable
to say. At that time, all the stranded fishing-boats turn over on
their sides, as if they were dead marine monsters; the colliers and
other shipping stick disconsolate in the mud; the steamers look as
if their white chimneys would never smoke more, and their red
paddles never turn again; the green sea-slime and weed upon the
rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obsolete high tides
never more to flow; the flagstaff-halyards droop; the very little
wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the sun. And here I
may observe of the very little wooden lighthouse, that when it is
lighted at night, – red and green, – it looks so like a medical
man’s, that several distracted husbands have at various times been
found, on occasions of premature domestic anxiety, going round and
round it, trying to find the Nightbell.
But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilionstone Harbour
begins to revive. It feels the breeze of the rising water before
the water comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little
shallow waves creep in, barely overlapping one another, the vanes
at the mastheads wake, and become agitated. As the tide rises, the
fishing-boats get into good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists
a bright red flag, the steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses and
carriages dangle in the air, stray passengers and luggage appear.
Now, the shipping is afloat, and comes up buoyantly, to look at the
wharf. Now, the carts that have come down for coals, load away as
hard as they can load. Now, the steamer smokes immensely, and
occasionally blows at the paddle-boxes like a vaporous whalegreatly
disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both the tide and the
breeze have risen, and you are holding your hat on (if you want to
see how the ladies hold THEIR hats on, with a stay, passing over
the broad brim and down the nose, come to Pavilionstone). Now,
everything in the harbour splashes, dashes, and bobs. Now, the
Down Tidal Train is telegraphed, and you know (without knowing how
you know), that two hundred and eighty-seven people are coming.
Now, the fishing-boats that have been out, sail in at the top of
the tide. Now, the bell goes, and the locomotive hisses and