shrieks, and the train comes gliding in, and the two hundred and
eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now, there is not only a tide of
water, but a tide of people, and a tide of luggage – all tumbling
and flowing and bouncing about together. Now, after infinite
bustle, the steamer steams out, and we (on the Pier) are all
delighted when she rolls as if she would roll her funnel out, and
all are disappointed when she don’t. Now, the other steamer is
coming in, and the Custom House prepares, and the wharf-labourers
assemble, and the hawsers are made ready, and the Hotel Porters
come rattling down with van and truck, eager to begin more Olympic
games with more luggage. And this is the way in which we go on,
down at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, if you want to live a life
of luggage, or to see it lived, or to breathe sweet air which will
send you to sleep at a moment’s notice at any period of the day or
night, or to disport yourself upon or in the sea, or to scamper
about Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoyment of all or any
of these pleasures, come to Pavilionstone.
OUT OF THE SEASON
IT fell to my lot, this last bleak Spring, to find myself in a
watering-place out of the Season. A vicious north-east squall blew
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Dickens, Charles – Reprinted Pieces
me into it from foreign parts, and I tarried in it alone for three
days, resolved to be exceedingly busy.
On the first day, I began business by looking for two hours at the
sea, and staring the Foreign Militia out of countenance. Having
disposed of these important engagements, I sat down at one of the
two windows of my room, intent on doing something desperate in the
way of literary composition, and writing a chapter of unheard-of
excellence – with which the present essay has no connexion.
It is a remarkable quality in a watering-place out of the season,
that everything in it, will and must be looked at. I had no
previous suspicion of this fatal truth but, the moment I sat down
to write, I began to perceive it. I had scarcely fallen into my
most promising attitude, and dipped my pen in the ink, when I found
the clock upon the pier – a red-faced clock with a white rim –
importuning me in a highly vexatious manner to consult my watch,
and see how I was off for Greenwich time. Having no intention of
making a voyage or taking an observation, I had not the least need
of Greenwich time, and could have put up with watering-place time
as a sufficiently accurate article. The pier-clock, however,
persisting, I felt it necessary to lay down my pen, compare my
watch with him, and fall into a grave solicitude about halfseconds.
I had taken up my pen again, and was about to commence
that valuable chapter, when a Custom-house cutter under the window
requested that I would hold a naval review of her, immediately.
It was impossible, under the circumstances, for any mental
resolution, merely human, to dismiss the Custom-house cutter,
because the shadow of her topmast fell upon my paper, and the vane
played on the masterly blank chapter. I was therefore under the
necessity of going to the other window; sitting astride of the
chair there, like Napoleon bivouacking in the print; and inspecting
the cutter as she lay, all that day, in the way of my chapter, O!
She was rigged to carry a quantity of canvas, but her hull was so
very small that four giants aboard of her (three men and a boy) who
were vigilantly scraping at her, all together, inspired me with a
terror lest they should scrape her away. A fifth giant, who
appeared to consider himself ‘below’ – as indeed he was, from the
waist downwards – meditated, in such close proximity with the
little gusty chimney-pipe, that he seemed to be smoking it.
Several boys looked on from the wharf, and, when the gigantic
attention appeared to be fully occupied, one or other of these
would furtively swing himself in mid-air over the Custom-house