, goat-chaises. Always thought Starmouth was a picturesque
fishing-village, with windmills, wooden huts, and drying-nets along
beach. It isn't.

Still, of course, the change from all London associations, the absolute
quiet must have tendency to refresh the fagged brain. (Always rather a
gratifying reflection somehow, to think one has a fagged brain.) I
observe they are doing _Our Boys_ at the theatre. At the Aquarium are
the BUFFON Brothers with their celebrated Acrobatic Ass "from all the
London Music-Halls." Switchback Railway, too, on the beach, and
automatic machines about every five yards. Plenty of life here.

[Illustration: Is-linked-on.]

I am becoming gradually aware that Starmouth, though full, is not
exactly fashionable. I infer this, partly from the fact that already I
instinctively turn round to look curiously at the speaker, when I hear a
duly aspirated "h," _a la mode d'Islington_, partly from the prevalence
and popularity of the whelk-stalls on the Esplanade. Really good
society, even in its laxest mood, would scarcely support quite so many.

On the Pier. Military Band. View of Beach from sea very beautiful at
night, fairy-like effect of continuous line of light from whelk-stalls.
Yet one would hesitate to put a touch of description like that into a
novel--curious the prudery of fiction, your realistic French author
would describe contents of all the little saucers. That is _Art_, and I
shall see if I can work it in to my drama somehow.

Leave Pier. Back to Esplanade. Crowd round young man singing to
concertina a ditty about a certain JEMIMA who though "so fond of her
beer, was always a Mug."

Sentimental Song, to harp, at next corner. About a Stowaway, with golden
curls, and "dear baby lips," and "sweet little eyes," how a cruel Mate
found him in the hold, and was so touched that he kissed him on the
forehead for speaking the "tree-youth," and the crew wept. Most
pathetic--Singer himself compelled to retire to public-house at
conclusion.

Bed. Dream my Nautical Drama accepted by Mr. IRVING--a _waking_ dream,
too!

_Sunday._--Breakfast. My landlady evidently person of strict propriety.
My two boiled eggs come in dressed in little red-worsted petticoats. It
never occurred to me before that a bare egg was calculated to call up a
blush--but really they make me feel almost shy now--they do look so coy,
so modest in their simple attire. Possibly, though, Starmouth eggs are
not very strong, and requi