Sketches by Boz Read online

  “We must certainly give up business,” said Miss Tuggs.

  “Oh, decidedly,” said Mrs. Tuggs.

  “Simon shall go to the bar,” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

  “And I shall always sign myself “Cymon” in future,” said his son.

  “And I shall call myself Charlotta,” said Miss Tuggs.

  “And you must always call ME “Ma,” and father “Pa,” said Mrs. Tuggs.

  “Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits,” interposed Miss Tuggs.

  “I'll take care of all that,” responded Mr. Joseph Tuggs, complacently. He was, at that very moment, eating pickled salmon with a pocket-knife.

  “We must leave town immediately,” said Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

  Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable preliminary to being genteel. The question then arose, Where should they go?

  “ Gravesend ?” mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. The idea was unanimously scouted. Gravesend was LOW.

  “ Margate ?” insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and worse—nobody there, but tradespeople.

  “ Brighton ?” Mr. Cymon Tuggs opposed an insurmountable objection. All the coaches had been upset, in turn, within the last three weeks; each coach had averaged two passengers killed, and six wounded; and, in every case, the newspapers had distinctly understood that “no blame whatever was attributable to the coachman.”

  “Ramsgate?” ejaculated Mr. Cymon, thoughtfully. To be sure; how stupid they must have been, not to have thought of that before! Ramsgate was just the place of all others.

  Two months after this conversation, the City of London Ramsgate steamer was running gaily down the river. Her flag was flying, her band was playing, her passengers were conversing; everything about her seemed gay and lively.—No wonder—the Tuggses were on board.

  “Charming, ain't it?” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a bottle-green great-coat, with a velvet collar of the same, and a blue travelling-cap with a gold band.

  “Soul-inspiring,” replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—he was entered at the bar. “Soul-inspiring!”

  “Delightful morning, sir!” said a stoutish, military-looking gentleman in a blue surtout buttoned up to his chin, and white trousers chained down to the soles of his boots.

  Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsibility of answering the observation. “Heavenly!” he replied.

  “You are an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of Nature, sir?” said the military gentleman.

  “I am, sir,” replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

  “Travelled much, sir?” inquired the military gentleman.

  “Not much,” replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

  “You've been on the continent, of course?” inquired the military gentleman.

  “Not exactly,” replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—in a qualified tone, as if he wished it to be implied that he had gone half-way and come back again.

  “You of course intend your son to make the grand tour, sir?” said the military gentleman, addressing Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

  As Mr. Joseph Tuggs did not precisely understand what the grand tour was, or how such an article was manufactured, he replied, “Of course.” Just as he said the word, there came tripping up, from her seat at the stern of the vessel, a young lady in a pucecoloured silk cloak, and boots of the same; with long black ringlets, large black eyes, brief petticoats, and unexceptionable ankles.

  “Walter, my dear,” said the young lady to the military gentleman.

  “Yes, Belinda, my love,” responded the military gentleman to the black-eyed young lady.

  “What have you left me alone so long for?” said the young lady. “I have been stared out of countenance by those rude young men.”

  “What! stared at?” exclaimed the military gentleman, with an emphasis which made Mr. Cymon Tuggs withdraw his eyes from the young lady's face with inconceivable rapidity. “Which young men—where?” and the military gentleman clenched his fist, and glared fearfully on the cigar-smokers around.

  “Be calm, Walter, I entreat,” said the young lady.

  “I won't,” said the military gentleman.

  “Do, sir,” interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. “They ain't worth your notice.”

  “No—no—they are not, indeed,” urged the young lady.

  “I WILL be calm,” said the military gentleman. “You speak truly, sir. I thank you for a timely remonstrance, which may have spared me the guilt of manslaughter.” Calming his wrath, the military gentleman wrung Mr. Cymon Tuggs by the hand.

  “My sister, sir!” said Mr. Cymon Tuggs; seeing that the military gentleman was casting an admiring look towards Miss Charlotta.

  “My wife, ma'am—Mrs. Captain Waters,” said the military gentleman, presenting the black-eyed young lady.

  “My mother, ma'am—Mrs. Tuggs,” said Mr. Cymon. The military gentleman and his wife murmured enchanting courtesies; and the Tuggses looked as unembarrassed as they could.

  “Walter, my dear,” said the black-eyed young lady, after they had sat chatting with the Tuggses some half-hour.

  “Yes, my love,” said the military gentleman.

  “Don't you think this gentleman (with an inclination of the head towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very much like the Marquis Carriwini?”

  “Lord bless me, very!” said the military gentleman.

  “It struck me, the moment I saw him,” said the young lady, gazing intently, and with a melancholy air, on the scarlet countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon Tuggs looked at everybody; and finding that everybody was looking at him, appeared to feel some temporary difficulty in disposing of his eyesight.

  “So exactly the air of the marquis,” said the military gentleman.

  “Quite extraordinary!” sighed the military gentleman's lady.

  “You don't know the marquis, sir?” inquired the military gentleman.

  Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative.

  “If you did,” continued Captain Walter Waters, “you would feel how much reason you have to be proud of the resemblance—a most elegant man, with a most prepossessing appearance.”

  “He is—he is indeed!” exclaimed Belinda Waters energetically. As her eye caught that of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she withdrew it from his features in bashful confusion.

  All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Tuggses; and when, in the course of farther conversation, it was discovered that Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the FAC SIMILE of a titled relative of Mrs. Belinda Waters, and that Mrs. Tuggs herself was the very picture of the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton, their delight in the acquisition of so genteel and friendly an acquaintance, knew no bounds. Even the dignity of Captain Walter Waters relaxed, to that degree, that he suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, to partake of cold pigeon-pie and sherry, on deck; and a most delightful conversation, aided by these agreeable stimulants, was prolonged, until they ran alongside Ramsgate Pier.

  “Good-bye, dear!” said Mrs. Captain Waters to Miss Charlotta Tuggs, just before the bustle of landing commenced; “we shall see you on the sands in the morning; and, as we are sure to have found lodgings before then, I hope we shall be inseparables for many weeks to come.”

  “Oh! I hope so,” said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically.

  “Tickets, ladies and gen'lm'n,” said the man on the paddle-box.

  “Want a porter, sir?” inquired a dozen men in smock-frocks.

  “Now, my dear!” said Captain Waters.

  “Good-bye!” said Mrs. Captain Waters—“good-bye, Mr. Cymon!” and with a pressure of the hand which threw the amiable young man's nerves into a state of considerable derangement, Mrs. Captain Waters disappeared among the crowd. A pair of puce-coloured boots were seen ascending the steps, a white handkerchief fluttered, a black eye gleamed. The Waterses were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a heartless world.

  Silently and abstractedly, did that too sensitive youth follow his revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks and wheelbarrows, along the pier, until the bustle of the scene around, recalled him to
himself. The sun was shining brightly; the sea, dancing to its own music, rolled merrily in; crowds of people promenaded to and fro; young ladies tittered; old ladies talked; nursemaids displayed their charms to the greatest possible advantage; and their little charges ran up and down, and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and between the legs, of the assembled concourse, in the most playful and exhilarating manner. There were old gentlemen, trying to make out objects through long telescopes; and young ones, making objects of themselves in open shirt-collars; ladies, carrying about portable chairs, and portable chairs carrying about invalids; parties, waiting on the pier for parties who had come by the steamboat; and nothing was to be heard but talking, laughing, welcoming, and merriment.

  “Fly, sir?” exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six boys, the moment Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his little party, set foot in the street.

  “Here's the gen'lm'n at last!” said one, touching his hat with mock politeness. “Werry glad to see you, sir,—been a-waitin” for you these six weeks. Jump in, if you please, sir!”

  “Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,” said another: “fourteen mile a hour, and surroundin” objects rendered inwisible by ex-treme welocity!”

  “Large fly for your luggage, sir,” cried a third. “Werry large fly here, sir—reg'lar bluebottle!”

  “Here's YOUR fly, sir!” shouted another aspiring charioteer, mounting the box, and inducing an old grey horse to indulge in some imperfect reminiscences of a canter. “Look at him, sir!—temper of a lamb and haction of a steam-ingein!”

  Resisting even the temptation of securing the services of so valuable a quadruped as the last named, Mr. Joseph Tuggs beckoned to the proprietor of a dingy conveyance of a greenish hue, lined with faded striped calico; and, the luggage and the family having been deposited therein, the animal in the shafts, after describing circles in the road for a quarter of an hour, at last consented to depart in quest of lodgings.

  “How many beds have you got?” screamed Mrs. Tuggs out of the fly, to the woman who opened the door of the first house which displayed a bill intimating that apartments were to be let within.

  “How many did you want, ma'am?” was, of course, the reply.

  “Three.”

  “Will you step in, ma'am?” Down got Mrs. Tuggs. The family were delighted. Splendid view of the sea from the front windows—charming! A short pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs again.—One parlour and a mattress.

  “Why the devil didn't they say so at first?” inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, rather pettishly.

  “Don't know,” said Mrs. Tuggs.

  “Wretches!” exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill—another stoppage. Same question—same answer—similar result.

  “What do they mean by this?” inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, thoroughly out of temper.

  “Don't know,” said the placid Mrs. Tuggs.

  “Orvis the vay here, sir,” said the driver, by way of accounting for the circumstance in a satisfactory manner; and off they went again, to make fresh inquiries, and encounter fresh disappointments.

  It had grown dusk when the “fly”—the rate of whose progress greatly belied its name—after climbing up four or five perpendicular hills, stopped before the door of a dusty house, with a bay window, from which you could obtain a beautiful glimpse of the sea—if you thrust half of your body out of it, at the imminent peril of falling into the area. Mrs. Tuggs alighted. One ground-floor sitting-room, and three cells with beds in them upstairs. A double-house. Family on the opposite side. Five children milk-and-watering in the parlour, and one little boy, expelled for bad behaviour, screaming on his back in the passage.

  “What's the terms?” said Mrs. Tuggs. The mistress of the house was considering the expediency of putting on an extra guinea; so, she coughed slightly, and affected not to hear the question.

  “What's the terms?” said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder key.

  “Five guineas a week, ma'am, WITH attendance,” replied the lodginghouse keeper. (Attendance means the privilege of ringing the bell as often as you like, for your own amusement.)

  “Rather dear,” said Mrs. Tuggs. “Oh dear, no, ma'am!” replied the mistress of the house, with a benign smile of pity at the ignorance of manners and customs, which the observation betrayed. “Very cheap!”

  Such an authority was indisputable. Mrs. Tuggs paid a week's rent in advance, and took the lodgings for a month. In an hour's time, the family were seated at tea in their new abode.

  “Capital srimps!” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

  Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as he emphatically said “SHRIMPS.”

  “Well, then, shrimps,” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. “Srimps or shrimps, don't much matter.”

  There was pity, blended with malignity, in Mr. Cymon's eye, as he replied, “Don't matter, father! What would Captain Waters say, if he heard such vulgarity?”

  “Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,” added Charlotta, “if she saw mother—ma, I mean—eating them whole, heads and all!”

  “It won't bear thinking of!” ejaculated Mr. Cymon, with a shudder. “How different,” he thought, “from the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton!”

  “Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, Cymon?” inquired Miss Charlotta.

  A glow of nervous excitement passed over the countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, as he replied, “An angel of beauty!”

  “Hallo!” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. “Hallo, Cymon, my boy, take care. Married lady, you know;” and he winked one of his twinkling eyes knowingly.

  “Why,” exclaimed Cymon, starting up with an ebullition of fury, as unexpected as alarming, “why am I to be reminded of that blight of my happiness, and ruin of my hopes? Why am I to be taunted with the miseries which are heaped upon my head? Is it not enough to—to—to—” and the orator paused; but whether for want of words, or lack of breath, was never distinctly ascertained.

  There was an impressive solemnity in the tone of this address, and in the air with which the romantic Cymon, at its conclusion, rang the bell, and demanded a flat candlestick, which effectually forbade a reply. He stalked dramatically to bed, and the Tuggses went to bed too, half an hour afterwards, in a state of considerable mystification and perplexity.

  If the pier had presented a scene of life and bustle to the Tuggses on their first landing at Ramsgate, it was far surpassed by the appearance of the sands on the morning after their arrival. It was a fine, bright, clear day, with a light breeze from the sea. There were the same ladies and gentlemen, the same children, the same nursemaids, the same telescopes, the same portable chairs. The ladies were employed in needlework, or watch-guard making, or knitting, or reading novels; the gentlemen were reading newspapers and magazines; the children were digging holes in the sand with wooden spades, and collecting water therein; the nursemaids, with their youngest charges in their arms, were running in after the waves, and then running back with the waves after them; and, now and then, a little sailing-boat either departed with a gay and talkative cargo of passengers, or returned with a very silent and particularly uncomfortable-looking one.

  “Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she and Mr. Joseph Tuggs, and Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, with their eight feet in a corresponding number of yellow shoes, seated themselves on four rush-bottomed chairs, which, being placed in a soft part of the sand, forthwith sunk down some two feet and a half—“Well, I never!”

  Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, uprooted the chairs, and removed them further back.

  “Why, I'm blessed if there ain't some ladies a-going in!” exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with intense astonishment.

  “Lor, pa!” exclaimed Miss Charlotta.

  “There IS, my dear,” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And, sure enough, four young ladies, each furnished with a towel, tripped up the steps of a bathing-machine. In went the horse, floundering about in the water; round turned the machine; down sat the driver; and presently out burst the young ladi
es aforesaid, with four distinct splashes.

  “Well, that's sing'ler, too!” ejaculated Mr. Joseph Tuggs, after an awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly.

  “Why, here's some gentlemen a-going in on this side!” exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, in a tone of horror.

  Three machines—three horses—three flounderings—three turnings round—three splashes—three gentlemen, disporting themselves in the water like so many dolphins.

  “Well, THAT'S sing'ler!” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. Miss Charlotta coughed this time, and another pause ensued. It was agreeably broken.

  “How d'ye do, dear? We have been looking for you, all the morning,” said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. Mrs. Captain Waters was the owner of it.

  “How d'ye do?” said Captain Walter Waters, all suavity; and a most cordial interchange of greetings ensued.

  “Belinda, my love,” said Captain Walter Waters, applying his glass to his eye, and looking in the direction of the sea.

  “Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Captain Waters.

  “There's Harry Thompson!”

  “Where?” said Belinda, applying her glass to her eye.

  “Bathing.”

  “Lor, so it is! He don't see us, does he?”

  “No, I don't think he does” replied the captain. “Bless my soul, how very singular!”

  “What?” inquired Belinda.

  “There's Mary Golding, too.”

  “Lor!—where?” (Up went the glass again.)

  “There!” said the captain, pointing to one of the young ladies before noticed, who, in her bathing costume, looked as if she was enveloped in a patent Mackintosh, of scanty dimensions.

  “So it is, I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. “How very curious we should see them both!”

  “Very,” said the captain, with perfect coolness.

  “It's the reg'lar thing here, you see,” whispered Mr. Cymon Tuggs to his father.

  “I see it is,” whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. “Queer, though—ain't it?” Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded assent.

  “What do you think of doing with yourself this morning?” inquired the captain. “Shall we lunch at Pegwell?”