THE BATHING SEASON. 161 



Manning. And the Cardinal bowed and put it in his 

 pocket. 



Just as everybody walks on the sunny side of 

 Eegent-street, so there are certain spots on the beach 

 where people crowd together. This is one of them; 

 just west of the West Pier there is a fair between 

 eleven and one every bright morning. Everybody 

 goes because everybody else does. Mamma goes down 

 to bathe with her daughters and the little ones ; they 

 take two machines at least ; the pater comes to smoke 

 his cigar ; the young fellows of the family-party come 

 to look at " the women," as they irreverently speak 

 of the sex. So the story runs on ad infinitumy down 

 to the shoeless ones that turn up everywhere. Every 

 seat is occupied; the boats and small yachts are filled; 

 some of the children pour pebbles into the boats, some 

 carefully throw them out ; wooden spades are busy ; 

 sometimes they knock each other on the head with 

 them, sometimes they empty pails of sea-water on a 

 sister's frock. There is a squealing, squalling, scream- 

 ing, shouting, singing, bawling, howling, whistling, 

 tin- trumpeting, and every luxury of noise. Two or 

 three bands work away ; niggers clatter their bones ; 

 a conjurer in red throws his heels in the air ; several 

 harps strum merrily different strains ; fruit-sellers 

 push baskets into ^Iks' faces; sellers of wretched 

 needlework and sihgutkr baskets coated with shells 

 thrust their rubbish "into people's laps. These shell 

 baskets date from George IV. The gingerbeer men 

 and the newsboys cease not from troubling. Such a 

 volume of uproar, such a complete organ of discord — 

 I mean a whole organful — cannot be found anywhere 



