In order to satisfy myself as to truth in conflicting reports about
Bournemouth as a summer resort, I take express 12·30 from Waterloo,
and go straight away to my terminus, stopping, if I remember rightly,
only twice on the road. First-rate run, through lovely scenery, with
the London and South-Western Pack; found at Waterloo, and, with the
exception of a slight check of only three minutes at Southampton
Water--scent generally lost where water is, I believe--and another
of a few seconds at Brockenhurst, ran into our quarry at Bournemouth
Station West, in just two hours and a half. [_Happy Thought_.--Lunch
_en route_, between 12·30 and 3. Pullman cars attached to some trains,
not all. Certainly recommend Pullman, where possible; all comforts at
hand for eating and drinking: likewise smoking-room, &c., &c.]

[Illustration: "WELCOME THE COMING--"

"There, my dear Sir; there's your room, and I'm only charmed to have
your company."--_Extract from Speech of the Hearty Hotel-Proprietor to
Un-illustrious Visitor_.]

Generally understood that Bournemouth is the Monte Carlo, or Nice,
or Monaco, or Riviera of England. May be it is; if so, Monte Carlo,
and the rest can't be so hot in summer as they are painted, for
Bournemouth just now is (I speak of the last week in July) at a
delightfully mean temperature,--if I may be allowed to use the word
"mean" without implying any sort of disrespect for the Bournemouthers.

Bournemouth apparently crowded. Do not remember it on any previous
occasional visit, in autumn or spring, so crowded as at this present
moment. Odd!