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!

“Not at all,” explains flyman; “British Medical Association here.  All sorts of festivities.  Hotels all crowded.  Lodgings too.”

If the worst come to the worst, I shall have to spend a night in a bathing-machine.  Not bad:  if fine.  Can be called early; then sea-bath; also man to bring hot water and towels.  While speculating on this probability, we arrive at

Royal Bath Hotel.—­Flag flying, showing that British Medical Association Family are at home.  Other flags elsewhere express same idea.  B.M.A. at home everywhere, of course.  Array of servants in brown liveries and gilt buttons in outer hall, preparing to receive visitors.  Pleasant and courteous Manager—­evidently Manager—­with foreign accent receives me smilingly.  “Any difficulty about rooms?” I ask, nervously.  “None whatever in your case,” returns courteous Manager, bowing most graciously as he emphasises the possessive pronoun.  In the hall are trim young ladies, pleasant matronly ladies, chorus of young porters and old porters, all smiling, and awaiting my lightest bow and heaviest baggage.  I am “to be shown up.” (Absit omen!) However, I am shown up.  Charming room:  sea-view, nearly all the views from the windows of Royal Bath are sea-views, take the Bath which way you will; and the welcome is so warm, it ought to be The Warm Bath Hotel.