It did my heart good in that strange land upon that cheerless day to hear the man from the North pour out his volcanic eloquence in Blackpool's praise. I grieve to be compelled to admit that some of his statements struck me as inaccurate. For instance, I thought he was wrong in describing the promenade as ten miles long, and I think he was not justified in stretching the Tower to double the height of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. I cast a glance of mild rebuke upon him when he added that the Winter Gardens were "something like the Crystal Palace, and Earl's Court put together," and I gasped when he represented Uncle Tom's Cabin as "a sort of shandygaff of Buckingham Palace and Olympia!". I felt that if I didn't check him the man would rupture himself. I touched him on the shoulder. "I have lived at Blackpool myself," I said. "There you are," he continued, without turning a hair; "this gentleman will confirm what I'm telling you. Aren't all these South of England watering-places slow as compared with Blackpool?" "Well," I said, "none of them have such variety of amusements." "If you want amusement," said the Cockney gentleman who had offered the cue about the pier, "if you want amusement, you should try Yarmouth." "Yarmouth!" cried the North of England man, with an expression of superb disdain. "Bah! Yarmouth is vulgar!" * * * * * It was lovely! After his praise of Blackpool it was sublime. I saluted him respectfully and departed with a soul full of awe. For I had not then seen Yarmouth. On the next day I did. Then my wonder vanished. I had seen something of the Yarmouth yahoos at Gorleston. For the democratic price of twopence, steamers bring them up the river, past the teeming wharves and shipbuilding yards of the Yare, and belch them forth to stare upon Gorleston's "slowness." Our placid Gorleston sun smiled on their hurry and pain with its customary calm complacency. Our lazy Gorleston sea rocked itself benignly with its usual hushing swish. Our deliberate Gorleston sea-gulls indolently flapped their wings. And the Yarmouth yahoos yawned and hastened away in disgust. * * * * * But at Yarmouth, their feet are, as it were, upon their own wicket; their deportment was to the manner born. See them shying at skittles or cocoanuts, gorging on stout and shellfish, bustling, breathless but roaring, from "entertainment" to "entertainment." How hot they look! how they perspire! and how they shout! Do they really amuse themselves? I wonder. They all seek happiness, these good brothers and sisters of ours; but surely they run away from it that so distress themselves in its pursuit. To "get on," to "do" the utmost possible in the shortest possible time, to eclipse their fellows, to make haste and yet more haste, and ever more haste--that, in pleasure as in toil, is ever their aim.