DOI Heft:
August 6, 1870
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16886#0065
§6
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[August 6, 1870.
THE BOOMPJE PAPERS.
STILL IN KOTTERDAM—GOOCH'S RAILWAY TIME — BOOMPJE
NOTES—FAREWELL TO THE BOOMPJES—THE HAGUE-THE
GALLERY—TWO FRIENDS.
Gooch is peculiarly slow. It
is through Gooch that we
always manage to "run the
starting rather fine," as he ex-
presses it afterwards.
He is utterly unable to con-
sider himself as a man slow in
his movements. When he
wants to give you an idea of
his going to be some con-
siderable time (during which,
specially before breakfast, you
are implored by him not to
wait for him) he will ask you
to " call it," or " say twenty
minutes." This is how he
wishes others to compute
time, by "making it" or "call-
ing it," or " saying " so many
minutes. He seldom runs
into hours. When he does
this, if it's an appointment,
you may depend upon either
not seeing him at, all, or on his
turning up in a week or two,
and proudly saying, " There
you see, 1 said I'd come, and
here I am !"
I 'k'l / - jP^F "^MW ^or UMtaiioe, he is not out
^L^^S^n \\a\\fflr °^ 'De^' 'ie ^as conse-
^ ^^itW quence) not had his bath, he
^J^jjJJr %L has to pack his portmanteau,
and have his breakfast.
" Well,"_says Bund, the Commander at the door, " how long will
you be, eh ? " " Oh," answers Gooch, from within, under the sheets
probably, and the door craftily locked, " about a quarter of an hour,
or" he adds, as if wishing to be particular to a second, and not
inconvenience anyone by so much as a five seconds' delay, " say
twenty minutes, and I'm there."
We say twenty minutes, and, of course, he is not there.
If he wishes to give us a notion of how quick he will be, when,
for instance, we want him to come and see some privately-collected
picture gallery which is conveniently open at eleven and closed at
twelve (on account of the private collector's family dinner), and Gooch
has three letters which he has invariably got to " finish "—(not to
write, oh no, that would be too long and tedious a proceeding—he
appears to keep a lot always by him half written, as Maullie has some
three or four pictures always " on the stocks ")—he says he will come
" before you can wink your eye."
This is his formula for his own rapidity :—
He'll be dressed before you can wink your eye.
He'll put on his hat before you can wink your eye.
He'll come to you (he sends this by telegram a hundred miles off)
before you can wink your eye.
After this, it is almost unnecessary to state that we find Gooch to be
at least three-quarters of an hour dressing, and a trifle under that—
not much—in washing his hands.
Gooch's watch is invariably set with "railway time." This he will
give with an air of authority, which is convincing at first. After
missing the train three times, in consequence of adhering closely to his
(Gooch's) watch, we begin to mistrust him, and prefer Jomp's chrono-
meter, which takes us down to any station at least an hour before the
train starts.
Gooch's exclusive possession of " railway time" (no one else's watch
ever coincides with his, and he generally manages to correct other
statements and come in last, authoritatively) is peculiarly Boompje-ish.
He announces it as a fact, by which you may take warning or not, how
it's for your own advantage or not; but that's all one to him, and he
pities you, if you don't. He is also consistent, a great point in Boomp-
jeism; for when we arrive at the station, hardly by his time, and the
train has gone, he refers us to the railway clock as being in accordance
with his watch, in which case he at first asserts that the train can't
have gone; and, on hearing that it has, threatens the ticket-taker in
the pigeon-hole that he will write to the directors; or, if the station
clock flatly contradicts him (which is very rare) he appeals to us (gene-
rally to me) to corroborate his statement of the agreement of his watch
with that of the last station we were at yesterday.
After travelling with him for iome time, we prefer Jomp's time to
Gooch's ; but end by striking a balance between the two, and then
generally having half an hour to the good.
I once saw a ballet, or musical piece, called The Dancing Barber.
The chief character was dressed in a very closely fitting suit of sables,
not a bit like a barber, and he wore a cocked hat. I mention this
because Gooch reminded me of it in Rotterdam, where, when anyone
is dangerously ill, the relatives send round a couple of these dancing
barbers, in black, with funereal weepers to their cocked hats, who go
about like two bogies, ringing at the doors, delivering cards, and
frightening ([should think) little Dutch children into fits. (Boomp-je !)
Matjllie proposes that, before going on to the Hague, we should
visit Dort. The Commodore assures him that there's nothing to be
seen at Dort except windmills.
Maullib retorts, that he likes windmills.
Gooch yawns on a sofa, and says, "Do let's go to the Hague.
There's civilisation there. I say!" he exclaims suddenly, turning to
Matjllie, " there's a palace and swell shops there: you might get a
hat."
Maullie would prefer going without a hat to Dort.
Jomp settles the difficulty by saying, " Veil, you can see Dort if you
like ; but—um—um—urn—ve don't go near there"
w'e take a final walk on the Quay called from the little boompjes on
it "The Boompjes" (which, as a peripatetic club, we decide upon
always writing as pronounced, Boomp-je), and depart for the Hague.
Note.—I cannot again refrain from drawing attention to the inge-
nuity of the Dutch as to names. They call a river the Rotter, and they
make a dam. It's a sort of charade. My first is Rotter, my second is
Dam, and my whole is the name of a place. Ans. Rotterdam.
They call a little tree a Boompje. They plant several little Boompjes
on a Quay, and they call the Quay The Boompjes. There's a sim-
plicity and a freshness about this which is quite enchanting.
The Hague.—Belle Vue Hotel. Very prettily situated, and first-rate
altogether. Gooch, delighted, lounges out of window, smoking
cigarettes. Maullie, in an arm-chair by a side window of sitting-
room, commences "taking a quaint bit." Bund is immersed in
Murray, correcting his statements by Bradshaw, and Jomp is some-
where, asking what is to be seen.
I sit and admire the view—canal (of course), gardens, deer park,
large trees—charming.
The houses of the Upper Ten at the Hague are generally situated on,
as it were, square islands formed by stagnant canals. Smell delicious,
naturally. Query, if the people at the Hague are no worse in health
than at any other place—say, London—what's the use of attending to
drainage, sewerage, and good supply of water ?
This problem puzzles us.
Having walked about for an hour or so (without Jomp and the bag,
thank goodness!), Gooch proposes finding out a restaurant, in order
to provide for luncheon. He says this travelling makes him so hungry.
We don't doubt him, seeing his appetite on every occasion. He is
always proposing to sit down to a meal when Maullie wants to take
us to a Picture Gallery. "Didn't we come to see the pictures? " asks
Maullie, who is satisfied with what he calls "a snack."
" Yes," says Gooch ; " but we can't see pictures without eating."
Decided : Gallery first, Hotel afterwards.
In the Gallery.—Eirst striking notice :—
Ret is verboden de schildengen Aanteraken,
which is, of course, highly satisfactory.
Gooch and self now taken by Maullie to see "a masterpiece, Sir,
by Kembbandt."
Maullie walks straight into the room where it is, as if he'd been
there every day of his life regularly.
" There ! " he exclaims, triumphantly. " There's the Lecture on
Anatomy. Rembbandt."
[ see Bund surreptitiously consulting Bradshaw and a Notice des
Tableaux, before committing himself to an opinion.
Gooch says, " Ah!" and looks round, to see if there are any other
spectators besides ourselves.
I don't exactly know what to say. After considering some time, I
venture upon a safe inquiry, founded upon Maullie's previous
remark, " I suppose this is considered one of Rembkandt's finest
pieces ? "
" Certainly; yes," answers Maullie, and continues, enthusiasti-
cally: "look at old Tulp, there. Fine head, marvellous head."
I inspect Tulp's head critically ; at least, the head of the man I take
to be Tulp.
" There's character in that eyebrow ! " continues Maullie.
I smack my lips, as if I were tasting it, and say, "Yes, indeed,"
(Boomp-je !) though I can't see that my Tulp has much in the way of
eyebrow. Also, which eyebrow P
" Then, look at the hands! " says Maullie.
This decides me. My Tulp is not his Tulp ; mine only showing one
hand. Determine to find out which is Tulp. I ask, "If they are all
portraits of celebrated people ? "
" Yes," replies Maullie, who is well up in it.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[August 6, 1870.
THE BOOMPJE PAPERS.
STILL IN KOTTERDAM—GOOCH'S RAILWAY TIME — BOOMPJE
NOTES—FAREWELL TO THE BOOMPJES—THE HAGUE-THE
GALLERY—TWO FRIENDS.
Gooch is peculiarly slow. It
is through Gooch that we
always manage to "run the
starting rather fine," as he ex-
presses it afterwards.
He is utterly unable to con-
sider himself as a man slow in
his movements. When he
wants to give you an idea of
his going to be some con-
siderable time (during which,
specially before breakfast, you
are implored by him not to
wait for him) he will ask you
to " call it," or " say twenty
minutes." This is how he
wishes others to compute
time, by "making it" or "call-
ing it," or " saying " so many
minutes. He seldom runs
into hours. When he does
this, if it's an appointment,
you may depend upon either
not seeing him at, all, or on his
turning up in a week or two,
and proudly saying, " There
you see, 1 said I'd come, and
here I am !"
I 'k'l / - jP^F "^MW ^or UMtaiioe, he is not out
^L^^S^n \\a\\fflr °^ 'De^' 'ie ^as conse-
^ ^^itW quence) not had his bath, he
^J^jjJJr %L has to pack his portmanteau,
and have his breakfast.
" Well,"_says Bund, the Commander at the door, " how long will
you be, eh ? " " Oh," answers Gooch, from within, under the sheets
probably, and the door craftily locked, " about a quarter of an hour,
or" he adds, as if wishing to be particular to a second, and not
inconvenience anyone by so much as a five seconds' delay, " say
twenty minutes, and I'm there."
We say twenty minutes, and, of course, he is not there.
If he wishes to give us a notion of how quick he will be, when,
for instance, we want him to come and see some privately-collected
picture gallery which is conveniently open at eleven and closed at
twelve (on account of the private collector's family dinner), and Gooch
has three letters which he has invariably got to " finish "—(not to
write, oh no, that would be too long and tedious a proceeding—he
appears to keep a lot always by him half written, as Maullie has some
three or four pictures always " on the stocks ")—he says he will come
" before you can wink your eye."
This is his formula for his own rapidity :—
He'll be dressed before you can wink your eye.
He'll put on his hat before you can wink your eye.
He'll come to you (he sends this by telegram a hundred miles off)
before you can wink your eye.
After this, it is almost unnecessary to state that we find Gooch to be
at least three-quarters of an hour dressing, and a trifle under that—
not much—in washing his hands.
Gooch's watch is invariably set with "railway time." This he will
give with an air of authority, which is convincing at first. After
missing the train three times, in consequence of adhering closely to his
(Gooch's) watch, we begin to mistrust him, and prefer Jomp's chrono-
meter, which takes us down to any station at least an hour before the
train starts.
Gooch's exclusive possession of " railway time" (no one else's watch
ever coincides with his, and he generally manages to correct other
statements and come in last, authoritatively) is peculiarly Boompje-ish.
He announces it as a fact, by which you may take warning or not, how
it's for your own advantage or not; but that's all one to him, and he
pities you, if you don't. He is also consistent, a great point in Boomp-
jeism; for when we arrive at the station, hardly by his time, and the
train has gone, he refers us to the railway clock as being in accordance
with his watch, in which case he at first asserts that the train can't
have gone; and, on hearing that it has, threatens the ticket-taker in
the pigeon-hole that he will write to the directors; or, if the station
clock flatly contradicts him (which is very rare) he appeals to us (gene-
rally to me) to corroborate his statement of the agreement of his watch
with that of the last station we were at yesterday.
After travelling with him for iome time, we prefer Jomp's time to
Gooch's ; but end by striking a balance between the two, and then
generally having half an hour to the good.
I once saw a ballet, or musical piece, called The Dancing Barber.
The chief character was dressed in a very closely fitting suit of sables,
not a bit like a barber, and he wore a cocked hat. I mention this
because Gooch reminded me of it in Rotterdam, where, when anyone
is dangerously ill, the relatives send round a couple of these dancing
barbers, in black, with funereal weepers to their cocked hats, who go
about like two bogies, ringing at the doors, delivering cards, and
frightening ([should think) little Dutch children into fits. (Boomp-je !)
Matjllie proposes that, before going on to the Hague, we should
visit Dort. The Commodore assures him that there's nothing to be
seen at Dort except windmills.
Maullib retorts, that he likes windmills.
Gooch yawns on a sofa, and says, "Do let's go to the Hague.
There's civilisation there. I say!" he exclaims suddenly, turning to
Matjllie, " there's a palace and swell shops there: you might get a
hat."
Maullie would prefer going without a hat to Dort.
Jomp settles the difficulty by saying, " Veil, you can see Dort if you
like ; but—um—um—urn—ve don't go near there"
w'e take a final walk on the Quay called from the little boompjes on
it "The Boompjes" (which, as a peripatetic club, we decide upon
always writing as pronounced, Boomp-je), and depart for the Hague.
Note.—I cannot again refrain from drawing attention to the inge-
nuity of the Dutch as to names. They call a river the Rotter, and they
make a dam. It's a sort of charade. My first is Rotter, my second is
Dam, and my whole is the name of a place. Ans. Rotterdam.
They call a little tree a Boompje. They plant several little Boompjes
on a Quay, and they call the Quay The Boompjes. There's a sim-
plicity and a freshness about this which is quite enchanting.
The Hague.—Belle Vue Hotel. Very prettily situated, and first-rate
altogether. Gooch, delighted, lounges out of window, smoking
cigarettes. Maullie, in an arm-chair by a side window of sitting-
room, commences "taking a quaint bit." Bund is immersed in
Murray, correcting his statements by Bradshaw, and Jomp is some-
where, asking what is to be seen.
I sit and admire the view—canal (of course), gardens, deer park,
large trees—charming.
The houses of the Upper Ten at the Hague are generally situated on,
as it were, square islands formed by stagnant canals. Smell delicious,
naturally. Query, if the people at the Hague are no worse in health
than at any other place—say, London—what's the use of attending to
drainage, sewerage, and good supply of water ?
This problem puzzles us.
Having walked about for an hour or so (without Jomp and the bag,
thank goodness!), Gooch proposes finding out a restaurant, in order
to provide for luncheon. He says this travelling makes him so hungry.
We don't doubt him, seeing his appetite on every occasion. He is
always proposing to sit down to a meal when Maullie wants to take
us to a Picture Gallery. "Didn't we come to see the pictures? " asks
Maullie, who is satisfied with what he calls "a snack."
" Yes," says Gooch ; " but we can't see pictures without eating."
Decided : Gallery first, Hotel afterwards.
In the Gallery.—Eirst striking notice :—
Ret is verboden de schildengen Aanteraken,
which is, of course, highly satisfactory.
Gooch and self now taken by Maullie to see "a masterpiece, Sir,
by Kembbandt."
Maullie walks straight into the room where it is, as if he'd been
there every day of his life regularly.
" There ! " he exclaims, triumphantly. " There's the Lecture on
Anatomy. Rembbandt."
[ see Bund surreptitiously consulting Bradshaw and a Notice des
Tableaux, before committing himself to an opinion.
Gooch says, " Ah!" and looks round, to see if there are any other
spectators besides ourselves.
I don't exactly know what to say. After considering some time, I
venture upon a safe inquiry, founded upon Maullie's previous
remark, " I suppose this is considered one of Rembkandt's finest
pieces ? "
" Certainly; yes," answers Maullie, and continues, enthusiasti-
cally: "look at old Tulp, there. Fine head, marvellous head."
I inspect Tulp's head critically ; at least, the head of the man I take
to be Tulp.
" There's character in that eyebrow ! " continues Maullie.
I smack my lips, as if I were tasting it, and say, "Yes, indeed,"
(Boomp-je !) though I can't see that my Tulp has much in the way of
eyebrow. Also, which eyebrow P
" Then, look at the hands! " says Maullie.
This decides me. My Tulp is not his Tulp ; mine only showing one
hand. Determine to find out which is Tulp. I ask, "If they are all
portraits of celebrated people ? "
" Yes," replies Maullie, who is well up in it.