DOI Heft:
October 7, 1882
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17753#0172
October 7, 1882.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 165
Great Queen, whose deftest, doughtiest knight he seemed,
Guerdon, of solid honour, peering him
And brave Sir Beauchamp with the finer few
Whom merit levels with the blest of birth;
Nor least, the laud of Punchius, scatterer he
Of no cheap chaplets, yet well pleased to crown
With his most precious parsley-wreath of praise,
And “ Bravo! ” frank, so brave a bit of work
So fairly, featly done, so welcome eke
To toiling Gladstone at his Table Round,
Our loyal Island, and our Patriot Queen.
A WARNING.
Sir Garnet and Sir Beauchamp Sir G. W. and Sir B. S. as they will pro-
as they will appear on their bably appear after a series of Banquets
return to England. given to these gallant Officers.
MRS. R. IN A NEW PLACE.
My dear Nephew,
Mr. Hackson has been as good as his word to Lavvy and
myself. He promised to take us to a French bathing-place which
we should like ever so much better than Bullown, and he has done
it. He acted as our Currier all the way, which saved us so much
trouble in looking after ourselves, as he was always before us. Well,
the place he took us to is called Rosendael, the Dale of Roses, because
there are so many jardangs day plants, as they call ’em in French,
in the pretty little village which we walked through on Sunday,
though of course the rose season is over now. When Mr. Hackson
told us that we must first go to Dunkirk to get to Rosendael, I
thought he was joking, as I own I had always thought that Dunkirk
was in Scotland ; and I was right after all, as it was in Scotland
till Charles the Second sold it to the French, and of course sent
it over to them, carriage paid, and delivered it and set it down
on the coast just where it is now. It’s a delightful old town, with
a fine church dictated to Scent Hullo, and a tower with a carry-
alung in it. The carry-along is a set of bells which plays a tune
feebly every half-hour, and sounds like a second-hand musical box
on a shelf.
The Dunkirkers are the respectablest people; there are very few
song cutlets, as the French say, among them. And as to civility, they
might be natives of Sweet Civil in Spain, instead of Frenchmen at
Dunkirk. When the Gossoons hand anything to you, or take it away,
they always say, “ Mair see," which, as I observed to Mr. Hack-
son, proves that the Dunkirkers still keep their Scotch, as evidently
“ Mair see ” means that there was something mair coming, and so
there always was. The Tarble doat at the Grand Hotel at Dunkirk,
in the Rude Kappysangs, that’s the name of the principal street,
was very good. The breakfast and dinner at the Restowrongs
called the Kaffy days Arcards “ were,” as Mr. Hackson facetiously
said, “ quite first chop,” though, of course, he meant fillies, which,
I am hound to say, I refused to touch at first, thinking that fillies
must be something to do with horses.
When we first arrived, we drove in an open vulture right
through the town to the Casino (I objected to enter such a place,
but Mr. Hackson told us that it was quite a different thing to what
the Magistrates won’t license in London) at Rosendael, and imagine
our disappointment when a most respectable and nice-spoken lady
told Mr. Hackson,—who interrupted what she said in French to us,
though most of it was quite ineligible to me,—that the Season had
finished on the fifteenth of September, that the Hotel and the Cure-
us-all (which is the salutary department) was shut up, that there
was nobody here, and the best thing we could do was to go back to
the town, and come out to the bathing by tramway in the morning.
This we did, and most enjoyable it was: the tramway, price two-
pence, took us in ten minutes to the bathing-machines, and the
weather was so hot that we sat under sunshades, and actively break-
fasted all frisky (as the Italians say) out in the open air, eating such
wheaters, which is French for oysters, as I’ve never tasted in my
life before, at two franks a dozen. They are the same sort as the
celebrated wheaters of Dustend, on the Bulging Coast. It is a most
healthy place, being famed for its general celebrity.
The sands at Rosendael are three times as long and as broad as those
of Ramsgate ; in fact, they are very fine sands, and get into your boots
in spite of everything. At Dunkirk, in the Plarse Jang Bar— so called
after a great naval hero, a sort of Brigadier, whose statute, in a sort of
chandelier dress of the seventeenth sentry, with a sword in his hand,
like the pictures of Richard the Third at the Battle of Wandsworth
—is a market for everything, from lace and saucepans to pigs’-feet
and cabbages, fruit and flowers. It lasts nearly all the morning, and
I wish a certain noble Duke could just see it, for one cannot help sub-
stituting a caparison between it and Covent-Garden Market. At the
latter place it is all muck and muddle, but at Dunkirk you can walk
or drive round it, three abreast, at any time; and, before two in the
afternoon, the whole thing, except a few flower-women with baskets,
has disappeared as if by magic, like Saladin’s palace, leaving, as
the Swamp of Avon says, “not a rag behind.” Not a sign that
there’s been such a thing as a market, not an odour anywhere, and
no refusal lying in muck-heaps about the streets, and this, too, in
very hot weather, which, at this time of year, is known in France as
Sam Martin’s Summer, though I had always, myself, heard of Sam
Martin as a Judge ; yet, when I come to think of it, no doubt his
summing-up was called a summery because it was so clear, and the
prisoner, as Mr. Hackson, who knows most legal lapidaries, says,
“got it hot” in the Summer Allsizes; so, putting this and that
together there is a fair reason for calling it Sam Martin’s summery
weather.
Mr. Hackson says he is sure that during the regular season this
place is far better than Bullown—which I’m inclined to call Fly-
Bullown—and much more of a genuine change for English people,
who can get here just as easily as to the other place, for you start
the same way, and go through to Kallous; and supposing you are
the early bird, and take the 7'JO a.m. train, from "Victoria, and get
to Kallous at 11, or thereabouts, by the twin-ship the Rally-two-
for-her, and then you have an hour and a half to revive and eat the
excellent lunch which is provided for the travellers at the Puffy,
and after that you walk up to the Town Gar, and go off by the 1‘30
train for Gravel Lines, which is the direct root, without any change,
to our final desecration, which was Dunkirk. Mr. Hackson says, that
though he likes a direct line, yet he finds he can’t go anywhere,
however direct, without change, and plenty of it, from a _8ue to a
Frank. A Sue is a halfpenny, and a Frank istenpence, which shows
what value the French put on the male sex as compared with us poor
women, who, in this country, seem to do most of the work, and be
perfect smudges.
Mr. Hackson was quite right, and next year he promises to take
us there in the Bathing-season, when I mean to buy for Lavvy and
myself regular bathing-costumes, and come out in Spanish Flotillas.
Mr. Hackson says there’s still signs of the Rosendael part of Dun-
kirk having been originally Scotch, because there is so much that is
Sandy about it. But that’s one of his caramboles. Yours,
M. A. R.
P.S.—I forgot to say that there are plenty of millionnaires about
in full uniform, and we saw a lot of distillery practice on Monday
afternoon from the rampants. Mr. Hackson says that they were
firing shells, which is very likely, being so near the sea where they
can be got so cheap. But when Mr. H. told us that they were only
potting shrimps, I saw he was at his caramboles again. I like a man
to be serious sometimes, and Mr. H. is too much of a “jesting
Pilot,” as the nautical people say, for me.
A PLUCKY RHYME.
“ Bosh ! ” says G. Harris. “ The Romany Rye ! Umph!
’Tisn’t a patch on my Drury Lane Triumph ! ”
"Where’s Barnum?—Under the heading, “A Curious Fact in
Evolution,” the Times quotes from the American Journal of Science,
and tells us that “ A single-cell creature known as a Protozoon,” is
immortal. “Protozoon” sounds uncommonly like a primitive
Dutchman, that is, the single Dutchman: the “Protozoon” is a
“ single-cell creature ”- Well—one “sell,” if it’s a good one,
will take us all in. This (if read between the lines) is perhaps what
the American Journal of Science really means. Anyhow, where ’3
Barnum ?
The Geologists’ Club.—The Kentish “ Rag.”
Vol. 83.
6
Great Queen, whose deftest, doughtiest knight he seemed,
Guerdon, of solid honour, peering him
And brave Sir Beauchamp with the finer few
Whom merit levels with the blest of birth;
Nor least, the laud of Punchius, scatterer he
Of no cheap chaplets, yet well pleased to crown
With his most precious parsley-wreath of praise,
And “ Bravo! ” frank, so brave a bit of work
So fairly, featly done, so welcome eke
To toiling Gladstone at his Table Round,
Our loyal Island, and our Patriot Queen.
A WARNING.
Sir Garnet and Sir Beauchamp Sir G. W. and Sir B. S. as they will pro-
as they will appear on their bably appear after a series of Banquets
return to England. given to these gallant Officers.
MRS. R. IN A NEW PLACE.
My dear Nephew,
Mr. Hackson has been as good as his word to Lavvy and
myself. He promised to take us to a French bathing-place which
we should like ever so much better than Bullown, and he has done
it. He acted as our Currier all the way, which saved us so much
trouble in looking after ourselves, as he was always before us. Well,
the place he took us to is called Rosendael, the Dale of Roses, because
there are so many jardangs day plants, as they call ’em in French,
in the pretty little village which we walked through on Sunday,
though of course the rose season is over now. When Mr. Hackson
told us that we must first go to Dunkirk to get to Rosendael, I
thought he was joking, as I own I had always thought that Dunkirk
was in Scotland ; and I was right after all, as it was in Scotland
till Charles the Second sold it to the French, and of course sent
it over to them, carriage paid, and delivered it and set it down
on the coast just where it is now. It’s a delightful old town, with
a fine church dictated to Scent Hullo, and a tower with a carry-
alung in it. The carry-along is a set of bells which plays a tune
feebly every half-hour, and sounds like a second-hand musical box
on a shelf.
The Dunkirkers are the respectablest people; there are very few
song cutlets, as the French say, among them. And as to civility, they
might be natives of Sweet Civil in Spain, instead of Frenchmen at
Dunkirk. When the Gossoons hand anything to you, or take it away,
they always say, “ Mair see," which, as I observed to Mr. Hack-
son, proves that the Dunkirkers still keep their Scotch, as evidently
“ Mair see ” means that there was something mair coming, and so
there always was. The Tarble doat at the Grand Hotel at Dunkirk,
in the Rude Kappysangs, that’s the name of the principal street,
was very good. The breakfast and dinner at the Restowrongs
called the Kaffy days Arcards “ were,” as Mr. Hackson facetiously
said, “ quite first chop,” though, of course, he meant fillies, which,
I am hound to say, I refused to touch at first, thinking that fillies
must be something to do with horses.
When we first arrived, we drove in an open vulture right
through the town to the Casino (I objected to enter such a place,
but Mr. Hackson told us that it was quite a different thing to what
the Magistrates won’t license in London) at Rosendael, and imagine
our disappointment when a most respectable and nice-spoken lady
told Mr. Hackson,—who interrupted what she said in French to us,
though most of it was quite ineligible to me,—that the Season had
finished on the fifteenth of September, that the Hotel and the Cure-
us-all (which is the salutary department) was shut up, that there
was nobody here, and the best thing we could do was to go back to
the town, and come out to the bathing by tramway in the morning.
This we did, and most enjoyable it was: the tramway, price two-
pence, took us in ten minutes to the bathing-machines, and the
weather was so hot that we sat under sunshades, and actively break-
fasted all frisky (as the Italians say) out in the open air, eating such
wheaters, which is French for oysters, as I’ve never tasted in my
life before, at two franks a dozen. They are the same sort as the
celebrated wheaters of Dustend, on the Bulging Coast. It is a most
healthy place, being famed for its general celebrity.
The sands at Rosendael are three times as long and as broad as those
of Ramsgate ; in fact, they are very fine sands, and get into your boots
in spite of everything. At Dunkirk, in the Plarse Jang Bar— so called
after a great naval hero, a sort of Brigadier, whose statute, in a sort of
chandelier dress of the seventeenth sentry, with a sword in his hand,
like the pictures of Richard the Third at the Battle of Wandsworth
—is a market for everything, from lace and saucepans to pigs’-feet
and cabbages, fruit and flowers. It lasts nearly all the morning, and
I wish a certain noble Duke could just see it, for one cannot help sub-
stituting a caparison between it and Covent-Garden Market. At the
latter place it is all muck and muddle, but at Dunkirk you can walk
or drive round it, three abreast, at any time; and, before two in the
afternoon, the whole thing, except a few flower-women with baskets,
has disappeared as if by magic, like Saladin’s palace, leaving, as
the Swamp of Avon says, “not a rag behind.” Not a sign that
there’s been such a thing as a market, not an odour anywhere, and
no refusal lying in muck-heaps about the streets, and this, too, in
very hot weather, which, at this time of year, is known in France as
Sam Martin’s Summer, though I had always, myself, heard of Sam
Martin as a Judge ; yet, when I come to think of it, no doubt his
summing-up was called a summery because it was so clear, and the
prisoner, as Mr. Hackson, who knows most legal lapidaries, says,
“got it hot” in the Summer Allsizes; so, putting this and that
together there is a fair reason for calling it Sam Martin’s summery
weather.
Mr. Hackson says he is sure that during the regular season this
place is far better than Bullown—which I’m inclined to call Fly-
Bullown—and much more of a genuine change for English people,
who can get here just as easily as to the other place, for you start
the same way, and go through to Kallous; and supposing you are
the early bird, and take the 7'JO a.m. train, from "Victoria, and get
to Kallous at 11, or thereabouts, by the twin-ship the Rally-two-
for-her, and then you have an hour and a half to revive and eat the
excellent lunch which is provided for the travellers at the Puffy,
and after that you walk up to the Town Gar, and go off by the 1‘30
train for Gravel Lines, which is the direct root, without any change,
to our final desecration, which was Dunkirk. Mr. Hackson says, that
though he likes a direct line, yet he finds he can’t go anywhere,
however direct, without change, and plenty of it, from a _8ue to a
Frank. A Sue is a halfpenny, and a Frank istenpence, which shows
what value the French put on the male sex as compared with us poor
women, who, in this country, seem to do most of the work, and be
perfect smudges.
Mr. Hackson was quite right, and next year he promises to take
us there in the Bathing-season, when I mean to buy for Lavvy and
myself regular bathing-costumes, and come out in Spanish Flotillas.
Mr. Hackson says there’s still signs of the Rosendael part of Dun-
kirk having been originally Scotch, because there is so much that is
Sandy about it. But that’s one of his caramboles. Yours,
M. A. R.
P.S.—I forgot to say that there are plenty of millionnaires about
in full uniform, and we saw a lot of distillery practice on Monday
afternoon from the rampants. Mr. Hackson says that they were
firing shells, which is very likely, being so near the sea where they
can be got so cheap. But when Mr. H. told us that they were only
potting shrimps, I saw he was at his caramboles again. I like a man
to be serious sometimes, and Mr. H. is too much of a “jesting
Pilot,” as the nautical people say, for me.
A PLUCKY RHYME.
“ Bosh ! ” says G. Harris. “ The Romany Rye ! Umph!
’Tisn’t a patch on my Drury Lane Triumph ! ”
"Where’s Barnum?—Under the heading, “A Curious Fact in
Evolution,” the Times quotes from the American Journal of Science,
and tells us that “ A single-cell creature known as a Protozoon,” is
immortal. “Protozoon” sounds uncommonly like a primitive
Dutchman, that is, the single Dutchman: the “Protozoon” is a
“ single-cell creature ”- Well—one “sell,” if it’s a good one,
will take us all in. This (if read between the lines) is perhaps what
the American Journal of Science really means. Anyhow, where ’3
Barnum ?
The Geologists’ Club.—The Kentish “ Rag.”
Vol. 83.
6