(_BY OUR IMPARTIAL AND NOT-TO-BE-BIASSED CRITIC._)
[Illustration]
I had been told that Ostend was an excellent place. "Quite a Town of
Palaces!" was the enthusiastic description that had reached me. So I
determined to leave "Delicious Dover" (as the holiday Leader-writer
in the daily papers would call it), and take boat for the Belgian
coast. The sea was as calm as a lake, and the sun lazily touched up
the noses of those who slumbered on the beach. There is an excellent
service of steamers between England and Belgium. This service has
but one drawback--a slight one: the vessels have a way with them
of perpetrating practical jokes. Only a week or so ago one lively
mail-carrier started prematurely, smashing a gangway, and dropping a
portmanteau quietly into the ocean. On my return from foreign shores,
I passed the same cheerful ship lying in mid-channel as helpless as an
infant. However, the accident (something, I fancy, had gone wrong with
the engines) appeared to be treated as more amusing than important.
Still, perhaps, it would be better were the name of this luckless boat
changed to _Le Farceur_; then travellers would know what to expect.
But I must confess that my experiences were perfectly pleasant. The
steamer in which I journeyed crossed the Channel in the advertised
time, and if I wished to be hypercritical, I would merely hint that
the official tariff of the refreshments sold on board is tantalising.
When I wanted cutlets, I was told they were "off," and when I asked
for "cold rosbif," that was "off" too. The _garçon_ (who looked more
like a midshipman than a cabin-boy) took ten minutes to discover this
fact. And as I had to rely upon him for information, I had to wait
even longer before the desired (or rather undesired) intelligence was
conveyed to me. I pride myself upon caring nothing about food, but
this failure to obtain my heart's (or thereabouts') yearning caused me
sore annoyance.
Well, I reached Ostend. The town of palaces contained a Kursaal and a
Casino. There were also a number of large hotels of the King's Road,
Brighton, _plus_ Northumberland Avenue type. Further, there were
several _maisons meublées_ let out in flats, and (to judge from the
prices demanded and obtained for them) _to_ flats. The _suite_ of
apartments on the ground floor consisted of a small bed-room, a tiny
drawing-room, and a balcony. The balcony was used, as a _salle à
manger_ in fine weather, and a place for the utterance of strong
expressions (so I was informed) when the rain interfered with _al
fresco_ comfort. There was a steam tramway, and some bathing-machines
of the springless throw-you-down-when-you-least-expect-it sort. The
streets, omitting the walk in front of the sea, were narrow, and the
shops about as interesting as those at the poorer end of the Tottenham
Court Road. But these were merely details, the pride of Ostend being
the Kursaal, which reminded me of an engine-house near a London
terminus. I purchased a ticket for the Kursaal and the Casino. There
was to be a concert at the first and a ball at the last. I soon had
enough of the concert, and started for the ball.
It was then that I found a regulation in force that made my cheeks
tingle with indignation as an Englishman. Although the tickets
costing three francs a piece, were said to secure admittance to the
Kursaal and the Casino, I noticed that children--good and amiable
children--were not allowed to enter the latter place. I could
understand the feelings of a gentleman who attempted to obtain access
for his eldest lad--a gallant boy of some fourteen summers, and a
baker's dozen of winters. My heart went out to that British Father
as he disputed with the Commissaires at the doorway, and called the
attention of the Representative of "the Control" to the fact that
his _billet_ was misleading. "You are an Englishman," said the
Representative of the Control, "and the English observe the law."
"Yes," returned the angry Father; "but in England the Law would
support one in obtaining that for which one had paid. My son has
paid for admission to the Kursaal and the Casino! He is refused
admittance to the Casino, therefore this ticket of his spreads false
intelligence! It is a liar! It is a miserable! It should be called the
traitor ticket!" But all was useless. The gallant lad had to remain
with the umbrellas! I could not help sympathising with that father.
I could not refrain from agreeing with him, that where such a thing
was possible, something must be entirely wrong. I could not deny that
under the circumstances Ostend was a sham, a delusion, and a snare!
When he observed that Ostend was grotesquely expensive, I admitted
that he was right. When he said that it was not a patch upon Boulogne
or Dieppe, I again acquiesced. When he asserted that every English
tourist would be wise to avoid the place, I acknowledged that there
was the genuine ring of truth in his declaration. When he appealed to
me, as a dispassionate observer, to say whether I did not consider the
conduct of the authorities arbitrary, unjust, and absurd, I was forced
to admit that I _did_ consider that conduct absolutely indefensible.
Lastly, when he announced that he intended never to say another word
in praise of Ostend, I confessed that I had come in my own mind to the
same determination.
P.S.--I may add that I was accompanied by my son, who was also refused
admittance. But this is a matter of purely personal interest, and has
nothing whatever to do with it.
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