Mrs. Ramsbotham, who has been staying at Boulogne for a short time,
writes as follows:--
[Illustration]
"Bullown-some-Air is, I am informed, not what it used to be, though
the smells must be pretty much as always, which is not the scent
of rheumatic spices. It's called Bullown-some-Air because if the
sea-breeze wasn't too powerful for the smells, living would be
impossible. Many of the visitors to the hotels on the Key told me the
bedrooms were full of musketeers, who came in when the candle went
out, and bit them all over. Such a sight as one poor gentleman was!
He reminded me of the Spotted Nobleman at the Agrarian in Westminster.
Then, on the Sunday I was there, a day as I had always been given to
understand the French were 'tray gay,' there was actually no music,
no band, no concert, and in fact no amusement whatever at
the _Establishmong day Bangs_ (so called because there's a
shooting-gallery next it, where they bang away all day at so much a
head), which might as well have been closed, as there was no race-game
(of which I had heard so much), no Tom Bowling[A] (they wouldn't get
up a Tom Bowling unless there were nine persons present, which Mr.
Hackson says is much the same as when magistrates meet and there isn't
a sufficient number to make a jorum), and only one gentleman trying to
produce another to play billiards with him.
"There was a theatre open. Not being a Samaritan myself, though as
strict as anyone as to my own regular religious diversions at church,
I let Mr. Hackson take myself and Lavinia to see _The Clogs of
Cornwall_, which, I think, was the name of the opera, though, as I
hadn't a bill, and didn't understand one quarter of what they were
saying--not but what I was annoyed by Lavvy and Mr. Hackson always
turning round to explain the jokes to me--I confess I did not see what
either _Cornwall_ or _Clogs_ had to do with the story. The singing and
the acting was worse than anything I'd ever met with at an English
seaside theatre, because a place like Bullown ought to have a theatre
as good as the one at Brighton. The customs worn by the actors were
ugly, and when the lover, who was intended for a sailor--though his
dress wasn't at all _de rigger_--said, confidentially, to the
audience, alluding to an unfortunately plain young person who played
the part of the Herring, "She is lovely!" there was a loud laugh, or,
as Mr. Hackson, who speaks French perfectly, called it, a _levy de
reedo_, all over the house, and this emulating from people who, I
always thought, were remarkable for their politeness, was about the
rudest thing I ever heard done to a public character in a playhouse.
"The place was hot, and the seats uncomfortable; so that after two
acts, which was more like being in a penitentiary than a place of
recrimination, we left, and went to our hotel, where, there being
nothing more to do than there was anywhere else, Lavinia and myself
retired to rest--that is, such rest as the musketeers would allow us.
She slept in a back cupboard, called a _cabinet de Twilight_, because
it was so dark and scarcely any veneration, there being no fireplace,
and only such a window, as it was healthier to keep shut than open:
but she had the advantage over me in not being troubled by any
musketeers. There was only one of them in my room, and when I heard
him singing away like a couple of gnats, I hid under the bedclothes,
and he couldn't find me till I came up again for air, like a fish, and
then he bit me on the forehead.
"Next morning we went to breakfast '_à la four sheets_' they call it,
on account of the size of the table-napkins, at the _Rest-wrongs_ on
the pier. The time they kept us! as there was only one _gossoon_
to about twenty persons. The best thing we had there was our own
appetite, which we brought with us.
"After this there was nothing doing in the place till dinner-time
(called _table doat_ because they're so fond of it), and after that
there was a dull concert at the _Establishmong_, and as Mr. Hackson
told us, who went there, a dull dance and poor fireworks at the
Artillery Gardens in the _Oat Veal_. The '_Oat Veal_' is French for
the high part of the town, but, judging from the smells on and about
the Key, I should say that our hotel was situated in quite the highest
part of the town.
"Less than a week at Bullown was quite enough and too much for us. If
Sunday here were only lively, it would be a nice change from London,
or Dover, or Folkestone, or Ramsgate, as I do not know a pleasanter
and easier way to go than starting by the London, Chatting and Dover
train at 10 A.M. from Victoria or Holborn Viaduct, arriving at Dover
at twelve. Then by one of the comfortablest boats I was ever in,
called the _Inflicter_ or _Invigorator_, I couldn't catch which, but
Mr. Hackson told me it was Latin for 'unconquered,' which takes you,
if it's a fine day and wind and tide favourable, in an hour and a
quarter to Callous (or Kally in French), and if you are only going on
to Bullown, you have your luggage examined (as if you were a smuggling
brigadier!), and you have more than an hour for lunch before you
start again. The luncheon at the Kallyous buffy is excellent, and
the buffers, who speak English with hardly any accident, are most
attentive. Then, when you've finished, you start for Bullown by the
2.45 train, and are at your hotel by 3.30 or thereabouts, which is
what I call doing it uxuriously.
"But Bullown, as Mr. Hackson said to me, requires some
_ongterprenner_, which means 'an undertaker,' to look after it, as
it has become so deadly-lively. I think this must be a joke of Mr.
Hackson's, one of his _caramboles_, as they call them in French,
as what Bullown wants is waking up. As it is now, Bullown is a
second-class place, and will soon be a third-class one, which, as
Mr. Hackson says, 'Arry and an inferior dummy-mong will have all to
themselves.
"Yours truly,
"M. A. R."
[Footnote A: We fancy Mrs. R. means "_Tombola_."]
[Illustration: ENGLISH AS SHE IS WRITTEN
During his recent tour in Switzerland, Tomkins, who is rather nervous,
had a most terrifying experience.]