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.
THE CACHET OF CASH AT DRURY LANE.
A Million of Money, "a new military, sporting, and spectacular Drama," is a marvel of stage management. No better things than the tableaux of the Derby Day, the grounds of the Welcome Club, and the departure of the Guards from Wellington Barracks for foreign parts have been seen for many a long year. In such a piece the dialogue is a matter of secondary consideration, and even the story is of no great importance. That the plot should remind one of Drury Lane successes in the past is not surprising, considering that one of the authors (who modestly places his name second on the programme, when everyone feels that it should come first) has been invariably associated with those triumphs of scenic art. AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS has beaten his own record, and the Million of Money so lavishly displayed behind the scenes, is likely to be rivaled by the takings in front of the Curtain—or to be more exact, at the Box-office. The Authors, in more senses than one, have carried money into the house. But they have done more—they have inculcated a healthy moral. While Mr. HENRY ARTHUR JONES is teaching audiences a lessen in Judah, that would have received the enthusiastic approval of the philanthropic Earl of SHAFTESBURY, after whom Shaftesbury Theatre is, no doubt, called, the great HARRIS and the lesser PETTIT are showing us in the character of the Rev. Gabriel Maythorne, a Parson that would as certainly have secured the like hearty good-will at the same shadowy hands. The Rev. Gentleman is a clergyman that extorts the admiration of everyone whose good opinion is worth securing. He apparently is a "coach," and (seemingly) allows his pupils so much latitude that one of them, Harry Dunstable (Mr. WARNER), is able to run up to town with his (the Reverend's) daughter secretly, marry her, and stay in London for an indefinite period. And he (the Parson) has no absurd prejudices—no narrow-mindedness. He goes to the Derby, where he appears to be extremely popular at luncheon-time amongst the fair ladies who patronise the tops of the drags, and later on becomes quite at home at an illuminated fête at the Exhibition, amidst the moonlight, and a thousand additional lamps. It is felt that the Derby is run with this good man's blessing; and everyone is glad, for, without it, in spite of the horses, jockeys, carriages, acrobats, gipsies, niggers, grooms, stable-helps, and pleasure-seekers, the tableau would be æsthetically incomplete. And the daughter of the Reverend is quite as interesting as her large-hearted sire. She, too, has no prejudices (as instance, the little matrimonial trip to London); and when she has to part with her husband, on his departure (presumably en route to the Bermudas), she requires the vigorous assistance' of a large detachment of Her Majesty's Guards to support her in her bereavement. Of the actors, Mr. CHARLES GLENNEY, as a broken-down gentleman, is certainly the hero of the three hours and a half. In Act III., on the night of the first performance, he brought down the house, and received two calls before the footlights after the Curtain had descended. He has many worthy colleagues, for instance, Mr. HARRY NICHOLLS, Miss MILLWARD, Mr. CHARLES WARNER, and Miss FANNY BROUGH, are all that could be desired in their respective lines. But, well cast as it undoubtedly is, the play has vitality within it that does not depend for existence upon the efforts of the company. It is good all round—scenery, dresses, properties, and effects—and will keep its place at Drury Lane until dislodged by the Pantomime at Christmas.
CHANGE OF NAME À LA SUISSE.—Tessin and its quarrelsome inhabitants to be known in future as a Can't-get-on instead of a Canton.