Our French Watering-Place Page #5

"Our French Watering-Place" is a travelogue by Charles Dickens, published in 1851. The work captures Dickens’ observations and experiences during his visit to the French seaside town of Boulogne-sur-Mer. Through vivid descriptions and sharp wit, he explores the local culture, the social dynamics of the British expatriate community, and the customs of the French. The book reflects Dickens' keen eye for detail and his ability to blend humor with social commentary, making it a delightful read for those interested in the nuances of 19th-century travel and society.

• Short story

								

(called in that part of the country a Ducasse), where the people—really
the people—dance on the green turf in the open air, round a little
orchestra, that seems itself to dance, there is such an airy motion of
flags and streamers all about it.  And we do not suppose that between the
Torrid Zone and the North Pole there are to be found male dancers with
such astonishingly loose legs, furnished with so many joints in wrong
places, utterly unknown to Professor Owen, as those who here disport
themselves.  Sometimes, the fête appertains to a particular trade; you
will see among the cheerful young women at the joint Ducasse of the
milliners and tailors, a wholesome knowledge of the art of making common
and cheap things uncommon and pretty, by good sense and good taste, that
is a practical lesson to any rank of society in a whole island we could
mention.  The oddest feature of these agreeable scenes is the everlasting
Roundabout (we preserve an English word wherever we can, as we are
writing the English language), on the wooden horses of which machine
grown-up people of all ages are wound round and round with the utmost
solemnity, while the proprietor’s wife grinds an organ, capable of only
one tune, in the centre.

As to the boarding-houses of our French watering-place, they are Legion,
and would require a distinct treatise.  It is not without a sentiment of
national pride that we believe them to contain more bores from the shores
of Albion than all the clubs in London.  As you walk timidly in their
neighbourhood, the very neckcloths and hats of your elderly compatriots
cry to you from the stones of the streets, ‘We are Bores—avoid us!’  We
have never overheard at street corners such lunatic scraps of political
and social discussion as among these dear countrymen of ours.  They
believe everything that is impossible and nothing that is true.  They
carry rumours, and ask questions, and make corrections and improvements
on one another, staggering to the human intellect.  And they are for ever
rushing into the English library, propounding such incomprehensible
paradoxes to the fair mistress of that establishment, that we beg to
recommend her to her Majesty’s gracious consideration as a fit object for
a pension.

The English form a considerable part of the population of our French
watering-place, and are deservedly addressed and respected in many ways.
Some of the surface-addresses to them are odd enough, as when a laundress
puts a placard outside her house announcing her possession of that
curious British instrument, a ‘Mingle;’ or when a tavern-keeper provides
accommodation for the celebrated English game of ‘Nokemdon.’  But, to us,
it is not the least pleasant feature of our French watering-place that a
long and constant fusion of the two great nations there, has taught each
to like the other, and to learn from the other, and to rise superior to
the absurd prejudices that have lingered among the weak and ignorant in
both countries equally.

Drumming and trumpeting of course go on for ever in our French
watering-place.  Flag-flying is at a premium, too; but, we cheerfully
avow that we consider a flag a very pretty object, and that we take such
outward signs of innocent liveliness to our heart of hearts.  The people,
in the town and in the country, are a busy people who work hard; they are
sober, temperate, good-humoured, light-hearted, and generally remarkable
for their engaging manners.  Few just men, not immoderately bilious,
could see them in their recreations without very much respecting the
character that is so easily, so harmlessly, and so simply, pleased.
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