The Sun.
London, England, 1864-10-05 00:00:00

Biarritz and Scarborough.

(From a Correspondent of qie Morning Post)
It does not fall to the lot of many travellers in search of
health and pleasure to visit, in one season, the British queen
of watering places and the rocky little resort of French
_ _

fashion on the shores of the Gulf of Gascony. It has been

my fate to journey, at all possible speed, from the Pyrenees
to Yorkshire, and, with the Casino and the old port of

Biarritz fresh in my mind's eye, to find myself on the Spa,

and in the midst of the refreshing scandal, and a witness
of the vivacious flirtations which are among the attractions
of the queen of watering places. The contrasts in externals

and in manners and habits between the imperial and the
royal watering place are infinite. The great ladies of France

and Spain make holiday wilh a graceful abandon and a
costume—or ten costumes—for the part. They are free to
laugh and rollick. They are not above donkey-riding. They
don't parade before the sea, with stately steps and set fea-
tures. They don't sit, in calm and silent rows, round an

al fresco orchestra, listening to the airs with which London
organs have made every grocer's boy familiar. The great
ladies of France and Spain throw aside the robes of state,

and go trooping through the narrow street, and chaffer at
the wood and ivory carving stalls, and show their dainty
white feet on the sands in their bathing dress, and laugh
as the waves play about their shoulders ; and take their ices
and coffee in the open air—free and frolicsome as mermaids.

They give rains to their rich fancy, and invent origins
dresses suited to the occasion. Old Neptune rolls shells and
seaweed to the shore, only to provide them pretty trimmings
for jacket and skirt, and Garibaldi and scut-en-barque.
These dainty nymphs gather shells not that they may list
to the echoes of the sea in them, but that they may steal a
march on the inventive powers of fair neighbours. Happy
is she who sails forth from her toy chalet on the steep and
rugged rock in a dress unlike in fashion and colour the robe
of any other lady in Biarritz. She sweeps, conscious of her
triumph, along the esplanade of the Casino, she climbs the
rocks, she toils along the sands, smiling, chattering to anyfine
fieur of her acquaintance she may meet. She is careful to
impress upon you by her manner that this original, not to
say startling, costume in which she has decked her charms
is a trifle about which she has not the least concern, and
on which she could not be persuaded to bestow a single
thought.
" Madame has a dress that is delicious. It is ravishingly
becoming—it is as fresh as a rose."
Madame scornfully surveys her skirts, and then, with a

pretty toss of the head, calls the entire costume---a nothing.
She will talk about anything except that upon which all
_ _

her waking dreams are concentrated. She tosses off the ad-
miration she excites, and laughs and prattles to the young
count, who is wrapping up his tendresse in pretty conceits,
and has given his whole heart to her and to the suit of vel-

vet and the modified Hessian boots in which he is cased.

He protests that she will break his heart should she prove

too cruel ; and presently when madame has returned to the
chalet to put on costume No. 2, ho will roll his c garette,
and sip his curagoa and iced water, and vow to his friend
that madame has almost tempted him to put off his shooting
for a couple of days.
" You can flirt all the year round, but the shooting sea-
son come to a close, my friend. Take your gun and leave
madame." •

The young men of France are bitter, and cynical, and
calculating in these days. They talk of la
_femme without
respect—as a toy, a very expensive amusement and orna-
ment. They air their conquests as Beau Brummell showed
his coat, They pay attentbns as Brummell tied his cravat,
The world muit see how great is their fascination, and how
exquisite are their manners. Tne old French ladies shake
their wrinkled hands, and murmur anon Dicu, ae they
watch the insolent airs of the rising generation. They
wonder whether society can be tending when young men
will stand covered in the presence of ladies and of the aged.

Society may be rising or falling in manners and morals
under the Second Empire. I shall not presume to offer an
opinion on this momentous question. I only know that if
society is going—to use the slang phrase—" to the bad," it
is going thither with the utmost cheerfulness, and in state.

The march is a merry one, and nowhere merrier than at
Biarrit z, where the pale and feeble young wen of the Bou-
levards des Capuciues, turning away from mademoiselle,
flirt with madame. This is the salt paradise of married
ladies. These grotesque costumes, these wondrously trim-
med sea-side jackets, are not for the young ladies. These
are not yet of the world. They must dress simply, and
walk with their eyes cast to the earth. They may not go
20 yards along a public thoroughfare alone. In due season
they will be wed, and then they may bid adieu to domestic
life.

" I find unmarried girls insipid," said a little Parisian to
me. He was about 25 years of age, and had spent the
quelques mines francs he had inherited, in the vices and
woful experiences which supported the gilded saloons of the
northern aide of the fashionable Boulevards. A Lilliputian

roue, with the airs of a giant, he blew his cloud, and said,
"Young ladies don't amuse me—l can't interchange my
ideas freely with them. A married woman is a woman of
the world." Of the world—and always in the world, he
might have added. Married women were the life and soul
of Biarritz. The young cavaliers were in crowds also, and
they appeared to be of the little debauche's opinions as to the
relative charms of unmarried and married ladies.
The matrons made the streets and shore look as bright
with colours as that avenue in the Zoological Gardens which

the parrots and cockatoos adorn. They were light hearted
full of grace and coquetry, and they communicated their
brightness to the atmosphere of the place. At the table
d'hote, and at the great ten o'clock breakfast, they sparkled
while they ate. I saw a lady in a red suit, trimmed with
white (who had been likened to a danger signal earlier in
the day), talk, while she held the leg of a chicken in her
hand. She would have looked better, I think, with.
out the bone ; but she looked well, and by no
means vulgar with it. The table d'hote was a holiday
singing
griages are of little
or dancing, or
dinner. Everybody talked lightly and unreservedly.
e watering place; and
the fun and enjoyment are a lively, social equality andin
And they went forth to take coffee, in the open air,
by the sea. They lingered about the little fair in the high
street, when the lamps were lit—or took ices at the cafe—
or the
iar rCi atzsilnof oor iarts
isao na littlepfoo oc
tit e
o r
gambling.
a t B Everybody
healthy exercise. The Empress sets forth on foot, from the
villa, leaning on the Emperor's arm, and calls at one of the
hotels, to see a friend. Her Majesty may be met strolling
on the sands ; and she will talk freely and affably, like the
rest of the visitors. She stopped one day to admire a dog
that was following a gentleman. She coaxed it, and talked
to it, and complimented the owner on the possession of it.
Whereupon the gentleman begged that her Majesty would
accept the animal. A pretty and graceful excuse and a smile
were the answers ; and the lady passed on the quietest and
the most distinguished figure on the sands.
Biarritz, in short, is a lively, sociable, extravagant plaae,
where people greatly enjoy themselves in preposterous
toilettes; where they masquerade and hold fancy dress balls
in the sea; and where there does not appear to be man,
woman, or child under a cloud. The Sardine women foot it
nimbly and merrily, and the Spanish hawkers just seem to
be selling the gaudy produce of Castilian looms for sheer
fun. Many a passage of wit do they have with their French
customers. Their manner would startle a portly British
dame who is accustomed to take her annual dose of sea air
from Spa-terrace at Scarborough. What would mater say
if a swarthy fellow, wearing great military moustachios,
were to advance to her, and, with a bow, propose to take her
in his arms and dip her in the sea. I saw such ait auda-
cious fellow astound an English lady in the old port at
Biarritz a few weeks ago. I hope, and trust, and pray, that
Mrs. Grundy may never take train at the Orleans Railway
terminus at Paris for Biarritz. Should her eyes ever fall
on groups of bathers in the old port she will swoon, and be
borne away in a state of pious horror, In vain will the
French argue before her that Biarritz bathing is by far
more decent than that of Scarborough, and must not be
compared for one moment with that of Margate, Ramsgate,
Hastings, or Herne Bay. Mrs Grundy will pack up her
trunks and return direct to London to refresh her moral
sense with a week at Clapham and a few days at Brixton.
"My dear," will she say, " the creatures were actually
walking about the sands with their feet bare—as bare, my
dear, as baby's. To be sure they were dressed—but how P
Miss Bloomer was a Quakeress to them. And then, men
and women and children, all together—floundering about,
With corks fastened upon their backs—and I am quite sure

with no more consciences—as I told Grundy—than por-
poises. There were the females (ladies, I suppose, they call
themselves), holding the great brown hands of the most im-
pudent looking bathing men, my dear, and actually—for I
saw it with my own eyes—actually learning to swim. I
don't think Mr Grundy will venture to take me to another
place like that in a hurry."
At Biarritz the visitor feels, in short, that although he
is bound to vindicate the originality of his mind by the ex-
travagant novelty of his cc stume, he is in a holiday place.
It is a little amateur stage, where nautical pieces are is
voge. Everybody is dressed for his part early, when the
curtain of night is lifted above the mountains, and the sharp
screaming of the Sardine women cuts through the morning
air. The merry miners and actors come forth—not sleepy-
eyed, but with eyes as clear and fresh as dew drops. It is
impossible to lie a -bel. The light air buoys you from your
couch as soon as the sun has warmed it a little. You are be.
times under the trees, in the street, where you will find
queer looking " boots" gaily polishing the shoe leather of
the hotels, keeping their work in a row, of Balmorals and
Bluchers, upon the benches.

Waking in Scarborough on a fine, brisk September morn-
ing is a very different affair. I am in state—in a state
hotel. Last night when I arrived the visitors were issuing
from the great cining hall, and proceeding in orderly,
quiet groups to their respective rooms. Many of the ladies
were in stately dinner dress. I peeped into the drawing
room—a long, effectively furnished apartment, of which
the atmosphere was heavy, and where every group seemed
to be absorbed in the reflection that the next group were
looking at them. There were two pianos and a card table or
two. Perhaps Miss Smithson would oblige, if her cold were
better ? Was Miss Jasy inclined to take a hand? Miss Jasy
frowns at Miss Smithson, who is giving herself airs about
her singing, and thinks how in her time ladies knew how to
behave themselves. Then there is the laughing, fast Miss
Smythe, who is everywhere known as " the soul of the
party." Of course she takes to thebalcony, and her laughter
breaks upon the silence—as she declares this to be "jolly,"
and that to be " slow." There is a deliberation abuut all
these proceedings that oppresses the traveller hither from
Biarritz. The movements of the people are slower. In the
bar of the hotel, where the military gentlemen congregate,
and ask the young lady who directs the establishment for
" dwy sherwy," the slowness of the men's movements
strikes me forcibly. They lift a spill from the mantelpiece,
and direct it towards the light, as though they were guid-
ing the corner stone of a building into its place. A
Frenchman at Biarritz lights his cigarette in an instant.
To walk to the Spa, and on the Spa, is accomplished, to all
appearance, as a duty, and not as a delight. The men walk
up and down more like entries than saunterers. In the
evening, when the two bands are playing, and all Scar-
borough is at the Spa, there is a lack of gaiety under the
festive lamps. The scene is a lovely one from the heights—
when the town, in ravine and upon rock, from the castle to
the shore, is powdered with twlnkling lights, and it is
heard to tell where the lamps end and the stars began. The
mornings are of the freshest, and the sea that rolls hence
to the bleak Scandinavian coast dances the fishing boats
upon its unquiet bosom, and comes lapping the walls of the
Spa, and salting the air for the good of the buxom ladies of
Manchester, and Sheffield, and Bolton, as well as for the
high ladies. There is a fat, sweet, English land, hill and
dale, wo• d and lively trout-stream round abuut. The Forge
Valley is a rich and rare sight of leafy wood and emerald
pasturage. The lovely rides are many—to the mighty
rock, Flamborough Head ; to Hunmanby, whore there are
wild, furze-bestrewed sheep-walks; to the beautiful valley
of the Haybourn Wyke. Then there is Robin Hood's Bay,
where the fishermen have perched their humble nests in the
rocks. Whitby is within reach. To these places, over wad
and heath, by trout-streams and over bold hills, the stately
Scarborough visitors ride and drive, and get health and
strength, in the most orthodox and staid manner. Their
saunter on the Spa, when the band is playing morning and
evening, is occasionally relieved by a concert or a dramatic
reading, or a visit to the little theatre—or, when they feel
very lively indeed, by a ball. Their comings and goings
are duly chronicled in a broadsheet, to their great content.
Mr, Mrs, and the three Misses Tirebuck have arrived at
the Crown Hotel. Captain and Mrs Swashbuckler are stay-
ing at the Prince of Wales'. These are facts which are of
interest to the citizens of Scarborough, and provoke a bi isk
sale of the journal in which they are recorded. At Biarritz
there is a newspaper devoted to the arrivals and departures,
but it is more liberal and comprehensive than that of Scar-
borough. Its list of arrivals include that of Jules Latour,
shoemaker, at Madame Cornichou's, and of Napoleon
Gauthier, carpenter, at the widow Ganach4 Who and
what are the Grubbinses ? or the Smales ? or the Red.
dishes ? Are they people to be visited ? Have the girls
got any money ? Are they quite up to the mark— people
a fellow can know in town, and that sort of thing ? They
don't seem to know anybody—anybody being flakes of the
upper crust. There is the solitary gay widow who has been
at Eaux 13onness, Ems, Baden, and has now actually turned
up at Scarborough I Does she know how the gossip about
her is stealing round the dinner tables ? She is pronouns d
to be on a brisk matrimonial excursion. This is all very well,
but has she any money ? She is pretty and lively, and not
old—no, not more than 30, bat why does she travel alone ?
She Ras alone at Eaux Bonnes ; she knew nobody at Ems,
and people fought shy of her at Baden. Of this material
is much of the conversation made up. Mrs Barker has a
new bonnet, and, positively, a new cloak. What is Mr
Barker's income ? That tall pale man,who is always reading
French papers, perched up on one of the high seats in the
Spa, is Count Lalanne ; his wife has—well, my dear, it's a
shocking story, and I quite pity the poor man." This by
way of enlivening a walk along the heights. " Mrs Grogan
has aged very much since last season; her stories about six-
and-thirty will not do now." This by way of seasoning the
stretch across the bridge.
There is a sight at Scarborough, however, that Biarritz
cannot match. I grant the little Gascony village its great
gaiety, its thorough holiday look. I confess that its atmo-
sphere is lighter than that of the British queen of watering
places. The dresses of the Scarborough ladies look tame,
and generally dull after the fire-fly tints which deck
madame at Biarritz, But in the morning, while pater is
finishing his paper at home, and while mater is perfecting
her toilet for her first walk, let him who would enjoy a
cheery sight wind himself down to the Spa. Here shall he
find troops of English children, with rosy cheeks, and clear
blue eyes, and mottled calves, running, laughing, and
shouting, as fresh as the sea, and as restless. And their
English mothers come down to see them build their sand
fortifications ; and the ladies look better, it seems to me,
with their tender eyes fixed upon baby than the Biarritz
countess listening with an exquisite society smile to the
artful compliments of Monsieur le Baron. At Biarritz
,here are no children.