There is one large portion of the French people which has improved
marvellously in appearance in the last few years, and that is the
army. The setting up of the French soldier of the line used to be much
neglected, but now you never see a man, however small and slight, who
does not carry himself and move as if every muscle in his body had been
thoroughly and scientifically trained. And this is the actual fact. They
have the finest system of military gymnastics which has ever been seen.
In every garrison town there is a gymnasium, in which the men have to
drill as regularly as on the parade-ground. The one close to the gate
of the old town of Boulogne is an admirable specimen, and well worth a
visit. Our authorities are, I believe, slowly following in the steps of
the French, but little has as yet been done. There is no branch of army
reform which may more safely be pressed on. We have undoubtedly the
finer material. The English soldier is a bigger and more muscular
man than the French soldier, but is far behind him in his physical
education, and must remain so until we provide a proper system of
gymnastic training, which, by the bye, will benefit the general health
of the men, and develop their intelligence as well as their muscles.
During our stay at Boulogne there was some very heavy weather. A strong
sou’-wester came on one night, and by two o’clock next day, when I went
down, was hurling the angry green waves against the great beams of the
southern pier in fearful fashion. The entrance to the harbour, as most
of your readers will remember, is quite narrow, not one hundred yards
across between the two pier heads. The ebb-tide was sweeping down from
the north, and, meeting the gale right off the harbour’s mouth, made a
battling and raging sea which brought one’s heart into one’s mouth to
look at. The weather was quite bright, and though the wind was so strong
that I held my hat on with difficulty, the northern pier was crowded,
as the whole force of the sea was spent against the southern pier, over
which it was leaping every moment. We were in comparative shelter, and
could watch, Without being drenched with spray, the approach of one
of the fishing smacks of the port, which was coming home. I shall not
easily forget the sight. We stood there, jammed together, rough sailors,
fishwomen, Cockneys, weatherbound soldiers, well-dressed ladies, a crowd
of all ranks, the wind singing through us so that we could scarcely make
our nearest neighbours hear. Not that we wanted to talk. The sight of
the small black hull and ruddy brown sail of the smack, now rising on
the crest of a great wave, and the next moment all but disappearing
behind it, took away the desire, almost the power, of speech. Two boats,
manned with fishermen, pulled to the harbour’s mouth, and lay rolling
in the comparatively still water just within the shelter of the
southern pier head. It was comforting to see them there, though if any
catastrophe had happened they could never have lived in that sea. But
the gallant little smack needed no help. She was magnificently steered,
and came dancing through the wildest part of the race without shipping a
single sea, seeming to catch each leaping wave just in the spot where it
was easiest to ride over. As she slid out of the seething cauldron into
the smooth water past the waiting boats the crowd drew a long breath,
and many of us hurried back to get a close view of her as she ran into
her place amongst the other fishing boats alongside the quay. I envied
the grizzly old hero at the helm, as he left his place, threw off his
dreadnought coat, and went to help the two men and two boys who were
taking in the sail and coiling away the ropes. There was much shouting
and congratulation from above; but they made little answer, and no fuss.
Their faces struck me very much, especially the boys’, which were full
of that quiet self-contained look one sees in Hook’s pictures. There was
no other boat in the offing then, so I went home; but within a few hours
heard that a smack had capsized in the harbour’s mouth, with the loss of
one man. I only marvel how the rest could have been saved.
On the 1st of October in every year there is a solemn festival of the
seafaring people of Boulogne, and the sea is blessed by their pastors.
I was anxious to wait for the ceremony, but was unable to do so. There
seems to be a strange mixture of trust in God and superstition in all
people who “occupy their business on the great waters.” There is a
little chapel looking down on Boulogne port full of thank-offerings of
the sailors’ wives, where the fishwomen go up to plead with God,
and pour out the agony of their souls in rough weather. There are
propitiatory gifts, too, by the side of the thank-offerings, and the
shadow of a tyrannous power in nature, to be bought off with gifts,
darkens the presence of the true Refuge from the storm. There are
traces, too, of a more direct idolatry in the town. In the year 643 of
our era the Madonna came to Boulogne in an open boat, so runs the
story, and left an image with the faithful, which soon became the great
religious lion of the neighbourhood, drawing largely, and performing a
series of miracles all through the Middle Ages. When Henry VIII. took
the town the English carried off the image, but it was restored in good
condition when peace came, and as powerful as ever for wonder-working.
The Huguenots got hold of it half a century later, and were supposed to
have destroyed it; but an image, which at any rate did duty for it,
was ultimately fished up out of a well. Doubts as to identity, however,
having arisen, the matter was referred to the Sorbonne, and a jury of
doctors declared in favour of the genuineness of the article which was
forthcoming. And so it continued to practise with varying success until
the Revolution, when the Jacobins laid hands on it, broke it up,
and burnt it, thinking to make once for all an end of this and other
idol-worships. But a citizen not so enlightened as his neighbours stayed
by the fire, and succeeded at last in rescuing what he declared to be an
arm of the original image, which remains an object of veneration still,
and is said not to have lost all healing power. But it is far inferior
in this respect to some drops of the holy blood, for the reception of
which a countrywoman of ours has built a little chapel in the suburbs.
Boulogne has all the marks of rapidly increasing material prosperity
which may be seen now in every French town, one of the many fruits of
which is a wonderful improvement in the condition of the streets and
thoroughfares. The fine new buildings, the look of the shops and of the
people, all tell the same tale. In fact, one comes away from France
now with a feeling that, so far as surface polish and civilisation are
concerned, this is the country which is going to the front. Whether it
goes any deeper is a matter upon which a traveller flitting about for a
few weeks cannot venture an opinion.
I came back in one of the daily packets to London Bridge, which, besides
carrying seventy passengers, was piled fore and aft with cargo. There
were 400 cases of wine on deck, besides other packages, which sorely
curtailed our walking privileges. But the boats are good boats, and the
voyage past Dover, through the Downs, round the North Foreland, and up
the Thames, is so full of life and interest that it is well worth making
a long day of it, if one is a moderately good sailor. The advertisements
call it eight and a half hours, which means eleven; but it is not a
moment too long.