276 
THE STRAND MAGAZINE. 
There is no place in England where it costs 
more money to spend your holiday, and where 
you get less for your money, than at Scheven- 
iiigen, or its near neighbour, The Hague. 
Ostend is the next seaside holiday resort 
along the European coast-line, with its ad- 
juncts Blankenbcrghe and Westende, and 
Nieuport a little farther on. 
I once saw more than forty thousand pounds 
won by a player in one sitting at Trente et 
Quar ante in the Ostend Casino ; which was 
lost the same night —or rather in the small 
hours of the following morning — in a club, 
conveniently close at hand, where people 
played after the Casino was closed. In the 
conduct of that club the administration of the 
Casino also had a hand. Before the sitting 
was through, the administration came out 
on top. 
Those were the a palmy ” days of Ostend ; 
when cocoites from all over Europe flocked to 
Ostend to pick up what they could. Ladies 
of that kind are at Ostend still — in the season ; 
but they are not exactly of the same class, 
because the sort of people who used to fill the 
pockets of the Ostenders are there no longer. 
There remain to Ostend the long row of 
hotels which, almost without exception, charge 
exorbitant prices for indifferent accommoda- 
tion. and the Digue — that is, the Front — and 
the plage- that is, the shore. 
The sandy shore at Ostend is, in its way, 
fine. J f you like to spend the day on the sands 
you will he suited at Ostend. If you are a 
family man you can hire a cabine at a pretty 
stiff price ; under its shelter, with your wife 
and family, you can spend an unexciting 
holiday ; but it is not gay. Not though there 
is a Kursaal as well as a Casino in which to 
spend your nights. 
A certain sort of print is fond of suggesting 
that there is a gloriously wicked fascination 
about the Ostend plage. Ladies are supposed 
to wear startling bathing costumes, and to 
display their usually hidden proportions when 
indulging in the amusement which is ironically 
called bathing. Watching that sort of thing 
is supposed to be exciting. If that is the case, 
then one had much better take a trip, say, to 
Atlantic City, where men and women pass the 
better part of the day in bathing suits, lolling 
about anyhow and anywhere. As regards 
the display of the feminine figure, Ostend 
pales beside Atlantic City. 
There is no country for miles worth speaking 
of it is flat, monotonous, treeless, ugly. It 
is expensive — that, nowadays, is the chief 
feature of Ostend. People who do not wish 
to be fleeced quite so much go to Blanken- 
berghe, Nieuport, Westende, three of Ostend’s 
uninteresting, ugly neighbours. There golf is 1 
to he had — of a sort ; there are no links quite 
so bad to be found anywhere in England, but 
when you arc abroad you play golf on any* 
thing. There is a race-course, where the 
racing is a bad and expensive imitation of 
what takes place in Brussels every afternoon 
in the Bois de la Cambre. At Blankenberghe 
there is a Casino and a theatre ; there is a 
Digue ; of its kind the bathing is not bad j I 
and the prices arc going up every year. 
One passes, in search of the “gaiety” of 
which the newspaper gentleman spoke, to 
France. We begin with Calais- Plage, a 
curious summer resort, which is frequented 
chiefly by the people of Saint Pierre de 
Calais ; pass on to Le 'bouquet and Paris- 
Plage— which are practically the same place. 
The first is a golfing resort, where people live 
on the links ; the second is where one bathes. 
There are fine sands, some decent tennis, but 
though there are two Casinos neither can be 
called a haunt of “ gaiety.” Indeed, from 
their patrons’ point of view they would he 
spoilt if they were. Boulogne is the first real 
seaside town on the other side of the Channel 
—at least, from the point of view of the man 
in the street. 
Englishmen go to Boulogne on excursion 
steamers from Folkestone, from Ramsgate, 
from Margate, from Brighton, and goodness 
knows where besides. Their knowledge of 
Boulogne extends only to the Casino. A 
look-out is kept for the English excursion 
steamer, and as soon as one nears the harbour, 
no matter at what hour, the officials at the 
Casino get out the tables on which one used 
to play the “ little horses,” and on which one 
now plays instead a stupid game, which is 
known as La Bonle. The boat stops at the 
quay, the passengers land, at least ninety per 
cent, of them make straight for the Casino, 
where most of them remain until they return 
to their native shores — having seen France 
and left most of their money behind. After 
all, there is some excuse for them, because, if 
it were not for what they call “ a gamble ” at 
the Casino, one wonders what the ordinary 
English tripper would find to see or do in 
Boulogne. 
Next Dieppe — which, to-day, is probably 
the gayest of all the French seaside towns. 
We have passed Treport, which is probably 
the most distinctly French ; not at all a bad 
place if you like that sort of thing. There is 
a quaint, not unpicturesque town, a harbour 
— of a kind, formed by the mouth of the 
Bresle river — quite a respectable stretch of 
