ARRIVAL AT MARGATE.
From "The Monthly Club" of Sharpe's London Magazine.
The buildings of Margate now became evident, and every minute developed some new feature in the landscape; all the party abandoned their sitting to enjoy the view. The curved pier painted pea green and covered with Cockneys, now was disclosed to our eyes, and my old friend from Leicester was again staggered into a profound silence, by being told that a row of houses with a windmill at the end of it, was Buenos Ayres. I saw his amazement, but he did not betray his ignorance in speech as the French actress did, who was in London some years since, and when dining on the Adelphi Terrace was shown Waterloo Bridge. After gazing at it, with a degree of pathos, partly national and partly theatrical, she heaved a sigh for the brave fellows who had perished in the neighbourhood, and feelingly inquired whereabouts the farm of Haye Saint was—this is literally a fact and is vouched for—nor is the absence of geographical knowledge in the natives of France, confined to the lady—she is by no means a solitary instance of the most glorious ignorance of localities.—The Turks too, talk of Ireland as a disorderly part of London; and an American, during the last winter, lecturing in Germany, referring to the great improvements which have recently taken place in England, enumerated, amongst other stupendous works of art, the Menai Bridge, which he informed his hearers united IRELAND with WALES.
As we approached the harbour we seemed to fly—the jetty and pier became more and more crowded—it was evident we had created "an interest;" the hurry and bustle on board appeared to increase as we neared the shore, and the sudden tranquillization of the hubbub by the magical words, "stop her," of the master evidently excited a mingled feeling of wonder and satisfaction in the breast of our Leicestershire companion, whose countenance had previously indicated a strong suspicion that it was the captain's intention to try the relative strength of our vessel's bow and the nob end of Mr. Jarvis's jetty.
I never shall forget his delight as we tranquilly glided to the side of the landing-place, nor his violent indignation when stepping out of the boat in a pair of jockey boots, and selecting, what appeared to his ruralized vision, a verdant spot; his feet slid from under him, and he got a fall unmodified in its disagreeable results by the excitement of the sport so prevalent in his native country.
"Who built this fine stone affair?" said R——, pointing to the pea-green promenade on our right.
"The people of Margate," said some one.
"I thought nobody in England but the king could make a pier," said R——.
"Come, come," cried B——, "let us be grave for a minute or two; we look more like a parcel of boys landing than a grave and learned body."
"Youth is the time for punning," said R——.
"It is no great crime when one is older," said B——.
"That I deny," answered our wag; "it may be good in youth, but it is bad in age."
The groan which followed this last pun of the voyage reechoed along the shore, and it was not until we reached Howe's hotel, a sort of Bath York House stuck in the middle of Golden Square, London, that the tumult died away.