“Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!”
Farewell, POOR JACK!
THOSE DIVING BELLES! THOSE DIVING BELLES!
Some of our contemporaries have been dreadfully scandalised at the indelicate scenes which take place on the sands at Ramsgate, where, it seems, a sort of joint-stock social bathing company has been formed by the duckers and divers of both sexes. Situations for obtaining favourable views are anxiously sought after by elderly gentlemen, by whom opera glasses and pocket telescopes are much patronised. Greatly as we admire the investigation of nature in her unadorned simplicity, Ramsgate would be the last place we should select, if we were
GOING DOWN TO A WATERING PLACE.