MARGATE AND RAMSGATE.

As a stroller, I shall hardly be expected to describe a trip to Margate by steam-boat. Enough for me to take out my pencil when I reach the shore, and roam from one place of attraction to another. I might speak of the different points of the river, from Wapping to Whitstable, from Billingsgate to Broadstairs, from the platform at London Bridge to the pier at Margate; but I pass them all by. The Isle of Dogs and Deptford dockyard; Greenwich, famed for its hospital, and Blackwall, for its whitebait; Woolwich, for its arsenal, and Purfleet, for its magazines of powder; Gravesend, Tilbury Fort, Southend, Sheerness, the Nore, and Herne Bay: all these I leave without a single comment, and quitting the steam-boat, questioned by the gazing eyes of the assembled throng at the Margate pier, proceed on my agreeable pilgrimage.

I have taken a glance at Margate on the side

T

of the Fort, and on that of Buenos Ayres ; walked through the market-place and Cecil Square; promenaded the pier, the Marine Terrace, and Marine Parade; looked at the hotels, libraries, and bathing machines; and the fresh and fitful breeze from the world of waters is growing stronger, as I descend the heights towards the sandy beach.

In London, Margate is thought lightly of, simply because " every one goes there;" and Ramsgate is beginning, for the same reason, to share the same character. A nature-loving stroller, however, is not bound and restricted by such general impressions; for where the sky and the ocean are seen, there will he rejoice; and where the weed-strown beach spreads before him the wonders of an Almighty hand, there will he revel.

He sees amid the sky and rolling waves
Omnipotence abroad. Deep in the sands
The foot-prints of the Almighty are impress'd;
And in the gusty winds he hears a voice,
"Acknowledge me thy Maker!"

I have been drinking in the sea-gale, gathering sea-weed, and picking sea-shells; and can hardly call to mind more unbending and holiday emotions than those which have animated my heart. The stormy sky, the roaring ocean, the

beautiful and varied weeds of the deep, leading and alluring me farther and farther and farther from the cliffs towards the sea, and the occasional gusty showers that drive me to the hollow in the chalky cliff for shelter, have been delightful. A light-hearted and agreeable relative has shared with me the shine and the shade of the passing hour; and yonder she is, far away on the sands, picking up, with commendable perseverance, the most curious and the most diminutive shells she can find.

There is no glittering sun in the heavens, to make the billows sparkle, and to light up the chalky cliffs; but there is a charm in the stormy atmosphere that is felt as well as seen. A highwrought energy, that often slumbers in the glare, is awakened in the gloom.

I love the swelling frothy waves,
And the fitful blast that blows;
The skiff in the misty distance lost,
And the scene as it wilder grows.

The sea-weed and the scattered shells
Delight me as they lie;

And the big, black cloud is beautiful,
That is gathering in the sky.

Could any one have gazed through the windows of the old church half an hour ago, he

would have wondered to see me on my knees on the stone pavement, before two or three monkish figures inlaid on a tombstone. The truth is, that after obtaining possession of the great key of the church door, I had accompanied one more talented than myself, to take off, on cartridge paper, some of the more striking figures and inscriptions; and we were both kneeling, not to adore the figures, but to effect the object of our visit. On lifting up my head, to my astonishment, a female was standing upright before me. She had glided unseen into the church, and, for some time, had been a witness of our somewhat mysterious proceedings.

We knelt alone, on the cold grey stone,
And we heard no living sound;

Damp was the air in that house of prayer,
And the dead were mouldering round.

I have passed the inn called the First and the Last, and am on the high ground, on the road to St. Peter's. Some donkey carts are jogging by me, inscribed with sentimental or romantic names: one, a faded old stager, bears the title of "May Flower;" while another, proceeding at a snail's gallop, has the still more imposing inscription, "The Flying Tally Ho!" What a world is this for setting things off to advantage, and making" much ado about nothing!"

This elevated spot appears to me the most pleasant of any around Margate; the air is purity itself, and the prospect delightful. How sweet and picture-like does the sea appear, with the sailing vessels gliding along its surface, and the steamers tearing their way through the waters! The Tivoli Gardens in the valley, with their lakes and groves; the farm-house to the left; the villages in the distance; and the windmills yonder, are all agreeable objects.

As I left the suburbs of Margate, a group of children were assembled; one of them was dancing, and another crying-life in miniature. Two ladies, who were near, exemplified their several characters. "Look at the child dancing," said one. "What can the poor child be crying for?" said the other. The heart of the first was alive to joy, that of the last responded to sorrow.

I have visited, in pleasant company, the North Foreland light-house: the different lamps which illuminate it by night have behind them large brass reflectors, lined with silver, kept beautifully bright. The reflected rays mingle together, so as to form, at a distance, one concentrated blaze of light, intense and beautiful. The erection is of squared flints, and more than sixty feet high, surmounted by the lantern, whose light may be