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.
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