about made more noise than usual, he used to tell her husband gently "to
take the children away," or "to keep the people quiet." This little
story fully confirms Dickens's often-expressed feeling of dislike, which
subsequently grew intolerable, to Broadstairs as a watering-place.

After taking a turn or two on the lively Promenade,--made bright by the
rich masses of flesh-coloured flowers of the valerian which fringe its
margin,--to enjoy the sunshine and air, and watch the holiday folks, we
bid adieu to Broadstairs, and proceed to Margate.

Of Margate there is not much to say. We reach it by an early afternoon
train of the London, Chatham, and Dover Railway, to get the quickest
service by the South-Eastern Railway on to Canterbury. Our stay at
Margate is consequently very limited.

To some minds this popular Cockney watering-place has great attractions;
its broad sands, its beautiful air, and its boisterous amusements,
negro-melodies, merry-go-rounds, and the like; but it was a place seldom
visited by Dickens, although he was so often near it. Only twice in the
_Life_ is it recorded that he came here; once being in 1844, when he
wrote to Forster respecting the theatre as follows:--

"'_Nota Bene._--The Margate Theatre is open every evening, and the four
Patagonians (see Goldsmith's _Essays_) are performing thrice a week at
Ranelagh.' A visit from me"--Forster goes on to say--"was at this time
due, to which these were held out as inducements; and there followed
what it was supposed I could not resist, a transformation into the
broadest farce of a deep tragedy by a dear friend of ours. 'Now you
really must come. Seeing only is believing, very often isn't that, and
even Being the thing falls a long way short of believing it. Mrs.
Nickleby herself once asked me, as you know, if I really believed there
ever was such a woman; but there will be no more belief, either in me or
my descriptions, after what I have to tell of our excellent friend's
tragedy, if you don't come and have it played again for yourself, 'by
particular desire.' We saw it last night, and oh! if you had but been
with us! Young Betty, doing what the mind of man without my help never
_can_ conceive, with his legs like padded boot-trees wrapped up in faded
yellow drawers, was the hero. The comic man of the company, enveloped in
a white sheet, with his head tied with red tape like a brief, and
greeted with yells of laughter whenever he appeared, was the vene