s worthy visitor.

Having talked over the changes of Margate, of those that were there,
those that were not, and those that were coming, and adverted to the
important topic of supper, Mr. Jorrocks took out his yellow and white
spotted handkerchief and proceeded to flop his Hessian boots, while Mr.
Creed, with his own hands, rubbed him over with a long billiard-table
brush. Green, too, put himself in form by the aid of the looking-glass,
and these preliminaries being adjusted, the trio sallied forth
arm-in-arm, Mr. Jorrocks occupying the centre. It was a fine, balmy
summer evening, the beetles and moths still buzzed and flickered in
the air, and the sea rippled against the shingly shore, with a low
indistinct murmur that scarcely sounded among the busy hum of men. The
shades of night were drawing on--a slight mist hung about the hills, and
a silvery moon shed a broad brilliant ray upon the quivering waters "of
the dark blue sea," and an equal light over the wide expanse of the
troubled town. How strange that man should leave the quiet scenes of
nature, to mix in myriads of those they profess to quit cities to avoid!
One turn to the shore, and the gas-lights of the town drew back the
party like moths to the streets, which were literally swarming with
the population. "Cheapside, at three o'clock in the afternoon," as Mr.
Jorrocks observed, was never fuller than Margate streets that evening.
All was lighted up--all brilliant and all gay--care seemed banished
from every countenance, and pretty faces and smart gowns reigned in its
stead. Mr. Jorrocks met with friends and acquaintances at every turn,
most of whom asked "when he came?" and "when he was going away?" Having
perambulated the streets, the sound of music attracted Jemmy Green's
attention, and our party turned into a long, crowded and brilliantly
lighted bazaar, just as the last notes of a barrel-organ at the far end
faded away, and a young woman in a hat and feathers, with a swan's-down
muff and tippet, was handed by a very smart young man in dirty white
Berlin gloves, and an equally soiled white waistcoat, into a sort of
orchestra above where, after the plaudits of the company had subsided,
she struck-up:

"If I had a donkey vot vouldn't go."

At the conclusion of the song, and before the company had time to
disperse, the same smart young gentleman,--having rehanded the young
lady from the orchestra and pocketed his gloves,--ran his fingers
through his hair, a