The Steam-Packet: A Tale of the River and the Ocean — page 108: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

a el =* al THE STEAM PACKET. | 79 sojourn at Margate, the visitor returns to London to assure his friends that he never passed such a pleasant season at any watering-place in his life ! | It is strange—but the Gardens do not succeed—they are not well frequented ; jaunting-cars ‘are ata discount; and donkeys are a per- fect drug in the market. A gentleman some years ago purchased the grounds known as the Wilderness (and heaven can attest that they have never belied their title either before or since), with the idea of con- verting the premises into a tea-garden: he expended five or six thousand pounds in pulling down and building up, levelling here and raising there, and rendering the place capable of taking in all the visitors of the season; butthe only person ever taken in was himself— and this he has now found out to his cost. The very statues in his garden seem to render the solitude more appalling ; and Echo sleeps there as comfortably as if her powers were never likely to be tested in that quarter again. i" Still—in despite of all that I have just written—I love Margate well. I am deeply attached to that part of Kent in which the Cinque Ports are situated; for I myself first drew the breath of life in one of them. There are some men who regard love for one’s native place as a kind of fanaticism ;—mind how you speak before them of the village where your eyes first beheld light—of your attachment to the very earth— to the atmosphere—to the village bell—or to the gentle murmur of the passing stream ;—all this isan impenetrable mystery to their cold and egotist souls: insuch hearts se/f is the dominant power—such, men love naught but themselves. They possess not a single generous asso- ciation: listening to them you might believe that they exist without having ever submitted to the weakness of infancy—that they are secure from the tomb. Delicious is the privilege of enjoying the remembrance of a spot upon the earth where all our delightful dreams are assembled, our youthful loves and our parting hour! Delicious is it to picture a happy life in the little white cottage, sheltered with rosy tiles, as did Rousseau! There are you known by the very trees that grace the hamlet: that crowing cock announced your birth—that wooden cross looked on while you received the name of Christian—that heavenly star rose through the ethereal arc to protect your life—the old church- portals have creaked a kindly welcome to your repeated presence. There alone are you at home and beside your family ;—there rests your father, there sleeps your mother ;—there you were a helpless babe ; and thither will you return in old age! Oh! spurn not that patriotism which is circumscribed to one’s native place,—it is patriotism still’; (EO PMI LOOKS (E()