Not that there are many other attractions in Ramsgate, which is
administered by councillors more sleepy than sage. Having literally
defaced their town by a railway-station, built a harbour which will not
hold water, constructed a promenade pier in the least accessible quarter,
and provided a band which plays mainly "intervals," they naturally refuse
to venture on further improvements, such as refuges on the parade, or
trees in the shadeless streets, and, in the excess of their zeal, have
even, so I hear, declined the railway company's offer to give them a lift
(from sands to cliff), and Mr. Sebag Montefiore's offer to allow the
public gardens to be continued right through his estate on towards
Dumpton. Even so, these worthy burghers have more of my regard than their
brethren of Margate, who have sacrificed their trust to the Moloch of
advertisement. Stand on Margate Parade and look seaward, and the main
impression is Pills. Sail towards Margate Pier and look landward, and the
main impression is Disinfectant Powder.
Baby Broadstairs has known better how to guard its dignity and its
beauty; so that Dickens might still look from Bleak House on as dainty a
scene as in the days when he lounged on the dear old, black,
weather-beaten pier.
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