water, but a tide of people, and a tide of luggage - all tumbling
and flowing and bouncing about together. Now, after infinite
bustle, the steamer steams out, and we (on the Pier) are all
delighted when she rolls as if she would roll her funnel out, and
all are disappointed when she don't. Now, the other steamer is
coming in, and the Custom House prepares, and the wharf-labourers
assemble, and the hawsers are made ready, and the Hotel Porters
come rattling down with van and truck, eager to begin more Olympic
games with more luggage. And this is the way in which we go on,
down at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, if you want to live a life
of luggage, or to see it lived, or to breathe sweet air which will
send you to sleep at a moment's notice at any period of the day or
night, or to disport yourself upon or in the sea, or to scamper
about Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoyment of all or any
of these pleasures, come to Pavilionstone.



OUT OF THE SEASON



IT fell to my lot, this last bleak Spring, to find myself in a
watering-place out of the Season. A vicious north-east squall blew
me into it from foreign parts, and I tarried in it alone for three
days, resolved to be exceedingly busy.

On the first day, I began business by looking for two hours at the
sea, and staring the Foreign Militia out of countenance. Having
disposed of these important engagements, I sat down at one of the