To-day the August crowd is far less domestic than that pictured above; but the same old “amusements,” plus penny-in-the-slot machines and other inventions not dreamt of forty years ago, prevail. It is, we will say, the harbour, midday. The weather, in nautical phrase, is “fresh”; to the inexperienced Cockney it is “stormy”; yet the qualmy holiday-folk are sufficiently brave, or rash, to venture for a sail in one of the yachts now filling up. Four of them are lying alongside the pier-wall, and are advertised to sail at 1 p.m.; but, although it is now past two o’clock, they show no signs of moving--except the disturbing movement imparted to them, even in harbour, by the roughness of the waves, which already, before the voyage has begun, is rendering many of the bold trippers dimly uncomfortable. But they have paid a shilling each for the trip, and intend to take their shilling’s-worth, even though they pay the penalty of being sea-sick. A Briton will at all costs have his money’s worth, if in any way possible. That is why, collectively, as a nation, we “rule the waves,” although, individually, we too often lie in agonised prostration aboard, even before the stormy winds do blow. “Fine day for a sail,” shout the touts. It must be bad weather indeed when these worthies cease that cry. A crowd of idle holiday-makers, bored with holiday-making, and incapable of making holiday gracefully, look on, without the slightest real interest. Pickpockets are busy. Good-humoured man, easy in his mind because there is nothing in his pockets to lose, to one of the light-fingered (not so dexterous as he might be) fumbling awkward fingers in his coat: “Keep it there, sonny; keep it there, if yer ’and’s cold!” Chorus of touts: “This way, gents, for the large yacht, _Moss Rose_. ’Ere y’are, lidy, for the _King George_. Now sir, come along; I’ve bin wyting for yer. Now miss, just goin’ to start!” The Ramsgate Town Council has heroically attempted to provide amusement for holiday-makers, and has sought (perhaps with a success only indifferent) to disguise the more urban and grimly commercial aspects of the place around the harbour. After all, there is not much of Ramsgate sands. Measured by the shores of Yarmouth, let us say, they are very small, and are crowded to extremity. The new Marine Drive, constructed in 1891 at a cost of £80,000, and intended to connect the East and West Cliffs, has been with much ingenuity provided with elaborate rockeries planted with rock-plants and provided with ornamental waters; but the highly dangerous electric tramways, plunging down the steep gradients and sharp curves, detract greatly from the front.