The prevalence of Gents at Ramsgate, in such numbers that the fine weather brings them out like bluebottles, is easily accounted for. There is a certain class of families who go to Ramsgate every year, because they were there the last. They come either from the Pancras-cum-Bloomsbury district of London, or having shops, or ware-rooms, or counting-houses in the City, live in suburban villas comfortably off, and believing greatly in all conventional rules of society, getting perhaps once a year to the Opera, thinking a great deal of Mansion-house balls, and believing to a great degree in fashion-books. Well, these good folks affect Ramsgate greatly, and so take their families with them. The girls of this class pass muster pretty well; Clapham or Chiswick academies teaching them certain school accomplishments, which pass current for a decent education amongst their equals—but the boys are always Gents. The same feeling which induces their parents to believe that the more showily they can set out their dinner-table the higher they rise in social life, makes these sons imagine that two or three dear and flashy articles of dress place them on a level with the well-born and well-bred Gentleman. Accustomed in their own spheres to take the lead, they will not go where they meet men who attain very good stations in society without large studs or noisy-patterned cravats; and constantly associating, one with the other, they get lost beyond all redemption. And of these is the migratory young-man society of Ramsgate chiefly composed. Of the same class is the Gent at Boulogne. He is at first a long time being persuaded to go there; because he knows that his ignorance of the language will be an awful drop to his consequence, and bring him down at once to his elements in a very humiliating manner. But after a while, finding that every body else knows something about it but himself, he determines to go. And in this wise doth he deport himself.