Mr. Mortimer had been perplexed before,--but what could describe his perplexity, when he had spent a day each in Ramsgate and Margate? He was lectured rather than told,--by every company he joined,--on the absolute, the imperative necessity of regarding "the Isle of Thanet" in its proper light: every body was neglecting it: no one attended to it: their interests were vanishing: property was becoming of no value: any petty village in Kent could have its puffs and its praises, while their towns--the two most respectable watering-places in all England--were forgotten! Dover?--nonsense!--Canterbury was the place--if the gentleman did not like to venture on taking the Isle of Thanet for a fulcrum. But the gentleman must remain another day, and attend the grand "annual dinner of the Isle of Thanet," at the "Ranelagh Gardens;"--a delightful spot, Mr. Mortimer was assured it was: the gentleman would then be able to draw some more accurate conclusion as to the real importance of their distinct part of Kent. So Mr. Mortimer staid, and attended the dinner, and was much pleased, for a time. A London editor of a newspaper was there, it is true; and drew a little more attention than Mr. Mortimer was pleased to see; but then, the editor belonged to a daily paper, and Mr. Mortimer consoled himself with the belief that that would not stand in the way of his weekly "lever," when he had found the fulcrum, and planted it. But, alack! poor Mr. Mortimer--how did he feel during the last three hours of the feast;--for it was a protracted midnight affair, according to custom, elsewhere, in similar "annual" meetings;--how did poor Mr. Mortimer feel when, after all the usual "loyal toasts" had been drunk,--and the grand toast of the evening, the "prosperity" toast, came on,--an ambitious Ramsgate-man dared to put the name of _his_ town before the name of Margate! Thunder and lightning! Etna and Vesuvius!--Was there ever any thing comparable to the rage that followed, and the denunciation, and the eloquent invective, so far transcending Chatham and Grattan and Brougham, and all the wielders of scathing sarcasm that ever breathed! Ten?--no! nor twenty pages--would not hold the speeches:--so 'tis to no purpose making more words about it: Mr. Mortimer was--to use a very expressive slang phrase or two--Mr. Mortimer was completely _flummaxed_ and _flabbergasted_; or, as Jonathan would say--he was "struck all of a heap!" Mr. Mortimer's head reeled, and he said nothing,--no! not a word, as they crammed him into a carriage with half-a-dozen more, at midnight, to go back to Margate; though the reason might, partly, be, that he had tippled two bottles of sherry, and was asleep: but, suffice it to say, that, the next morning, Mr. Mortimer left Margate for Canterbury, more than ever puzzled with the immense problem of the "relative importance" of towns in Kent,--more than ever in a quandary as to where the true and indisputable "fulcrum"