"Dolphin," in the most original and ludicrous manner. We
presently recognised him as one of our fellow-passengers of the previous
day, respecting whom Jorrocks and I had had a dispute as to whether he
was a Frenchman or a German. His equestrian performances decided the
point. I never in all my life witnessed such an exhibition, nor one in
which the performer evinced such self-complacency. Whether he had ever
been on horseback before or not I can't tell, but the way in which he
went to work, using the bridle as a sort of rattle to frighten the horse
forward, the way in which he shook the reins, threw his arms about, and
belaboured the poor devil of an animal in order to get him into a canter
(the horse of course turning away every time he saw the blow coming),
and the free, unrestrained liberty he gave to his head, surpassed
everything of the sort I ever saw, and considerably endangered the lives
of several of His Majesty's lieges that happened to be passing.
Instead of getting out of their way, Frenchmanlike, he seemed to think
everything should give way to an equestrian; and I saw him scatter a
party of ladies like a covey of partridges, by riding slap amongst them,
and not even making the slightest apology or obeisance for the rudeness.
There he kept, cantering (or cantering as much as he could induce the
poor rip to do) from one end of the town to the other, conceiving, I
make not the slightest doubt, that he was looked upon with eyes of
admiration by the beholders. He soon created no little sensation, and
before he was done a crowd had collected near the Pier Hotel, to see him
get his horse past (it being a Pier Hotel nag) each time; and I heard
a primitive sort of postman, who was delivering the few letters that
arrive in the place, out of a fish-basket, declare "that he would sooner
kill a horse than lend it to such a chap." Having fretted his hour away,
the owner claimed the horse, and Monsieur was dismounted.

After surveying the back of the town, we found ourselves rambling in
some beautiful picturesque fields in the rear. Kent is a beautiful
county, and the trimly kept gardens, and the clustering vines twining
around the neatly thatched cottages, remind one of the rich, luxuriant
soil and climate of the South. Forgetting that we were in search of sea
breezes, we continued to saunter on, across one field, over one stile
and then over another, until after passing by the side of a snug-looking
old-fashioned house,