Herne Bay being then quite in its infancy, and this being what the cits call a “weekday,” they had rather a shy cargo, nor had they any of that cockney tomfoolery that generally characterises a Ramsgate or Margate crew, more particularly a Margate one.  Indeed, it was a very slow cargo, Jorrocks being the only character on board, and he was as sulky as a bear with a sore head when anyone approached.  The day was beautifully fine, and a thin grey mist gradually disappeared from the Kentish hills as we passed down the Thames.  The river was gay enough.  Adelaide, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, was expected on her return from Germany, and all the vessels hung out their best and gayest flags and colours to do her honour.  The towns of Greenwich and Woolwich were in commotion.  Charity schools were marching, and soldiers were doing the like, while steamboats went puffing down the river with cargoes to meet and escort Her Majesty.  When we got near Tilbury Fort, a man at the head of the steamer announced that we should meet the Queen in ten minutes, and all the passengers crowded on to the paddle-box of the side on which she was to pass, to view and greet her.  Jorrocks even roused himself up and joined the throng.  Presently a crowd of steamers were seen in the distance, proceeding up the river at a rapid pace, with a couple of lofty-masted vessels in tow, the first of which contained the royal cargo.  The leading steamboat was the celebrated Magnet—­considered the fastest boat on the river, and the one in which Jorrocks and myself steamed from Margate, racing against and beating the Royal William. This had the Lord Mayor and Aldermen on board, who had gone down to the extent of the city jurisdiction to meet the Queen, and have an excuse for a good dinner.  The deck presented a gay scene, being covered with a military band, and the gaudy-liveried lackeys belonging to the Mansion House, and sheriffs whose clothes were one continuous mass of gold lace and frippery, shining beautifully brilliant in the midday sun.  The royal yacht, with its crimson and gold pennant floating on the breeze, came towering up at a rapid pace, with the Queen sitting under a canopy on deck.  As we neared, all hats were off, and three cheers—­or at least as many as we could wedge in during the time the cortege took to sweep past us—­were given, our band consisting of three brandy-faced musicians, striking up God save the King—­a compliment which Her Majesty acknowledged by a little mandarining; and before the majority of the passengers had recovered from the astonishment produced by meeting a live Queen on the Thames, the whole fleet had shot out of sight.  By the time the ripple on the water, raised by their progress, had subsided, we had all relapsed into our former state of apathy and sullenness.  A duller or staider set I never saw outside a Quakers’ meeting.  Still the beggars eat, as when does a cockney not in the open air?  The stewards of these steamboats must make a rare thing of their places,