<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XVII</h2>
<h3>BRIGHTON</h3>
<blockquote><p>A decline in interest—The storied past of Brighton—Dr. Russell's
discovery—The First Gentleman in Europe—The resources of the
Steyne—Promenade Grove—A loyal journalist—The Brighton
bathers—Smoaker and Martha Gunn—The Prince and cricket—The
Nonpareil at work—Byron at Brighton—Hazlitt's observation—Horace
Smith's verses—Sidney Smith on the M.C.—Captain Tattersall—Pitt
and the heckler—Dr. Johnson in the sea—Mrs. Pipchin and Dr.
Blimber—The Brighton fishermen—Richard Jefferies on the town—The
Cavalier—Mr. Booth's birds—Old Pottery.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Brighton is interesting only in its past. To-day it is a suburb, a lung,
of London; the rapid recuperator of Londoners with whom the pace has
been too severe; the Mecca of day-excursionists, the steady friend of
invalids and half-pay officers. It is vast, glittering, gay; but it is
not interesting.</p>
<p>To persons who care little for new towns the value of Brighton lies in
its position as the key to good country. In a few minutes one can travel
by train to the Dyke, and leaving booths and swings behind, be free of
miles of turfed Down or cultivated Weald; in a few minutes one can reach
Hassocks, the station for Wolstonbury and Ditchling Beacon; in a few
minutes one can gain Falmer and plunge into Stanmer Park; or, travelling
to the next station, correct the effect of Brighton's hard brilliance
amid the soothing sleepinesses of Lewes; in a few minutes on the western
line one can be at Shoreham, amid ship-builders and sail-makers, or on
the ramparts of Bramber Castle, or among the distractions of Steyning
cattle market, with Chanctonbury<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></SPAN></span> Ring rising solemnly beyond. Brighton,
however, knows little of these homes of peace, for she looks only out to
sea or towards London.</p>
<div class="sidenote">BRIGHTON'S STORIED PAST</div>
<p>Brighton was, however, interesting a hundred years ago; when the
Pavilion was the favourite resort of the First Gentleman in Europe
(whose opulent charms, preserved in the permanency of mosaic, may be
seen in the Museum); when the Steyne was a centre of fashion and folly;
coaches dashed out of Castle Square every morning and into Castle Square
every evening; Munden and Mrs. Siddons were to be seen at one or other
of the theatres; Martha Gunn dipped ladies in the sea; Lord Frederick
Beauclerck played long innings on the Level; and Mr. Barrymore took a
pair of horses up Mrs. Fitzherbert's staircase and could not get them
down again without the assistance of a posse of blacksmiths.</p>
<p>Brighton was interesting then, reposing in the smiles of the Prince of
Wales and his friends. But it is interesting no more,—with the Pavilion
a show place, the Dome a concert hall, the Steyne an enclosure, Martha
Gunn in her grave, the Chain Pier a memory, Mrs. Fitzherbert's house the
headquarters of the Young Men's Christian Association, and the Brighton
road a racing track for cyclists, motor cars and walking stockbrokers.
Brighton is entertaining, salubrious, fashionable, what you will. Its
interest has gone.</p>
<p>The town's rise from Brighthelmstone (pronounced Brighton) a fishing
village, to Brighton, the marine resort of all that was most dashing in
English society, was brought about by a Lewes doctor in the days when
Lewes was to Brighton what Brighton now is to Lewes. This doctor was
Richard Russell, born in 1687, who, having published in 1750 a book on
the remedial effects of sea water, in 1754 removed to Brighton to be
able to attend to the many patients that were flocking thither. That
book was the beginning of Brighton's greatness. The seal was set upon it
in 1783, when the Prince of Wales, then a young man just one and twenty,
first visited the town.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">LE PRINCE S'AMUSE</div>
<p>The Prince's second visit to Brighton was in July 1784. He then stayed
at the house engaged for him by his cook, Louis Weltje, which, when he
decided to build, became the nucleus of the Pavilion. The Prince at this
time (he was now twenty-two) was full of spirit and enterprise, and in
the company of Colonel Hanger, Sir John Lade of Etchingham, and other
bloods, was ready for anything: even hard work, for in July 1784 he rode
from Brighton to London and back again, on horse-back, in ten hours. One
of his diversions in 1785 is thus described in the Press: "On Monday,
June 27, His Royal Highness amused himself on the Steyne for some time
in attempting to <i>shoot doves with single balls</i>; but with what result
we have not heard, though the Prince is esteemed a most excellent shot,
and seldom presents his piece without doing some execution. The Prince,
in the course of his diversion, either by design or accident, <i>lowered
the tops of several of the chimneys of the Hon. Mr. Windham's house</i>."
The Prince seemed to live for the Steyne. When the first scheme of the
Pavilion was completed, in 1787, his bedroom in it was so designed that
he could recline at his ease and by means of mirrors watch everything
that was happening on his favourite promenade.</p>
<p>The Prince was probably as bad as history states, but he had the quality
of his defects, and Brighton was the livelier for the presence of his
friends. Lyme Regis, Margate, Worthing, Lymington, Bognor—these had
nothing to offer beyond the sea. Brighton could lay before her guests a
thousand odd diversions, in addition to concerts, balls, masquerades,
theatres, races. The Steyne, under the ingenious direction of Colonel
Hanger, the Earl of Barrymore, and their associates, became an arena for
curious contests. Officers and gentlemen, ridden by other officers and
gentlemen, competed in races with octogenarians. Strapping young women
were induced to run against each other for a new smock or hat. Every
kind of race was devised, even to walking backwards; while a tame stag
was occasionally liberated and hunted to refuge.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">AN EARTHLY PARADISE</div>
<p>To the theatre came in turn all the London players; and once the
mysterious Chevalier D'Eon was exhibited on its stage in a fencing bout
with a military swordsman. The Promenade Grove, which covered part of
the ground between New Road, the Pavilion, North Street and Church
Street, was also an evening resort in fine weather (and to read about
Brighton in its heyday is to receive an impression of continual fine
weather, tempered only by storms of wind, such as never failed to blow
when Rowlandson and his pencil were in the town, to supply that robust
humorist with the contours on which his reputation was based). The Grove
was a marine Ranelagh. Masquers moved among the trees, orchestras
discoursed the latest airs, rockets soared into the sky. In the county
paper for October 1st, 1798, I find the following florid reference to a
coming event in the Grove:—"The glittering Azure and the noble Or of
the peacock's wings, under the meridian sun, cannot afford greater
exultation to that bird, than some of our beautiful belles of fashion
promise themselves, from a display of their captivating charms at the
intended masquerade at Brighton to-morrow se'nnight."</p>
<p>In another issue of the paper for the same year are some extempore lines
on Brighton, dated from East Street, which end thus ecstatically:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Nature's ever bounteous hand</div>
<div>Sure has bless'd this happy land.</div>
<div>'Tis here no brow appears with care,</div>
<div>What would we be, but what we are?</div>
</div></div>
<p>Before leaving this genial county organ I must quote from a paragraph in
1796 on the Prince himself:—"The following couplet of Pope may be fitly
applied to his Royal Highness:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>If to his share some manly errors fall,</div>
<div>Look on his face and you'll forget them all."</div>
</div></div>
<p>What could be kinder? A little earlier, in a description of these
anodyne features, the journalist had said of his Royal <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></SPAN></span>Highness's "arch
eyes," that they "seem to look more ways than one at a time, and
especially when they are directed towards the fair sex."</p>
<p>Quieter and more normal pastimes were gossip at the libraries, riding
and driving, and bathing in the sea. Bathing seems to have been taken
very seriously, with none of the present matter-of-course haphazardness.
In an old Guide to Brighton, dated 1794, I find the following
description of the intrepid dippers of that day:—"It may not be
improper here to introduce a short account of the manner of bathing in
the sea at Brighthelmston. By means of a hook-ladder the bather ascends
the machine, which is formed of wood, and raised on high wheels; he is
drawn to a proper distance from the shore, and then plunges into the
sea, the guides attending on each side to assist him in recovering the
machine, which being accomplished, he is drawn back to shore. The guides
are strong, active, and careful; and, in every respect, adapted to their
employments."</p>
<div class="sidenote">"SMOAKER"</div>
<div class="sidenote">MARTHA GUNN</div>
<p>Chief of the bathing women for many years was Martha Gunn, whose
descendants still sell fish in the town; chief among the men was the
famous Smoaker (his real name, John Miles) the Prince of Wales's
swimming tutor. There is a story of his pulling the Prince back by the
ear, when he had swum out too far against the old man's instructions;
while on another occasion, when the sea was too rough for safety, he
placed himself in front of his obstinate pupil in a fighting attitude,
with the words, "What do you think your father would say to me if you
were drowned? He would say, 'This is all owing to you, Smoaker. If you'd
taken proper care of him, Smoaker, poor George would still be alive.'"
Another of the pleasant stories of the Prince refers to Smoaker's
feminine correlative—Martha Gunn. One day, being in the act of
receiving an illicit gift of butter in the pavilion kitchen just as the
Prince entered the room, she slipped the pat into her pocket. But not
quite in time. Talking with the utmost affability, the Prince <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></SPAN></span>proceeded
to edge her closer and closer to the great fire, pocket side nearest,
and there he kept her until her sin had found her out and dress and
butter were both ruined. Doubtless his Royal Highness made both good,
for he had all the minor generosities.</p>
<p>An old book, quoted in Mr. Bishop's interesting volume <i>A Peep into the
Past</i>, gives the following scrap of typical conversation between Martha
and a visitor:—"'What, my old friend, Martha,' said I, 'still queen of
the ocean, still industrious, and busy as ever; and how do you find
yourself'? 'Well and hearty, thank God, sir,' replied she, 'but rather
hobbling. I don't bathe, because I a'nt so strong as I used to be, so I
superintend on the beach, for I'm up before any of 'em; you may always
find me and my pitcher at one exact spot, every morning by six o'clock.'
'You wear vastly well, my old friend, pray what age may you be'? 'Only
eighty-eight, sir; in fact, eighty-nine come next Christmas pudding;
aye, and though I've lost my teeth I can mumble it with as good relish
and hearty appetite as anybody.' 'I'm glad to hear it; Brighton would
not look like itself without you, Martha,' said I. 'Oh, I don't know,
it's like to do without me, some day,' answered she, 'but while I've
health and life, I must be bustling amongst my old friends and
benefactors; I think I ought to be proud, for I've as many bows from
man, woman, and child, as the Prince hisself; aye, I do believe, the
very dogs in the town know me.' 'And your son, how is he'? said I.
'Brave and charming; he lives in East Street; if your honour wants any
prime pickled salmon, or oysters, there you have 'em.'"</p>
<p>On the Prince's birthday, and on the birthday of his royal brothers,
Brighton went mad with excitement. Oxen were roasted whole, strong beer
ran like water, and among the amusements single-wicket matches were
played. One of the good deeds of the Prince was the making of a cricket
ground. Before 1791, when the Prince's ground was laid out, matches had
been played on the neighbouring hills, or on the Level.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></SPAN></span> The Prince's
ground stood partly on the Level as it now is, and partly on Park
Crescent. In 1823, it became Ireland's Gardens, upon whose turf the most
famous cricketers of England played until 1847. In 1848 the Brunswick
ground at Hove was opened, close to the sea, into which the ball was
occasionally hit by Mr. C. I. Thornton. The present Hove ground dates
from 1871. I like to think that George IV., though no great cricketer
himself (he played now and then when young "with great condescension and
affability"), is the true father of Sussex cricket. He may deserve all
that Lamb, Leigh Hunt, and Thackeray said of him, but without his
influence and patronage the history of cricket would be the poorer by
many bright pages.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE NONPAREIL</div>
<p>Where Montpellier Crescent now stands, was, eighty years ago, the ground
on which Frederick William Lillywhite, the Nonpareil, used to bowl to
gentlemen young or old who were prepared to put down five shillings for
the privilege. Little Wisden acted as a long stop. Lillywhite was the
real creator of round-arm bowling, although Tom Walker of the Hambledon
Club was the pioneer and James Broadbridge an earlier exponent. It was
not until 1828 that round-arm was legalised. "Me bowling, Pilch batting,
and Box keeping wicket—that's cricket," was the old man's dictum; or
"When I bowls and Fuller bats," a variant has it, bowl being pronounced
to rhyme with owl, "then you'll see cricket." He was thirty-five before
he began his first-class career, he bowled fewer than a dozen wides in
twenty-seven years, and his myriad wickets cost only seven runs a-piece.</p>
<p>Brighton in its palmiest days was practically contained within the
streets that bear boundary names, North Street, East Street, West
Street, and the sea, with the parish church high on the hill. On the
other side of the Steyne were the naked Downs, while the Lewes road and
the London Road were mere thoroughfares between equally bare hills, with
a few houses here and there.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></SPAN></span>During the town's most fashionable period, which continued for nearly
fifty years—say from 1785 to 1835—everyone journeyed thither; and
indeed everyone goes to Brighton to-day, although its visitors are now
anonymous where of old they were notorious. I believe that Robert
Browning is the only eminent Englishman that never visited the town.
Perhaps it does little for poets; yet Byron was there as a young man,
much in the company of a charming youth with whom he often sailed in the
Channel, and who afterwards was discovered to be a girl.</p>
<div class="sidenote">HORACE SMITH</div>
<p>A minor poet, Horace Smith, gives us, in <i>Horace in London</i>, a sprightly
picture of the town in 1813, from which we see that the changes between
now and then are only in externals:—</p>
<p class="center">BRIGHTON.</p>
<p class="center"><i>Solvitur acris hyems gratâ vice veris.</i></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Now fruitful autumn lifts his sunburnt head,</div>
<div class="i1">The slighted Park few cambric muslins whiten,</div>
<div>The dry machines revisit Ocean's bed,</div>
<div class="i1">And Horace quits awhile the town for <i>Brighton</i>.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>The cit foregoes his box at Turnham Green,</div>
<div class="i1">To pick up health and shells with Amphitrite,</div>
<div>Pleasure's frail daughters trip along the Steyne,</div>
<div class="i1">Led by the dame the Greeks call Aphrodite.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Phœbus, the tanner, plies his fiery trade,</div>
<div class="i1">The graceful nymphs ascend Judea's ponies,</div>
<div>Scale the west cliff, or visit the parade,</div>
<div class="i1">While poor papa in town a patient drone is.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Loose trowsers snatch the wreath from pantaloons;</div>
<div class="i1">Nankeen of late were worn the sultry weather in;</div>
<div>But now, (so will the Prince's light dragoons,)</div>
<div class="i1">White jean have triumph'd o'er their Indian brethren.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Here with choice food earth smiles and ocean yawns,</div>
<div class="i1">Intent alike to please the London glutton;</div>
<div>This, for our breakfast proffers shrimps and prawns,</div>
<div class="i1">That, for our dinner, South-down lamb and mutton.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></SPAN></span>Yet here, as elsewhere, death impartial reigns,</div>
<div class="i1">Visits alike the cot and the <i>Pavilion</i>,</div>
<div>And for a bribe with equal scorn disdains</div>
<div class="i1">My half a crown, and <i>Baring's</i> half a million.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Alas! how short the span of human pride!</div>
<div class="i1">Time flies, and hope's romantic schemes, are undone;</div>
<div>Cosweller's coach, that carries four inside,</div>
<div class="i1">Waits to take back the unwilling bard to London.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Ye circulating novelists, adieu!</div>
<div class="i1">Long envious cords my black portmanteau tighten;</div>
<div>Billiards, begone! avaunt, illegal loo!</div>
<div class="i1">Farewell old Ocean's bauble, glittering Brighton.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Long shalt thou laugh thine enemies to scorn,</div>
<div class="i1">Proud as Phœnicia, queen of watering places!</div>
<div>Boys yet unbreech'd, and virgins yet unborn,</div>
<div class="i1">On thy bleak downs shall tan their blooming faces.</div>
</div></div>
<p>I believe that the phrase "Queen of Watering Places" was first used in
this poem.</p>
<div class="sidenote">EXTINCT COURTESY</div>
<p>An odd glimpse of a kind of manners (now extinct) in Brighton visitors
in its palmy days is given in Hazlitt's <i>Notes of a Journey through
France and Italy</i>. Hazlitt, like his friends the Lambs, when they
visited Versailles in 1822, embarked at Brighton. That was in 1824. He
reached the town by coach in the evening, in the height of the season,
and it was then that the incident occurred to which I have referred. In
Hazlitt's words:—"A lad offered to conduct us to an inn. 'Did he think
there was room?' He was sure of it. 'Did he belong to the inn?' 'No,' he
was from London. In fact, he was a young gentleman from town, who had
been stopping some time at the White-horse Hotel, and who wished to
employ his spare time (when he was not riding out on a blood-horse) in
serving the house, and relieving the perplexities of his
fellow-travellers. No one but a Londoner would volunteer his assistance
in this way. Amiable land of <i>Cockayne</i>, happy in itself, and in making
others happy! Blest exuberance of <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></SPAN></span>self-satisfaction, that overflows
upon others! Delightful impertinence, that is forward to oblige them!"</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE LORD OF THE TIDES</div>
<p>Brighton's decline as a fashionable resort came with the railway.
Coaches were expensive and few, and the number of visitors which they
brought to the town was negotiable; but when trains began to pour crowds
upon the platforms the distinction of Brighton was lost. Society
retreated, and the last Master of Ceremonies, Lieut. Col. Eld, died. It
was of this admirable aristocrat that Sydney Smith wrote so happily in
one of his letters from Brighton: "A gentleman attired <i>point device</i>,
walking down the Parade, like Agag, 'delicately.' He pointed out his
toes like a dancing-master; but carried his head like a potentate. As he
passed the stand of flys, he nodded approval, as if he owned them all.
As he approached the little goat carriages, he looked askance over the
edge of his starched neckcloth and blandly smiled encouragement. Sure
that in following him, I was treading in the steps of greatness, I went
on to the Pier, and there I was confirmed in my conviction of his
eminence; for I observed him look first over the right side and then
over the left, with an expression of serene satisfaction spreading over
his countenance, which said, as plainly as if he had spoken to the sea
aloud, 'That is right. You are low-tide at present; but never mind, in a
couple of hours I shall make you high-tide again.'"</p>
<p>Beyond its connection with George IV. Brighton has played but a small
part in history, her only other monarch being Charles II., who merely
tarried in the town for awhile on his way to France, in 1651, as we have
seen. The King's Head, in West Street, claims to be the scene of the
merry monarch's bargain with Captain Nicholas Tattersall, who conveyed
him across the Channel; but there is good reason to believe that the inn
was the George in Middle Street, now demolished, but situated on the
site of No. 44. The epitaph on Tattersall in Brighton old parish church
contains the following lines:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></SPAN></span>When Charles ye great was nothing but a breath</div>
<div>This valiant soul stept betweene him and death....</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Which glorious act of his for church and state</div>
<div>Eight princes in one day did gratulate.</div>
</div></div>
<p>The episode of the captain's cautious bargaining with the King, of which
Colonel Gunter tells in the narrative from which I have quoted in an
earlier <SPAN href="#CHAPTER_III">chapter</SPAN>, is carefully suppressed on the memorial tablet.</p>
<div class="sidenote">PHEBE HESSEL</div>
<p>Another famous Brighton character and friend of George IV. was Phebe
Hessel, who died at the age of 106, and whose tombstone may be seen in
the old churchyard. Phebe had a varied career, for having fallen in love
when only fifteen with Samuel Golding, a private in Kirk's Lambs, she
dressed herself as a man, enlisted in the 5th Regiment of Foot, and
followed him to the West Indies. She served there for five years, and
afterwards at Gibraltar, never disclosing her sex until her lover was
wounded and sent to Plymouth, when she told the General's wife, and was
allowed to follow and nurse him. On leaving hospital Golding married
her, and they lived, I hope happily, together for twenty years. When
Golding died Phebe married Hessel.</p>
<p>In her old age she became an important Brighton character, and
attracting the notice of the Prince was provided by him with a pension
of eighteen pounds a year, and the epithet "a jolly good fellow." It was
also the Prince's money which paid the stone cutter. When visited by a
curious student of human nature as she lay on her death-bed, Phebe
talked much of the past, he records, and seemed proud of having kept her
secret when in the army. "But I told it to the ground," she added; "I
dug a hole that would hold a gallon and whispered it there." Phebe kept
her faculties to the last, and to the last sold her apples to the
Quality by the sea, returned repartees with extraordinary verve and
contempt for false delicacy, and knew as much of the quality of Brighton
liquor as if she were a soldier in earnest.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></SPAN></span>One ought to mention Pitt's visit to Brighton, in 1785, as an historical
event, if only for the proof which it offers that Sussex folk have an
effective if not nimble wit. I use Mr. Bishop's words: "Pitt during his
journey to Brighton, in the previous week, had some experience of
popular feeling in respect of the obnoxious Window Tax. Whilst horses
were being changed at Horsham, he ordered <i>lights</i> for his carriage; and
the persons assembled, learning who was within, indulged pretty freely
in ironical remarks on <i>light</i> and <i>darkness</i>. The only effect upon the
Minister was, that he often laughed heartily. Whilst in Brighton, a
country glove-maker hung about the door of his house on the Steyne; and
when the Minister came out, showed him a <i>hedger's cuff</i>, which he held
in one hand, and a <i>bush</i> in the other, to explain the use of it, and
asked him if the former, being an article he made and sold, was subject
to a <i>Stamp Duty</i>? Mr. Pitt appeared rather struck with the oddity and
bluntness of the man's question, and, mounting his horse, waived a
satisfactory answer by referring him to the <i>Stamp Office</i> for
information."</p>
<div class="sidenote">DR. JOHNSON IN THE SEA</div>
<p>Brighton's place in literature makes up for her historical poverty. Dr.
Johnson was the first great man of letters to visit the town. He stayed
in West Street with the Thrales, rode on the Downs and, after his wont,
abused their bareness, making a joke about our dearth of trees similar
to one on the same topic in Scotland. The Doctor also bathed. Mrs.
Piozzi relates that one of the bathing men, seeing him swim, remarked,
"Why, sir, you must have been a stout-hearted gentleman forty years
ago!"—much to the Doctor's satisfaction.</p>
<div class="sidenote">MRS. PIPCHIN'S CASTLE</div>
<p>It was, I always think, in Hampton Place that Mrs. Pipchin, whose
husband broke his heart in the Peruvian mines, kept her establishment
for children and did her best to discourage Paul Dombey. How does the
description run?</p>
<blockquote><p>This celebrated Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous ill-favoured,
ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, with a mottled
face, like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard grey eye, that
looked as if it might have been<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></SPAN></span> hammered at on an anvil without
sustaining any injury. Forty years at least had elapsed since the
Peruvian mines had been the death of Mr. Pipchin; but his relict
still wore black bombazeen, of such a lustreless, deep, dead,
sombre shade, that gas itself couldn't light her up after dark, and
her presence was a quencher to any number of candles. She was
generally spoken of as "a great manager" of children; and the
secret of her management was, to give them everything that they
didn't like, and nothing that they did—which was found to sweeten
their dispositions very much. She was such a bitter old lady, that
one was tempted to believe there had been some mistake in the
application of the Peruvian machinery, and that all her waters of
gladness and milk of human kindness had been pumped out dry,
instead of the mines.</p>
<p>The Castle of this ogress and child-queller was in a steep
bye-street at Brighton; where the soil was more than unusually
chalky, flinty, and sterile, and the houses were more than usually
brittle and thin; where the small front-gardens had the
unaccountable property of producing nothing but marigolds, whatever
was sown in them; and where snails were constantly discovered
holding on to the street doors, and other public places they were
not expected to ornament, with the tenacity of cupping-glasses. In
the winter-time the air couldn't be got out of the Castle, and in
the summer-time it couldn't be got in. There was such a continual
reverberation of wind in it, that it sounded like a great shell,
which the inhabitants were obliged to hold to their ears night and
day, whether they liked it or no. It was not, naturally, a
fresh-smelling house; and in the window of the front parlour, which
was never opened, Mrs. Pipchin kept a collection of plants in pots,
which imparted an earthy flavour of their own to the establishment.
However choice examples of their kind, too, these plants were of a
kind peculiarly adapted to the embowerment of Mrs. Pipchin. There
were half-a-dozen specimens of the cactus, writhing round bits of a
lath, like hairy serpents; another specimen shooting out broad
claws, like a green lobster; several creeping vegetables, possessed
of sticky and adhesive leaves; and one uncomfortable flower-pot
hanging to the ceiling, which appeared to have boiled over, and
tickling people underneath with its long green ends, reminded them
of spiders—in which Mrs. Pipchin's dwelling was uncommonly
prolific, though perhaps it challenged competition still more
proudly, in the season, in point of earwigs.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>From Mrs. Pipchin's Paul Dombey passed to the forcing-house of Dr.
Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, Miss Blimber and Mr. Feeder, B.A., also at
Brighton, where he met Mr. Toots. "The Doctor's," says Dickens, "was a
mighty fine house, <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></SPAN></span>fronting the sea. Not a joyful style of house
within, but quite the contrary. Sad-coloured curtains, whose proportions
were spare and lean, hid themselves despondently behind the windows. The
tables and chairs were put away in rows, like figures in a sum; fires
were so rarely lighted in the rooms of ceremony, that they felt like
wells, and a visitor represented the bucket; the dining-room seemed the
last place in the world where any eating or drinking was likely to
occur; there was no sound through all the house but the ticking of a
great clock in the hall, which made itself audible in the very garrets;
and sometimes a dull cooing of young gentlemen at their lessons, like
the murmurings of an assemblage of melancholy pigeons."—Dr. Blimber's
must have been, I think, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Bedford
Hotel.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THACKERAY'S PRAISE</div>
<p>Among other writers who have found Brighton good to work in I might name
the authors of <i>The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton</i> and <i>A System of
Synthetic Philosophy</i>. Mr. William Black was for many years a familiar
figure on the Kemp Town parade, and Brighton plays a part in at least
two of his charming tales—<i>The Beautiful Wretch</i>, and an early and very
sprightly novel called <i>Kilmeny</i>. Brighton should be proud to think that
Mr. Herbert Spencer chose her as a retreat in which to come to his
conclusions; but I doubt if she is. Thackeray's affection is, however,
cherished by the town, his historic praise of "merry cheerful Dr.
Brighton" having a commercial value hardly to be over-estimated.
Brighton in return gave Thackeray Lord Steyne's immortal name and served
as a background for many of his scenes.</p>
<p>Although Brighton has still a fishing industry, the spectacle of its
fishermen refraining from work is not an uncommon one. It was once the
custom, I read, and perhaps still is, for these men, when casting their
nets for mackerel or herring, to stand with bare heads repeating in
unison these words: "There they goes then. God Almighty send us a
blessing it is to be hoped." As each barrel (which is attached to every
two<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></SPAN></span> nets out of the fleet, or 120 nets) was cast overboard they would
cry:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Watch, barrel, watch! Mackerel for to catch,</div>
<div>White may they be, like a blossom on a tree.</div>
<div>God send thousands, one, two, and three,</div>
<div>Some by their heads, some by their tails,</div>
<div>God sends thousands, and never fails.</div>
</div></div>
<p>When the last net was overboard the master said, "Seas all!" and then
lowered the foremast and laid to the wind. If he were to say, "Last
net," he would expect never to see his nets again.</p>
<div class="sidenote">BRIGHTON'S FAIR DAUGHTERS</div>
<p>"There are more handsome women in Brighton than anywhere else in the
world," wrote Richard Jefferies some twenty years ago. "They are so
common that gradually the standard of taste in the mind rises, and
good-looking women who would be admired in other places pass by without
notice. Where all the flowers are roses you do not see a rose." (Shirley
Brooks must have visited Brighton on a curiously bad day, for seeing no
pretty face he wrote of it as "The City of the Plain.") Richard
Jefferies, who lived for a while at Hove, blessed also the treelessness
of Brighton. Therein he saw much of its healing virtue. "Let nothing,"
he wrote, "cloud the descent of those glorious beams of sunlight which
fall at Brighton. Watch the pebbles on the beach; the foam runs up and
wets them, almost before it can slip back, the sunshine has dried them
again. So they are alternately wetted and dried. Bitter sea and glowing
light, bright clear air, dry as dry—that describes the place. Spain is
the country of sunlight, burning sunlight; Brighton is a Spanish town in
England, a Seville."</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE PAVILION</div>
<p>The principal inland attraction of Brighton is still the Pavilion, which
is indeed the town's symbol. On passing through its very numerous and
fantastic rooms one is struck by their incredible smallness. Sidney
Smith's jest (if it were his; I find Wilberforce, the Abolitionist,
saying something<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></SPAN></span> similar) is still unimproved: "One would think that
St. Paul's Cathedral had come to Brighton and pupped." Cobbett in his
rough and homely way also said something to the point about the Prince's
pleasure-house: "Take a square box, the sides of which are three feet
and a half, and the height a foot and a half. Take a large Norfolk
turnip, cut off the green of the leaves, leave the stalks nine inches
long, tie these round with a string three inches from the top, and put
the turnip on the middle of the top of the box. Then take four turnips
of half the size, treat them in the same way, and put them on the
corners of the box. Then take a considerable number of bulbs of the
crown-imperial, the narcissus, the hyacinth, the tulip, the crocus, and
others; let the leaves of each have sprouted to about an inch, more or
less according to the size of the bulb; put all these, pretty
promiscuously, but pretty thickly, on the top of the box. Then stand off
and look at your architecture."</p>
<p>To its ordinary museum in the town Brighton has added the collection of
stuffed birds made by the late Mr. E. T. Booth, which he housed in a
long gallery in the road that leads to the Dyke. Mr. Booth, when he shot
a bird in its native haunts, carried away some of its surroundings in
order that the taxidermist might reproduce as far as possible its
natural environment. Hence every case has a value that is missing when
one sees merely the isolated stuffed bird. In one instance realism has
dictated the addition of a clutch of pipit's eggs found on the Bass
Rock, in a nest invisible to the spectator. The collection in the
Natural History Museum at South Kensington is of course more
considerable, and finer, but some of Mr. Booth's cases are certainly
superior, and his collection has the special interest of having been
made by one man.</p>
<div class="sidenote">CRITICISM BY JUG</div>
<p>Brighton has another very interesting possession in the collection of
old domestic pottery in the museum: an assemblage (the most entertaining
and varied that I know) of jugs and mugs, plates and ornaments, all
English, all quaint and characteristic<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></SPAN></span> too, and mostly inscribed with
mottoes or decorated with designs in celebration of such events as the
battle of Waterloo, or the discomfiture of Mr. Pitt, or a victory of Tom
Cribb. Others are ceramic satires on the drunkard's folly or the
inconstancy of women. Why are the potters of our own day so dull?
History is still being made, human nature is not less frail; but I see
no genial commentary on jug or dish. Is it the march of Taste?</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></SPAN></span></p>
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