denouncing the stage, and persuading people to leave theatres to the
devil, and to brace up their minds and bodies at the seaside, the
marine pulpits were busy in bidding people to avoid the coast and to
get back to London and their business as speedily as possible. In
‘Their Majesties’ Servants,’ I have alluded to the audiences who ‘were
preached down to the coast, and especially to Brighton, and to the
zealous pastors in the latter place who preached them back again. One
of these, the Rev. Dr. Styles, of Union Street, Brighton, did his best
to stop the progress of London on Sea. He left the question of the
stage for others to deal with; but he strictly enjoined all virtuously
minded people to avoid watering-places generally and Brighton in
particular, unless they wished to play into the devil’s hands. He
denounced the breaking up of homes, the mischief of minds at rest, and
the consequences of flirting and philandering. He looked upon a brief
holiday as a long sin at the seaside; and with prophecy of dire results
attending on neglect of his counsel, he drove or sought to drive all
the hard workers in search of health and in the enjoyment of that idle
repose which helps them in their search, back to London. Then, as
now, England stood shamefully distinguished for the indecorum of its
sea-coast bathers; but, with certain religious principles whereby to
hold firmly, the good doctor does not think that much ill may befal
therefrom, and he sends all erring sheep with their faces towards
London, and with a reference to Solomon’s Song (above all things!)
bidding them to wait for a south wind of the Holy Spirit to blow over
their spices!’
The list of Brighton notabilities is not a long one, but it invariably
contains the name of Phœbe Hassell, who served in the army as a man and
who died at an age which is calculated to make Mr. Thoms shake the head
of incredulity. But there is a Brighton woman far worthier of being
remembered than old Phœbe Hassell. We allude to the mother of James
Rooke, a simple young fellow who had been drawn in by a crafty tailor,
named Howell, to rob the mail, as it was then carried on horseback,
between Brighton and Shoreham. On Phœbe Hassell’s information, the
two were hanged and gibbeted. In course of time, the clothes and
flesh of the culprits had utterly wasted away. When nothing remained
but the skeletons, the aged mother of Rooke, who had often been a
pilgrim to the mournful shrine of her son, went nightly to the gibbets
in all weathers. Nothing prevented her from performing that sacred
duty; and when her object became known it was sacredly respected. It
was to collect the bones of her unhappy son, and of the companion in
his sad fate, as time, wind, and tempest shook them apart and out of
the respective skeletons till nothing was left in the chains. She
gathered them, and carried them reverently and affectionately to her
poor home; and when there were no more to gather, she deposited all
in a little box, and perhaps with some sad memories of the hour when
she had rejoiced at the birth of her son, she, all alone, save those
memories, buried them in what she considered the hallowed ground of old
Shoreham churchyard. Poor mother! Many a woman has been canonised for
the performance of duties not half so holy.
The widow Rooke is forgotten, while the annals of fashion still keep
warm the memory of people less worthy of being remembered. There was
a time when Mrs. Prince, as old Dame Gunn, the bathing woman, used to
call Mrs. Fitzherbert, _reigned_ in Brighton. She was one of those
women who justify the old saying that beauty is of every age. She was
exquisite when young. There are some among us who may remember that she
was queenly, when crowned by years. Like a queen, she was surrounded
by duchesses at Brighton; the most august dandies worshipped at her
shrine in Castle Square; and among those idolaters were the Prince’s
own brothers, with men of less degree, yet perhaps higher fame. In
the number of the latter must be reckoned Colonel Hanger (late Lord
Coleraine), whose first freak was to join a gang of gipsies, and take
a dusky bride from among the daughters in the tents. Hanger led such a
rollicking life, that when he grew old and tired of it, the new and
enforced quiet came upon him like a novel enjoyment.
There were some singular specimens of ladies in the old Brighton days.
None more singular than Lady Clermont, who used to take a tea-spoonful
of brandy in her tea, by first pouring the brandy over the back of the
spoon and then correcting the mistake, which she attributed to defect
of sight, by filling the spoon in the ordinary way. Of a different
temper was the fair and ambitious Lady Haggerstone. My lady invited the
Prince to a rural festival at her villa near the Spa. She received him
in character, as a milkmaid, ready to concoct a syllabub for the royal
guest. She carried in one hand a silver pail, in the other a milking
stool, such as the most ingenious of artistic upholsterers could alone
invent. A characteristic hat, with long cherry-coloured ribbons,
adorned her head; and the milkmaid’s apron would have fetched hundreds
of pounds for its lace. The syllabub, however, was never accomplished.
Some absurd accident brought the attempt to an end, which after brief
laughter was altogether forgotten. In contrast with this gentle
masquerade, was the bold, loudly-brogued, but beautiful Lady Nagle,
with her husband Sir Edmund’s miniature suspended from the longest of
chains, flinging about as she moved, but always, as she said, near
her heart. The Prince loved to have these and other fair ones about
him. They made up his table at whist; brought him all sorts of gossip,
home and foreign, and made themselves conspicuous in a hundred ways,
as they figured on the Steyne and excited the wonder of simple-minded
spectators.
Sir Benjamin Bloomfield was another of the old Brighton celebrities.
He owed his position as Master of the Household to the Prince of Wales
to an accident. ‘Slade,’ said his Royal Highness to the Colonel of
that name, ‘do you know any gentleman who plays the violoncello?’ ‘I
only know one, sir,’ replied the Colonel, ‘Captain Bloomfield, of the
Artillery.’ ‘Bring him here to dinner,’ rejoined the Prince, ‘and tell
him to bring his violoncello with him; we’ll play something together
after dinner.’ The Captain played to good purpose. The Prince again
invited him as a guest; subsequently he attached the violoncello player
to his household, and Sir Benjamin became as well-known a figure on and
about the Steyne as the Prince himself was.
The story of the Pavilion will be found more amusing in Cobbett’s
satirical chronicle of its rise and progress than in any of the local
histories. The history of its decline and fall is within the memory
of him who never remembers anything--the oldest inhabitant. The noble
eccentrics who figured in the Pavilion circle have been stereotyped.
But there were eccentrics without, whose eccentricity amused those
within that circle. One of these was well known on the Brighton stage.
An ignorant impatience of taxation was manifested at Brighton,
especially when the heavy impost was laid on hair-powder. By nearly
general resolve people avoided the tax by leaving off the powder.
Anyone who ventured to appear in public, powdered, incurred the peril
of being pelted. Even on the stage, when genteel comedy required the
sword by the side and the powder on the hair, there was a difference
of opinion as to the wearing of it, and the actor _portant épée et
poudre_ was both hissed and applauded, as sentiment prevailed among the
audience. At Brighton, Mr. Fox, the manager’s son, had to appear in a
character of the sword and powder period. He took a singular course. He
powdered one half of his hair, and left the other _au naturel_. People
laughed at his droll aspect, and also at his reason for putting it on.
Mr. Fox explained that he had taken that course in order to please both
parties--the powderers and the anti-powderers. It was accepted for wit.
As far less has been said and written of Brighton just as royalty began
to tire of its old love, than of the town when it seemed a seventh
heaven to the King, George IV., we will look into one year of its
sayings and doings--A.D. 1825--when it was learning to go alone.
Brighton had long rejoiced in the sunshine of royalty. It veiled its
head, and wore sackcloth, and cast ashes upon itself, when royalty
was absent. At least, it would have done all this, but for certain
consolatory circumstances. Nevertheless, it affected a very decent
horror. This is especially manifested in the fashionable intelligence
in the local papers. The first thing thought of there is the condition
and prospects of the Pavilion. That shrine of _haut ton_ is spoken
of as a most interesting invalid, who is sick only because the sun
is absent, and all Brighton is therefore sick with it. Yet will the
invalid be convalescent if Hope is the physician, and then sympathetic
Brighton will feel itself also ‘very much better, thank you.’ _But_
‘should the King’--for we now speak of the time when George IV. had
grown tired of his gew-gaw--should ‘his most sacred Majesty’ nothing
less than ‘graciously condescend to inhabit’ for awhile the ‘marine
palace’ which he once both well and wisely loved--in such case Brighton
would not only be restored to health, but would enjoy a sensation of
stalwart youth and ecstatic immortality.
It is distressing to read the expression of sorrow at the idea that the
King, so to speak, continually went on not coming. With the new year
(1825) the wail opens to its old solemn tune. ‘There is no change at
the Pavilion.’ ‘We hope that the desire to see his Majesty again among
us may speedily be realised.’ Alas! the realisation does not speedily
come, and the ‘Fashionable Intelligencer’ wept in its imitation lawn
handkerchief, and then wiped its loyal eyes and exclaimed, ‘The gloom
of silence and desertion continues to envelop the Pavilion.’ Double
envelopes of desertion and of silence. Then followed reports that the
King was coming soon. The _soon_ was succeeded by ‘a period not yet
determined.’ Finally, it was said that his Majesty would visit Brighton
and take up his residence there during the Christmas holidays. But
before that time and its event arrived, ‘Fashionable Intelligencer’
discovered that, instead of the King coming, his best wine was going.
It did not require much logic to enable observers to come to the
conclusion that if the best vintage were taking its departure, Sacred
Majesty would not be among speedy arrivals. The town could hardly find
consolation in the assurance that wherever the monarch might be, his
heart was certainly at Brighton. The King never came. The local banks
could not bear it. They unanimously broke.
A royal duke and duchess were scarcely equivalent to a king; yet the
appearance of the Duke of York relieved in some degree the heart of
Brighton from some of its heavings. There was a burst of joy when
it was announced that H.R.H. ‘purposed to give an entertainment to
his tonish friends.’ Everyone uninvited must henceforth consider
himself to be _mauvais ton_. What a flutter there was when ‘tonish
reporters’ proclaimed in the newspapers that the Duke would give a
public breakfast at Ireland’s Royal Gardens, and that ‘the whole
fashionable world would partake of the repast.’ Meanwhile ‘Fashionable
Intelligencer’ watched the Duke and noted his ducal ways. We read with
infinite emotion that his royal princeliness not only entered several
shops, but that he purchased various articles in the most unassuming
manner. The grand breakfast at last came off, and a very jolly affair
it was; but Snob, who was not invited, and who felt his ‘fashionable’
honour very much ruffled in consequence, declared that the thing was
low, and that the company were vulgar.
The Duchess of Gloucester did not put herself so prominently forward as
the Duke of York; but the local observer did not fail to chronicle the
proud circumstance, namely, that ‘The Duchess gives importance by her
presence to the Steyne.’ Her condescension, too, was eulogised in lofty
terms; but in the practice of proud humility the Duchess was nothing in
comparison with the Bishop of Chichester. Robert James Carr was then,
as prelate, only a year old. In the bloom of his official age the Right
Rev. Father, &c., visited Brighton, and on his first Sunday there he
repaired to the Royal Chapel. There was the ordinary congregation, but
there was no clergyman. He had been taken ill and was unable to attend.
But the diocesan was not proud. The fashionable chronicler tells us
that the Bishop performed divine worship himself, ‘with his usual
kindness and condescension.’
Sometimes high-born and ill-bred personages condescended to much
stranger performances. Thus we find Jeames the Chronicler setting down
a record of the fact that Sir Godfrey Webster, one of the fastest
of the very rapid men of the day, had left the town, and that the
regret was universal; but that the baronet would soon return, in
order to take the chair of a free-and-easy at the ‘Swan Inn.’ It is
to be observed, that whenever a ‘tonish’ person took his departure,
all Brighton was filled with the most poignant regret. Also, that
when a family or individual of the _haut ton_ or _beau monde_ (nice
distinctions!) arrived, all Brighton was stirred with an indescribable
sort of happiness. If Mrs. Fitzherbert left the town drowned in tears,
the arrival of Lady Berwick brought it again to life and laughter. Sir
Matthew Tierney’s post-carriage, galloping out of Brighton, pierced the
hearts of all beholders; but there was balm in Gilead. How sympathetic
must have been the fashionable reporter of 1825 when he wrote down
the fact that, ‘Grateful rumour states that the esteemed Dukes of
Richmond and Argyle, and the Marquis of Anglesea, again propose to
add to the importance of the “Royal York Hotel” by residing there
before the end of the present year.’ Mark the new and original figure,
‘grateful rumour.’ But to indulge in strange figures was the old
Brighton reporter’s dearest delight. ‘The Marquis of Granby,’ says our
friend, ‘without any feeling of indisposition, enjoys good spirits in
Regency Square.’ This might astonish Mark Tapley, whose spirits were
highest under prostration, but to us it seems natural enough. Another
fashionable record, this time full of simplicity, is to the effect that
‘Lady William Gordon confesses the salutary influence of the coast
air.’ Occasionally an unexpected arrival makes the reporter of it
facetious. For example, the local chronicler states how the ‘Barossa,’
homeward bound from St. Helena, had dropped her anchor off the town
the previous night, without any idea of her being there, and how her
gallant captain, Hutchenson, went ashore, and gave joyous surprise to
his lady and family, and how he was on board again, and on his way to
the Downs, by five in the morning.
Speaking of ladies as well as of captains, let us not forget--indeed it
is impossible to overlook--that incarnation of gaiety and beauty, the
Lady Berwick of that day. Before her marriage, she was a Miss Sophia
Dubouchet. This young lady was married to the second Lord Berwick in
1812. In some peerages she is styled plain ‘Sophia Dubouchet,’ with
no more account of her family than if she had been, like Melchizedek,
without father and without mother. It is clear that this lady, who died
childless, was not of illustrious descent. How she looked at Brighton,
in 1825, and what were ‘pretty Fanny’s ways’ in that year, at that
place, we may gather from another of the scraps of intelligence. ‘_A la
mode_ Lady Berwick,’ says a contemporary local journal, ‘formerly Miss
Sophia de Bouchez’ (the chroniclers were not particular as to names),
‘has been the source of attraction for our fashionable promenades
during the week. It afforded us much pleasure to observe that the
late abuse of the press has in no degree diminished the vivacity so
characteristic of her ladyship and family.’ There were two other ladies
at Brighton at that time who were of a quieter quality, and whose
wealth was the least of their charms. They are thus registered in
the fashionable column: ‘We have two of the richest heiresses in the
country now with us, Miss Wykeham and Miss Pleydell.’ How little did
the chronicler conjecture that the former lady, who died so recently
as 1870, was the heroine of a romance, and might have been Queen of
England if she had chosen to bear that magnificent title. When Miss
Wykeham was at Brighton, at a much earlier period than 1825, she
attracted the attention of the Duke of Clarence. She was then the much
honoured heiress of an Oxfordshire squire, Wykeham of Swalcliffe, a
member of the family of William of Wykeham. The royal Duke had other
opportunities of seeing this beautiful and accomplished heiress; and,
overcome by her beauty, her intellectual qualities, and her account
at her banker’s, he made her the offer of his hand. With good common
sense, Miss Wykeham declined the offer. The Duke subsequently married
a German princess, but he never ceased to esteem the heiress, whose
presence made Brighton so happy nearly half a century ago. As soon
as the Duke became William IV., King of England, he, with the glad
sanction of Queen Adelaide, prevailed on the lady whom he had once
sought to make his wife, to accept a peerage. Miss Wykeham took the
title of Baroness Wenman, whereby she revived an old title in her
family. Her grandfather had married the sister and heiress of the
Viscount Wenman, in the Irish peerage. The Viscount having died
childless, in 1800, the dignity became extinct; but Wenman, as an
English baronial title, was conferred on Miss Wykeham in 1834. For six
and thirty years she wore it with dignity, and when she died, in 1870,
there was not a memory more honoured in the three kingdoms than that of
Sophia Elizabeth Wykeham, Baroness Wenman, of Thame Park, county Oxon.
When William IV. took up his residence at Brighton, he played the
citizen king. He walked and talked in the streets, and knocked at the
doors of his personal friends, paying morning visits, and speedily
discovering that, altogether, ‘it wouldn’t do.’ Queen Victoria went
down to look at the place, to give it a trial, and to come to the same
conclusion, that ‘it wouldn’t do.’ When cabmen or their customers
stood on the roofs of their cabs to gaze at the Queen over the garden
walls, royalty quietly withdrew, and Brighton took good heart, and has
since contrived to get on handsomely alone, but she is ever glad, and
naturally so, when a prince or princess is to be reckoned among her
visitors. Only now the inhabitants do not go out to meet them, as they
did in 1815 to meet Queen Charlotte. Large bodies of them then received
permission to welcome the Queen at Patcham. They were dressed in buff,
and mounted. As they cantered by the side of the Queen’s carriage,
as her escort, she smiled and bowed to such of them as were ‘getting
a look at her,’ as if she liked it. The Prince Regent, the Duke of
Clarence, and a bright array of nobility, waited in the open space
before the Pavilion to do honour to her on her arrival. ‘The present,’
says a contemporary historian, ‘is beyond all doubt the most brilliant
period in the annals of Brighton.’
Fitting period wherewith to close these remarks. What a contrast is
the fuss to get a sovereign into Brighton with the anxiety to get
Charles II. out of it! For effecting the escape of the King, Captain
Tattersall was rewarded with a pension of 100_l._ a year to himself and
his descendants. We suppose that the most democratic of politicians
would not object to a pension being paid which was originally earned by
getting his most ‘religious majesty’ out of the kingdom.
_ON SOME CLUBS, AND THEIR ENDS._
Of all historical parallels, there are few more curious than the one
between the first club ever established and any similar association
of modern times. We must go as far back as the reign of Philip of
Macedon (B.C. 320) for that original club. It consisted of Greek
gentlemen, who, from their number, called themselves ‘The Sixty.’ They
met once a week, not at a tavern, but in a temple--that of Hercules,
at Athens. Their secretary was a sprightly young Achaian, named
Callimedes--so sprightly, indeed, that the jolly Sixty nicknamed him
the _Grasshopper_. They must have had the highest opinion of their own
wit, for every good thing that was uttered was entered in a book, and
any member who had a repartee on the tip of his tongue was obliged to
keep it there till what had provoked it had been written down! This
book of wit, wisdom, and joking was in such repute that it was lent out
to princes and other potentialities, on depositing a security for its
return. Thus Athens furnished not only the first club, but the first
idea of a circulating library.
One of the most singular features of some of the social gatherings of
Roman gentlemen consists in the fact, that if a member did not consider
himself ‘clubbable,’ or was not considered so by his colleagues, he
might bring with him some one who was. If he possessed an extremely
witty slave, and chose to bring him to the meeting, in such case
Libanus was as welcome as Demenætus. There are clubs of the present
day where dulness so prevails among the associates, where Sir Rayleigh
D’Istressin is such a nonentity, and Mr. Hugh Doane Nohoo is so
overflowing with nonsense, that it is a pity they cannot be represented
by capable substitutes. The latter might be found among the public
office clerks. How well many of these persons have discovered what they
are especially fitted for is to be seen in the little companies that
club together and exhibit themselves with alacrity as Nigger Serenaders!
In England here, although the name of _club_ for a society was not
known till the seventeenth century, the thing itself was in active
practice three hundred years before. The first English club of which
we know anything has a French name--_La Cour de Bonne Compagnie_.
It was founded in the reign of Henry the Fourth, and we may take it
that _bonne compagnie_ was understood to signify, in English, _good
fellows_. They met, like ‘The Sixty’ in Athens, once a week. The
club was what would now be called a dining club--that is, meeting
periodically in order to dine together, and to enjoy the ‘feast of
reason and the flow of soul’ which come of good cheer, safe digestion,
happy humour, and undying wit.
We may be very sure that at the meetings which took place at ‘The
Mermaid,’ and at those where Ben Jonson’s sons sat around him in ‘The
Apollo,’ the English language ripened into mellowness, beauty, and
strength. Shakespeare, Raleigh, and the men whose sympathies were
attuned to those of the soldier and the poet, must have done especially
good work to that end during their joyous discussions at ‘The Mermaid.’
Politics do not seem to have been touched upon. The first club founded
in London with a political purpose among its other objects was the Rota
Club. More than two centuries have elapsed since the Rota saw its table
and coffee-cups surrounded by such men as Milton, Cyriac Skinner (to
whom Milton addressed the sonnet which urges play as well as work),
Marvel, Harrington, Nevill, and very many others. They advocated a
going-out of Members of Parliament by _rotation_, and used a ballot-box
for the settlement of club questions--that is to say, they affirmed or
negatived by that means the conclusions arrived at by the lecturer for
the evening. They also supported the ballot, as the simplest and truest
method of voting, generally. To this end we are only on the point of
now coming partially.
There were some clubs that, meeting only for recreation, fell into
a fixed purpose by accident. Small clubs they were, but they were
the beginnings of great consequences. From the meeting together of a
few ‘city gentlemen,’ members of the Wednesday Club, in the reign of
William III., arose certain discussions on financial matters which
led to the ‘Conferences’ of 1695, in which William Paterson took a
leading part. From this club, its discussions and conferences, sprang a
gigantic result--‘The Old Lady in Threadneedle Street;’ in other words,
the Bank of England.