Some of the old streets opening out of the King's Road look very
pleasant on a sunny day. They ran to the north, so that the sun over
the sea shines nearly straight up them, and at the farther end, where
the houses close in on higher ground, the deep blue sky descends to the
rooftrees. The old red tiles, the red chimneys, the green jalousies,
give some colour; and beneath there are shadowy corners and archways.
They are not too wide to whisper across, for it is curious that to be
interesting a street must be narrow, and the pavements are but two or
three bricks broad. These pavements are not for the advantage of foot
passengers; they are merely to prevent cart-wheels from grating against
the houses. There is nothing ancient or carved in these streets, they
are but moderately old, yet turning from the illuminated sea it is
pleasant to glance up them as you pass, in their stillness and shadow,
lying outside the inconsiderate throng walking to and fro, and
contrasting in their irregularity with the set facades of the front.
Opposite, across the King's Road, the mastheads of the fishing boats on
the beach just rise above the rails of the cliff, tipped with
fluttering pennants, or fish-shaped vanes changing to the wind. They
have a pulley at the end of a curved piece of iron for hauling up the
lantern to the top of the mast when trawling; this thin curve, with a
dot at the extremity surmounting the straight and rigid mast, suits the
artist's pencil. The gold-plate shop--there is a bust of Psyche in the
doorway--often attracts the eye in passing; gold and silver plate in
large masses is striking, and it is a very good place to stand a minute
and watch the passers-by.
It is a Piccadilly crowd by the sea-exactly the same style of people
you meet in Piccadilly, but freer in dress, and particularly in hats.
All fashionable Brighton parades the King's Road twice a day, morning
and afternoon, always on the side of the shops. The route is up and
down the King's Road as far as Preston Street, back again and up East
Street. Riding and driving Brighton extends its Rotten Row sometimes to
Third Avenue, Hove. These well-dressed and leading people never look at
the sea. Watching by the gold-plate shop you will not observe a single
glance in the direction of the sea, beautiful as it is, gleaming under
the sunlight. They do not take the slightest interest in sea, or sun,
or sky, or the fresh breeze calling white horses from the deep. Their
pursuits are purely "social," and neither ladies nor gentlemen ever go
on the beach or lie where the surge comes to the feet. The beach is
ignored; it is almost, perhaps quite vulgar; or rather it is entirely
outside the pale. No one rows, very few sail; the sea is not "the
thing" in Brighton, which is the least nautical of seaside places.
There is more talk of horses.
The wind coming up the cliff seems to bring with it whole armfuls of
sunshine, and to throw the warmth and light against you as you linger.
The walls and glass reflect the light and push back the wind in puffs
and eddies; the awning flutters; light and wind spring upwards from the
pavement; the sky is richly blue against the parapets overhead; there
are houses on one side, but on the other open space and sea, and dim
clouds in the extreme distance. The atmosphere is full of light, and
gives a sense of liveliness! every atom of it is in motion. How
delicate are the fore legs of these thoroughbred horses passing! Small
and slender, the hoof, as the limb rises, seems to hang by a thread,
yet there is strength and speed in those sinews. Strength is often
associated with size, with the mighty flank, the round barrel, the
great shoulder. But I marvel more at the manner in which that strength
is conveyed through these slender sinews; the huge brawn and breadth of
flesh all depend upon these little cords. It is at these junctions that
the wonder of life is most evident. The succession of well-shaped
horses, overtaking and passing, crossing, meeting, their high-raised
heads and action increase the impression of pleasant movement. Quick
wheels, sometimes a tandem, or a painted coach, towering over the
line,--so rolls the procession of busy pleasure. There is colour in hat
and bonnet, feathers, flowers, and mantles, not brilliant but rapidly
changing, and in that sense bright. Faces on which the sun shines and
the wind blows whether cared for or not, and lit up thereby; faces seen
for a moment and immediately followed by others as interesting; a
flowing gallery of portraits; all life, life! Waiting unobserved under
the awning, occasionally, too, I hear voices as the throng goes by on
the pavement--pleasant tones of people chatting and the human sunshine
of laughter. The atmosphere is full of movement, full of light, and
life streams to and fro.
Yonder, over the road, a row of fishermen lean against the rails of the
cliff, some with their backs to the sea, some facing it. "The cliff" is
rather a misnomer, it is more like a sea-wall in height. This row of
stout men in blue jerseys, or copper-hued tan frocks, seems to be
always there, always waiting for the tide--or nothing. Each has his
particular position; one, shorter than the rest, leans with his elbows
backwards on the low rail; another hangs over and looks down at the
site of the fish market; an older man stands upright, and from long
habit looks steadily out to sea. They have their hands in their
pockets; they appear fat and jolly, as round as the curves of their
smacks drawn up on the beach beneath them. They are of such that "sleep
o' nights;" no anxious ambition disturbs their placidity. No man in
this world knows how to absolutely do--nothing, like a fisherman.
Sometimes he turns round, sometimes he does not, that is all. The sun
shines, the breeze comes up the cliff, far away a French fishing lugger
is busy enough. The boats on the beach are idle, and swarms of boys are
climbing over them, swinging on a rope from the bowsprit, or playing at
marbles under the cliff. Bigger boys collect under the lee of a smack,
and do nothing cheerfully. The fashionable throng hastens to and fro,
but the row leaning against the railings do not stir.
Doleful tales they have to tell any one who inquires about the fishing.
There have been "no herrings" these two years. One man went out with
his smack, and after working for hours returned with _one sole_. I can
never get this one sole out of my mind when I see the row by the rails.
While the fisherman was telling me this woeful story, I fancied I heard
voices from a crowd of the bigger boys collected under a smack, voices
that said, "Ho! ho! Go on! you're kidding the man!" Is there much
"kidding" in this business of fish? Another man told me (but he was not
a smack proprietor) that L50, L70, or L80 was a common night's catch.
Some people say that the smacks never put to sea until the men have
spent every shilling they have got, and are obliged to sail. If truth
lies at the bottom of a well, it is the well of a fishing boat, for
there is nothing so hard to get at as the truth about fish. At the time
when society was pluming itself on the capital results attained by the
Fisheries Exhibition in London, and gentlemen described in the papers
how they had been to market and purchased cod at sixpence a pound, one
shilling and eightpence a pound was the price in the Brighton
fishmongers' shops, close to the sea. Not the least effect was produced
in Brighton; fish remains at precisely the same price as before all
this ridiculous trumpeting. But while the fishmongers charge twopence
each for fresh herrings, the old women bring them to the door at
sixteen a shilling. The poor who live in the old part of Brighton, near
the markets, use great quantities of the smaller and cheaper fish, and
their children weary of the taste to such a degree that when the girls
go out to service they ask to be excused from eating it.
The fishermen say they can often find a better market by sending their
fish to Paris; much of the fish caught off Brighton goes there. It is
fifty miles to London, and 250 to Paris; how then can this be? Fish
somehow slip through ordinary rules, being slimy of surface; the maxims
of the writers on demand and supply are quite ignored, and there is no
groping to the bottom of this well of truth.
Just at the corner of some of the old streets that come down to the
King's Road one or two old fishermen often stand. The front one props
himself against the very edge of the buildings, and peers round into
the broad sunlit thoroughfare; his brown copper frock makes a distinct
patch of colour at the edge of the house. There is nothing in common
between him and the moving throng: he is quite separate and belongs to
another race; he has come down from the shadow of the old street, and
his copper-hued frock might have come out of the last century.
The fishing-boats and the fishing, the nets, and all the fishing work
are a great ornament to Brighton. They are real; there is something
about them that forms a link with the facts of the sea, with the forces
of the tides and winds, and the sunlight gleaming on the white crests
of the waves. They speak to thoughts lurking in the mind; they float
between life and death as with a billow on either hand; their anchors
go down to the roots of existence. This is real work, real labour of
man, to draw forth food from the deep as the plough draws it from the
earth. It is in utter contrast to the artificial work--the feathers,
the jewellery, the writing at desks of the town. The writings of a
thousand clerks, the busy factory work, the trimmings and feathers, and
counter attendance do not touch the real. They are all artificial. For
food you must still go to the earth and to the sea, as in primeval
days. Where would your thousand clerks, your trimmers, and
counter-salesmen be without a loaf of bread, without meat, without
fish? The old brown sails and the nets, the anchors and tarry ropes, go
straight to nature. You do not care for nature now? Well! all I can say
is, you will have to go to nature one day--when you die: you will find
nature very real then. I rede you to recognise the sunlight and the
sea, the flowers and woods _now_.
I like to go down on the beach among the fishing-boats, and to recline
on the shingle by a smack when the wind comes gently from the west, and
the low wave breaks but a few yards from my feet. I like the occasional
passing scent of pitch: they are melting it close by. I confess I like
tar: one's hands smell nice after touching ropes. It is more like home
down on the beach here; the men are doing something real, sometimes
there is the clink of a hammer; behind me there is a screen of brown
net, in which rents are being repaired; a big rope yonder stretches as
the horse goes round, and the heavy smack is drawn slowly up over the
pebbles. The full curves of the rounded bows beside me are pleasant to
the eye, as any curve is that recalls those of woman. Mastheads stand
up against the sky, and a loose rope swings as the breeze strikes it; a
veer of the wind brings a puff of smoke from the funnel of a cabin,
where some one is cooking, but it is not disagreeable, like smoke from
a house chimney-pot; another veer carries it away again,--depend upon
it the simplest thing cooked there is nice. Shingle rattles as it is
shovelled up for ballast--the sound of labour makes me more comfortably
lazy. They are not in a hurry, nor "chivy" over their work either; the
tides rise and fall slowly, and they work in correspondence. No
infernal fidget and fuss. Wonder how long it would take me to pitch a
pebble so as to lodge on the top of that large brown pebble there? I
try, once now and then.
Far out over the sea there is a peculiar bank of clouds. I was always
fond of watching clouds; these do not move much. In my pocket-book I
see I have several notes about these peculiar sea-clouds. They form a
band not far above the horizon, not very thick but elongated laterally.
The upper edge is curled or wavy, not so heavily as what is called
mountainous, not in the least threatening; this edge is white. The body
of the vapour is a little darker, either because thicker, or because
the light is reflected at a different angle. But it is the lower edge
which is singular: in direct contrast with the curled or wavy edge
above, the under edge is perfectly straight and parallel to the line of
the horizon. It looks as if the level of the sea made this under line.
This bank moves very slowly--scarcely perceptibly--but in course of
hours rises, and as it rises spreads, when the extremities break off in
detached pieces, and these gradually vanish. Sometimes when travelling
I have pointed out the direction of the sea, feeling sure it was there,
and not far off, though invisible, on account of the appearance of the
clouds, whose under edge was cut across so straight. When this peculiar
bank appears at Brighton it is an almost certain sign of continued fine
weather, and I have noticed the same thing elsewhere; once particularly
it remained fine after this appearance despite every threat the sky
could offer of a storm. All the threats came to nothing for three
weeks, not even thunder and lightning could break it up,--"deceitful
flashes," as the Arabs say; for, like the sons of the desert, just then
the farmers longed for rain on their parched fields. To me, while on
the beach among the boats, the value of these clouds lies in their
slowness of movement, and consequent effect in soothing the mind.
Outside the hurry and drive of life a rest comes through the calm of
nature. As the swell of the sea carries up the pebbles, and arranges
the largest farthest inland, where they accumulate and stay unmoved, so
the drifting of the clouds, and the touch of the wind, the sound of the
surge, arrange the molecules of the mind in still layers. It is then
that a dream fills it, and a dream is sometimes better than the best
reality. Laugh at the idea of dreaming where there is an odour of tar
if you like, but you see it is outside intolerable civilisation. It is
a hundred miles from the King's Road, though but just under it.
There is a scheme on foot for planking over the ocean, beginning at the
bottom of West Street. An immense central pier is proposed, which would
occupy the only available site for beaching the smacks. If carried out,
the whole fishing industry must leave Brighton,--to the fishermen the
injury would be beyond compensation, and the aspect of Brighton itself
would be destroyed. Brighton ought to rise in revolt against it.
All Brighton chimney-pots are put on with giant cement, in order to
bear the strain of the tremendous winds rushing up from the sea. Heavy
as the gales are, they seldom do much mischief to the roofs, such as
are recorded inland. On the King's Road a plate-glass window is now and
then blown in, so that on hurricane days the shutters are generally
half shut. It is said that the wind gets between the iron shutters and
the plate glass and shakes the windows loose. The heaviest waves roll
in by the West Pier, and at the bottom of East Street. Both sides of
the West Pier are washed by larger waves than can be seen all along the
coast from the Quarter Deck. Great rollers come in at the concrete
groyne at the foot of East Street. Exposed as the coast is, the waves
do not convey so intense an idea of wildness, confusion, and power as
they do at Dover. To see waves in their full vigour go to the Admiralty
Pier and watch the seas broken by the granite wall. Windy Brighton has
not an inch of shelter anywhere in a gale, and the salt rain driven by
the wind penetrates the thickest coat. The windiest spot is at the
corner of Second Avenue, Hove; the wind just there is almost enough to
choke those who face it. Double windows--Russian fashion--are common
all along the sea-front, and are needed.
After a gale, when the wind changes, as it usually does, it is pleasant
to see the ships work in to the verge of the shore. The sea is turbid
and yellow with sand beaten up by the recent billows,--this yellowness
extends outwards to a certain line, and is there succeeded by the green
of clearer water. Beyond this again the surface looks dark, as if still
half angry, and clouds hang over it, both to retire from the strife. As
bees come out of their hives when the rain ceases and the sun shines,
so the vessels which have been lying-to in harbour, or under shelter of
promontories, are now eagerly making their way down Channel, and, in
order to get as long a tack and as much advantage as possible, they are
brought to the edge of the shallow water. Sometimes fifteen or twenty
or more stand in; all sizes from the ketch to the three-master. The
wind is not strong, but that peculiar drawing breeze which seems to
pull a ship along as if with a tow-rope. The brig stands straight for
the beach, with all sail set; she heels a little, not much; she
scarcely heaves to the swell, and is not checked by meeting waves; she
comes almost to the yellow line of turbid water, when round she goes,
and you can see the sails shiver as the breeze touches them on both
surfaces for a moment. Then again she shows her stern and away she
glides, while another approaches: and all day long they pass. There is
always something shadowy, not exactly unreal, but shadowy about a ship;
it seems to carry a romance, and the imagination fashions a story to
the swelling sails.
The bright light of Brighton brings all things into clear relief,
giving them an edge and outline; as steel burns with a flame like wood
in oxygen, so the minute particles of iron in the atmosphere seem to
burn and glow in the sunbeams, and a twofold illumination fills the
air. Coming back to the place after a journey this brilliant light is
very striking, and most new visitors notice it. Even a room with a
northern aspect is full of light, too strong for some eyes, till
accustomed to it. I am a great believer in light--sunlight--and of my
free will never let it be shut out with curtains. Light is essential to
life, like air; life is thought; light is as fresh air to the mind.
Brilliant sunshine is reflected from the houses and fills the streets.
The walls of the houses are clean and less discoloured by the deposit
of carbon than usual in most towns, so that the reflection is stronger
from these white surfaces. Shadow there is none in summer, for the
shadows are lit up by diffusion. Something in the atmosphere throws
light down into shaded places as if from a mirror. Waves beat
ceaselessly on the beach, and the undulations of light flow
continuously forwards into the remotest corners. Pure air, free from
suspended matter, lets the light pass freely, and perhaps this absence
of suspended material is the reason that the heat is not so oppressive
as would be supposed considering the glare. Certainly it is not so hot
as London; on going up to town on a July or August day it seems much
hotter there, so much so that one pants for air. Conversely in winter,
London appears much colder, the thick dark atmosphere seems to increase
the bitterness of the easterly winds, and returning to Brighton is
entering a warmer because clearer air. Many complain of the brilliance
of the light; they say the glare is overpowering, but the eyes soon
become acclimatised. This glare is one of the great recommendations of
Brighton; the strong light is evidently one of the causes of its
healthfulness to those who need change. There is no such glowing light
elsewhere along the south coast; these things are very local.
A demand has been made for trees, to plant the streets and turn them
into boulevards for shade, than which nothing could be more foolish. It
is the dryness of the place that gives it its character. After a storm,
after heavy rain for days, in an hour the pavements are not only dry
but clean; no dirt, sticky and greasy, remains. The only dirt in
Brighton, for three-fourths of the year, is that made by the
water-carts. Too much water is used, and a good clean road covered with
mud an inch thick in August; but this is not the fault of Brighton--it
is the lack of observation on the part of the Cadi who ought to have
noticed the wretched condition of ladies' boots when compelled to cross
these miry promenades. Trees are not wanted in Brighton; it is the
peculiar glory of Brighton to be treeless. Trees are the cause of damp,
they suck down moisture, and fill a circle round them with humidity.
Places full of trees are very trying in spring and autumn even to
robust people, much more so to convalescents and delicate persons. Have
nothing to do with trees, if Brighton is to retain its value. Glowing
light, dry, clear, and clean air, general dryness--these are the
qualities that rendered Brighton a sanatorium; light and glow without
oppressive moist heat; in winter a clear cold. Most terrible of all to
bear is cold when the atmosphere is saturated with water. If any reply
that trees have no leaves in winter and so do not condense moisture, I
at once deny the conclusion; they have no leaves, but they condense
moisture nevertheless. This is effected by the minute twigs, thousands
of twigs and little branches, on which the mists condense, and distil
in drops. Under a large tree, in winter, there is often a perfect
shower, enough to require an umbrella, and it lasts for hours.
Eastbourne is a pleasant place, but visit Eastbourne, which is proud of
its trees, in October, and feel the damp fallen leaves under your feet,
and you would prefer no trees.
Let nothing check 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. Very bright colours can be worn in summer
because of this powerful light; the brightest are scarcely noticed, for
they seem to be in concert with the sunshine. Is it difficult to paint
in so strong a light? Pictures in summer look dull and out of tune when
this Seville sun is shining. Artificial colours of the palette cannot
live in it. As a race we do not seem to care much for colour or art--I
mean in the common things of daily life--else a great deal of colour
might be effectively used in Brighton in decorating houses and
woodwork. Much more colour might be put in the windows, brighter
flowers and curtains; more, too, inside the rooms; the sober hues of
London furniture and carpets are not in accord with Brighton light.
Gold and ruby and blue, the blue of transparent glass, or purple, might
be introduced, and the romance of colour freely indulged. At high tide
of summer Spanish mantillas, Spanish fans, would not be out of place in
the open air. No tint is too bright--scarlet, cardinal, anything the
imagination fancies; the brightest parasol is a matter of course.
Stand, for instance, by the West Pier, on the Esplanade, looking east
on a full-lit August day. The sea is blue, streaked with green, and is
stilled with heat; the low undulations can scarcely rise and fall for
somnolence. The distant cliffs are white; the houses yellowish-white;
the sky blue, more blue than fabled Italy. Light pours down, and the
bitter salt sea wets the pebbles; to look at them makes the mouth dry,
in the unconscious recollection of the saltness and bitterness. The
flags droop, the sails of the fishing-boats hang idle; the land and the
sea are conquered by the great light of the sun.
Some people become famous by being always in one attitude. Meet them
when you will, they have invariably got an arm--the same arm--crossed
over the breast, and the hand thrust in between the buttons of the coat
to support it. Morning, noon, or evening, in the street, the carriage,
sitting, reading the paper, always the same attitude; thus they achieve
social distinction; it takes the place of a medal or the red ribbon.
What is a general or a famous orator compared to a man always in the
same attitude? Simply nobody, nobody knows him, everybody knows the
mono-attitude man. Some people make their mark by invariably wearing
the same short pilot coat. Doubtless it has been many times renewed,
still it is the same coat. In winter it is thick, in summer thin, but
identical in cut and colour. Some people sit at the same window of the
reading-room at the same hour every day, all the year round. This is
the way to become marked and famous; winning a battle is nothing to it.
When it was arranged that a military band should play on the Brunswick
Lawns, it became the fashion to stop carriages in the road and listen
to it. Frequently there were carriages four deep, while the gale blew
the music out to sea and no one heard a note. Still they sat content.
There are more handsome women in Brighton than anywhere else in the
world. 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. They are all plump, not to say fat, which would be rude; very
plump, and have the glow and bloom of youth upon the cheeks. They do
not suffer from "pernicious anaemia," that evil bloodlessness which
London physicians are not unfrequently called upon to cure, when the
cheeks are white as paper and have to be rosied with minute doses of
arsenic. They extract their arsenic from the air. The way they step and
the carriage of the form show how full they are of life and spirits.
Sarah Bernhardt will not come to Brighton if she can help it, lest she
should lose that high art angularity and slipperiness of shape which
suits her _role_. Dresses seem always to fit well, because people
somehow expand to them. It is pleasant to see the girls walk, because
the limbs do not drag, the feet are lifted gaily and with ease.
Horse-exercise adds a deeper glow to the face; they ride up on the
Downs first, out of pure cunning, for the air there is certain to
impart a freshness to the features like dew on a flower, and then
return and walk their horses to and fro the King's Road, certain of
admiration. However often these tricks are played, they are always
successful. Those philanthropic folk who want to reform women's dress,
and call upon the world to observe how the present style contracts the
chest, and forces the organs of the body out of place (what a queer
expression it seems, "organs"!) have not a chance in Brighton. Girls
lace tight and "go in" for the tip of the fashion, yet they bloom and
flourish as green bay trees, and do not find their skirts any obstacle
in walking or tennis. The horse-riding that goes on is a thing to be
chronicled; they are always on horseback, and you may depend upon it
that it is better for them than all the gymnastic exercises ever
invented. The liability to strain, and even serious internal injury,
which is incurred in gymnastic exercises, ought to induce sensible
people to be extremely careful how they permit their daughters to
sacrifice themselves on this scientific altar. Buy them horses to ride,
if you want them to enjoy good health and sound constitutions. Nothing
like horses for women. Send the professors to Suakim, and put the girls
on horseback. Whether Brighton grows handsome girls, or whether they
flock there drawn by instinct, or become lovely by staying there, is an
inquiry too difficult to pursue.
There they are, one at least in every group, and you have to walk, as
the Spaniards say, with your beard over your shoulder, continually
looking back at those who have passed. The only antidote known is to
get married before you visit the place, and doubts have been expressed
as to its efficacy. In the south-coast Seville there is nothing done
but heart-breaking; it is so common it is like hammering flints for
road mending; nobody cares if your heart is in pieces. They break
hearts on horseback, and while walking, playing tennis,
shopping--actually at shopping, not to mention parties of every kind.
No one knows where the next danger will be encountered--at the very
next corner perhaps. Feminine garments have an irresistible flutter in
the sea-breeze; feathers have a beckoning motion. No one can be
altogether good in Brighton, and that is the great charm of it. The
language of the eyes is cultivated to a marvellous degree; as we say of
dogs, they quite talk with their eyes. Even when you do not chance to
meet an exceptional beauty, still the plainer women are not plain like
the plain women in other places. The average is higher among them, and
they are not so irredeemably uninteresting. The flash of an eye, the
shape of a shoulder, the colour of the hair--something or other
pleases. Women without a single good feature are often good-looking in
New Seville because of an indescribable style or manner. They catch the
charm of the good-looking by living among them, so that if any young
lady desires to acquire the art of attraction she has only to take
train and join them. Delighted with our protectorate of Paphos, Venus
has lately decided to reside on these shores, Every morning the girls'
schools go for their constitutional walks; there seem no end of these
schools--the place has a garrison of girls, and the same thing is
noticeable in their ranks. Too young to have developed actual
loveliness, some in each band distinctly promise future success. After
long residence the people become accustomed to good looks, and do not
see anything especial around them, but on going away for a few days
soon miss these pleasant faces.
In reconstructing Brighton station, one thing was omitted--a balcony
from which to view the arrival and departure of the trains in summer
and autumn. The scene is as lively and interesting as the stage when a
good play is proceeding. So many happy expectant faces, often very
beautiful; such a mingling of colours, and succession of different
figures; now a brunette, now golden hair: it is a stage, only it is
real. The bustle, which is not the careworn anxious haste of business;
the rushing to and fro; the greetings of friends; the smiles; the
shifting of the groups, some coming, and some going--plump and
rosy,--it is really charming. One has a fancy dog, another a
bright-bound novel; very many have cavaliers; and look at the piles of
luggage! What dresses, what changes and elegance concealed
therein!--conjurors' trunks out of which wonders will spring. Can
anything look jollier than a cab overgrown with luggage, like huge
barnacles, just starting away with its freight? One can imagine such a
fund of enjoyment on its way in that cab. This happy throng seems to
express something that delights the heart. I often used to walk up to
the station just to see it, and left feeling better.