he 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.

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.

[Sidenote: AN EARTHLY PARADISE]

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."

In another issue of the paper for the same year are some extempore lines
on Brighton, dated from East Street, which end thus ecstatically:--

Nature's ever bounteous hand
Sure has bless