May 20.—­I set out for Brighton this morning in a light coach, which performed the distance in six hours—­otherwise the journey was uncomfortable.  Three women, the very specimens of womankind,—­I mean trumpery,—­a child who was sick, but afterwards looked and smiled, and was the only thing like company.  The road is pleasant enough till it gets into the Wealds of Sussex, a huge succession of green downs which sweep along the sea-coast for many miles.  Brighton seems grown twice as large since 1815.  It is a city of loiterers and invalids—­a Vanity Pair for pipers, dancing of bears, and for the feats of Mr. Punch.  I found all my family well excepting the poor pale Johnnie; and he is really a thing to break one’s heart by looking at—­yet he is better.  The rest are in high kelter.

My old friend Will Rose dined with us, also a Doctor Yates and his wife—­the Esculapius of Brighton, who seems a sensible man.  I was entertained with the empire he exerted over him as protector of his health.  I was very happy to find myself at Sophia’s quiet table, and am only sorry that I must quit her so soon.

May 21.—­This being a fine day, we made some visits in the morning, in the course of which I waited on Mrs. Davies, sister of Mrs. Charlotte Smith,[205] and herself the author of the Peacock at Home, one of the prettiest and liveliest jeux d’esprit in our language.  She is a fine stately old lady—­not a bit of a literary person,—­I mean having none of the affectation of it, but like a lady of considerable rank.  I am glad I have seen her.  Renewed my acquaintance with Lady Charlotte Hamilton, nee Lady Charlotte Hume, and talked over some stories thirty years old at least.  We then took a fly, as they call the light carriages, and drove as far as the Devil’s Ditch.  A rampart it is of great strength and depth, enclosing, I presume, the precincts of a British town that must have held 30,000 men at least.  I could not discover where they got water.

We got home at four, and dined at five, and smoked cigars till eight.  Will Rose came in with his man Hinvaes,[206] who is as much a piece of Rose as Trim was of Uncle Toby.  We laughed over tales “both old and new” till ten o’clock came, and then broke up.

May 22.—­Left Brighton this morning with a heavy heart.  Poor Johnnie looks so very poorly that I cannot but regard his case as desperate, and then God help the child’s parents!  Amen!

We took the whole of one of the post-coaches, and so came rapidly to town, Sophia coming along with us about a new servant.  This enabled me to dine with Mr. Adolphus, the celebrated barrister, the father to my young friend who wrote so like a gentleman on my matters.[207] I met Mr. Gurney, Archdeacon Wrangham, and a lawyer or two besides.  I may be partial, but the conversation of intelligent barristers amuses me more than that of other professional persons.  There is more of real life in it, with which, in all its phases, people of business get so well acquainted.  Mr. Adolphus is a man of varied information, and very amusing.  He told me a gipsy told him of the success he should have in life, and how it would be endangered by his own heat of temper, alluding, I believe, to a quarrel betwixt him and a brother barrister.