On the West Pier you will find all the beauty, rank and fashion of Brighton; you will see costumes a ravir, dresses that are artistic and elegant; you will see faces beautiful and well-known; you will hear a charming ripple of conversation; you will witness many pleasant and piquant adventures; but if you want to dream; if you want to give up your whole heart and soul to the poetry of the sea; if you want to listen to its voice and hear no other; if you want to shut yourself away from the world; if you want to hear the music of the winds, their whispers, their lullabies, their mad dashes, their frantic rages, you must go to the Old Chain Pier.  As a rule you will find few there, but you may know they are a special few; you will see the grave, quiet face of the thinker, who has chosen that spot because he does not want to be disturbed by the frou-frou of ladies’ dresses, or the music of their happy voices; he wants to be alone with the sea and the wind.

It often happens that you find a pair of very happy lovers there—­they go to the side and lean over the railing as though their sole object in life was to watch the rippling sea.  Do not believe them, for you will hear the murmur of two voices, and the theme is always “love.”  If you go near them they look shyly at you, and in a few minutes move gently away.  Ah, happy lovers, make hay while the sun shines; it does not shine always, even over the Chain Pier.

If you want to watch the waves, to hear their rolling music, if you want to see the seagulls whirl in the blue ether, if you want to think, to read, to be alone, to fill your mind with beautiful thoughts, go to the Chain Pier at Brighton.

There is a jetty—­an old-fashioned, weird place, where the green water rushes swiftly and washes round the green wood, where there is always a beautiful sound of the rising and falling of the sea; where you may sit on one of the old-fashioned seats, seeing nothing but water and sky around you, until you can fancy yourself out in the wide ocean; until you can wrap your thoughts and your senses in the very mists of romance.  Time was when the Chain Pier at Brighton was one of the wonders of England, and even now, with its picturesque chains and arches, I like it better than any other.

I may as well tell the truth while I write of it.  I know that if the dead can rise from their graves I shall re-visit the Chain Pier at Brighton.  I spent one hour there—­that was the hour of my life—­one madly happy, bewildering hour!  I remember the plank of wood on which my feet rested; I remember the railing, over which I heard the green, deep water, with the white-sailed boat in the distance—­sails like the white wings of angels beckoning me away; the blue sky with the few fleecy white clouds—­the wash of the waters against the woodwork of the pier; and I remember the face that looked down into mine—­all Heaven lay in it for me; the deep water, the blue sky, the handsome face, the measured rhythms of the sea, the calm tones of the clear waves—­are all mixed in one dream.  I cry out in anguish at times that Heaven may send me such another, but it can never be!  If the dead can return, I shall stand once more where I stood then.  I will not tell my story now, but rather tell of the tragedy with which the Chain Pier at Brighton is associated for evermore in my mind.