upon it from our windows as it promenaded up and down, I never saw anything gayer:  carriages of every description—­most of them open—­cavalcades of ladies and gentlemen riding to and fro, throngs of smart bonnets and fine dresses; and beyond all this the high tide, with one broad crimson path across it, thrown by the sun, looking as if it led into some enchanted world beyond the waters.

I thought of dear A——­; for though she is seeing the sea—­and I think the sea at Ardgillan, with its lovely mountains on one side and Skerries on the other, far more beautiful than this—­I am sure she would have been enchanted with the life, the bustle, and brilliancy of the Parade combined with its fine sea view, for I, who am apt rather selfishly to wish myself alone in the enjoyment of nature, looked at the bright, moving throng with pleasure when once I was out of it.

Our house at the theater at night was very fine; and now, as you are perhaps tired of Brighton, you will not be sorry to get home with me; but pray communicate the end of our “land sorrow” to A——.  We were to start for London Sunday morning at ten [a journey of six hours by coach, now of less than two by rail], and my father had taken three inside places in a coach, which was to call for us at our inn.  I ran down to the beach and had a few moments alone there.  It was a beautiful morning, and the fishing boats were one by one putting out into the calmest sleepy sea.  I longed to ask to be taken on board one of them; but I was summoned away to the coach, and found on reaching it that, the fourth place being occupied by a sickly looking woman with a sickly looking child nearly as big as herself in her lap, my father, notwithstanding the coldness of the morning, had put himself on the outside.  I went to sleep; from which blessed refuge of the wretched I was recalled by a powerful and indescribable smell, which, seizing me by the nose, naturally induced me to open my eyes.  Mother and daughter were each devouring a lump of black, strong, greasy plum cake; as a specific, I presume, against (or for?) sickness in a stage-coach.

The late Duke of Beaufort, when Marquis of Worcester, used frequently to amuse himself by driving the famous fast Brighton coach, the Highflyer.  One day, as my father was hastily depositing his shilling gratuity in his driver’s outstretched hand, a shout of laughter, and a “Thank ye, Charles Kemble,” made him aware of the gentleman Jehu under whose care he had performed the journey.

                                          WEDNESDAY, January 12, 1831. 
     DEAREST H——­,