The Sun.
London, England, 1863-10-07 00:00:00

BRIGHTON IN THE LAST CENTURY.

I believe it was then called Brighthelmstone—a nest of
cupolas, standing, as if it had sprung up like a bed of mush-
rooms, near the sea : a handful of trees, not ever-green, but
ever-brown ; a place set round with modest tenements,
looking out on one spot in Brighton—still the cheerfullest
—the Old Steinp ; sundry hotels, and an unfinished line of
houses along the West Cliff; the old parish church, above
all, on the hill, standing without dignity, but strong enough
to defy the howling blasts of the ocean ;—theso were the
sole distinctive features of Brighton in those days. The
Downs rose above the town ; and, in summer, wheat-
sheaves threw a shadow where houses now stand. The
East Cliff, with its noble sea-view, its bleak points, its wild
desolateness, was totally devoid of houses ; the grand
Esplanade was not finished—the embankments were not
begun.

Yet Brighton, rising into importance, and occupied by a
small half-aristocratic, half-royal--one third reputable,
two-thirds disreputable fashionists, was then, perhaps,
strictly far gayer than now—the gaiety of an assembled
population not consisting in numbers, bat in characteristics,

It was, indeed, a charming resort in those days for the
ultra-fast votaries of the Court, around which a group of
celebrated men and dazzling, handsome, clever women
circled. It had still, to London eyes, the novelty of being
partly provincial ; the red brick, narrow pavements of the
older streets, the homely houses, with their single bow
windows all the way up; those houses on the Steyne, and
more especially the ancient church, still recall the days
when the Pavilion, with all its traditions of hapless festi-
vities and heartless intimacies, had been the production of
a fancy at once enervated and fantastic. One might almost
imagine, ou,ce carried back to those days, that one still saw
Mrs. Fitzherbert in her chariot—a monument to warn
beauty of its perils—or the Regent, with his blinds drawn
up except towards the sea, meeting, as a stranger, in his
chariot and four, her for whom he had once defied the coun-
try's prejudices ;or Romeo Coates—or the man with the pea-
green suit—or any other of those notable persons who made
Brighton their peculiar orb, London being too large for their
light to shine in constantly.
Then there was a pleasant theatre, which with the luxury
of being small, and a company quite good enough for those
whose perceptions were blunted, and whose good opinion
was propitiated by the fact of their having nothing to do,
and to whom therefore going to the theatre was not merely
a choice, but a necessity.

Rosamond Melmoth has a warmer heart, and con-
sequently a happier life, than her sister, so true is
it that happiness is less from without than from
within. We will not betray the secrets of
her story. The unhappy fate of Lady Caro
line, occasioned by her overwhelming anxiety
for her son, will painfully arrest the attention of
those who call to mind the approaching death of the
authoress, preceded so immediately by that of her
own son. The story is somewhat crowded with
characters, but their various peculiarities are nicely
discriminated. And, with the exception we have
already, taken as to the manner of the denouement,
we may commend " Next Door" as a very interest-
ing and attractive novel.

Andrew Deverel ; or, the Life of an Adventurer in
New Guinea. By Charles Beach. Two vols.
Bentley.
There is a freshness and originality about this
work and its hero, which are very origlnal and very
attractive. In the preface we find the following
suggestive announcement :

The author is an entirely unlearned man, unaccustomed
to literature, but he has actually been in all the scenes
he describes, and has taken part in the adventures. If he
can excite the curiosity and call the attention of the com-
mercial world to the riches and unexplored resources of New
Guinea, he will have conferred a benefit. That beautiful
country offers a virgin field of enterprise which would well
repay the dangers and difficulties of exploration.

Tue glimpse we are afterwards given of the interior
of New Guinea is sufficiently alluring to corro-
borate this assertion. It is represented, indeed, as
a land of sweets and spices, of verdure and fertility,
of "milk and honey." Andrew Deverel, after too
brief survey of it, yearns again to return to that
luxuriant soil, but in vain—his fate is otherwise
decreed. This Andrew Deverel, as we have said, is
"a character" and "an original." We first encounter
him a penniless stranger by his mother's grave.
He soon afterwards makes acquaintance with the
prudent, sagacious John Grey, who enacts a true
friend's part to the outcast. In the interview the
following hopeless explanation ensues