The Brighton of my Boyhood 



the time o' night and the kind of weather, 

 were frequently claimed as lawful prey by 

 the practical jokers who roamed the streets 

 in the small hours. But it must be con- 

 fessed that, as a rule, these scatter-brained 

 gentlemen paid up very handsomely though 

 anonymously for the privilege of playing 

 their silly pranks. One old fellow I could 

 name had f[VQ guinea-pieces left at his 

 lodmnof the morninsf after he and his box 

 were so mysteriously carried away into the 

 churchyard and left high and dry on a 

 steep granite tomb. 



For the better keeping of peace and order, 

 we boasted a beadle, who was also town 

 crier. Old Catlin was the terror of my 

 childhood, and, as I believe, of many 

 another. The story went, among us 

 youngsters, that he was a monster of 

 malice, consumed with a desire to commit 

 small boys to prison, and fully empowered 

 to do so could he but catch them. The 

 mere glimpse of his ample and gorgeously 

 clad person at the far end of the street so 

 wrought upon my tender mind that there 

 passed before me in horrid procession all 

 my recent misdemeanours and mischiefs, 

 for all the world like a little Judgment 

 Day : and once indeed, when I had just 

 succeeded to a nicety in setting a string- 

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