The Brighton of my Boyhood 



trap before a schoolmate's door, the sudden 

 sound of the crier's bell in the next street 

 thrilled me as it had been the last trump 

 itself. Were we balancing along the rails 

 by the cliff edge, the cry '' Old Catlin's 

 coming ! " swept us down and away in a 

 trice ; or playing on the Steine, which in 

 truth we had a perfect right to do, a 

 glimpse of him in the distance sent us 

 flying to the beach ; and had the warning 

 note of " Here's old Catlin ! " followed us 

 thither, I can answer for one at least that 

 would have run straight into the sea, 

 whither old Catlin, in his yellow stockings 

 and gold braid, dared not follow. 



And yet he never caught us, and very 

 like never wished to, nor did I ever meet 

 with any of his victims ; and in after years 

 I learned that he was a kindly old fellow, 

 and one that set great store by religion. 

 But history says that he clapped a man 

 into the pillory at the bottom of North 

 Street the very year in which I was born, 

 and perhaps that fact coloured my childish 

 view of him. 



And now, lest in my reminiscent 

 rambling I exhaust my readers' charity 

 before ever I come to the people in whose 

 dear memory this little book is to be 

 written, I will, without longer delay, give 

 26 



