We learn what the society at Brighton was like at this time by the following excerpt from the Times of July 13, 1796:
'Brighton.—The Prince and Princess of Wales's arrival has been talked of much in London; but, as yet, we have no signs of it here. The Duke and Duchess of Marlborough pass their time in a very retired manner indeed. His Grace walked for some time yesterday evening upon the Steyne; the company consisted chiefly of opulent Jews, needy fortune hunters, broken down Cyprians, fishermen's daughters, and several fat city dowdies, from the environs of Norton Folgate. Her Grace commands the play on Friday evening, which will be her first appearance in public, here, for this season. The Officers of the Blues are the great dashers of the place; they associate with no one but their own Corps. The most of them keep their blood horses, their curricles, and their girls. At one o'clock they appear on the parade, to hear the word of command given to the Subaltern Guard: afterwards, they toss off their goes of brandy, dine about five, and come about eight to the Theatre. Vivent L'Amour et Bacchus.'
The latter part of this quotation seems to be borne out by the first of 'Twelve Golden Rules for young Gentlemen of Distinction, to be observed at Brighton for the year 1796':
'Young and inexperienced officers must confederate with several of their mess, as young as themselves, and reel into the theatre, during the performance, in a state of assumed intoxication, and be sure to disturb the audience in the most important part of the drama, by taking liberties with any of those Cyprian nymphs who harbour in the green boxes, and are, unhappily, devoted to insult: by this manœuvre, if dexterously managed, they will gain three enormous points;—the first is, the credit of having consumed more wine than their income will allow; the second is, a disposition for unlimited intrigue; and the third is, an opportunity of displaying their contempt for good manners, without any hazard of personal danger.—This behaviour will be totally out of character if any of the parties have seen service, or arrived at the years of discretion.
'N.B.—All descendants, or members of the tribes of Israel, must neither mention lottery tickets, omnium, bonus, scrip, navy, nor exchequer bills; they must pay their tradesmen on Saturdays, laugh at the paschal, eat swine, and shave every day.'
Let us look at Brighton as shown us by a contemporary publication[75]:
'There are two taverns, namely, the Castle, and the Old Ship, where the richer visitors resort; and, at each of these houses, a weekly assembly is held, where a master of the ceremonies attends, to arrange the parties, not according to the scale of morality, but that of aristocracy. There is a ball every Monday at the Castle, and, on Thursdays, at the Old Ship; every subscriber pays three shillings and sixpence, and every non-subscriber, five shillings; for which they are entitled to a beverage which they call tea and coffee.—The masters of the respective inns receive the profits, except on those nights appointed for the benefit of the Master of the Ceremonies; to whom, all who wish to be arranged as people of distinction, subscribe one guinea—and who would not purchase distinction at so cheap a rate!—Independently of this vain douceur, they must pay most liberally for their tickets! The card assemblies are on Wednesdays and Fridays.—There is a hotel, which was intended for a country Hummums, or grand dormitory; but, in my weak opinion, the establishment is somewhat inefficient, unless it can be supposed that the tumultuous equipment of stage coaches, at the dawn of day, is contributory to the purposes of rest.—There is a theatre, commodious, and, generally, well directed; the nights of performance are Tuesdays and Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays.—At the lower end of North Street is a sort of Birmingham Vauxhall, called the Promenade Grove; it is a small inclosure of a paddock, tormented from its native simplicity, befringed with a few gawky poplars, and decorated with flowers, bowers, zigzag alleys, a ditch, and a wooden box for the minstrels.—The coast is like the greater part of its visitors, bold, saucy, intrusive, and dangerous.—The bathing machines, even for the ladies, have no awning, or covering, as at Weymouth, Margate, and Scarborough; consequently, they are all severely inspected by the aid of telescopes, not only as they confusedly ascend from the sea, but as they kick and sprawl and flounder about its muddy margin, like so many mad Naiads in flannel smocks;—the shore is so disastrously imperfect, that those beginners who paddle in, are injured by the shocking repulsion of the juices to the brain; and, of those who are enabled to plunge in, and swim beyond the surge, it is somewhat less than an even bet, that many never return—in truth, the loss of lives here, every season, would make any society miserable, who were not congregating in the mart of noisy folly.—There is a Subscription House, or Temple of Fortune, on the Steyne, where the minor part of our blessed nobility are accustomed to reduce their characters and their estates in the same period;—the signal for admission is habeo,—for rejection, debeo.—There are lodgings of all descriptions and fitness, from twenty pounds per week, on the Cliffs, to half a crown per night in a stable—the keepers of the lodging houses, like the keepers of madhouses, having but one common point in view—to bleed the parties sufficiently.—There are carriages and caravans of all shapes and dimensions, from a waggon to a fish cart; in which you may move like a king, a criminal, or a crab, that is, forwards, backwards, or laterally.—There are two libraries on the Steyne, replete with every flimsy species of novels, involving the prodigious intrigues of an imaginary society; this kind of recreation is termed light reading; perhaps, from the certain effect it has upon the brains of my young country women, of making them light headed!—There is a parish church, where the canaille go to pray; but, as this is on a hill, and the gentry found their Sabbath visit to the Almighty very troublesome, the amiable and accommodating master priest has consigned the care of his common parish mutton to his journeyman, the curate, and has kindly raised a Chapel Royal for the lambs of fashion, where a certain sum is paid for every seat; and this, it must be admitted, is as it should be; as a well bred Deity will, assuredly, be more attentive to a reclining Duchess, parrying the assaults of the devil, behind her fan, than the vulgar piety of a plebeian on his knees.—There were books open in the circulating libraries, where you were requested to contribute your mite of charity to the support of the rector, as his income is somewhat less than seven hundred pounds a year; the last incumbent died worth thirty thousand pounds.'
