And ’gan to fume and fret.
“The fisher cried, Give o’er the spleen,
We both are in one line:
You spread your net upon the Steine,
Why may not I spread mine?
“Two of a trade can ne’er agree,
’Tis that which makes you sore:
I fish for flat fish in the sea,
And you upon the shore.”
The frequenters of Brighton fifty years ago would have been familiar with the scene portrayed in these lines, which might be founded on an actual incident or a possible one. The stanzas were, of course, the composition of a wit of the time, and bring before us a glimpse of London-super-mare, before it had parted with all the pleasant characteristics of a Sussex fishing village—when the fisherman could still come up Pool Valley, and lay his nets to dry on what is now an ornamental square!