A minor poet, Horace Smith, gives us, in _Horace in London_, a sprightly picture of the town in 1813, from which we see that the changes between now and then are only in externals:-- BRIGHTON. _Solvitur acris hyems gratâ vice veris._ Now fruitful autumn lifts his sunburnt head, The slighted Park few cambric muslins whiten, The dry machines revisit Ocean's bed, And Horace quits awhile the town for _Brighton_. The cit foregoes his box at Turnham Green, To pick up health and shells with Amphitrite, Pleasure's frail daughters trip along the Steyne, Led by the dame the Greeks call Aphrodite. Phoebus, the tanner, plies his fiery trade, The graceful nymphs ascend Judea's ponies, Scale the west cliff, or visit the parade, While poor papa in town a patient drone is. Loose trowsers snatch the wreath from pantaloons; Nankeen of late were worn the sultry weather in; But now, (so will the Prince's light dragoons,) White jean have triumph'd o'er their Indian brethren. Here with choice food earth smiles and ocean yawns, Intent alike to please the London glutton; This, for our breakfast proffers shrimps and prawns, That, for our dinner, South-down lamb and mutton. Yet here, as elsewhere, death impartial reigns, Visits alike the cot and the _Pavilion_, And for a bribe with equal scorn disdains My half a crown, and _Baring's_ half a million. Alas! how short the span of human pride! Time flies, and hope's romantic schemes, are undone; Cosweller's coach, that carries four inside, Waits to take back the unwilling bard to London. Ye circulating novelists, adieu! Long envious cords my black portmanteau tighten; Billiards, begone! avaunt, illegal loo! Farewell old Ocean's bauble, glittering Brighton. Long shalt thou laugh thine enemies to scorn, Proud as Phoenicia, queen of watering places! Boys yet unbreech'd, and virgins yet unborn, On thy bleak downs shall tan their blooming faces. I believe that the phrase "Queen of Watering Places" was first used in this poem. [Sidenote: EXTINCT COURTESY]