Much, in the way of anecdote, has been transmitted to us orally, respecting Martha Gunn, especially in reference to the Prince and the Pavilion; but, besides being a bather little of her life is known. In a rare work, “A Donkey Tour to Brighton,” {264} occurs the following:—“‘What, my old friend, Martha,’ said I, ‘still queen of the ocean, still industrious, and busy as ever; and how do you find yourself?’—‘Well and hearty, thank God, Sir,’ replied she, ‘but rather hobbling. I don’t bathe, because I a’nt so strong as I used to be, so I superintend on the beach, for I’m up before any of ’em; you may always find me and my pitcher, at one exact spot, every morning by six o’clock.’—‘You wear vastly well, my old friend, pray what age may you be?’—‘Only eighty-eight, Sir; in fact, eighty-nine come next Christmas pudding; aye, and though I’ve lost my teeth, I can mumble it with as good relish and hearty appetite as anybody.’—‘I’m glad to hear it; Brighton would not look like itself without you, Martha,’ said I.—‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s like to do without me, some day,’ answered she, ‘but while I’ve health and life, I must be bustling amongst my old friends and benefactors; I think I ought to be proud, for I’ve as many bows from man, woman, and child, as the Prince hisself; aye, I do believe, the very dogs in the town know me.’—‘And your son, how is he?’ said I.—‘Brave and charming, he lives in East Street; if your honour wants any prime pickled salmon, or oysters, there you have ’em.’—I promised her I’d be a customer; she made me a low curtsey, and I left her hobbling to the side of the London coach, to deliver cards from the repository of her poor withered, sea-freckled bosom; for, like a woman of fashion, her bosom was her pocket.”