This
castle has no wall towards the sea, the precipice being too high and
sheer to admit of attack on that side. I have quite exhausted my
descriptive faculty for the present, so shall say nothing of this old
castle, which indeed (the remains being somewhat scanty and scraggling)
is chiefly picturesque and interesting from its bold position on such a
headlong hill.
Clambering down on another side from that of our ascent, we entered
the town of Hastings, which seems entirely modern, and made up of
lodging-houses, shops, hotels, parades, and all such makings up of
watering-places generally. We took a delightful warm bath, washing off
all weariness and naughtiness, and coming out new men. Then we walked to
St. Leonard's,--a part of Hastings, I believe, but a mile or two from the
castle, and there called at the lodgings of two friends of Bennoch.
These were Mr. Martin, the author of Bon Gaultier's ballads, and his
wife, the celebrated actress, Helen Faucett. Mr. Martin is a barrister,
a gentleman whose face and manners suited me at once; a simple, refined,
sincere, not too demonstrative person. His wife, too, I liked; a tall,
dark, fine, and lady-like woman, with the simplest manners, that give no
trouble at all, and so must be perfect. With these two persons I felt
myself, almost in a moment, on friendly terms, and in true accord, and so
I talked, I think, more than I have at any time since coming to London.
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