better than any other.

I may as well tell the truth while I write of it. I know that if the
dead can rise from their graves I shall re-visit the Chain Pier at
Brighton. I spent one hour there--that was the hour of my life--one
madly happy, bewildering hour! I remember the plank of wood on which my
feet rested; I remember the railing, over which I heard the green, deep
water, with the white-sailed boat in the distance--sails like the white
wings of angels beckoning me away; the blue sky with the few fleecy
white clouds--the wash of the waters against the woodwork of the pier;
and I remember the face that looked down into mine--all Heaven lay in it
for me; the deep water, the blue sky, the handsome face, the measured
rhythms of the sea, the calm tones of the clear waves--are all mixed in
one dream. I cry out in anguish at times that Heaven may send me such
another, but it can never be! If the dead can return, I shall stand
once more where I stood then. I will not tell my story now, but rather
tell of the tragedy with which the Chain Pier at Brighton is associated
for evermore in my mind.

I had gone down to Brighton for my health, and I was staying at the most
comfortable and luxurious of hotels, "The Norfolk." It was the end of
September, and the only peculiarity of the month that I remember was
this: the nights grew dark very soon--they were not cold; the darkness
was rather that of soft thick gloom that spread over land and sea. No
one need ever feel dull in Brighton. If I could have liked billiards, or
cared for the theater, or enjoyed the brilliant shops on the crowded
pier, with its fine music, I might have been happy enough; but I was
miserable with this aching pain of regret and the chill desolation of a
terrible loss. I tried the Aquarium. If fishes could soothe the heart of
man, solace might be found there; but to my morbid fancy they looked at