gathered, for its odour is not sweet. On the wiry sward the light pink
of the sea-daisies (or thrift) is dotted here and there: of these gather
as you will. The presence even of such simple flowers, of such
well-known birds, distinguishes the solitary from the trodden beach. The
pier is in view, but the sea is different here.

Drive eastwards along the cliffs to the rough steps cut down to the
beach, descend to the shingle, and stroll along the shore to
Rottingdean. The buttresses of chalk shut out the town if you go to
them, and rest near the large pebbles heaped at the foot. There is
nothing but the white cliff, the green sea, the sky, and the slow ships
that scarcely stir.

In the spring, a starling comes to his nest in a cleft of the cliff
above; he shoots over from the dizzy edge, spreads his wings, borne up
by the ascending air, and in an instant is landed in his cave. On the
sward above, in the autumn, the yellow lip of the toad-flax, spotted
with orange, peers from the grass as you rest and gaze--how far?--out
upon the glorious plain.

Or go up on the hill by the race-course, the highest part near the sea,
and sit down there on the turf. If the west or south wind blow ever so
slightly the low roar of the surge floats up, mingling with the rustle
of the corn stacked in shocks on the slope. There inhale unrestrained
the breeze, the sunlight, and the subtle essence which emanates from
the ocean. For the loneliest of places are on the borders of a gay
crowd, and thus in Brighton--the by-name for all that is crowded and
London-like--it is possible to dream on the sward and on the shore.

In the midst, too, of this most modern of cities, with its swift,
luxurious service of Pullman cars, its piers, and social pleasures,
there exists a collection which, in a few strokes, as it were, sketches
the ways and habits and thoughts of old rural England. It is not easy to
realise in these days of quick transit and still quicker communication
that old England was mostly rural.

There were towns, of course, seventy years ago, but even the towns were
penetrated with what, for want of a better word, may be called country
sentiment. Just the reverse is now the case; the most distant hamlet
which the wanderer in his autumn ramblings may visit, is now more or
less permeated with the feelings and sentiment of the city. No written
history has preserved the daily life of the men who ploughed the Weald
behind the hills there, or tend