or more is as fine as any that can be found from the Foreland
to the Lizard.

Most energetically we climbed to the top of Beachy Head, gossiped
with the coast-guard, stole a peep through the telescope by which
Lloyd's observer at the signal-station picks out passing ships, and
got down the great hill again in time for lunch at the Burlington
Hotel. We lunched in more or less stately fashion, well, if not
luxuriously, in a great dining-room whose sole occupant, besides
ourselves, was England's laureate.

He is herein endorsed as possessing a good taste in seaside hotels,
whatever one may think of the qualities of his verse. The Burlington
seemed to us the best conducted and most satisfactory hotel on all
the south coast, except perhaps the Lord Warden at Dover.

It was a more or less rugged climb, by a badly made road, up over the
downs from Eastbourne, only to drop down again as quickly through
Eastdean to Newhaven, a short ten miles, but a trying one.

Newhaven is a sickly burg sheltered well to the west of Beachy Head.
Its only excitements are the comings and goings of the Dieppe
steamers and a few fishing-boats. It is one of the best ports for
shipping one's automobile to France, and one of the cheapest. In no
other respect is Newhaven worth a glance of the eye, and English
travelers themselves have no good word for the abominable tea and
coffee served to limp, half-famished travellers as they get off the
Dieppe boat. This well-worn and well-deserved reputation was no
inducement for us to stop, so we made speed for Brighton via
Rottingdean.

Rottingdean will be famous in most minds as being the rival of
Brattleboro, Vt., as the home of Rudyard Kipling. Sightseers came
from Brighton in droves and stared the author out of countenance, as
they did at Brattleboro, and he removed to the still less known, _and
a great deal less accessible_, village of Burwash in Kent. Thus
passed the fame of Rottingdean.

Brighton has been called London-on-Sea, and with some truth, but as
the sun shines here with frequency it differs from London in that
respect.

Brighton is a brick and iron built town, exceedingly unlovely, but
habitable. Its two great towering sea-front hotels look American, but
they are a great deal more substantially built. There are two rivals
for popular favour, the Grand and the Metropole. They are much alike
in all their appointments, but there are fewer tea-drinkers and
after-dinner sleepers (and snorer