The Open Air 



copper frock makes a distinct patch of colour at the 

 edge of the house. There is nothing in common 

 between him and the moving throng: he is quite 

 separate and belongs to another race; he has come 

 down from the shadow of the old street, and his 

 copper-hued frock might have come out of the last 

 century. 



The fishing-boats and the fishing, the nets, and all 

 the fishing work are a great ornament to Brighton. 

 They are real; there is something about them that 

 forms a link with the facts of the sea, with the forces 

 of the tides and winds, and the sunlight gleaming 

 on the white crests of the waves. They speak to 

 thoughts lurking in the mind; they float between life 

 and death as with a billow on either hand; their 

 anchors go down to the roots of existence. This is 

 real work, real labour of man, to draw forth food 

 from the deep as the plough draws it from the earth. 

 It is in utter contrast to the artificial work the 

 feathers, the jewellery, the writing at desks of the 

 town. The writings of a thousand clerks, the busy 

 factory work, the trimmings and feathers, and counter 

 attendance do not touch the real. They are all 

 artificial. For food you must still go to the earth and 

 to the sea, as in primeval days. Where would your 

 thousand clerks, your trimmers, and counter-salesmen 

 be without a loaf of bread, without meat, without 

 fish? The old brown sails and the nets, the anchors 

 and tarry ropes, go straight to nature. You do not 

 care for nature now ? Well ! all I can say is, you will 

 have to go to nature one day when you die: you 

 will find nature very real then. I rede you to recognise 

 the sunlight and the sea, the flowers and woods now. 



I like to go down on the beach among the fishing- 

 boats, and to recline on the shingle by a smack when 



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