Sunny Brighton 



the wind comes gently from the west, and the low 

 wave breaks but a few yards from my feet. I like 

 the occasional passing scent of pitch : they are melting 

 it close by. I confess I like tar: one's hands smell 

 nice after touching ropes. It is more like home down 

 on the beach here ; the men are doing something real, 

 sometimes there is the clink of a hammer; behind 

 me there is a screen of brown net, in which rents are 

 being repaired; a big rope yonder stretches as the 

 horse goes round, and the heavy smack is drawn 

 slowly up over the pebbles. The full curves of the 

 rounded bows beside me are pleasant to the eye, as 

 any curve is that recalls those of woman. Mastheads 

 stand up against the sky, and a loose rope swings as 

 the breeze strikes it; a veer of the wind brings a puff 

 of smoke from the funnel of a cabin, where some one 

 is cooking, but it is not disagreeable, like smoke from 

 a house chimney-pot; another veer carries it away 

 again, depend upon it the simplest thing cooked 

 there is nice. Shingle rattles as it is shovelled up for 

 ballast the sound of labour makes me more com- 

 fortably lazy. They are not in a hurry, nor " chivy " 

 over their work either ; the tides rise and fall slowly, 

 and they work in correspondence. No infernal 

 fidget and fuss. Wonder how long it would take me 

 to pitch a pebble so as to lodge on the top of that large 

 brown pebble there ? I try, once now and then. 



Far out over the sea there is a peculiar bank of 

 clouds. I was always fond of watching clouds ; these 

 do not move much. In my pocket-book I see I have 

 several notes about these peculiar sea-clouds. They 

 form a band not far above the horizon, not very thick 

 but elongated laterally. The upper edge is curled or 

 wavy, not so heavily as what is called mountainous, 

 not in the least threatening; this edge is white. The 



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