SUNNY BRIGHTON. 53 



diately followed by others as interesting; a flowing 

 gallery of portraits ; all life, life ! Waiting un- 

 observed under the awning, occasionally, too, I hear 

 voices as the throng goes by on the pavement 

 pleasant tones of people chatting and the human 

 sunshine of laughter. The atmosphere is full of 

 movement, full of light, and life streams to and fro. 



Yonder, over the road, a row of fishermen lean 

 against the rails of the cliff, some with their backs 

 to the sea, some facing it. "The cliff" is rather a 

 misnomer, it is more like a sea-wall in height. This 

 row of stout men in blue jerseys, or copper-hued tan 

 frocks, seems to be always there, always waiting 

 for the tide or nothing. Each has his particular 

 position; one, shorter than the rest, leans with his 

 elbows backwards on the low rail; another hangs 

 over and looks down at the site of the fish market ; 

 an older man stands upright, and from long habit 

 looks steadily out to sea. They have their hands in 

 their pockets ; they appear fat and jolly, as round as 

 the curves of their smacks drawn up on the beach 

 beneath them. They are of such that " sleep o' 

 nights ; " no anxious ambition disturbs their placidity, 

 No man in this world knows how to absolutely do 

 nothing, like a fisherman. Sometimes he turns 

 round, sometimes he does not, that is all. The sun 

 shines, the breeze comes up the cliff, far away a 

 French fishing lugger is busy enough. The boats 

 on the beach are idle, and swar'ms of boys are 

 climbing over them, swinging on a rope from the 

 bowsprit, or playing at marbles under the cliff. 

 Bigger boys collect under the lee of a smack, and do 



