SUNNY BRIGHTON. 5B 



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 swarms 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 



