SUNNY BRIGHTON, 55 



live in the old part of Brighton, near the markets, 

 use great quantities of the smaller and cheaper fish, 

 and their children weary of the taste to such a degree 

 that when the girls go out to service they ask to be 

 excused from eating it. 



The fishermen say they can often find a better 

 market by sending their fish to Paris ; much of the 

 fish caught off Brighton goes there. It is fifty miles 

 to London, and 250 to Paris ; how then can this be ? 

 Fish somehow slip through ordinary rules, being 

 slimy of surface; the maxims of the writers on 

 demand and supply are quite ignored, and there is 

 no groping to the bottom of this well of truth. 



Just at the corner of some of the old streets that 

 come down to the King's Eoad one or two old fisher- 

 men often stand. The front one props himself 

 against the very edge of the buildings, and peers 

 round into the broad sunlit thoroughfare ; his brown 

 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 



