Londoners take Brighton as a matter of course and--as Londoners--are
rarely enthusiastic. It takes a Frenchman to give the splendid line of
buildings which forms the finest front in the world the admiration that
is certainly its due. When one has had time to dissect the great town,
appreciation is keener; there are several Brightons; there is a town
built on a cliff, another with spacious lawns on the sea level, and a
third, the old Brighton, bounded by the limits of the original fishing
village, and, with all its brilliance, having a distinctly briny smell
as of fish markets and tarred rope and sun-baked seaweed when you are
near the shingle. This last is nearly an ever-present scent, for the
sun is seldom absent summer or winter; in fact it is when the days are
shortest that Brighton is at its best; The clear brilliance of the air
when the Capital is full of fog and even the Weald between is covered
with a cold pall of mist, makes the south side of the Downs another
climate. Richard Jeffries, almost as great a town hater as Cobbet, has
a good word for Brighton. "Let nothing cloud the descent of those
glorious beams of sunlight which fall at Brighton" (referring to its
treelessness).
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