The lover of the picturesque will feel grateful to the powers who refuse to destroy the deserted windmills which stud the Downs and of which there is one good example near here.  One cannot suppose however that the object of letting them stand is other than utilitarian; after a long life of service in their original capacity these daylight beacons perform the duty of landmarks for seamen in the Channel.

A footpath from Rottingdean just a mile long crosses the Downs to Ovingdean, another lonely hamlet without inn or shop.  An ancient church, possibly Saxon in part, and a few houses hidden by trees make a goal of a favourite walk from Brighton.  Harrison Ainsworth has made the little place famous in “Ovingdean Grange,” in which romance the novelist makes it one of the scenes in the flight of Charles II; this however is incorrect, as it is certain that Brighton was the limit of the royal fugitive’s journey eastwards.  The large building on the hill above Ovingdean is Roedean College for girls; its fine situation and imposing size make it a landmark, and the seascape from its windows must be unrivalled.

[Illustration:  BRIGHTON.]

CHAPTER IV

BRIGHTON

“Kind, cheerful, merry Dr. Brighton.”  Thackeray’s testimonial is as apt to-day as when it was written, but the doctor is not one of the traditional type.  Here is no bedside manner and no misplaced sympathy, in fact he is rather a hardhearted old gentleman to those patients who are really ill in mind or body and his remedies are of the “hair of the dog that bit you” type.

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).  “Watch the pebbles on the beach; the foam runs up and wets them, almost before it can slip back the sunshine has dried them again.  So they are alternately wetted and dried.  Bitter sea and glowing light, dry as dry—­that describes the place.  Spain is the country of sunlight, burning sunlight, Brighton is a Spanish town in England, a Seville.”