s) at the Metropole. There is also a
famous old coaching house, the Ship Hotel (most curiously named),
which caters particularly for automobilists.

Brighton is the typical seaside resort of Britain. It is like nothing
on the Continent; it is not even as attractive a place as most
Continental resorts; but it is the best thing in Britain.

Brighton and Hove have a sea-front of perhaps three miles. Houses and
hotels line the promenade on one side, a pebbly beach and the sea on
the other.

The attractions of Brighton are conventional and an imitation of
those in London. In addition one bathes, in summer, in the lapping
waves, and in winter sits in a glass shelter which breaks the wind,
and gazes seaward.

There are theatrical attractions and operas in the theatre, and vocal
and instrumental concerts on the pier, all through the year. There
are also various sorts of functions which go on in the turnip-topped
Royal Pavilion of the Georges, which once seen will ever afterward be
avoided.

It is not always bright and sunny at Brighton. We were storm-bound at
the Metropole for two days, and the Channel waves dashed up over the
pier and promenade and drowned out the strollers who sought to take
their constitutional abroad.

We sat tight in the hotel and listened to Sousa marches, "Hiawatha,"
and "The Belle of New York" strummed out by a none too competent
band. A genial fat-faced old lady of uncertain age tried to inveigle
us into a game of bridge, but that was not what we came for, so we
strenuously refused.

The flood-tide of holiday trippers at Brighton is in August. This is
the month when, at certain periods of the day, the mile length of
roadway from railway station to sea is a closely packed crowd of
excursionists; when the long expanse of sea-front and sand presents
its most animated spectacle of holiday-keeping people; when the
steamers plying along the Sussex coast, or to France, the
white-sailed yachts, the rowing-boats, and motor-boats are the most
numerous; and when the hundred and one entertainers and providers of
all kinds do their busiest trade.

There is a public bathing-station at the eastern end of the
sea-front. A large marquee is provided, and a worthy lady, the
incarnation of the British matron, sees to it that the curtains are
properly drawn and that inquisitive small boys keep their distance.
But it is rather a long walk from the marquee to the water when the
tide is low, and one often hears th