BRIGHTON is situated on a declivity descending from the South Downs, a ridge of hills, which rising near the east coast of Kent, runs along the Channel to Hampshire, where gradually declining into woodlands, it at last terminates in fertile valleys. There are three approaches to the town from London; two winding between the hills by Lewes and Cuckfield; the third across the ridge by Henfield. From the last, as you come near the town, the prospect is extremely striking on every side. You have been contemplating the Downs, which appeared like a line of bulwarks, guarding the rich and beautiful vale of Sussex. Before you, opens to your view the sea, which serves as a grand fence to the power, property, and independence of England, with a distant view of ships wafting from the various quarters of the globe wealth, the remuneration of industry. Pursuing these to the left, you attend them beyond Beachyhead, carrying riches towards London, their principal emporium. Turning your eyes next to the right, you descry the Isle of Wight, which naturally suggests the idea of Portsmouth; and of British strength securing British opulence. Descending, under you is the town of Brighton, which, beginning in an eminence, declines towards the south-east in a regular and gradual sweep to the Steyne, a beautiful lawn, bounded by the cliff. Thence it again rises along the cliff with a gentle ascent to the eastward. An amphitheatrical range of hills protects the town from the boisterous assaults of the north and north-easterly winds; on the west, extensive cornfields gradually and beautifully slope, from the Downs towards the sea. The chief _ostensible_ object of visiting Brighton being sea-bathing, that operation commences the employment of the morning; and the whole beach is covered with persons, either preparing for the immersion, or enjoying themselves with the salutary air of the sea. When the tide is up, the water comes very near the cliff; and the bathing would, to scrupulous minds, appear offensive to decency; but rigid strictness being totally unsuitable to the pursuits of Brighton relaxation, this objection, whatever it might be in theory, has evidently no practical weight. The ladies seem far from averse to the contemplation; and the cliffs are never more the scenes of female resort. Here indeed a young miss may learn more in a week than a boarding-school, with even the assistance of a circulating library, could teach her in a year. Objects _seen_, as the poet well observes, are much more impressive than those heard as subjects of discourse. “Segniùs _irritant_ animos, demissa per aures, Quàm quæ sunt _oculis subjecta_ fidelibus.”