By half-past eleven, the affairs of Europe being settled, the drum and trumpet summon us from the diurnal exercise of the politician, to the diurnal exercise of the soldier. From the Steyne we walk up to the parade, and in the now well-known sounds of “Handle arms, ease arms;” our own parish, and our own corps, is recalled to our minds. From this sweet recollection of our own warlike progress and achievements, returning to contemplate the exhibitions before us, we admire the readiness, ability, and skill with which the soldiers perform their evolutions. Not a few of us conclude, that the military instructor who teaches them to handle arms, knows his business better than the political instructor in the library, who professes to handle the counsels of statesmen. Returning to the Steyne, instead of the spectacles, we have now time and opportunity to observe its late spectators. A more lovely groupe is rarely to be seen; most charming women, with complexions freshened by healthy air and exercise, their nerves braced by that element, from which sprang the fair deity whom many of them equal in attractive beauty; their thoughts free from the anxious cares of the evening, when the momentous dice are to agitate the heart of eager expectants of a toy. Their breasts and their eyes are animated by the sound of martial music, and the sight of martial men; while they themselves, like Venus, not only possessing but displaying charms, nearly approach to that state in which statuaries exhibit the bewitching divinity: with charms so transparent, who does not wish for a nearer approach? the soft complacency of their lovely countenances, affords to sprightly youth the reasonable hope, that they do not produce dainties like the banquet that drew the eyes of the hapless Tantalus, destined only for his sight, but withheld from his other senses. The Brighton fair come not to inflict _such_ torments of the damned. From the Steyne we walk along the beach, or perhaps crossing the Downs, view the tomb-stones: here we learn that Charles the Second, of amorous memory, chose, when escaping from the usurper, as the last English stage of his flight, a place destined in future ages, as a testimony of honour for his memory, to imitate the example of morals which he set his subjects. Mingling incidental with appropriate history, we call to mind exploits not unworthy of Charles himself: recapitulate the feats of the Taylor of Brighton; and, perhaps, inquire whether, though residing in England, he was not a native of Ireland. Descending, we are received by the hair-dresser, whose narratives call our attention from former to recent occurrences. From him we learn what fair lady has most highly extolled and most liberally rewarded the lovely JEM[1]; who had been the greatest gainers and losers by dice, cards, and billiards; what new converts were made to methodism, with the causes and circumstances of their conversion; in what new instances love inflamed religious zeal.