of rain, a few minutes only suffice to render the ground perfectly dry. Chatting of all kinds of things, of the rise and fall of empires, the rise and fall of towns, and I know not what else, we sauntered on, up one street and down another, without any definite object, but always up hill, till suddenly the old PARISH CHURCH OF Sr. NICHOLAS arrested our progress. On turning round, the VIEW OF THE TOWN, looking seaward, as you will see by the sketch at the head of this letter, is one of no common grandeur. Beyond the point to the south-west, the Isle of Wight rises, from out of the sea, in the far distance; whilst, to the south, the blue expanse of the ocean, dotted with the light sails of passing vessels, extends to the extreme line of the horizon, itself so slightly marked, as scarcely, in a bright morning like this, to be distinguishable from the sky above. To the south-east, bounded by the same blue deep, stretch out, in all their various forms, streets, terraces, and squares, cottages, churches, and palaces, rise tier upon tier along the EAST CLIFF, and cover the space between the WEST CLIFF and the DOWNS. The eye, too, follows the line of Rail, as it stretches through the valley below to Shoreham, and the ear, according to the mood, feels pleasure or annoyance at the screeching sounds, announcing the arrival of the London train at the neighbouring