I found this extract from a satirical poem which paints such wonderful pictures in the mind of Brighton in the late 1790's. It's taken from 'A Moral Epistle from the Pavilion at Brighton to Carlton House' by Anthony Pasquin.
'Tis the rage but to walk on the Steyne in the eve,
When the dew falls as rapid as sand through a sieve;
Till their clothes hang dependent absorbing a damp,
More fatal than steams from an African swamp:
When the blast's south or east the spray rides in the gale,
Till you're crusted with salt like Dutch herrings for sale;
And when north or east, the impertinent wind
Incessantly cuts, like a razor behind:
If the nerves are too fine, the pedestrian decays;
If not he's lumbago'd the rest of his days.
If you've ever walked near the seafront in Brighton you will know how true this rhyme is to this day!