The steam mill is always ugly, always dusty, always noisy, usually in a town.

The windmill stands high and white, a thing of life and radiance and delicate beauty, surrounded by grass, in communion with the heavens.

Such noise as it has is elemental, justifiable, like a ship's cordage in a gale.

No one would paint a steam mill; a picture with a windmill can hardly be a failure.
Constable, who knew everything about the magic of windmills, painted several in Sussex--one even at Brighton.
Brighton now has but one mill.

There used to be many: one in the West Hill road, a comelier landmark than the stucco Congregational tower that has taken its place close by and serves as the town's sentinel from almost every point of approach.