Poor Miss Finch | Page 7

Reverend Finch's boy, "Is this a rich place?" Reverend Finch's boy
brightened and answered, "That it be!" Good. At any rate, they don't
enjoy themselves here--the infamous rich!
Leaving this town of unamused citizens immured in domestic tombs,
we got on a fine high road--still ascending--with a spacious open
country on either side of it.
A spacious open country is a country soon exhausted by a sight-seer's
eye. I have learnt from my poor Pratolungo the habit of searching for
the political convictions of my fellow-creatures, when I find myself in
contact with them in strange places. Having nothing else to do, I
searched Finch's boy. His political programme, I found to be:--As much
meat and beer as I can contain; and as little work to do for it as possible.
In return for this, to touch my hat when I meet the Squire, and to be
content with the station to which it has pleased God to call me.
Miserable Finch's boy!
We reached the highest point of the road. On our right hand, the ground
sloped away gently into a fertile valley--with a village and a church in
it; and beyond, an abominable privileged enclosure of grass and trees
torn from the community by a tyrant, and called a Park; with the palace
in which this enemy of mankind caroused and fattened, standing in the
midst. On our left hand, spread the open country--a magnificent
prospect of grand grassy hills, rolling away to the horizon; bounded
only by the sky. To my surprise, Finch's boy descended; took the pony
by the head; and deliberately led him off the high road, and on to the
wilderness of grassy hills, on which not so much as a footpath was
discernible anywhere, far or near. The chaise began to heave and roll

like a ship on the sea. It became necessary to hold with both hands to
keep my place. I thought first of my luggage--then of myself.
"How much is there of this?" I asked.
"Three mile on't," answered Finch's boy.
I insisted on stopping the ship--I mean the chaise--and on getting out.
We tied my luggage fast with a rope; and then we went on again, the
boy at the pony's head, and I after them on foot.
Ah, what a walk it was! What air over my head; what grass under my
feet! The sweetness of the inner land, and the crisp saltness of the
distant sea, were mixed in that delicious breeze. The short turf, fragrant
with odorous herbs, rose and fell elastic, underfoot. The mountain-piles
of white cloud moved in sublime procession along the blue field of
heaven, overhead. The wild growth of prickly bushes, spread in great
patches over the grass, was in a glory of yellow bloom. On we went;
now up, now down; now bending to the right, and now turning to the
left. I looked about me. No house; no road; no paths, fences, hedges,
walls; no land-marks of any sort. All round us, turn which way we
might, nothing was to be seen but the majestic solitude of the hills. No
living creatures appeared but the white dots of sheep scattered over the
soft green distance, and the skylark singing his hymn of happiness, a
speck above my head. Truly a wonderful place! Distant not more than a
morning's drive from noisy and populous Brighton--a stranger to this
neighborhood could only have found his way by the compass, exactly
as if he had been sailing on the sea! The farther we penetrated on our
land-voyage, the more wild and the more beautiful the solitary
landscape grew. The boy picked his way as he chose--there were no
barriers here. Plodding behind, I saw nothing, at one time, but the back
of the chaise, tilted up in the air, both boy and pony being invisibly
buried in the steep descent of the hill. At other times, the pitch was all
the contrary way; the whole interior of the ascending chaise was
disclosed to my view, and above the chaise the pony, and above the
pony the boy--and, ah, my luggage swaying and rocking in the frail
embraces of the rope that held it. Twenty times did I confidently expect
to see baggage, chaise, pony, boy, all rolling down into the bottom of a

valley together. But no! Not the least little accident happened to spoil
my enjoyment of the day. Politically contemptible, Finch's boy had his
merit--he was master of his subject as guide and pony-leader among the
South Down Hills.
Arrived at the top of (as it seemed to me) our fiftieth grassy summit, I
began to look about for signs of the village.
Behind me, rolled back the long undulations of the hills, with the
cloud-shadows moving over the solitudes that we had