Poor Miss Finch | Page 8

left. Before me,
at a break in the purple distance, I saw the soft white line of the sea.
Beneath me, at my feet, opened the deepest valley I had noticed
yet--with one first sign of the presence of Man scored hideously on the
face of Nature, in the shape of a square brown patch of cleared and
ploughed land on the grassy slope. I asked if we were getting near the
village now. Finch's boy winked, and answered, "Yes, we be."
Astonishing Finch's boy! Ask him what questions I might, the
resources of his vocabulary remained invariably the same. Still this
youthful Oracle answered always in three monosyllabic words!
We plunged into the valley.
Arrived at the bottom, I discovered another sign of Man. Behold the
first road I had seen yet--a rough wagon-road ploughed deep in the
chalky soil! We crossed this, and turned a corner of a hill. More signs
of human life. Two small boys started up out of a ditch--apparently
posted as scouts to give notice of our approach. They yelled, and set off
running before us, by some short cut, known only to themselves. We
turned again, round another winding of the valley, and crossed a brook.
I considered it my duty to make myself acquainted with the local names.
What was the brook called? It was called "The Cockshoot"! And the
great hill, here, on my right? It was called "The Overblow"! Five
minutes more, and we saw our first house--lonely and little--built of
mortar and flint from the hills. A name to this also? Certainly. Name of
"Browndown." Another ten minutes of walking, involving us more and
more deeply in the mysterious green windings of the valley--and the
great event of the day happened at last. Finch's boy pointed before him

with his whip, and said (even at this supreme moment, still in three
monosyllabic words):--
"Here we be!"
So this is Dimchurch! I shake out the chalk-dust from the skirts of my
dress. I long (quite vainly) for the least bit of looking-glass to see
myself in. Here is the population (to the number of at least five or six),
gathered together, informed by the scouts--and it is my woman's
business to produce the best impression of myself that I can. We
advance along the little road. I smile upon the population. The
population stares at me in return. On one side, I remark three or four
cottages, and a bit of open ground; also an inn named "The
Cross-Hands," and a bit more of open ground; also a tiny, tiny butcher's
shop, with sanguinary insides of sheep on one blue pie-dish in the
window, and no other meat than that, and nothing to see beyond, but
again the open ground, and again the hills; indicating the end of the
village this side. On the other side there appears, for some distance,
nothing but a long flint wall guarding the outhouses of a farm. Beyond
this, comes another little group of cottages, with the seal of civilization
set on them, in the form of a post-office. The post-office deals in
general commodities--in boots and bacon, biscuits and flannel,
crinoline petticoats and religious tracts. Farther on, behold another flint
wall, a garden, and a private dwelling-house; proclaiming itself as the
rectory. Farther yet, on rising ground, a little desolate church, with a
tiny white circular steeple, topped by an extinguisher in red tiles.
Beyond this, the hills and the heavens once more. And there is
Dimchurch!
As for the inhabitants--what am I to say? I suppose I must tell the truth.
I remarked one born gentleman among the inhabitants, and he was a
sheep-dog. He alone did the honors of the place. He had a stump of a
tail, which he wagged at me with extreme difficulty, and a good honest
white and black face which he poked companionably into my hand.
"Welcome, Madame Pratolungo, to Dimchurch; and excuse these male
and female laborers who stand and stare at you. The good God who
makes us all has made them too, but has not succeeded so well as with

you and me." I happen to be one of the few people who can read dogs'
language as written in dogs' faces. I correctly report the language of the
gentleman sheep-dog on this occasion.
We opened the gate of the rectory, and passed in. So my Land-Voyage
over the South Down Hills came prosperously to its end.
CHAPTER THE
THIRD
Poor Miss Finch
THE rectory resembled, in one respect, this narrative that I am now
writing. It was in Two Parts. Part the First, in front, composed of the
everlasting flint and mortar of the neighborhood, failed to interest me.
Part the Second, running back at a right angle, asserted itself as ancient.
It had