University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

I hurried up—he was gone. But whither—and why—
and how? Did he know me? Was he trying to avoid me, as
I avoided other people?—Did he mistake me for a gentleman?
I hope not; I had as lief be mistaken for a lady,—
or a lap-dog.

It would be altogether vain for me to try to describe what
I saw from the top of the rock; for my thoughts were away,
far, far away, and my heart was heavy, and I felt some how
or other as if I myself were away among the solitudes of
North-America, by the river-side or the water-fall, in the
darkness and beauty of another world, `with one fair spirit
for my minister.'

The view was delightful, and rich, and various, and like
nothing I had ever seen before. I remember thus much, and
I remember too that whatever there was to see, I saw, and
that before the day was well over, I (But for my life I cannot
say now whether it was while I stood on that rock or after I
had peeped over and crawled away) among a multitude of
things, the memory of which had escaped me before my head
was on the pillow that very night, I saw—a huge high wall1

—so huge as to appear like a part of the foundations of our
earth, and so high that I mistook a white cloud sailing over
the top, for smoke. It was like the vapor that follows the
discharge of cannon that are too far off to be heard; a wall
stretching over leagues and leagues of territory; cottages underneath
my very feet (I could have jumped through the
roofs) grouped here and there among the trees and the rocks,
and the gushing water and the wild shrubbery, as if they
were copied from old pictures; on every side of me the bulwarks
of an empire, great square blocks which appeared as if
they had been wrought by the hands, or piled up where they
lay by the power of giants; here a cottage or two garnered
up in the holes of the rocks, and there half a dozen more literally
folded among the ruins of what appeared like the overthrown
barrier of a huge citadel—a barrier overthrown by
flood, or by earthquake, or by fire from above—not by the
wrath of mortal man; here a heap of the greenest foliage I
ever saw, overhanging a roof, the loveliest I ever saw (not
seven feet high), and a little bit of smooth rich turf, yet
greener than the foliage of the young trees, and as lively as
the plumage of a parrot—`Green to the very door'—and
hedged about with flowering shrubs and great rocks, much
higher than the roof, and scattered clumps of blackberry—
bushes, with never a bit of a pathway to be seen, so that you
could not conceive how the people got there alive, nor how
they got the children there that you saw laughing and rolling
about, or hiding in the shadow of the rocks, or creeping half
sideways over the smooth turf.

All this I did see, and I saw it either while I was on the
top of that rock, holding by the flag-staff, afraid to move lest
the rock should tip over among the houses, and afraid to let
go, lest I should be blown away; or I saw it, after I had escaped;
but furthermore I cannot say, for while I was looking
about me and wondering at the beauty of the landscape, and
wishing I had thought of looking at the dog's collar when he
was with me, by which I might have been able to guess out
the name of his master, my attention was caught by a well
drawn figure on the flag-staff—a figure that—that—upon my
word I begin to be half afraid of telling the truth—you will
think me mad I am sure, and I confess that I began to feel
rather shy on that score myself when I thought over all the
occurrences of the day. First I had met with a female
shape which I mistook for that of the woman I had met in
the Abbey three years before. Hardly had I got over that
shock—the shock that followed a near view of her face and
her feet—when I fell in the way of another shape, so like that
of the male apparition who walked by her side in the Abbey,
as to throw me into a grievous flutter, and provoke me to
pursue it up a huge pile of rock—I hardly know how; in the
hope of—I hardly know what; for I should have looked
rather sheepish I fear, if when I arrived at the top of the
pile I had found the stranger there, alive and occupied in
sketching the admirable figure that I saw before me. But
the truth must be told, whatever you may think of such folly.
I could not be mistaken now—the figure that I saw on the
flag-staff was the figure of the female I had met in Westminster
Abbey. A mere sketch, a mere outline, though it

was, still the air, the carriage, the superb height, every thing
was like her and like nobody else. But for whom was it made,
wherefore, and how? And by whom? Was he a lover?
I looked at the sketch again; I tried to transfer it to my
pocket-book—I did not succeed. He was not only her lover
then—it was not enough to have her image in his heart as I
had, but he must have been a capital draughtsman—I caught
my breath—and perhaps—I caught my breath again—perhaps,
the proud woman herself was at his elbow leaning over
him while he was at work, just as he had represented her in
the sketch. I now saw another figure partially effaced, and
after looking awhile, aided perhaps by a little imagination, I
succeeded in persuading myself that I knew just how the
whole originated. The drawing was the work of two hands—
of that I was perfectly sure. One part was the work of a
pupil, the other part the work of a master. But which was
the master? and which the pupil? One figure appeared to
be sitting with a large book upon his knee, peradventure a
Sketch-Book; the other, a female, was standing up and overlooking
the first while he appeared to be reading or drawing.
The sitting figure, though nearly obliterated, so that I could
not so well judge of the execution, was clearly the work of a
hand much inferior to that which drew the upright figure.
Was it not very probable therefore that one of the two persons
who had clambered up the precipice for a view, was a
teacher of drawing, the other his pupil? What could be
more so? Was it not very probable moreover, that while he
was occupied with the large book upon his knee, sketching a
part of the landscape, she had been at work on the flag-staff
trying to sketch her master? And that he, having caught her
in the fact, had the impudence to portray her in the attitude
that vexed me, (the wretch,) leaning over his shoulder, with
one elbow resting upon it as if she were a newly-made wife?
And that she, indignant at such audacity, had thereupon
rubbed out the figure below? And that, in a word, whatever
else they were, they were not on such familiar terms
with each other as to admit of their being coupled in this way.
For about five minutes, nothing could have been more delightful
nor more satisfactory than the conclusion to which I
had now arrived. But before the next five minutes were
over, I had begun to fear that possibly—possibly—by some
possibility—I might be mistaken. If she rubbed out his figure
in wrath, why the devil had she not rubbed out her own?
If he was able to prevent her from destroying the beautiful
sketch of herself, why could he not prevent her from destroying
the sketch of another? For a while I could not escape—she
had suffered her portrait to remain—she had therefore not rubbed
out his with a feeling of displeasure, but perhaps from a
feeling of dissatisfaction; it was not enough like him perhaps,
or perhaps not worthy of his pupil, or perhaps—I began to
feel as if I should certainly cut his throat if I ever came in
his way. But softly—was there not a hope still? a chance
of a hope—the hope of a chance—the hope of a hope?
There was—there was—I perceived the truth now—it was
clear as noon-day—I only wondered I had not seen it before.
She was a very good girl, and she had been up there and
made a sketch before breakfast, and not being half satisfied
with it, she had rubbed her pretty fingers over it, and effaced
every line of the whole as she thought, and come away.
But after breakfast, another had gone up, the fellow that I saw,
and he had partially restored her sketch and put in the figure
that I saw. This idea did very well too for about an hour;
at the end of which time I had begun to ask myself whether
it was not very possible—just within the limits of possibility
—that the woman I saw on the steps of the pier might after
all be a relation or a sister of the shape that I saw in the Abbey;
and if so, whether it was not very possible that I had
come in the way of the family at last without knowing it—popped
into their very hiding-place by the merest accident in the
world. But—if it should prove, as it possibly might, after all—
if it should prove that the woman of the Abbey was like the
woman of the sea; or if it should prove that the woman of
the Abbey and the woman of the sea were after all one and
the same person, what on earth was to become of me?
Should I hang myself, or jump overboard? hang up in
that very niche where I first began to make a fool of myself;
or go back to the pier at Ryde where I had first begun
to behave like a booby, and jump into the sea?

Before I could make up my mind which course to pursue, I
had arrived at the Sand-Rock Hotel, where I suffered so much
from a sort of trouble which few have the courage to speak of,
that I must—I will give a history of what occurred to me
there. I should remark before I begin however, that on my
way to this Hotel, I saw on every side of my path wonders
which appear to me now, like what I have seen somewhere in
my sleep; and beauty and verdure that I never can lose the
memory of, though it is out of my power to say in what part
of my road they broke upon me. There was the great wall
as before—the outworks of another Babylon; there was the
great sea too, and look where I would, there was a bit of lovely
pure landscape, with a cottage nestling under the rocks,
and a few sheep, and a few trees, and mayhap a little stream
of water to encourage me on; but still every thing that I saw is
like a dream to me now. My thoughts were so occupied
with the earlier occurrences of the day, that I rode through
a part of the most beautiful country in the world, as if the
ride were to continue for ever. Of course I had no safe
recollection of what I saw before I slept; and after I had
slept, so carried away was I, by the hope of what was to occur

during the day, and so teased by the petty vexations
about me, that I could hardly remember how I had come;
and before that day was over, such was the variety and such
the strangeness of the incidents that occurred in the course
of a single hour, that I could not have said whether much that I
have related here was not a dream. Others I dare s ay have
been so perplexed when they were at sea, or travelling, as
not to know the day of the week, or the day of the month;
but as for me, I could not have told what month it was without
a deal of consideration, nor whether I had been one, two,
or three days on the road. I do not say that I had actually
lost the run of the year at the time I speak of; but I do say,
that if I had been fool enough to stay twenty-four hours longer
at the Sand-Rock Hotel, I should have lost my senses.
But let me give the reader a notion of what may be endured
by a man half crazy with love, when he has an idea that he
is under the same roof with the woman he loves, and separated
from her, as people are separated from death at sea,
by a half-inch board (more or less.) It may be well to begin
at the very beginning.

The approach to the house delighted me. The roof was
thatched, there was a green piazza running the whole
length of the house, and there was a very pretty patch
of green turf spreading out before the piazza far enough to
allow a sort of a promenade. As I drove up to the door, I
saw several faces at the window—but I could not see of what
shape or form they were, much as I desired it; for there was
a bit of thin white drapery between the faces and me. At
the door too, several persons appeared, and others were
walking about on the little patch of green; but nobody in the
shape of a landlord or waiter, chamber-maid or hostler. I
went up to the door, and was going in to look for the coffee-room,
or the traveller's room, or a room where I could see

somebody belonging to the house, when I perceived that I
should get into the kitchen if I stirred either way, or into the
room at the window of which the faces appeared. A knocker
was on the door—I believe—but I dare not be certain, for
I have quite forgotten much that I saw there, and I hope to
forget the rest before I die. But whether a knocker was on
the door or not, I knocked; and after awhile—faith, it was a
good while too, so long that I began to fear the guide had
brought me to a private house, and that the people about me
were the retired nobility of our age—a very good sort of a man
appeared, with a face that I took the liberty to be pleased
with. I asked for a room. He hesitated. For the coffee-room,—there
was no coffee-room. For the traveller's-room,
—there was no such room to be had; he was very sorry.
Could I have a private room? or a place to eat my dinner?
—I was hungry as a tiger. He did not know, but would
inquire. He left me standing at the door, and after a few
minutes came back, and desiring me to follow him, took me
round the house on the outside, and opening a door which
led me up a narrow stair-case, entrapped me into a room so
meagre, so desolate, and so like the rooms we see in the new
public-houses of my country when they stand out of the general
thoroughfare, that I felt rather inclined to be merry by
occupying all the furniture I saw. Pray, Sir, said I, where
am I to sleep? He did not know as he knew, but he would
inquire. Very well—what can you give me for dinner?
What should you like, Sir? Any thing, whatever you can
get me soonest—a mutton-chop or a rump-steak, or whatever
you please; I should like a bit of cold chicken, or beef, or—
in short, any thing eatable. You can have a chop, Sir. Have
you nothing else? No, Sir. But you have a tart, I suppose,
or a pie? Neither Sir; but if you would like some fritters, he
added with a bow. Fritters! the very thing—mutton-chop
and fritters! The very idea was enough to make a starved man
cheerful. But when are they to be ready? In half an hour.
I pulled out my watch—it is now six; I am now going out
for a walk, and at half past six I shall be ready, if you are.

Having settled this matter, I walked off to see what I could
see in the neighbourhood; rejoicing all the way that I had
been so lucky as to find a sitting-room and a bed-room, with
such a delightful walk between the two as I foresaw that I
was likely to have. The great wall was before me, hardly
a gun-shot off, and there was just light enough in the sky
to see my way up.

So up I went by a perpendicular path-way, which had once
been made use of, but having been found too dangerous, it
had been stopped with a sort of loose wall, which it was not a
very safe nor easy thing for a man to get over. I got over it
nevertheless, and before five minutes were over I stood on
the top of the precipice, looking down upon the houses below
me, and feeling as if with one effort of my foot, if I were
a large man, I could bury them where they stood in earth
and rubbish for ever. But if the getting up was unsafe, the
getting down was a great deal more so; for I soon discovered
that I had not courage enough to come down by the
way that I had gone up by—so different is the measure we
take of heights when we are looking up, from what we do
when looking down. It was now getting dark, and my dinner
was ready, and I saw people at the windows of the tavern
looking up at me as if they had gathered together in a hurry;
and among others, a female, who stood as if expecting me to
step over the precipice. I did not much like my situation—
I saw that I had no time to lose—and I persuaded myself
once more that I could see a resemblance in her figure to
that of the woman I was in search of. Not another moment
would I have staid where I was, for ten times more than

I was likely to get by my voyage of discovery; and so I gave
it up, and seeing a deep fissure in the rocks running from the
very top to the bottom, with irregular projections all the way,
which I thought I could manage to hold on by, long enough at
any rate to secure my passage from one to another, I undertook
a descent in that manner; and after groping my way for
a minute or two, and slipping my hold once where if I had
not instantly caught again, I should have broken my neck to
a dead certainty, I arrived safely at the bottom; proceeded
directly to the house—full of the strange hope—the strange
fear, I might as well say, that I had now come to the place
where I was pre-ordained to meet her that I was in search of,
and see the mystery cleared up.

But I was not able to find my room. The house which I
left on one side of me when I went up the hill, I found on the
other, when I had got back. I went to the door and knocked;
and after waiting the usual time, the waiter appeared
and acted as guide. I was lucky enough to find the room;
but where was the dinner? It was long past the hour agreed
upon; and yet look which way I would, no sign of dinner
was to be seen. The very cloth was not laid—nor were
the candles lighted. I had just begun to feel vexed, when
the waiter appeared—saying that two ladies had come who
were obliged to drink tea in their bed-room, there being no
spare room in the whole house. They are welcome to this
room said I, the moment I have eaten my dinner, if that will
do? No answer. They may have it now indeed, if you will
give me a place where I can sit long enough to swallow a
chop. No answer. You will inquire, if you please, and I beg
you to say that I do not offer them a share of the room, but
the whole of it. Still no answer. He leaves me—and I
have then leisure to think of what is to be done. If the ladies
were kind enough to accept my offer, especially if it should

happen to rain, what was I to do—with no books—not so much
as a newspaper to keep me alive? I should have to go to bed.
Before I have quite made up my mind to hang myself, if it
should rain, the waiter brings me a heap of mutton steaks—
in capital order—and leaves me to ring for whatever else I
may think proper to need. After a while I ring. Nobody
comes. I wait a few minutes and ring again. Still nobody
comes. I get uneasy; I begin to ask myself whether I am
quite safe in such a desolate room. At last however, I get
some wretched wine, a spoon-full of sugar, and a few fritters;
but before I can speak, the waiter is gone—gone too, without
saying whether he has made the offer to the ladies or
not, and whether I am to go to bed, or turn out and walk till
bed-time, without having a right to come back to the room I
occupy, whatever may happen. It is very vexatious. Ring—
ring—ring. After a while somebody appears at the door, and
I beg to know what the ladies have concluded upon, that I
may know what to do with myself till bed-time. Away goes
the messenger, and I wait and ring, wait and ring, wait and
ring, for another half hour; at the end of which time, I am
told by a red-haired girl who peeps into the door just long
enough to deliver the message, and let me hear the voices of
people below as happy as heart could wish, that the ladies
have concluded to take their tea in their bed-room—without
so much as a civil word to me for the offer I made them.
Very well—that affair being ended, I have nothing more to
say, whatever I may think about such ladies; and off I go for
a walk, I care not whither, noting the land-marks at every
step as I proceed, and leaving a candle burning upon the table,
that I may know which way to steer when I get back. I pursue
the path for a whole hour, over a sort of broken-up highway—on
one side of me the everlasting wall with stars watching
and burning along its verge—on the other heaps of mighty rocks,
piled up as if they were gathered by giants for battle, and the afar
off great sea, black as midnight and awful as the grave. But—
with so much to chill me—for the night is dark, the weather
cool, and the prospect dreary as death—my heart is bounding
with hope, and go whither I will, every step of my foot
is a spring. But why—why—who is there to explain this
deep mystery? I am no longer a child; I know that I am
above being disturbed as the youthful are, by dreams and
presages. I have gone by that period, when the heart leaps
for joy at the approach of a new face; that period when if we
happen to be where we never have been before, we are sure
to see more sights and meet with more adventures, laughable
or serious, in a single day, than we should see or
meet with in a twelvemonth if we were a few years older.
And yet, although I have passed that age—I pray you, do
not jeer me—I feel as if something is about to happen,
something which is to have a material influence on my
fate here and perhaps hereafter. I cannot shake off the
persuasion—I walk hurriedly on—I breathe hard as I
go, and my temples throb at every step; and yet I am
trying to persuade myself that I do not care a fig for
the past or the future (in this life), nor a fig for the female
shape that I saw at the window holding herself apart from
the rest, with an attitude expressive I am sure of deep
anxiety—no, not a fig, though it should prove to be the original
of the sketch that I saw on the flag-staff, or the blessed
creature who swept by me as I stood in the darkness of a
gone-by age, among the marble creatures of Westminster-Abbey.

After a good hour's walk, I return flushed with exercise in
spite of the cool night-air, and feverish with expectation. I go
up to the door and lift the knocker—and am just going to
let it fall, when I recollect myself and hurry away, passing the

window of a lighted room, within which I can see the shadow
of two persons—I would give the world to know who they
are—but I have not courage enough to ask: I tremble at the
very idea of discovering that she whom I saw, is not so beautiful
as I have thought her for three long years; or that she
is a married woman, married perhaps to the very man that
I saw her with; or that she is unworthy of the strange regard
that I feel for her and shall feel for her to my dying day, if she
be not more unworthy than I dare to suppose. I get up to
my room as well as I can—I throw myself into a chair—I lean
my head upon my hands—I reproach myself a good half hour
for my inconceivable folly, and finish by jumping up and
ringing the bell, with a fixed determination to find out who
the people are that I have seen below. I ring, and ring, and
ring, at intervals, for about a quarter of an hour, when a good
sort of a woman shows her head at the top of the stairs, in a
very interesting situation. My courage is gone, I dare not
speak a word—I dare not ask who the people are,—and I go
up to her, that I may save her all the trouble I can, praying
her to give me a newspaper—I care not how old it may be—
or a book, I care not how worthless it may be (I could read
one of my own, I verily believe now). Stop—we must begin
with a new chapter.

1 The geological phenomena of the Isle-of-Wight are as much celebrated
as the scenery and fertility. Mr. Webster, in the second volume of the
Transactions of the London Geological Society, says, `The chalk covered
by the London clay, passes under the channel, called the Solent, and rises
in the middle of the island, forming a range of hills, which extends from
Culver-Cliffs on the East to the Needles on the West. Here we meet with
the only remarkable derangement of the beds of chalk, and the superior
strata, which has been noticed in England. The strata of this range of hills,
says Bakewell (in his Introduction to Geology) are thrown into a position
absolutely vertical, evincing the action of some mighty disturbing force,
which can be so often observed to have acted on the lower strata in various
parts of the world, and also on the upper strata in the vicinity of the Alps.'

`The whole thickness of the beds in the Isle-of-Wight, which are nearly
vertical, according to Mr. Webster's measurement, is not less than 3000
feet, including 1481 feet of strata above the chalk, about 987 feet of chalk,
and 500 or 600 feet of lower strata. Farther south the strata under the chalk
are seen again in their original horizontal position, and on the northern
side there are hills composed of horizontal strata, evidently of a formation
posterior to the time when the chalk strata were overturned.'