University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

No, I do not believe that I was ever so angry before—even
with a trifle, such as those mentioned in the last chapter.
Had the affair been got up for the very purpose of trying my
temper (which I take to be rather techy) it could not have
been carried through with more zeal, nor contrived with a
more perverse ingenuity. Say what I would—do what I
would, it was all in vain. Civility was quite misunderstood
—politeness thrown away. The more obliging I was, the
more disobliging they were. One would have supposed from
the behaviour of all parties when I offered to give up my
room the night before, that they knew me to be a Yankee,
and saw clearly that I should overreach them, however they
might receive my proposal; for I got no answer, till I was
weary of waiting. And yet, the moment my back is turned
—without saying by your leave, they take possession of my
room and occupy the table and chair with all sorts of trumpery.
And then to think of the trouble I took to get a fresh
egg—providing for it a full hour before hand; of the appetite
I had, when I had finished my walk in a high wind along
the very top of the cliff, and through the ploughed earth to
the watch-house, and of the manner in which, after I had
given two or three several orders for the egg, my inquiry
for it was received. Oh! did you order one, said the girl
with red hair, when the breakfast I had was nearly devoured.
Order one! yes, a full hour ago, and over and over again
afterwards—of you and of every body else that came.

Very well Sir—

Very well Sir! no, it is not very well Sir. Stop—stop—
hear what I have to say; if I cannot have an egg immediately,
I don't want it at all; but I desire to know whether I
am to finish my breakfast with or without one; either way
will do, but I do not much like to wait half an hour.

The beggage made no reply, but after standing as if she
had a prompter at her elbow for a minute or so, she left me
in a prodigious hurry, and I saw no more of her till she came
to receive her reward.

Now `every body knows or ought to know, and a man
must be extremely ignorant not to know,' as Judge Blackstone
would say, that a dinner is a thing which few of women
born are philosophers enough to disregard altogether—I do not
say give up altogether; and the ladies know or ought to know,
and most of them do know, that when your heart is fixed
upon a thing, though it be of no more value than a fresh egg,
or a live eel, or a dish of strawberries-and-cream, it is neither
very safe nor very wise to disappoint you. A longing is a
longing whatever it may be for, and by whomsoever it may
be felt; and however absurd it may appear for one to make
such a fuss about an egg in the middle of a pathetic story
which is to end, whatever may be thought of it now, with a
real catastrophe, I am willing to be judged by every man
who knows the value of a dinner at home or abroad, when I
say that an egg was of more value to me at the time I speak
of than a costly dinner would be after a sea-voyage at
another time;—and by every woman who knows how dreadful
a thing it is to be kept in suspense for a whole hour and
be disappointed after all,—when I say that the trouble I had
about the egg did more toward making me forget my love,
though the woman that I loved was actually under the same
roof with me, as I found out afterwards, than every thing

that had occurred in the course of the whole preceding day
and night. Such is human love—as Wordsworth would say.

However—to proceed with my story. There was but one
way to behave in my case; and so, after waiting a reasonable
time for a message in lieu of the egg, if the egg was
not endowed with the faculty of forthcomingness—to borrow
a word from Q. S. P.), I gulped down my cold tea, choked
myself with the cold toast, kicked away my chair, and without
throwing off my coat, though I knew well what I had
undertaken, laid hold of the bell-rope and begun to ring
for the bill, in the hope of getting away before night, when
the egg was brought in and put upon the table without a
word of excuse or apology.

Bring me the bill said I, without turning my head.

It was brought in the course of the morning, and a very
pretty bill it was, to be sure; but I had already made up my
mind how to behave. So, taking up the change for a
sovereign, which if the girl who acted neither as chambermaid
nor as waiter, though she appeared to have undertaken
both parts, had shown me the least attention, I should have
begged her to keep in her two-fold capacity,1 I dropped it
into my pocket, saying as I did so, that I should have treated
her otherwise, if she had behaved otherwise; but that never
having been so waited upon before in all my life, I should do
with her what I had resolved to do about a week before (at
the Pavilion-Hotel, Brighton) with every waiter who kept
aloof, and with every chamber-maid who neglected me—

Sir! said the girl, interrupting me with a look of terror in
the very middle of my speech, as if some how or other, she

did not exactly understand what I had resolved to do with
chamber-maids who failed in their duty. So—afraid lest I
should laugh in her face, if I continued my fatherly expostulation,
I cut the matter short by telling her in my mild way
that I should give her nothing.

I thought so! said she, coloring to the eyes and holding
by the door as she spoke (another head was visible behind
hers), I thought so! that's always the way with them that gives
so much trouble.

Don't be saucy said I, beginning to feel a desire to see the
landlord, which I overcame by a quick effort—N. B. I was
very glad of this after I had got away—don't be saucy, my
girl. What you say is very true—those who give you most
trouble are those who pay the least, I dare say. But why
do they give you so much trouble? Because you do not
serve them properly. You give them first a knife and then a
fork, and you call it giving you trouble if they ring for either;
and the more they ring the more trouble they give, you say.
The more trouble they give! why it is you that give the
trouble. And after they have been kept waiting (for they
are the waiters, not you) or tugging at the bell-rope for the
hour together, would you have them treat you as well as
if you had anticipated every want, stood by their sides, or
answered the bell and served them with cheerfulness and
activity? No no, my girl—the maxim, though true enough,
is a very bad one for your purpose. When you are not paid
by the guest on his going away, it is a proof—not that he is
illiberal, but that you have neglected him; a proof that
you are to blame, not he. I hope what I say now will be
of use to you; and I hope others may have the courage
to do as I have done by you, and such as you—
it would soon be worth your while to behave better; and
it would soon be worth the while of your ten-day traveller

to husband his pocket-money, and behave less like a spendthrift
school-boy, out on a holyday-trip to see the world;
a sort of men who make travelling what it is now—a series
of petty vexations, whenever it is within the reach of their
pockets merely, because they have not the courage to
give a waiter no more than he deserves, and are afraid
of being thought shabby if they do not behave like fools
to the chamber-maid—

Very fair—but I would not have you suppose, reader—my
dear fellow—that I said to the girl in question all that I have
said here. By no means—for long and long before I had
come to the words, No no, my girl, the maxim though true
enough is a very bad one for you and such as you, I had
pitched myself head-foremost into my gig, without observing
that another, a very superb one, was at the door, and that
somebody was standing at the large window who—if I had
caught a glimpse of her before I was fairly off, would have
put a stop to my speech for ever—if not to me. How long I
should have persisted in what I had to say to the red-haired
baggage, after I had left the house, if I had not been disturbed
by a remark of the boy who drove me, I do not
know. The whole morning was like another dream to me after
he spoke; and to this hour, if I did not know from other
circumstances that I saw several things which I could not
have seen without leaving the gig, before we had come to the
broad high-way, I should be unwilling to swear that I did
leave it. I remember pretty well however that I had a little
child for my guide, that I walked on the sea shore, that I descended
a steep hill by a very crooked path, and that I drank
a glass of mineral water, the brightest and clearest I ever
saw. I remember too that I labored up the steepest part
of the gap which is called the Black-gang Chine;1 that I

waded through the sand to the relief of a middle-sized woman
who appeared to have stuck fast about half way up—the
precipice—for she was on her hands and feet, and there were
no less than four others at work, trying to pull her out of the
mud; I remember too that I ran up all out of breath and
offered my arm with a bow to her—that she refused it, in the
style of an amateur lady, and that I was very glad when I
saw her face that she had refused it, and very thankful for
my escape, having no doubt from her stiff carriage and from
all that I saw while she was floundering in the mud,—I hope
I am not over bitter—that she was one of the two ladies
of no particular age who took their tea in a bed-room the
night before, without so much as a word of thanks to me
for the civil offer I made to turn myself out of the house for
their sake; and who the very next morning were bold
enough to occupy my room, without a word of excuse
or apology. I remember too that all day long I was
in the track of a party whom I could not escape, though
I tried in every possible way—if I stopped, they stopped
—if I turned out of my path, no matter why, they were
sure to turn out of their path —no matter how; and that
every half hour, during a large part of the day I was meeting
with somebody or other whom I had left—I did hope
for ever—sticking in the mud, or half buried in a niche of
the cliff, or wallowing through the sand or the pebble-drifts
on the beach, or knee-deep through the rough heather on
the top of the precipice, where every path was a goat-path;
or floundering about in the shadow of the Land-Slip half a
day's journey behind me. Odds bobs! thought I, every
time I crossed their path or they mine, what are such people
made for! what on earth brings them here! They are just
like every body else—and whatever they do is done with such
an air of insupportable propriety—I do wish they would keep
out of the way. There is nothing to laugh at in their garb or
their walk; nor is there any thing to admire in either. Why
will they and such as they presume to appear in such a
romantic beautiful spot as this—I do wonder at their courage.
They do not help the scenery; they do not enjoy it—
I can see that by their very step along the beach—they are too
careful of their feet, and their clothes are too well made by
half. They cannot be grouped—they would not endure
such a liberty—they are out of place in a sea-view, and
would be frightful in a free, brave-spirited fresh landscape—
what on earth is to be done with such cattle! They are
neither picturesque nor absurd—and yet they are eternally
in your way. There they are again! there they are! turn
you to the sky or turn you to the sea, they are always before
you—three pair of short thick legs, a very upright motion of the
body, a very long waist or two, and a heap of broad serious-looking
ribbons, intermixed with artificial flowers, and a bust
like the figure-head of a ship, with a silk habit pasted over
the neck and shoulders. All this I remember, and much
more. But I remember it as I do things that occurred to me
years and years ago—not as if I had seen it in my sleep, for
the imagery of sleep is doubtful in a way of its own—it
is never so clear; nor yet as if I had seen it while I was
broad awake, or when I was unoccupied; but more as if
—while I was where I might have seen what I have described,
my thoughts were away; or my soul engaged with
some hope which hindered me from seeing what was before
me; and somewhat as if while occupied with a
view of the sea and the sea-beach, I had fallen asleep, or met
with some accident which made all that I saw participate in
the vagueness that we are troubled with in our sleep. I know
not how to describe the feeling so as to give another even a
tolerable idea of what I mean—the real and the unreal were so
mixed up together, when I came to recall the occurrences of
the day. I remember that I saw the Land-Slip—the green
earth and the huge rocks heaped up together as if the very
foundations of the island had given way, either to the presssure
of the deep or to the weight of the cloud-capped, stupendous
wall. I remember too, that I felt much disappointed
when I saw the celebrated Black-Gang Chine, the place
where if you are to believe what people say now, a gang of
sea-rovers were concealed ages and ages ago, and that I was
quite angry when I saw the cave at Freshwater—it was any
thing but a cave, though I did not lack faith in the story that
I heard of its magnitude, till I had gone to it once in a boat
which lay rocking at the mouth, while I peeped in with a disposition
to laugh in the face of the boatmen who kept chattering
about the cave—the cave!—a loose hollow in a heap
of loose earth, washed away by the sea, to the depth of a
few yards,—till I had gone to it once in a boat I say, and
once more dry-shod after the sea had withdrawn, with a
desire to see how far it was possible for a guide-book to err—
I do not like to say fib. And I remember too that I could
not believe the precipice to be more than eighty or
a hundred feet high, though I was assured by a fisherman,
who offered to ascend it and let fall a line to prove
his words, that it was either two hundred and twenty or
two hundred and seventy feet high, I forget which, directly
over the said cave; that I was lucky enough to meet with a
very good dinner which I ate mechanically, and without
knowing what it consisted of, in consequence of what had
occurred just before at the Needles—(Of which more by and
by)—that I looked for shells and sea-weed, bean-stones and
smooth pebbles, with a pretty woman who had never had a
peep at the sea before, though she had been sea-sick, she said,
on the passage from Southampton to Cowes!—and that in
a word, I was completely bewildered through the course of the
day: for the truth is, that the first thing I recollect with positive
certainty is the shock I received from a remark of the boy,
while I was occupied with my speech to the chamber-maid,
who was then I dare say, full three leagues in my rear. I
wish I knew the time when this occurred—for while I know
from other circumstances that it must have been after I had
grown weary of looking at what I have described, if I were
to judge by my own recollection of the matter, I should say
that it must have been about half an hour after I had left the
Sand-Rock Hotel—for I was occupied with my speech to the
girl, when the boy at my side—who never spoke but to say,
That is Mr. A. B.'s cottage, or that is the C. D. place—
dropped a remark, which led to a conversation that drove
every thing else out of my head. It occurred pretty much in
this way.

Fine gig that, Sir—

Fine gig—where?

I don't see it now Sir (looking around), but shall afore long,
and when I do, I'll speak.

Was that the landlord I saw?

Don't know indeed, Sir—

Don't you know whether I saw him or not, all the time I
was there?

No Sir.

What is his name?

Kemp Sir.

How old a man is he? Here I am able to give the very
words of the boy; they amused me so much that I made a
memorandum of this part of the dialogue on the way. How
old a man is he?

Sir?

What is his age—how old is he?

I am sure I can't tell.

Is he fifty, or forty?

Can't say.

Is he a young man?

I don't know.

Is he an old man?

Not very old, nor yet very young.

Here I gave up in despair. The boy was eighteen or nineteen;
he was familiar with the road and the house, and yet
I could not discover whether I had seen the landlord or not,
nor whether he was an old or a young man.

There's the gig, Sir!—there it is now, goin' over the top
of the hill—

What gig do you mean?

Why, that gig you saw at the door—

I saw no gig at the door—Oh, I remember now; a gig
drew up just as we were setting off.

Yes Sir—and that 'ere lady at the window was waitin' for
it; and—there they go now! dashin' over the hill—go by
every thing on the road, Sir—fine horse that Sir, should like
to drive that horse.

You spoke of a lady—I saw no lady.

O yes Sir, I beg your pardon—must have seen her;
she was at the window Sir, close by you, when you jumped
into the gig—

Stay—stay—I think I do remember something of the sort.
A woman you say at the window; surely I did see somebody
there, but I was in such a fever with what had just occurred,
and you started off in such a hurry, that upon my word I. I..
Pray what sort of a woman was she?

Oh sech a beautiful woman Sir!—

Beautiful?

Oh yes Sir, and so grand Sir, and so lady-like, and as
proud as a duchess—

Proud as a duchess! proud—proud—what a strange comparison
for you boy—as proud as a duchess!... Why, if that
comparison be a natural one—I stopped, for I felt as if I
had got under a shower-bath, such as that wherein the Ettrick
Shepherd—bless him for the story—underwent a trial of courage—nay
worse, much worse, for I felt as if I had got hold
of the string, not of a shower-bath, like that underneath which
he stood quaking and shivering, but of such a water-fall as Niagara.
I was afraid to speak or move. I could hardly get
my breath, as he proceeded to show that the comparison
was a very natural one, for every body at the house had said
the same of her, that she was very handsome, quite the lady,
and as proud as a duchess.

Drive on boy, drive on—

Oh Sir, that 'll do no good; we can't overtake that 'ere
horse; we get along very well in our way, but as for that
'ere man with that 'ere horse an' gig Sir,—get up, will
you!—why Sir, he'd make nothin' o' twelve mile an hour,
and we are most knocked up now Sir.

Get on, I say—get on.

Why Sir, I thought you seed her and was a-goin' to speak
to her.

Speak to whom?

Why, that 'ere lady Sir, what stood lookin' at you while
you was a-gettin' ready.

Looking at me?

Oh yes Sir, and by what she said to the gem'man there,
I thought she know'd you.

Why, what did she say?

Didn't hear rightly; something about Lunnun Sir, an'
Wessminster-Habbey—

What!

Beg pardon Sir—they were both laughin' at you, Sir.

Laughing at me! what do you mean?

Why Sir, when you was at the bell-rope Sir, you know I
was at the door with the gig, a-waitin' for you Sir; and I could
see 'em both Sir;—they were a-standin' up in the middle o'
the room Sir, and every time you pulled Sir, why that 'ere
gem'man there Sir, in the red shawl, he seemed to enjoy
it Sir, like any thing.

The rascal—

I thought you were old acquaintances, may be—

How dare you!

Beg pardon Sir; but he cum up to the window as if he
thought you'd speak to him; and there they stood Sir, laughn'
both together Sir—

Laughing together—laughing at me, boy?

I thought so, Sir.

And why didn't you tell me?

Lord Sir! I thought you seed 'em Sir, at first; and then,
I thought may be you know'd one another, and I didn't like
to spile a joke for you Sir.

Did the lady laugh too?

Not much Sir; but the gem'man did, all she could do to
hender him. I thought he 'd never stop agin, arter the pull
you made jest afore you jumped in the gig.

He be hanged.

Sir—

You be hanged, I say—

Yes Sir.

And if you open your mouth to me Sir, about that
gem'man, as you call him—Sir—before I have had a chance
to speak to him—I'll—I'll—give me the whip, it's of no use
to you, give me the whip, I say—

With all my heart Sir—

—Before I have had a chance to speak with him—do you
hear what I say?

Yes Sir—

I'll break your neck, you dog you.

What for Sir; what have I done?

Stupid! If you open your mouth about the gem'man, before
I have had a word with him, I'll beat you to death, that's
what I will!

Yes Sir—

Drive on, drive on; we shall never get near the gig, if you
don't exert yourself.

We can't overtake it, Sir; but they 'll stop at the Light-House,
and you can see the lady there.

Drive on; they may take another road.

No Sir, there an't no other road for 'em to take. We shall
find 'em there, you may depend, or meet 'em afore we git
there.

Drive on, my good fellow, drive on. If you 'll bring me
along side o' that gig, I'll give you a crown.

Will you?—here goes!—and away we went spinning
over the smooth top of the hill, without noise or smoke, at a
speed with which at any other time, I should have been satisfied,
for it was like that of a ball discharged over the green
turf, by a strong easy player.

There they be Sir; there 's the gig at the door yer see
—I told you so! and there 's the footman's horse that I saw,
gallopin' arter the gig; and now Sir, when I drive up to the
gate Sir, if you jump out and walk down to the Needles there,
or may be you'd like to see Allum Bay, nice place that Sir,
every body goes there; prettiest sand ever you saw in your
life grows there, and all sorts o' colors,—whoa—whoa—whoa
—there Sir, now if you 'll jump out Sir; you'll find me here

Sir, when you come back—jest along side o' the gig Sir, if
you please—whoa there, whoa!

I took the hint; and throwing his fee to the boy, set off
toward a place where I saw a lot of people, and among others
a man that I knew immediately for the drawing-master,
with a tall woman, that I knew or thought I knew even at that
distance, leaning on his arm. They walked upon the very
verge of the precipice; and kept aloof now, as they had three
years before, from all that were treading the same course.

1 In England it is a matter of course for the traveller to pay the chamber-maid
so much a night, the head-waiter so much a meal, the boots, &c.
so much a day. It is their only wages. They hire their places instead of
being hired, and their perquisites are their wages. In general therefore
they are attentive and careful.

1 Believed by the neighbourhood, by authors of guide-books, and by
every orthodox tourist, to have been the refuge of a terrible band of pirates.
Chine is the word there used for cleft, gap, or fissure.