Madame Pratolungo makes a Voyage on Land

A WELL-FED boy, with yellow Saxon hair; a little shabby green chaise; and a rough brown pony¹ — these objects confronted me at the Lewes Station. I said to the boy, “Are you Reverend Finch’s servant?” And the boy answered, “I be he.”

We drove through the town — a hilly town of desolate² clean houses. No living creatures visible behind the jealously-shut windows. No living creatures entering or departing through the sad-colored closed doors. No theater; no place of amusement except an empty town-hall, with a sad policeman meditating³ on its spruce white steps. No customers in the shops, and nobody to serve them behind the counter, even if they had turned up. Here and there on the pavements, an inhabitant with a capacity for staring, and (apparently⁴) a capacity for nothing else. I said to 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 infamous⁵ rich!

Leaving this town of unamused citizens immured⁶ in domestic tombs, we got on a fine high road — still ascending⁷ — with a spacious⁸ open country on either side of it.

A spacious open country is a country soon exhausted⁹ 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

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