I Do Not Know That Any Literary Person Will Agree With Me; I
Have Gone Aside To Write About Miss Mitford Mainly For My Own
Satisfaction.
Frequently when I have wanted to waste half an
hour pleasantly with a book I have found myself picking
Up
"Our Village" from among many others, some waiting for a first
perusal, and I wanted to know why this was so - to find out, if
not to invent, some reason for my liking which would not make
me ashamed.
At Swallowfield we failed to find a place to stay at; there
was no such place; and of the inns, named, I think, the
"Crown," "Cricketers," "Bird-in-the-Hand," and "George and
Dragon," only one, was said to provide accommodation for
travellers as the law orders, but on going to the house we
were informed that the landlord or his wife was just dead, or
dangerously ill, I forget which, and they could take no one
in. Accordingly, we had to trudge back to Three Mile Cross
and the old ramshackle, well-nigh ruinous inn there. It was a
wretched place, smelling of mould and dry-rot; however, it was
not so bad after a fire had been lighted in the grate, but
first the young girl who waited on us brought in a bundle of
newspapers, which she proceeded to thrust up the chimney-flue
and kindle, "to warm the flue and make the fire burn," she
explained.
On the following day, the weather being milder, we rambled on
through woods and lanes, visiting several villages, and
arrived in the afternoon at Silchester, where we had resolved
to put up for the night.
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