I Cannot But Remember That There Have Been Many Disasters -
More Than Can Be Counted On The Fingers Of My
Two hands - which I would
have saved myself if I had listened when I turned a deaf ear to you.
But tell me, do you mind just a little more innocent play on my part -
just a little picture of, say, one of the villages viewed a while ago
from under the cloud - or perhaps two?"
And Psyche, my sister, having won her point and pacified me, and
conquered my scruples and gloom, and seeing me now submissive, smiled a
gracious consent.
XIII
HER OWN VILLAGE
One afternoon when cycling among the limestone hills of Derbyshire I
came to an unlovely dreary-looking little village named Chilmorton. It
was an exceptionally hot June day and I was consumed with thirst: never
had I wanted tea so badly. Small gritstone-built houses and cottages of
a somewhat sordid aspect stood on either side of the street, but there
was no shop of any kind and not a living creature could I see. It was
like a village of the dead or sleeping. At the top of the street I came
to the church standing in the middle of its church yard with the
public-house for nearest neighbour. Here there was life. Going in I
found it the most squalid and evil-smelling village pub I had ever
entered. Half a dozen grimy-looking labourers were drinking at the bar,
and the landlord was like them in appearance, with his dirty shirt-
front open to give his patrons a view of his hairy sweating chest.
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