And yet we were
making progress all the time, tacking across broad
England like an unweatherly vessel on a wind;
approaching our destination, not openly, but by a sort
of flying sap. And at length, I can scarce tell how,
we were set down by a dilatory butt-end of local train
on the untenanted platform of Stallbridge-Minster.
The town was ancient and compact--a domino of tiled
houses and walled gardens, dwarfed by the
disproportionate bigness of the church. From the midst
of the thoroughfare which divided it in half, fields
and trees were visible at either end; and through the
sally-port of every street there flowed in from the
country a silent invasion of green grass. Bees and
birds appeared to make the majority of the inhabitants;
every garden had its row of hives, the eaves of every
house were plastered with the nests of swallows, and
the pinnacles of the church were flickered about all
day long by a multitude of wings. The town was of
Roman foundation; and as I looked out that afternoon
from the low windows of the inn, I should scarce have
been surprised to see a centurion coming up the street
with a fatigue-draft of legionaries.
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