One of these groves, Ross's grove, we reached just at sunset. It was of
the noblest trees I saw during this journey, for the trees generally
were not large or lofty, but only of fair proportions. Here they were
large enough to form with their clear stems pillars for grand cathedral
aisles. There was space enough for crimson light to stream through upon
the floor of water which the shower had left. As we slowly plashed
through, I thought I was never in a better place for vespers.
That night we rested, or rather tarried at a grove some miles beyond,
and there partook of the miseries so often jocosely portrayed, of
bedchambers for twelve, a milk dish for universal handbasin, and
expectations that you would use and lend your "hankercher" for a towel.
But this was the only night, thanks to the hospitality of private
families, that we passed thus, and it was well that we had this bit of
experience, else might we have pronounced all Trollopian records of the
kind to be inventions of pure malice.
With us was a 'young lady who showed herself to have been bathed in the
Britannic fluid, wittily described by a late French writer, by the
impossibility she experienced of accommodating herself to the indecorums
of the scene. We ladies were to sleep in the bar-room, from which its
drinking visitors could be ejected only at a late hour. The outer door
had no fastening to prevent their return. However, our host kindly
requested we would call him, if they did, as he had "conquered them for
us," and would do so again.
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