The Rambles of an Idler 



The oldest cellar I have recently explored 

 was dug in 1708 and it is as empty as the head 

 of the man who owns it. The next in order was 

 dug in 1737-38 and is a dark cavernous retreat 

 that chills the explorer immediately on enter- 

 ing it, so cold, clammy and musty is the air, or 

 rather the dimly visible darkness that replaces 

 normal atmosphere. Air or not, it is thick and 

 so spidery that I recoiled at every forward step 

 as the sheet-like webs touched me, and then, the 

 muffled sounds were so suggestive of rats, bats 

 and lurking vermin that had tunnelled under 

 the thick walls from the outside world. On a 

 summer day, it is hard to believe that such a 

 place should be in the midst of light and gaiety. 

 Here, Erebus, son of Chaos and brother of Nox, 

 might feel at ease and take a mid-day nap in 

 comfort, but no sane mortal is likely to follow 

 in his footsteps. I go, not as a lover of dark- 

 ness, but in a limited way, from a sense of duty, 

 which is man's most disagreeable position in 

 life. I am told I ought to explore that partic- 

 ular cellar and submit, assuming the role of ex- 

 plorer, much in the present fashion of that ilk, 

 with modern improvements and taking care not 

 to get nearer the real facts than comfort war- 



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