208 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



the house's sake, for the sake of whatever soul it has 

 acquired, which men cannot take away. Was there ever 

 such an inn as " The Wispers " ? The landlord is dead, 

 the casks are dry, a rat has littered on the top stair of the 

 cellar, and the landlord says 



" 'Tis late and cold, stir up the fire : 

 Sit close, and draw the table nigher ; 

 Be merry, and drink wine that's old, 

 A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold : 

 Your beds of wanton down the best, 

 Where you shall tumble to your rest ; 

 I could wish you wenches too, 

 But I am dead, and cannot do. 

 Call for the best the house may ring, 

 Sack, white, and claret let them bring, 

 And drink apace, while breath you have ; 

 You'll find but cold drink in the grave : 

 Plover, partridge, for your dinner, 

 And a capon for the sinner, 

 You shall find ready when you're up, 

 And your horse shall have his sup : 

 Welcome, welcome, shall fly round, 

 And I shall smile, though underground." 



I like the inn, but the spider loves it, and his webs bar 

 the door against all but ghostly travellers. The barn, 

 again, with its doorway opening upon the summer night, 

 has a life of its own. The two figures at the door are 

 utterly dwarfed by its ancientness, its space, and the 

 infinite silence without. 



The picture in which there is most humanity is that of 

 a high wall, ruinous and overgrown. The deep gap in it 

 is tragical. But even here I am not sure that it is a 

 wall that was raised by hand of mason, and as to the 

 inhabitants who left it desolate I feel more doubtful still, 



