And deigns no answer. I seem to be once more
In London, where the man in livery
Asks first your name, then “Not at home,” says he.
[Respectable inns always have some excuse for refusing to entertain the wayfarer. Some one at last takes pity on him and points out a low pot-house, with a green branch for a sign, where every one is welcome. Here too, however, he is contemptuously received. The landlord looks at the dust on his boots, and hesitates about admitting him; the chambermaids address him, not as “Sir,” but as “You, there!” and when dinner is served he is not asked to sit down to table.]
And when I ask to go to bed, appears
The stable-boy with rushlight in his hand,
And takes me up some seven flights of stairs
To a den with neither chair nor washhand stand;
He sets the candle down upon the floor,
And, after going out, he locks the door.