Nor on the outside is all changed at the Castle Inn.  Those who in this quiet lap of the Wiltshire Downs are busy moulding the life of the future are reverent of the past.  The old house stands stately, high-roofed, almost unaltered, its great pillared portico before it; hard by are the Druids’ Mound, and Preshute Church in the lap of trees.  Much water has run under the bridge that spans the Kennet since Sir George and Julia sat on the parapet and watched the Salisbury coach come in; the bridge that was of wood is of brick—­but there it is, and the Kennet still flows under it, watering the lawns and flowering shrubs that Lady Hertford loved.  Still can we trace in fancy the sweet-briar hedge and the border of pinks which she planted by the trim canal; and a bowshot from the great school can lose all knowledge of the present in the crowding memories which the Duelling Green and the Bowling Alley, trodden by the men and women of a past generation, awaken in the mind.