Still a further catalogue offers a "Black Letter book, printed in double columns, published about 1555, 'Of the tragedies, gathered by Jhon Bochas, of all such Princes as fell from theyr estates throughe the mutability of Fortune since the creacion of Adam.' A fairly long history. This has a note written on the title-page as follows, 'This book was boughte in the yeare of Or Lorde God 1555.'" There were other volumes offered in these catalogues at a price, but they were of less interest. I think, however, I have quoted enough to show what an entertaining evening may be spent in simply conning over second-hand book catalogues.
I am afraid I have wandered off the road, but such occasional digressions, in the absence of the usual added love-story, may serve to break any possible monotony in the chronicle of our tour. We left Cirencester betimes (to use a favourite expression of Samuel Pepys, of Diary renown), though not so early but that sundry country folk were astir on the road before us; and how inexpressibly fresh and sweet is the morning air, "before it has been braithed over," that was Iden's elixir vitae in Amaryllis at the Fair! We started forth, as usual, without any definite idea of where we were going or of our destination for the night, simply taking this road and that, rough, or smooth, or hilly, as seemed best in our eyes at the moment. Excepting perhaps in a flat country, such desultory travel is not wholly advisable unless you can rely upon your car mounting the worst of the hills that may be encountered, for now and then on these byways you may come unexpectedly to a hill that is startling in its steepness, and though it be short it has to be climbed, or you have to hark back ignominiously and not see what you set out to see. Fortunately I knew my car, my old and well-tried travelling companion that, when traversing some of the wild Welsh mountain and moorland tracks, had surmounted gradients of no ordinary severity. So I travelled on strange roads with a mind at ease. To go exploring cross-country roads in a hilly district you need a reliable car. It may have been the quality of my car, it may have been good fortune, it may have been careful driving, for careful driving counts, but the fact remains, in spite of many bad and stony roads, during the journey I suffered no breakdown, nor did I on a previous journey of some hundreds of miles.
SYDE CHURCH.
So, leaving Cirencester, where the church bells have little rest, for they were chiming the hours and quarters at length both day and night, we wandered about uneventfully till we found ourselves in the out-of-the-world hamlet of Syde, built on the slope of a hill, with a glorious rolling country around. I love these little remote hamlets and the placidity of them—hamlets where "the telegraph, the railway, and the thoughts that shake mankind" have never penetrated. I daresay dull care finds its way to them as elsewhere, but to the outward eye they suggest untold peace. Some one says that "care will come and climb even the side of a ship far out at sea in search of its victims."
At Syde we discovered a tiny and charming church with a saddle-back tower, a tiny church, pleasing in its simplicity, and close to it a fine old tithe-barn with a grand roof of open timber, and a delightfully quaint little Gothic window at one end of the building: the monks would have even a barn beautiful. From great beams of oak was the roof constructed, not sawn straight out of a tree regardless of grain in the manner of to-day that tends to weakness, but the natural bends of the wood were utilised so as to ensure the utmost strength of the material, and that made for lastingness and curves that unconsciously please the eye. The medieval craftsman knew the art of making the best use of raw products, and to his credit be it said, as far as I could note, the ancient roof shows no signs of weakness though constructed centuries ago, and apparently all those centuries left to take care of itself. Still such roofs, though strong in themselves, are heavy, and need substantial walls and a generous use of masonry to uphold them. The modern builder would probably construct at least two barns of the same size out of the materials employed in the construction of this one, and then have something to spare, but I greatly doubt if they would stand the stress of centuries as this one has done without constant renewals and repairs.
Leaving Syde we wandered about the lonely Cotswolds for most of the day, leisurely and deviously, delighting in their breezy openness, their frequent solitudes, and the extensive prospects afforded to us of hills beyond hills rising out of the blue. Houses are few and scattered in the Cotswolds, and these are mostly farmsteads of past days, grey and old, well and strongly built of the native stone that has a pleasant tint. Simple and yet picturesque are these old houses with their great gables, mullioned windows, stone slate roofs, and big chimney-stacks. The Cotswold architecture is a style of its own, than which a better style for an Englishman's home, from cottage to mansion, there could not be, for it is a style equally suitable for a small dwelling as for a stately hall. I think the keynote to the attractiveness of the Cotswold houses, large or little, is that they are first of all homes; this is what impresses you about them. Iron or lead, in the pre-railway days when the roads were indifferent and transport expensive, was not readily available in this remote district, so the ancient craftsman designed his buildings to have as little guttering and metal work as possible; he used stone wherever he could, stone for his mullioned windows, stone slates for his roofs, stones for his porches, stones for his chimneys, and for all his copings, his ridges, and his cappings; so his houses form part and parcel of the rock on which they stand, as though they had grown up from it. Were I ever to build another home for myself I should go to the Cotswolds for inspiration; still, a good design might be spoilt in its realisation by unfeeling workmanship; you may command the design, but you cannot command the spirit in which it is carried out. Even such a simple thing as a plain stone wall may be built to be beautiful; in the Cotswolds, the mason of old laid his stones in straight courses, carefully keeping them of different sizes; he also varied these courses in width, thus escaping the monotony of uniformity; he laid the biggest stones at the base, making for strength, to the eye at least, but here and there he ran a band of big stones between the smaller ones above, so he secured breadth with variety, and this just because he took a pride and a joy in his work and regarded the look of it. I have yet to meet the modern workman whose pleasure is in his work; he calls it "a job." Here ends my amateur lecture on architecture—fortunately it is short.
I made my midday halt at a lonely, elevated spot, with not a building or any other sign of man's handiwork in sight, excepting the long and winding road and the rugged stone walls that bounded and followed it in curving parallels, up hill and down dale for many a mile, till lost to vision in the haze of space. There on a soft grassy margin of the road, with the wall as shelter from the wayward wind that always seems to blow over the Cotswolds, I spread my rug, reclined at ease, and, free from care as a man can be, enjoyed my alfresco meal and contemplative pipe to follow, feeling in the best of humours with all the world and myself, envying none. I heard no sound but that of the wind gently surring among the tall grasses, and softly murmuring through the many crevices of that loose and broken wall. My eyes saw nothing but the sunlit and rolling land stretching far around, and the silent, spacious sky above. I was impressed with the sense of solitude and the peace of the spot. It is good for man to be alone at times with the wide earth and sky; it teaches him how small a thing he really is, for nature shows man neither respect nor attention; she treats the tramp and the lord the same. Even on the wild Canadian prairies, before the coming of the colonist, one could hardly find a solitude more apparently profound than mine that day, for the eye cannot see farther than the uttermost horizon; beyond might be the end of the world.
Just to live in the present, content with the present, that was my mood of the moment, neither looking backwards nor forwards, being simply thankful to be alive without any pain of body—that is the true holiday spirit, that is the wine of life; then pure laziness is a virtue, for if a man would enjoy his holiday lazing, laze he should. The gospel of exertion has been preached overmuch. It was a fair spot I had found, and the world is very fair in fair places; and does not Ben Jonson say, "How near to good is what is fair!" Long I rested there, so long that the shadow thrown by the wall changed round like that of a dial, but the matter of time troubled me not, for my hours were not marked by the clock. I wished my mind to be fallow. Emerson says, "The hardest thing in the world is—to think." I cannot follow him, for I find it impossible not to do so. I would be