kind of book he writes; the kind of publisher who chisels him; and the kind of way in which his works are bound.  With every moment my elation grew greater and more impetuous, until at last I could not bear to sit any longer still, even upon so admirable a beast, nor to look down even at so rich a plain (though that was seen through the air of Southern England), but turning over the downs I galloped home, and came in straight from the turf to my own ground—­for what man would live upon a high road who could go through a gate right off the turf to his own steading and let the world go hang?

And so did I. But as they brought me beer and bacon at evening, and I toasted the memory of things past, I said to myself:  “Oxford, Cambridge, Dublin, Durham—­you four great universities—­you terrors of Europe—­that road is older than you:  and meanwhile I drink to your continued healths, but let us have a little room ... air, there, give us air, good people.  I stifle when I think of you.”

THE ONION-EATER

There is a hill not far from my home whence it is possible to see northward and southward such a stretch of land as is not to be seen from any eminence among those I know in Western Europe.  Southward the sea-plain and the sea standing up in a belt of light against the sky, and northward all the weald.

From this summit the eye is disturbed by no great cities of the modern sort, but a dozen at least of those small market towns which are the delight of South England hold the view from point to point, from the pale blue downs of the island over, eastward, to the Kentish hills.

A very long way off, and near the sea-line, the high faint spire of that cathedral which was once the mother of all my county goes up without weight into the air and gathers round it the delicate and distant outlines of the landscape—­as, indeed, its builders meant that it should do.  In such a spot, on such a high watch-tower of England, I met, three days ago, a man.

I had been riding my kind and honourable horse for two hours, broken, indeed, by a long rest in a deserted barn.

I had been his companion, I say, for two hours, and had told him a hundred interesting things—­to which he had answered nothing at all—­when I took him along a path that neither of us yet had trod.  I had not, I know; he had not (I think), for he went snorting and doubtfully.  This path broke up from the kennels near Waltham, and made for the High Wood between Gumber and No Man’s Land.  It went over dead leaves and quite lonely to the thick of the forest; there it died out into a vaguer and a vaguer trail.  At last it ceased altogether, and for half an hour or so I pushed carefully, always climbing upwards, through the branches, and picked my way along the bramble-shoots, until at last I came out upon that open space of which I had spoken, and which I have known since my childhood.  As I came out of the wood the south-west wind met me, full of the Atlantic, and it seemed to me to blow from Paradise.