[Illustration: _Photo, W. Shawncross, Guildford_. ]

[_Frontispiece_. J. ARTHUR GIBBS. ]

A COTSWOLD VILLAGE

OR COUNTRY LIFE AND PURSUITS IN GLOUCESTERSHIRE

BY J. ARTHUR GIBBS

 "Go, little booke; God send thee good passage, And specially let this be thy prayere Unto them all that thee will read or hear, Where thou art wrong after their help to call, Thee to correct in any part or all. "

 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

1918

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION

Before the third edition of this work had been published the authorpassed away, from sudden failure of the heart, at the early age ofthirty-one. Two or three biographical notices, written by those whohighly appreciated him and who deeply mourn his loss, have alreadyappeared in the newspapers; and I therefore wish to add only a few wordsabout one whose kind smile of welcome will greet us no more inthis life. 

Joseph Arthur Gibbs was one of those rare natures who combine a love ofoutdoor life, cricket and sport of every kind, with a refined andscholarly taste for literature. He had, like his father, a keenobservation for every detail in nature; and from a habit of patientwatchfulness he acquired great knowledge of natural history. From hisgrandfather, the late Sir Arthur Hallam Elton, he inherited his tastefor literary work and the deep poetical feeling which are revealed soclearly in his book. On leaving Eton, he wrote a _Vale_, of which histutor, Mr. Luxmoore, expressed his high appreciation; and later on, when, after leaving Oxford, he was living a quiet country life, hedevoted himself to literary pursuits. 

He was not, however, so engrossed in his work as to ignore other duties;and he was especially interested in the villagers round his home, andever ready to give what is of greater value than money, personal troubleand time in finding out their wants and in relieving them. His unvaryingkindness and sympathy will never be forgotten at Ablington; for, as oneof the villagers wrote in a letter of condolence on hearing of hisdeath, "he went in and out as a friend among them. " With all histenderness of heart, he had a strict sense of justice and a clearjudgment, and weighed carefully both sides of any question before hegave his verdict. 

Arthur Gibbs went abroad at the end of March 1899 for a month's trip toItaly, and in his Journal he wrote many good descriptions of scenery andof the old towns; and the way in which he describes his last glimpse ofFlorence during a glorious sunset shows how greatly he appreciated itsbeauty. In his Journal in April he dwells on the shortness of life, andin the following solemn words he sounds a warning note:--

"Do not neglect the creeping hours of time: 'the night cometh when noman can work. ' All time is wasted unless spent in work for God. The bestsecular way of spending the precious thing that men call time is bymaking always for some grand end--a great book, to show forth thewonders of creation and the infinite goodness of the Creator. You mustinfluence for _good_ if you write, and write nothing that you willregret some day or think trivial. "

These words, written a month before the end came, tell their own tale. The writer of them had a deep love for all things that are "lovely, pure, and of good report"; and in his book one sees clearly theadoration he felt for that God whom he so faithfully served. There aremany different kinds of work in this world, and diversities of gifts; tohim was given the spirit to discern the work of God in Nature's glory, and the power to win others to see it also. He had a remarkableinfluence for good at Oxford, and the letters from his numerous friendsand from his former tutor at Christ Church show that this influence hasnever been forgotten, but has left its mark not only on his college, buton the university. 

Like his namesake and relative, Arthur Hallam, of immortal memory, Arthur Gibbs had attained to a purity of soul and a wisdom which werenot of this world, at an earlier age than is given to many men; and soin love and faith and hope--

 "I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge; but by year and hour In reverence and charity. "

 LAURA BEATRICE GIBBS. 

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

To those of my readers who have ever lived beside a stream, or in anancient house or time-honoured college, there will always be a peculiarcharm in silvery waters sparkling beneath the summer sun. To you theGothic building, with its carved pinnacles, its warped gables, itsmullioned casements and dormer windows, the old oak within, the veryinglenook by the great fireplace where the old folks used to sit athome, the ivy trailing round the grey walls, the jessamine, roses, andclematis that in their proper seasons clustered round the porch, --to youall these things will have their charm as long as you live. Therefore, if these pages appeal not to some such, it will not be the subject thatis wanting, but the ability of the writer. 

It is not claimed for my Cotswold village that it is one whit prettieror pleasanter or better in any way than hundreds of other villages inEngland; I seek only to record the simple annals of a quiet, old-fashioned Gloucestershire hamlet and the country within walkingdistance of it. Nor do I doubt that there are manor houses far morebeautiful and far richer in history even within a twenty-mile radius ofmy own home. For instance, the ancient house of Chavenage by Tetbury, orin the opposite direction, where the northern escarpments of theCotswolds rise out of the beautiful Evesham Vale, those historicmediaeval houses of Southam and Postlip. 

It is often said that in books like these we paint arcadias that neverdid and never could exist on earth. To this I would answer that thereare many such abodes in country places, if only our minds are such as torealise them. And, above all, let us be optimists in literature eventhough we may be pessimists in life. Let us have all that is joyous andbright in our books, and leave the trials and failures for the realitiesof life. Let us in our literature avoid as much as possible the painfulside of human nature and the pains and penalties of human weakness; letus endeavour to depict a state of existence as far as possibleapproaching the Utopian ideal, though not necessarily the Nirvana of theBuddhists nor the paradise of fools; let us look not downwards into thedepths of black despair, but upwards into the starry heavens; let usgaze at the golden evening brightening in the west. Richard Jefferieshas taught us that such a literature is possible; and if we read hisbest books, we may some day be granted that fuller soul he prayed forand at length obtained. Would that we could all hear, as he heard, thestill small voice that whispers in the woods and among the wild flowersand the spreading foliage by the brook!

To any one who might be thinking of becoming for the time being "atourist, " and in that capacity visiting the Cotswolds, my advice is, "Don't. " There is really nothing to see. There is nothing, that is tosay, which may not be seen much nearer London. And I freely confess thatmost of the subjects included in this book are usually deemed unworthyof consideration even in the district itself. Still, there are a few whorealise that every county in England is more or less a mine of interest, and for such I have written. Realising my limitations, I have not gonedeeply into any single subject; my endeavour has been to touch on everybranch of country life with as light a hand as possible--to amuse ratherthan to instruct. For, as Washington Irving delightfully sums up thematter: "It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct, to playthe companion rather than the preceptor. What, after all, is the mite ofwisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge? or how am I surethat my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others?But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my owndisappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance rub out onewrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one momentof sorrow; if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film ofmisanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make myreader more in good humour with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written in vain. "

The first half of Chapter II. Originally appeared in the _Pall MallMagazine_. Portions of Chapters VII. And VIII. , and "The Thruster'sSong, " have also been published in _Baily's Magazine_. My thanks are dueto the editors for permission to reproduce them. Chapter XII. Owes itsinspiration to Mr. Madden's excellent work on Shakespeare's connectionwith sport and the Cotswolds, the "Diary of Master William Silence. " Wehave no local tradition of any kind about Shakespeare. 

I am indebted to Miss E. F. Brickdale for the pen-and-ink sketches, andto Colonel Mordaunt for his beautiful photographs. Three of thephotographs, however, are by H. Taunt, of Oxford, and a similar numberare by Mr. Gardner, of Fairford. 

_September 1898_. 

CONTENTS

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

CHAPTER I. 

FLYING WESTWARDS

The Thames Valley--The Old White Horse--Entering the Cotswolds. 

CHAPTER II. 

A COTSWOLD VILLAGE

Far from the Madding Crowd--An Old Farmhouse and Its Occupants--TheManor House--Inscription on Porch--Interior of the House--The Garden--AFairy Spring--The Village Club--Labouring Folk--Village Politics--TheTrout Stream--Flowing Seawards--Village Architecture--The Charm ofAntiquity--The Spirit of Sacrifice--Wayside Crosses--Tithe Barns. 

CHAPTER III. 

VILLAGE CHARACTERS

Quaint Hamlet Folk--The Village Impostor--Rural Economy--Stories of thePeople--A Curious Analogy--Tom Peregrine, the Keeper--A StandingDish--A Great Character--Peregrine's Accomplishments andProclivities--Farmers and Foxes--Concerning Churchwardens--The VillageQuack--An Excellent Prescription--His Lecture--How the Old Fox wasFound--A Good Sort--Heroes of the Hamlet--Political Meetings--Humours ofthe Poll--Gloucestershire Farmers. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE LANGUAGE OF THE COTSWOLDS, WITH SOME ANCIENT SONGS AND LEGENDS

Strange Travellers--Smoking Concerts--The Carter's Song--VillageChoirs--The Chedworth Band--Sense of Humour of the Natives--TheirGeography "a Bit Mixed"--A Large Family--_Noblesse Oblige_--RusticLegends--Names of Fields--The Cotswold Dialect--How to Talk It--AnAncient Ballad--Tom Peregrine Recites--Roger Plowman's Excursion--AnExpensive Luncheon--Oxtail Soup--"The Turmut Hower. "

CHAPTER V. 

ON THE WOLDS

Varied Amusements--Nature on the Hills--The Mysteries ofScent--Partridge-Shooting--A Mixed Bag--Plover--Pigeon-Shooting withDecoys--Bird Life--Sunset on the Downs--A Wild, Deserted Country--AnOld Dog Fox. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A GALLOP OVER THE WALLS

An October Meet--Cub-Hunting--The Old Fox Again! A Fast Gallop over theWalls--The Charm of Uncertainty--Fliers of the Hunt--A Narrow Escape--ACheck--A Reliable Hound--Failure of Scent--An Excellent Tonic. 

CHAPTER VII. 

A COTSWOLD TROUT STREAM

Loch Leven Trout--Curious Capture of an Eel--The Author Catches aRed-Herring--Macomber Falls--A Sad Episode--South CountryStreams--Course of the Coln--Charles Kingsley on Fishing--A May-FlyStream--Evening Fishing--Dry-Fly Dogmas--Flies for the Coln--Scarcity ofPoachers--An Evening Walk by the River--Spring's Delights. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

WHEN THE MAY-FLY IS UP

Derby Day on the Coln--A Good Sportsman--The Right Fly--Pleasures of theCountry--Peregrine's Quaint Expressions--Sport with the Olive Dun--AFine Trout--Effects of Sheep-Washing--A Good Basket--Life by theBrook--A Summer's Night--In the Heart of England. 

CHAPTER IX. 

BURFORD, A COTSWOLD TOWN

Curious Names--The Windrush--Burford Priory--An Empty Shell--TheKingmaker--Lord Falkland--Speaker Lenthall--Bibury Races--An OldTradition--Valued Relics--Burford Church--Mr. Oman's Discovery--Burfordduring the Civil Wars. 

CHAPTER X. 

STROLL THROUGH THE COTSWOLDS

The Old Coaching Days--Fairford--Anglo-SaxonRelics--Hatherop--Coln-St. -Aldwyns--The "Knights Templar" ofQuenington--A Haunt of Ancient Peace--Bibury Village--AncientBarrows--The Prehistoric Age--Deserted Villages--The Philosopher'sStone--True Nobleness--On Battues--Roman Remains--Chedworth Woods--AnOld Manor House. 

CHAPTER XI. 

COTSWOLD PASTIMES

Whitsun Ale--Sports of Various Kinds--The Peregrine Family atCricket--_Prehistoric_ Cricket--A Bad Ground--A "Pretty" Ball--CharlesDickens on Cricket--Dumkins and Podder, Limited--How Dumkins Hit a"Sixer"--Downfall of "Podder"--Bourton-on-the-Water C. C. --APlague of Wasps--The Treatment of Cricket Grounds--The Author'sRecipe--Reflections on Modern Cricket. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE COTSWOLDS THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 

The Centre of Elizabethan Sport--A Digression on South Africa--The Haloof Association--A Day's Stag-Hunting in 1592--A Benighted Sportsman--"AGoodly Dwelling and a Rich"--An Old English Gentleman--Shakespeare onHounds--He Describes the Run--The Death of the Stag--The AncestralPeregrine--Bacon not Wanted--A "Black Ousel"--The Charm ofMusic--Shakespeare's Dream--A Hawking Expedition--Peregrine, the Parson, and the Poet--Methods and Language of Falconry--A Flight at aHeron--Peregrine Views a Fox. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

CIRENCESTER

Roman Remains--The Corinium Museum--The Church--Cirencester House--ThePark--The Abbey--The "Mop" or Hiring Fair--A Great Hunting Centre--AVaried Country--The Badminton Hounds--Lord Bathurst's Hounds--TheCotswold Hounds--Charles Travess--A Born Genius--The CrickladeHounds--The Right Sort of Horse--The Oaksey District--The HeythropHounds--A Defence of Hard Riding--A Day in the Vale--A Hunting Poem. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

SPRING IN THE COTSWOLDS

Habits of Moorhens--Mallard and Swan--Nuthatches--Woodpeckers--HumaneTraps--Badgers--Fox-terriers--ScotchDeerhounds--Retrievers--Cray-fish--TheRookery--Jackdaws--Foxes--Artificial Earths--Fox among Sheep--Foxes andFowls--Poultry Claims--Observations on Scent--The Hygrometer--How Troutare Netted--Scarcity of Otters--Water-Voles. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE PROMISE OF MAY

Wild Flowers--Cottage Gardens--The Paths of Literature--Description of aHorse--Beauty of Trees--Their Loss Irreparable as the Loss of Friends--AFine Type of Englishman--Lines in Memory of W. D. Llewelyn. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

SUMMER DAYS ON THE COTSWOLDS

A Walk in the Fields--Hedgerow Flowers--The Brookside--By "thePill"--Remarks on Gray--A Fine Piece of Miniature Scenery--The CricketGround--The Book of Nature--At the Ford--Habits of Observation--In theConyger Wood--The Home of the Kingfisher--A Limestone Quarry--The GreatStone Floor of the Earth--Nature's Endless Cycle--Beauty of theAsh--Hedgehogs--Trout and Snake--Sunset on the Hills. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

AUTUMN

Remarks on Country Life--Thrashing--The Flail--Gipsies--HarvestFeasts--Fifty Years Ago--The Wolds in Autumn--By theStream--Wildfowl--Migration of Birds--Lapwings--WinterVisitants--Thunderstorms--Glow-Worms--A Brilliant Meteor--Night on theHills--The "Blowing-Stone"--Christmas Day on the Cotswolds--A SolarHalo--Hamlet Festivities--Tom Peregrine Baffled--The Mummers Play--TheVictorian Era--The True Days of "Merrie England"--_Carpe Diem_. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

WHEN THE SUN GOES DOWN

A Glorious Panorama--Peregrine as Secretary--The Light of SettingSuns--Conclusion. 

APPENDIX. 

GEORGE RIDLER'S OVEN

INDEX

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR, FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY MESSRS. SHAWCROSS. 

STOKE POGES CHURCH. 

THE OLD MANOR HOUSE. 

INSCRIPTION ON PORCH OF MANOR HOUSE. 

INTERIOR OF MANOR HOUSE. 

IN THE GARDEN. 

A COTSWOLD MANOR HOUSE. 

COTSWOLD COTTAGES. 

A FARMHOUSE BY THE COLN. 

AN OLD COTTAGE. 

THE HAMLET. 

ON THE WOLDS. 

OXEN PLOUGHING. 

THE OLD CUSTOMER. 

THE OLD MILL, ABLINGTON. 

THE COLN NEAR BIBURY. 

A BRIDGE OVER THE COLN. 

A DISH OF FISH. 

BURFORD PRIORY. 

BURFORD PRIORY. 

THE MANOR HOUSE, COLN-ST. -ALDWYNS. 

BIBURY STREET. 

ARLINGTON ROW. 

VILLAGE CRICKETERS. 

HAWKING. 

BIBURY COURT. 

THE ABBEY GATEWAY, CIRENCESTER. 

MARKET-PLACE, CIRENCESTER. 

AN OLD BARN. 

THE "PILL" BRIDGE. 

IN BIBURY VILLAGE. 

SIDE VIEW OF MANOR HOUSE. 

BIBURY MILL. 

BELOW THE "PILL". 

ABLINGTON MANOR. 

AN OLD-FASHIONED LABOURING COUPLE. 

COLN-ST. -ALDWYNS. 

[Illustration: Stoke Poges Church. 019. Png]

A COTSWOLD VILLAGE. 

CHAPTER I. 

FLYING WESTWARDS. 

London is becoming miserably hot and dusty; everybody who can get awayis rushing off, north, south, east, and west, some to the seaside, others to pleasant country houses. Who will fly with me westwards to theland of golden sunshine and silvery trout streams, the land of breezyuplands and valleys nestling under limestone hills, where the scream ofthe railway whistle is seldom heard and the smoke of the factorydarkens not the long summer days? Away, in the smooth "Flying Dutchman";past Windsor's glorious towers and Eton's playing-fields; past thelittle village and churchyard where a century and a half ago the famous"Elegy" was written, and where, hard by "those rugged elms, thatyew-tree's shade, " yet rests the body of the mighty poet, Gray. Howthose lines run in one's head this bright summer evening, as from ourrailway carriage we note the great white dome of Stoke House peeping outamid the elms! whilst every field reminds us of him who wrote thoselilting stanzas long, long ago. 

 "Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields, beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain: I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow; As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe, And redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. "

But soon we are flashing past Reading, where Sutton's nursery gardensare bright with scarlet and gold, and blue and white; every flower thatcan be made to grow in our climate grows there, we may be sure. Butthere is no need of garden flowers now, when the fields and hedges, eventhe railway banks, are painted with the lovely blue of wild geraniumsand harebells, the gold of birdsfoot trefoil and Saint John's wort, andthe white and pink of convolvulus or bindweed. We are passing throughsome of the richest scenery in the Thames valley. There, on the right, is Mapledurham, a grand mediaeval building, surrounded by such a wealthof stately trees as you will see nowhere else. The Thames runspractically through the grounds. What a glorious carpet of gold isspread over these meadows when the buttercups are in full bloom! Nowcomes Pangbourne, with its lovely weir, where the big Thames trout loveto lie. Pangbourne used to be one of the prettiest villages on theriver; but its popularity has spoilt it. 

As we pass onwards, many other country houses--Purley, Basildon, andHardwick--with their parks and clustering cottages, add their charm tothe view. There are the beautiful woods of Streatley: hanging copsesclothe the sides of the hills, and pretty villages nestle amid thetrees. But soon the scene changes: the glorious valley Father Thames hasscooped out for himself is left behind; we are crossing the chalkuplands. On all sides are vast stretches of unfenced arable land, thoughhere and there a tiny village with its square-towered Norman churchpeeps out from an oasis of green fields and stately elm trees. On theright the Chiltern Hills are seen in the background, and Wittenham Clumpstands forth--a conspicuous object for miles. The country round Didcotreminds one very much of the north of France: between Calais and Parisone notices the same chalk soil, the same flat arable fields, and thesame old-fashioned farmhouses and gabled cottages. 

But now we have entered the grand old Berkshire vale. "Fields andhedges, hedges and fields; peace and plenty, plenty and peace. I shouldlike to take a foreigner down the vale of Berkshire in the end of May, and ask him what he thought of old England. " Thus wrote Charles Kingsleyforty years ago, when times were better for Berkshire farmers. But thesame old fields and the same old hedges still remain--only we do notappreciate them as much as did the author of "Westward Ho!"

Steventon, that lovely village with its gables and thatched roofs, itswhite cottage walls set with beams of blackest oak, its Norman church inthe midst of spreading chestnuts and leafy elms, appears from therailway to be one of the most old-fashioned spots on earth. This vale isfull of fine old trees; but in many places the farmers have spoilt theirbeauty by lopping off the lower branches because the grass will not growunder their wide-spreading foliage. It is only in the parks andwoodlands that the real glory of the timber remains. 

And now we may notice what a splendid hunting country is this Berkshirevale. The fields are large and entirely grass; the fences, thoughstrong, are all "flying" ones--posts and rails, too, are frequent in thehedges. Many a fine scamper have the old Berkshire hounds enjoyed overthese grassy pastures, where the Rosy Brook winds its sluggish course;and we trust they will continue to do so for many years to come. Longmay that day be in coming when the sound of the horn is no longer heardin this delightful country!

High up on the hill the old White Horse soon appears in view, cut in thevelvety turf of the rolling chalk downs. But, in the words of theold ballad, "The ould White Horse wants zettin' to rights. "

He wants "scouring" badly. A stranger, if shown this old relic, thecentre of a hundred legends, famous the whole world over, would find itdifficult to recognise any likeness to a fiery steed in those uncertainlines of chalk. Nevertheless, this is the monument King Alfred made tocommemorate his victory over the Danes at Ashdown. So the tradition ofthe country-side has had it for a thousand years, and shall athousand more. 

The horse is drawn as galloping. Frank Buckland took the followingmeasurements of him: The total length is one hundred and seventy yards;his eye is four feet across; his ear fifteen yards in length; hishindleg is forty-three yards long. Doubtless the full proportions of theWhite Horse are not kept scoured nowadays; for a few weeks ago I was upon the hill and took some of the measurements myself. I could not makemine agree with Frank Buckland's: for instance, the ear appeared to beseven yards only in length, and not fifteen; so that it would seem thatthe figure is gradually growing smaller. It is the head and forelegsthat want scouring worst of all. There is little sign of the trench, twofeet deep, which in Buckland's time formed the outline of the horse; thedepth of the cutting is now only a matter of a very few inches. 

The view from this hill is a very extensive one, embracing the vale fromBath almost to Reading the whole length of the Cotswold Hills, as wellas the Chilterns, stretching away eastwards towards Aylesbury, and farinto Buckinghamshire. Beneath your feet lie many hundred thousand acresof green pastures, varied in colour during summer and autumn by goldenwheatfields bright with yellow charlock and crimson poppies. It hasbeen said that eleven counties are visible on clear days. 

The White Horse at Westbury, further down the line, represents a horsein a standing position. He reflects the utmost credit on his grooms; fornot only are his shapely limbs "beautifully and wonderfully made, " butthe greatest care is taken of him. The Westbury horse is not in realitynearly so large as this one at Uffington, but he is a very beautifulfeature of the country. I paid him a visit the other day, and wassurprised to find he was very much smaller than he appears from therailway. Glancing over a recent edition of Tom Hughes' book, "TheScouring of the White Horse, " I found the following lines:--

"In all likelihood the _pastime_ of 1857 will be the last of his race;for is not the famous Saxon (or British) horse now scheduled to an Actof Parliament as an ancient monument which will be maintained in time tocome as a piece of prosaic business, at the cost of other than Berkshiremen reared within sight of the hill?"

Alas! it is too true. There has been no _pastime_ since 1857. 

It would have been a splendid way of commemorating the "diamond jubilee"if a scouring had been organised in 1897. Forty years have passed sincethe last pastime, with its backsword play and "climmin a greasy pole fora leg of mutton, " its race for a pig and a cheese; and, oddly enough, the previous scouring had taken place in the year of the Queen'saccession, sixty-one years ago. It would be enough to make poor TomHughes turn in his grave if he knew that the old White Horse had beenturned out to grass, and left to look after himself for the rest ofhis days!

Those were grand old times when the Berkshire; Gloucestershire, andSomersetshire men amused themselves by cracking each other's heads andcudgel-playing for a gold-laced hat and a pair of buckskin breeches;when a flitch of bacon was run for by donkeys; and when, last, but notleast, John Morse, of Uffington, "grinned agin another chap droo hos[horse] collars, a fine bit of spwoart, to be sure, and made the folkslaaf. " I here quote from Tom Hughes' book, "The Scouring of the WhiteHorse, " to which I must refer my readers for further interestingparticulars. 

There are some days during summer when the sunlight is so beautiful thatevery object is invested with a glamour and a charm not usuallyassociated with it. Such a day was that of which we write. As we weregliding out of Swindon the sun was beginning to descend. From a GreatWestern express, running at the rate of sixty miles an hour throughpicturesque country, you may watch the sun setting amidst every varietyof scenery. Now some hoary grey tower stands out against the intensebrightness of the western sky; now a tracery of fine trees shades for atime the dazzling light; then suddenly the fiery furnace is revealedagain, reflected perhaps in the waters of some stream or amid the reedsand sedges of a mere, where a punt is moored containing anglers in broadwideawake hats. Gradually a dark purple shade steals over the long rangeof chalk hills; white, clean-looking roads stand out clearly definedmiles away on the horizon; the smoke that rises straight up from someivy-covered homestead half a mile away is bluer than the evening sky--adeep azure blue. The horizon is clear in the south, but in thenorth-west dark, but not forbidding clouds are rising; fantasticcloudlets float high up in the firmament; rooks coming home to roost areplainly visible several miles away against the brilliant western sky. 

This Great Western Railway runs through some of the finest bits of oldEngland. Not long ago, in travelling from Chepstow to Gloucester, wewere fairly amazed at the surpassing beauty of the views. It wasMay-day, and the weather was in keeping with the occasion. The sight ofthe old town of Chepstow and the silvery Wye, as we left them behind us, was fine enough; but who can describe the magnificent panorama presentedby the wide Severn at low tide? Yellow sands, glittering like gold inthe dazzling sunshine, stretched away for miles; beyond these a vista ofgreen meadows, with the distant Cotswold Hills rising out of dreamyhaze; waters of chrysolite, with fields of malachite beyond; the azuresky overhead flecked with clouds of pearl and opal, and all around thepear orchards in full bloom. 

While on the subject of scenery, may I enter a protest against thechange the Great Western Railway has lately made in the photographswhich adorn their carriages? They used to be as beautiful as one couldwish; lately, however, the colouring has been lavished on them with nosparing hand. These "photo-chromes" are unnatural and impossible, whereas the old permanent photographs were very beautiful. 

At Kemble, with its old manor house and stone-roofed cottages, we saygood-bye to the Vale of White Horse; for we have entered the Cotswolds. Stretching from Broadway to Bath, and from Birdlip to Burford, andcontaining about three hundred square miles, is a vast tract of hillcountry, intersected by numerous narrow valleys. Probably at one periodthis district was a rough, uncultivated moor. It is now cultivated forthe most part, and grows excellent barley. The highest point of thisextensive range is eleven hundred and thirty-four feet, but the averagealtitude would not exceed half that height. Almost every valley has itslittle brook. The district is essentially a "stone country;" for all thehouses and most of their roofs are built of the local limestone, whichlies everywhere on these hills within a few inches of the surface. Thereis no difficulty in obtaining plenty of stone hereabouts. The chiefcharacteristics of the buildings are their antiquity and Gothicquaintness. The air is sharp and bracing, and the climate, as isinevitable on the shallow, porous soil of the oolite hills, wonderfullydry and invigorating. "Lands of gold have been found, and lands ofspices and precious merchandise; but this is the land of _health_" Thuswrote Richard Jefferies of the downs, and thus say we of the Cotswolds. 

And now our Great Western express is gliding into Cirencester, theancient capital of the Cotswold country. How fair the old place seemsafter the dirt and smoke of London! Here town and country are blendedinto one, and everything is clean and fresh and picturesque. The garishchurch, as you view it from the top of the market-place, has a charmunsurpassed by any other sacred building in the land. In what that charmlies I have often wondered. Is it the marvellous symmetry of the wholegraceful pile, as the eye, glancing down the massive square tower andalong the pierced battlements and elaborate pinnacles, finally rests onthe empty niches and traceried oriel windows of the magnificent southporch? I cannot say in what the charm exactly consists, but this statelyGothic fane has a grandeur as impressive as it is unexpected, recallingthose wondrous words of Ruskin's:

"I used to feel as much awe in gazing at the buildings as on the hills, and could believe that God had done a greater work in breathing into thenarrowness of dust the mighty spirits by whom its haughty walls had beenraised and its burning legends written, than in lifting the rock ofgranite higher than the clouds of heaven, and veiling them with theirvarious mantle of purple flower and shadowy pine. "

[Illustration: The Old Manor House. 029. Png]

CHAPTER II. 

A COTSWOLD VILLAGE. 

The village is not a hundred miles from London, yet "far from themadding crowd's ignoble strife. " A green, well-wooded valley, in themidst of those far-stretching, cold-looking Cotswold Hills, it is likean oasis in the desert. 

Up above on the wolds all is bleak, dull, and uninteresting. The air upthere is ever chill; walls of loose stone divide field from field, andfew houses are to be seen. But down in the valley all is fertile andfull of life. It is here that the old-fashioned villagers dwell. Howwell I remember the first time I came upon it! One fine Septemberevening, having left all traces of railways and the ancient Roman townof Cirencester some seven long miles behind me, with wearied limbs Isought this quiet, sequestered spot. Suddenly, as I was wondering howamid these never ending hills there could be such a place as I had beentold existed, I beheld it at my feet, surpassing beautiful! Below me wasa small village, nestling amid a wealth of stately trees. The hand ofman seemed in some bygone time to have done all that was necessary torender the place habitable, but no more. There were cottages, bridges, and farm buildings, but all were ivy clad and time worn. The very treesthemselves appeared to be laden with a mantle of ivy that was more thanthey could bear. Many a tall fir, from base to topmost twig, wascompletely robed with the smooth, five-pointed leaves of this rapaciousevergreen. Through the thick foliage, of elm and ash and beech, I couldjust see an old manor house, and round about it, as if for protection, were clustered some thirty cottages. A murmuring of waters filled myears, and on descending the hill I came upon a silvery trout stream, which winds its way down the valley, broad and shallow, now gentlygliding over smooth gravel, now dashing over moss-grown stones and rock. The cottages, like the manor house and farm buildings, are all built ofthe native stone, and all are gabled and picturesque. Indeed, save a fewnew cottages, most of the dwellings appeared to be two or three hundredyears old. One farmhouse I noted carefully, and I longed to tear awaythe ivy from the old and crumbling porch, to see if I could not discernsome half-effaced inscription telling me the date of this relic of thedays of "Merrie England. "

This quaint old place appeared older than the rest of the buildings. Onenquiry, I learnt that long, long ago, before the present manor houseexisted, this was the abode of the old squires of the place; but for thelast hundred years it had been the home of the principal tenant and hisancestors--yeomen farmers of the old-fashioned school, with some sixhundred acres of land. The present occupants appeared to be an old manof some seventy years of age and his three sons. Keen sportsmen these, who dearly love to walk for hours in pursuit of game in the autumn, onthe chance of bagging an occasional brace of partridges or a wildpheasant (for everything here is wild), or, in winter, when lake and fenare frostbound, by the river and its withybeds after snipe andwildfowl--for the Cotswold stream has never been known to freeze!

In this small hamlet I noticed that there were no less than three hugebarns. At first I thought they were churches, so magnificent were theirproportions and so delicate and interesting their architecture. One ofthese barns is four hundred years old. 

Fifty years ago, what with the wool from his sheep and the grain thatwas stored in these barns year by year, the Cotswold farmer was a richman. Alas! _Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis!_ One can picturethe harvest home, annually held in the barn, in old days so cheery, butnow often nothing more than a form. Here, however, in this village, Ilearnt that, in spite of bad times, some of the old customs have notbeen allowed to pass away, and right merry is the harvest home. AndChristmastide is kept in real old English fashion; nor do the mummersforget to go their nightly rounds, with their strange tale of "St. George and the dragon. "

As I walk down the road I come suddenly upon the manor house--the "bighouse" of the village. Long and somewhat low, it stands close to theroad, and is of some size. Over the doorway of the porch is thefollowing inscription, engraven on stone in a recess:--

 "PLEAD THOU MY CAVSE; OH LORD. " "BY JHON COXWEL ANO DOMENY 1590. "

Underneath this inscription, and immediately over the entrance, are fiveheads, elaborately carved in stone. In the centre is Queen Elizabeth; tothe right are portrayed what I take to be the features of Henry VIII. ;whilst on the left is Mary. The other two are uncertain, but they areprobably Philip of Spain and James I. 

I was enchanted with the place. The quaint old Elizabethan gables andsombre bell-tower, the old-fashioned entrance gates, the luxuriantgrowth of ivy, combined together to give that air of peace, that charmwhich belongs so exclusively to the buildings of the middle ages. Knowing that the house was for the time being unoccupied, I walkedboldly into the outer porch, meaning to go no further. But anotherinscription over the solid oak door encouraged me to enter:

 "PORTA PATENS ESTO, NULLI CLAUDARIS HONESTO. "

I therefore opened the inner door with some difficulty, for it washeavy and cumbersome, and found myself in the hall. Although nothingremarkable met my eye, I was delighted to find everything in keepingwith the place. The old-fashioned furniture, the old oak, the grimportraits and quaint heraldry, all were there. I was much interested insome carved beams of black oak, which I afterwards learnt originallyformed part of the magnificent roof of the village church. When the roofwas under repair a few years back, these beams were thrown aside asrotten and useless, and thus found their way into the manor house. Everyatom of genuine old work of this kind is deeply interesting, representing as it does the rude chiselling which hands that have longbeen dust in the village churchyard wrought with infinite pains. Thatoak roof, carved in rich tracery, resting for ages on arcades ofdog-tooth Norman and graceful Early English work, had echoed back thesongs of praise and prayer that rose Sunday after Sunday from the lipsof successive generations of simple country folk at matins and atevensong, before the strains of the Angelus had been hushed for ever bythe Reformation. And who can tell how long before the Conquest, and bywhat manner of men, were planted the trees destined to provide thesemassive beams of oak?

In the centre of the hall was a round table, with very ancient-looking, high-backed chairs scattered about, of all shapes and sizes. Portraitsof various degrees of indifferent oil painting adorned the walls of thehall and staircase. Somebody appeared to have been shooting with acatapult at some of the pictures. One old gentleman had a shot throughhis nose; and an old fellow with a hat on, over the window, had receiveda pellet in the right eye![1]

[Footnote 1: The writer, in a fit of infantile insanity, being then agedabout nine, was discovered in the very act of committing this assault onhis ancestors some twenty years ago, in Hertfordshire. ]

A copy of the Magna Charta, a suit of mediaeval armour, several rustyhelmets (Cromwellian and otherwise), antlers of several kinds of deer, and a variety of old swords, pistols, and guns were the objects thatchiefly attracted my attention. The walls were likewise adorned with alarge number of heraldic shields. 

I like to see coats-of-arms and escutcheons hanging up in churches andin the halls of old country houses, for the following simple reasons. There is meaning in them--deep, mystic meaning, such as no ordinarypicture can boast. Every quartering on that ancient shield emblazoned inred, black, and gold has a legend attached to it Hundreds of years ago, in those splendid mediaeval times--nay, farther back than that, in thedim, mysterious, dark ages--each of those quarterings was a device wornby some brave knight or squire on his heavy shield. It was hiscognizance in the field of battle and at the tournament. It was borne atAgincourt perhaps; at Creçy, or Poitiers, or in the lists for some"faire ladye"; and it is a token of ancient chivalry, an emblem of thedays that have been and never more will be. It was doubtless the sightof those eighteen great hatchments which still hang in the littlechurch at Stoke Poges that inspired Gray to attune his harp to suchlofty strains. 

 "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour The paths of glory lead but to the grave. "

Among other old masters was a portrait of the "John Coxwel" who builtthe house, by Cornelius Jansen, dated 1613. The house did not appearremarkable either for size or grandeur; yet there is always somethingparticularly pleasing to me to alight unexpectedly on buildings of thiskind, and to find that although they are obscure and unknown, they areon a small scale as interesting to the antiquarian as Knole, Hatfield, and other more famous mediaeval houses. Some lattice windows, evidentlyat some time out of doors, but now on the inner walls, showed that inmore recent times the house had been enlarged, and the old courtyardwalled in and made part of the hall. Over one of these windows is theinscription, "_Post tenebras lux_. " The part I liked best, however, wasthe old-fashioned passage, with its lattice windows and musty dungeonsavour, leading to the ancient kitchen and to a little oak-panelledsitting-room: but, knocking my head severely against the oak beam in thedoorway, I nearly brought the whole ceiling down, a catastrophe whichthey tell me has happened before now in this rather rickety old manorhouse. Opening a door on the other side of the house, I passed out intothe garden. How characteristic of the place!--a broad terrace runningalong the whole length of the house, and beyond that a few flower bedswith the old sundial in their midst Beyond these a lawn, and then grasssweeping down to the edge of the river, some hundred yards away. Beyondthe river again more grass, but of a wilder description, where therabbits are scudding about or listening with pricked ears; and in thebackground a magnificent hanging wood, crowning the side of the valley, with a large rookery in it. I was much struck with the different tintsof the foliage; for although autumn had not yet begun to turn theleaves, the different shades of green were most striking. A gigantic ashtree on the far side of the river stood out in bold relief, its lighterleaves being in striking contrast to the dark firs in the background. Then walnut and hazel, beech and chestnut all offered infinite varietyof shape and foliage. The river here had been broadened to a width ofsome ninety feet, and an island had been made. The place seemed to be averitable sportsman's paradise! Dearly would Isaac Walton have loved todwell here! From the windows of the old house he would have loved tolisten to the splash of the trout, the cawing of the rooks, and thequack of the waterfowl, while all the air is filled with the cooing ofdoves and the songs of birds. At night he could have heard the murmuringwaterfall amid a stillness only broken at intervals by the scream of theowl, the clatter of the goatsucker, or the weird barking of the foxes:for not two hundred yards from the house and practically in the garden, is a fox earth that has never been without a litter of, cubs forforty years!

In an ivy-covered house in the stable-yard I saw a very large number offoxes' noses nailed to boards of wood--as Sir Roger de Coverley used tonail them. They appeared to have been slain by one Dick Turpin, huntsmanto the Vale of White Horse hounds, some thirty or forty years ago, whena quondam master of those hounds lived in this old place. 

What a charm there is in an old-fashioned English garden! The great tallhollyhocks and phlox, the bright orange marigolds and large purplepoppies. The beds and borders crammed with cloves and many-colouredasters, the sweet blue of the cornflower, and the little lobelias. Zinneas, too, of all colours; dahlias, tall stalks of anenome japonica, and such tangled masses of stocks! As I walked down by the old gardenwall, whereon lots of roses hung their dainty heads, I thought I hadnever seen grass so green and fresh looking, except in certain partsof Ireland. 

But the wild flowers by the silent river pleased me best of all. Such amedley of graceful, fragrant meadow-sweet, and tall, rough-leavedwillow-herbs with their lovely pink flowers. Light blue scorpion-grassesand forget-me-nots were there too, not only among the sword-flags andthe tall fescue-grasses by the bank, but little islands of them dottedabout a over the brook. Thyme-scented water-mint, with lilac-tintedspikes and downy stalks, was almost lost amongst the taller wild flowersand the "segs" that fringed the brook-side. 

There are no flowers like the wild ones; they last right through thesummer and autumn--yet we can never have enough of them, never ceasewondering at their marvellous delicacy and beauty. 

Darting straight up stream on the wings of the soft south wind comes akingfisher clothed in priceless jewelry, sparkling in the sun: sapphireand amethyst on his bright blue back, rubies on his ruddy breast, anddiamonds round his princely neck. Monarch he is of silvery stream, andpetty tyrant of the silvery fish. 

I was told by a labourer that the trout ran from a quarter of a pound tothree pounds, and that they average one pound in weight; that in the"may-fly" season a score of fish are often taken in the day by one rod, and that the method of taking them is by the artificial fly, well driedand deftly floated over feeding fish. These Cotswold streams are fed atintervals of about half a mile by the most beautiful springs, and fromthe rock comes pouring forth an everlasting supply of the purest andclearest of water. I was shown such a spring in a withybed hard by theold manor house. I saw nothing at first but a still, transparent pool, nine feet deep (they told me); it looked but three! But as I gaze at thebeautiful fernlike weeds at the bottom, they are seen to be gentlyfanned by the water that rises--never failing even in the hottest anddriest of summers--from the invisible rock below. The whole scene--thesilent pool at my feet, the rich, well-timbered valley, with its markedcontrast to the cold hills that overlook it--reminded me forcibly ofWhyte-Melville's lines at the conclusion of the most impressive poem heever wrote: "The Fairies' Spring":

 "And sweet to the thirsting lips of men Is the spring of tears in the fairies' glen. "

Out of this fairy spring was taken quite recently, but not with the"dry" fly--for no fish could be deceived in water of such stainlesstransparency--a trout that weighed three pounds and a half. He was farand away the most beautiful trout we ever saw; as silvery as a salmonthat has just left the sea, he was a worthy denizen of the secludeddepths of that crystal spring, still welling up from the pure limestonerock in the heart of the Cotswold Hills, as it has for a thousand years. 

I was told that the place was still owned by the descendants of thepious John Coxwell who built the manor house and commemorated it by thequaint inscription over the porch in 1590. Doubtless the architecture ofall our Elizabethan manor houses in the shape of a letter E owes itsorigin to the first letter in the name of that great queen. 

That year was a fitting time for the building of "those haunts ofancient peace" that have ever since beautified the villages of ruralEngland. Not two years before men's minds had been stirred to a pitch ofdeep religious enthusiasm by what was then regarded throughout allEngland as a divine miracle--the destruction of the Spanish Armada. Scarce three years had passed since the war with Scotland had terminatedin the execution of the ill-fated Mary Queen of Scots. It is difficultfor us, at the close of this nineteenth century, to realise the feelingsof our ancestors in those times of daily terror and anxiety. And whenmen were daily executed, and human life was held as cheap as we nowvalue a sheep or an ox, no wonder John Coxwell was pious, and no wonderhe engraved that pious inscription over those crumbling walls. 

In the year 1590 there was a lull in those tempestuous times, and menwere able to turn for a while from the strife of battle and the dailyfear of death and cultivate the arts of peace. 

Thus this stately little manor house was reared, and many like itthroughout the kingdom; and there it still stands, and will stand longafter the modern building has fallen to the ground. For not without muchhard toil and sweat of brow did our forefathers erect these monuments of"a day that is dead"; and they remain to testify to the solid masonryand laborious workmanship of ancient times. 

The descendants of this John Coxwell live on another property of theirssome twelve miles away; it is nearly seventy years since they haveinhabited this old house. I was pleased to find, however, that thepresent occupiers look after the labouring classes; that what rabbitsare killed on the manor are not sold, but distributed in the village. There is an old ivy-clad building in the grounds, only a few paces fromthe manor house. This is the village club. Here squire, farmer, andlabourer are accustomed to meet on equal terms. I was somewhat surprisedto see on the club table the _Times_, the _Pall Mall Gazette_, and otherpapers. These wonderful specimens of nineteenth-century literaturecontrast strangely with a place that in many respects has remainedunchanged for centuries. 

There are few labourers in England, even in these days, who have theopportunity--if they will take it--of reading the _Times'_ report ofevery speech made in parliament. Perhaps, some day, will come forth fromthis hamlet

 "Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood";

one who from earliest youth has kept himself in touch with the politicsof the day, and has fitted himself to sit in the House of Commons as therepresentative of his class. There are still a few "little tyrants" inthe fields in all parts of England, but they are very much scarcer thanwas the case fifty years ago. 

I was much pleased with a conversation I had with an old-fashionedlabouring man who, though not past middle age, appeared to beincapacitated from work owing to a "game leg, " and whom I found sittingunder a walnut tree in the manor grounds hard by the brook. He informedme that there was bagatelle at the club for those who liked it, and allsorts of games, and smoking concerts: that it was a question who was thebest bagatelle player in the club; but that it probably lay between thesquire and his head gardener, though Tom, the carter, was likely to runthem close! I was glad to find so much good feeling existing among allclasses of this little community, and was not surprised to learn thatthis was a contented and happy village. 

In this description of "a Cotswold village" we have been looking on thebright side of things, and there is, thank Heaven! many a place, _mutato nomine_, that would answer to it. Alas! that there should beanother side to the picture, which we would fain leave untouched. 

Gloucestershire, nay England, is full of old manor houses and fair, smiling villages; but in many parts of the country we see buildingsfalling out of repair and deserted mansions. Would that we knew theremedy for agricultural depression! But let us not despair. 

 "The future hides in it Gladness and sorrow; We press still thorow, Nought that abides in it Daunting us, --onward!"

It is a sad thing when the "big house" of the village is empty. Thelabourers who never see their squire begin to look upon him as a sort ofogre, who exists merely to screw rents out of the land they till. Thosewho are dependent on land alone are often the men who do their duty beston their estates, and, poor though they may be, they are much beloved. But it is to be feared that in some parts of England men who are notsuffering from the depression--rich tenants of country houses and thelike--are apt to take a somewhat limited view of their duty towardstheir poorer neighbours. To be sure, the good ladies at the "greathouse" are invariably "ministering angels" to the poor in time ofsickness, but even in these democratic days there is too great a gulffixed between all classes. Let all those who are fortunate enough tolive in such a place as we have attempted to describe remember that akind word, a shake of the hand, the occasional distribution of gamethroughout the village, and a hundred other small kindnesses do more towin the heart of the labouring man than much talk at election times ofSmall Holdings, Parish Councils, or Free Education. 

A tea given two or three times a year by the squire to the wholevillage, when the grounds are thrown open to them, does much to lightenthe dulness of their existence and to cheer the monotonous round ofdaily toil. It is often thoughtlessness rather than poverty thatprevents those who live in the large house of the village from beingreally loved by those around them. There are many instances of unpopularsquires whose faces the cottagers never behold, and yet these men may bespending hundreds of pounds each year for the benefit of those whoseaffection they fail to gain. 

Alas! that there should exist in so many country places that classfeeling that is called Radicalism. It is perhaps fortunate that underthe guise of politics what is really nothing else but bitterness anddiscontent is hidden and prevented from being recognised by itstrue name. 

There are many country houses that are shut up for the greater part ofthe year for other reasons than agricultural depression, often becausethe owner, while preferring to reside elsewhere, is too proud to let theplace to a stranger. This should not be. Let these rich men who ownlarge houses and great estates live _in_ those houses and _on_ thoseestates, or endeavour to find a tenant. We repeat that the landownerswho really feel the stress of bad times for the most part do their dutynobly. They have learnt it in the severe school of adversity. It is thericher class that we should like to see taking a greater interest intheir humble neighbours; and their power is great. The possessor ofwealth is too often the tacit upholder of the doctrine of _laissezfaire_. The times we live in will no longer allow it. Let us be up anddoing. In many small ways we may do much to promote good fellowship, andbitterness and discontent shall be no longer known in the rural villagesof England. 

II. 

In the dead of winter these old grey houses of the Cotswolds are alittle melancholy, save when the sun shines. But to every variety ofscenery winter is the least becoming season of the year, though the hoarfrost or a touch of snow will transform a whole village into fairylandat a moment's notice. Then the trout stream, which at other seasons ofthe year is a never failing attraction, running as it does for the mostpart through the woods, in mid winter seldom reflects the light of thesun, and looks cold and uninviting. One may learn much, it is true, ofthe wonders of nature in the dead time of the year by watching the greattrout on the spawn beds as they pile up the gravel day by day, and storeup beautiful, transparent ova, of which but a ten-thousandth part willlive to replenish the stock for future years. But the delight of a clearstream is found in the spring and summer; then those cool, shaded deepsand sparkling eddies please us by their contrast to the hot, burningsun; and we love, even if we are not fishermen, to linger by the bank'neath the shade of ash and beech and alder, and watch the wonderfullife around us in the water and in the air. 

As you sit sometimes on a bench hard by the Coln, watching the crystalwater as it pours down the artificial fall from the miniature lake inthe wild garden above, you may make a minute calculation of the day andhour that that very water which is flowing past you now will reachLondon Bridge, two hundred miles below. Allowing one mile an hour as theaverage pace of the current, ten days is, roughly speaking, the time itwill take on its journey. And when one reflects that every drop thatpasses has its work to do, in carrying down to the sea lime and I knownot how many other ingredients, and in depositing that lime and all thatit picked up on its way at the bottom of the ocean, to help perhaps informing the great rolling downs of a new continent--after this island ofours has ceased to be--one cannot but realise that in all seasons of theyear a trout stream is a wonderfully interesting and instructive thing. 

TO THE COLN. 

Flow on, clear, fresh trout stream, emblem of purity and perfect truth;thou hast accomplished a mighty work, thou hast a mighty work to do. Whocan count the millions of tons of lime that thou hast borne down to thesea in far-off Kent? Thou hast indeed "strength to remove mountains, "for day by day the soil that thou hast taken from these limestone hillsis being piled up at the mouth of the great historic river, and some dayperchance it shall become rolling downs again. Fed by clear springs, thou shalt gradually steal thy way along the Cotswold valleys, drainingfoul marshes, irrigating the sweet meadows. Thou shalt turn the wheelsand grind many a hundred sacks of corn ere to-morrow's sun is set. Andthen thou shalt change thy name. No longer silvery Coln, but mightyThames, shalt thou be called; and many a fair scene shall gladden thysight as thou slowly passest along towards thy goal. 

Smiling meadows and Gloucestershire vales will soon give place to fairBerkshire villages, and, further on, to those glorious spires and courtsof Oxford; and here shalt thou make many friends--friends who willevermore think kindly of thee, ever associate thy placid waters with allthat they loved best and held dearest during their brief sojourning inthose old walls which tower above thy banks. A few short miles, and thoushalt pass a quiet and sacred spot--sacred to me, and dear above allother spots; for close to that little village church of Clifton Hampden, and close to thee, we laid some years ago the mortal body of a nobleman. And when thou stealest gently by, and night mists rise from off thyglassy face, be sure and drop a tear in silvery dew upon the moss-grownstone I know so well. And then pass on to Eton, fairest spot on earth. Mark well the playing-fields, the glorious trees, and Windsor toweringhigh. Here shalt thou be loved by many a generous heart, and youth andhope and smiling faces greet thee, as they long since greeted me. Ahwell! those friendships never could have been made so firm and lastingmid any other scenes save under thy wide-spreading elms, beloved Eton. 

But onwards, onwards thou must glide, from scenes of tranquil beautysuch as these. The flag which sails o'er Windsor's stately towers mustsoon be lost to sight. Thy course once more through silent fields islaid; but not for long; for, Hampton Court's fair palace passed, alreadycanst thou hear the wondrous roar of unceasing footsteps in the busyhaunts of men. 

Courage! thy goal is nearly reached: already thou art great, and greaterstill shalt thou become. Thy once transparent waters shall be mergedwith salt. Thus shalt thou be given strength to bear great ships uponthy bosom, and thine eyes shall behold the greatest city of the wholewide world. Nay, more; thou shalt become the most indispensable part ofthat city--its very life-blood, of a value not to be measured by gold. Thou makest England what it is. 

Flow on, historic waters, symbolic of all that is good, all that isgreat--flow on, and do thy glorious work until this world shall cease;bearing thy mighty burden down towards the sea, showing mankind what canbe wrought from small beginnings by slow and patient labour day by day. 

 * * * * *

Even in winter I do not know any scene more pleasing to the eye than thesight of a Cotswold hamlet nestling amid the stately trees in thevalley, if you happen to see it on a fine day. And if there has been aperiod of rainy, sunless weather for a month past, you are probably allthe more ready to appreciate the changed appearance which everythingwears. If that peaceful, bright aspect had been habitual, you wouldnever have noticed anything remarkable to-day. It is this very changefulnature of our English climate which gives it more than half its charm. 

But the great attraction of this country lies in its being one of thefew spots now remaining on earth which have not only been made beautifulby God, but in which the hand of man has erected scarcely a buildingwhich is not in strict conformity and good taste. One cannot walkthrough these Cotswold hamlets without noticing that the architecture ofthe country in past ages, as well as in the present day to a certaindegree, shows obedience to some of those divine laws which Ruskin hastold us ought to govern all the works of man's hand. 

"The spirit of sacrifice, " "the lamp of truth" are manifest in theancient churches and manor houses, as well as in the humble farmhouses, cottages, and even the tithe barns of this district. Two thirds of thebuildings are old, and, as Ruskin has beautifully expressed it: "Thegreatest glory of a building is not in its stones, nor in its gold. Itsglory is in its age, and in that deep sense of voicefulness, of sternwatching, of mysterious sympathy, nay, even of approval or condemnation, which we feel in walls that have long been washed by the passing wavesof humanity. It is in their lasting witness against men, in their quietcontrast with the transitional character of all things, in the strengthwhich, through the lapse of seasons and times, and the decline and birthof dynasties, and the changing of the face of the earth, and of thelimits of the sea, maintains its sculptured shapeliness for a timeinsuperable, connects forgotten and following ages with each other, andhalf constitutes the identity, as it concentrates the sympathy, ofnations;--it is in that golden stain of time that we are to look for thereal light and colour and preciousness of architecture; and it is notuntil a building has assumed this character, till it has been entrustedwith the fame and hallowed by the deeds of men, till its walls have beenwitnesses of suffering and its pillars rise out of the shadow of death, that its existence, more lasting as it is than that of the naturalobjects of the world around it, can be gifted with even so much as thesepossess of language and of life. "

If we would seek a lesson in sacrifice from the men who lived andlaboured here in the remote past, we can learn many a one from thosedeep walls of native stone, and that laborious workmanship which was thechief characteristic of the toil of our simple ancestors. "All old work, nearly, has been hard work; it may be the hard work of children, ofbarbarians, of rustics, but it is always their utmost. " They may havebeen ignorant of the sanitary laws which govern health, and ill advisedin some of the sites they chose, but they grudged neither hand labournor sweat of brow; they spent the best years of their lives in theerection of the temples where we still worship and the manor houses westill inhabit. 

It is not claimed that there is much _ornamental_ architecture to befound in these Cotswold buildings; it is something in these days if wecan boast that there is nothing to offend the eye in a district which isless than a hundred miles from London. There is no other district ofequal extent within the same radius of which as much could be said. 

 "Jam pauca aratro jugera regiae Moles relinquent. "

But here all the houses are picturesque, great and small alike. Andthere are here and there pieces of work which testify to the piety andfaith of very early days: fragments of inscriptions chiselled out morethan fifteen hundred years ago--such as the four stones at Chedworth, discovered some thirty years ago, together with many other interestingrelics of the Roman occupation, by a gamekeeper in search of a ferret. On these stones were found the Greek letters [GREEK: Ch] and [GREEK: r], forming the sacred monogram "C. H. R. " Fifteen hundred years had notobliterated this simple evidence of ancient faith, nor had thedevastation of the ages impaired the beauty of design, nor marred theharmony of colouring of those delicate pavements and tesserae with whichthese wonderful people loved to adorn their habitations. Since thisstrange discovery the diligent research of one man has rescued fromoblivion, and the liberality of another now protects from furtherinjury, one of the best specimens of a Roman country house to be foundin England. Far away from the haunts of men, in the depths of theChedworth woods, where no sound save the ripple of the Coln and the songof birds is heard, rude buildings and a museum have been erected; herethese ancient relics are sheltered from wind and storm for the sake ofthose who lived and laboured in the remote past, and for the benefit andinstruction of him, be he casual passer-by or pilgrim from afar, whocares to inspect them. 

The ancient Roman town of Cirencester, too, affords many historicalremains of the same era. But it is to the part which English hands andhearts have played towards beautifying the Cotswold district that Iwould fain direct attention; to the stately Abbey Church of Cirencesterand its glorious south porch, with its rich fan-tracery groining withinand its pierced battlements and pinnacles without; to the arched gatewayof twelfth century work, the sole remnant of that once famousmonastery--the mitred Abbey of St. Mary--founded by the piety of thefirst Henry, and overthrown by the barbarity of the last king of thatname, who ordained "that all the edifices within the site and precinctsof the monastery should be pulled down and carried away";--it is to theglorious windows of Fairford Church--the most beautiful specimensremaining to us of glass of the early part of the sixteenth century--andto many an ancient church and mediaeval manor house still standingthroughout this wide district, "to point a moral of adorn a tale, " thatwe must look for traces of the exquisite workmanship of English hands inbygone days, "the only witnesses, perhaps, that remain to us of thefaith and fear of nations. All else for which the builders sacrificedhas passed away--all their living interests and aims and achievements. We know not for what they laboured, and we see no evidence of theirreward. Victory, wealth, authority, happiness--all have departed, thoughbought by many a bitter sacrifice. But of them, and their life, andtheir toil upon earth, one reward, one evidence is left to us in thosegrey heaps of deep-wrought stone. They have taken with them to the gravetheir powers, their honours, and their errors; but they have left ustheir adoration. " [2]

[Footnote 2: Ruskin, "Seven Lamps of Architecture. "]

Too many of our modern buildings are a sham from beginning to end--shammarble, sham stonework, sham wallpapers, sham wainscoting, sham carpetson the ground, and sham people walking about on them: even the verybookcases are sham. In these old Cotswold houses we have the reverse. The stonework is real, and the material is the best of its kind--good, honest, native stone. The oak wainscoting is real, though patched withdeal and painted white in recent times. The same pains in the carvingare apparent in those parts of the house which are never seen except bythe servants, as in the important rooms. And so it is with all the workof three, four, and five hundred years ago. The builders may have hadtheir faults, their prejudices, and their ignorances, --their verysimplicity may have been the means of saving them from error, --but theywere at all events truthful and genuine. 

In many villages throughout the Cotswolds are to be seen ancientwayside crosses of exquisite workmanship and design. These were for themost part erected in the fourteenth century. One of the best specimensof the kind stands in the market-place of old Malmesbury, hard by theancient monastery there. The date of this cross is A. D. 1480. Lelandremarks upon it as follows: "There is a right faire and costely peace ofworke for poor market folks to stand dry when rayne cummeth; the men ofthe towne made this peace of worke in _hominum memoriâ_. " Malmesbury, bythe bye, is just outside the Cotswold district. 

At Calmsden--a tiny isolated hamlet near North Cerney--is a grey andweather-beaten wayside cross of beautiful Gothic workmanship, erected(men say) by the Knights Templar of Quenington; and there are ancientcrosses or remnants of them at Cirencester, Eastleach, Harnhill, Rendcombe, Stow-on-the-Wold, and many other places in the district. Butfew of these old village crosses still stand intact in their pristinebeauty. May they never suffer the terrible fate of a very beautiful onewhich was erected in the fourteenth century at Bristol! Pope, writing acentury and a half ago, describes it as "a very fine old cross of Gothiccurious work, but spoiled with the folly of _new gilding it_, that takesaway all the venerable antiquity. "

Happily there is no likelihood of the ancient crosses in the Cotswoldsbeing decorated by a coating of gold. The precious metal is all tooscarce there, even if the good taste of the country folk did notprohibit it. 

I have spoken before of the ancient barns. Every hamlet has one or moreof these grand old edifices, and there are often as many as three orfour in a small village. In some of these large barns the tithe wasgathered together in kind, until rather more than sixty years ago it wasconverted into a rent charge. 

_Tithe_ was made on all kinds of farm produce. The vicar's man went intothe cornfields and placed a bough in every tenth "stook"; then thetitheman came with the parson's horses and took the stuff away to thebarn. The tithe for every cock in the farmyard was three eggs; for everyhen, two eggs. Besides poultry, geese, pigs, and sheep, the parson had aright to his share of the milk, and even of the cheeses that were madein his parish. 

In an ancient manuscript which the vicar of Bibury lately acquired, andwhich contains the history of his parish since the Conquest, are setdown some interesting and amusing details concerning tithe and the cashcompensations that had been paid time out of mind. The entries form partof a diary kept by a former incumbent, and were made nearly two hundredyears ago. 

"For every new Milch Cow three pence. 

"For every thorough Milch Cow one penny. 

"N. B. Nothing is paid for a dry cow, and therefore tithe in kind must bepaid for all fatting cattle. 

"For every calf weaned a half penny. 

"For every calf sold four pence or _the left shoulder_. 

"For every calf killed in the family four pence or _the left shoulder_. 

"I have heard that one or two left shoulders of veal were paid to thewidow Hignall at Arlington when she rented the tithes of Dr. Vannam, but_I have received none_. "

Then follows an annual account of the value of the tithes of the parish(about five thousand acres), from 1763 to 1802, by which it appears thatthe year 1800 was the best during these four decades. Here isthe entry:--

"1800 The crops of this year were very deficient, but corn of all sortsold at an extraordinary high price. I made of my tithes and living thisyear clear £1, 200; from the dearness of labourers the outgoing expensesamounted to £900 in addition. "

The worst year seems to have been 1766, when the parson only got £360clear of all expenses; but even this was not bad for those days. 

The architecture of the Cotswold barns is often very beautiful. Thepointed windows, massive buttresses, and elaborate pinnacles aresufficient indications of their great age and the care bestowed on thebuilding. Some of the interiors of these Gothic structures have fine oldoak roofs. 

The cottages, too, though in a few instances sadly deficient in sanitaryimprovements and internal comfort, are not only picturesque, but strongand lasting. Many of them bear dates varying from 1600 to 1700. 

It is evident that in everything they did our ancestors who lived in theElizabethan age fully realised that they were working under the eye of"a great taskmaster. " This spirit was the making of the great men ofthat day, and in great part laid the foundation of our nationalgreatness. The glorious churches of Cirencester, Northleach, Burford, and Bibury, and the ancient manor houses scattered throughout theCotswolds are fitting monuments to the men who laboured to erect them. Would that space allowed a detailed account of all these old manorhouses! Enough has been said, at all events, to show that there areplaces little known and little cared for in England where you may stilldwell without, every time you go out of doors, being forcibly remindedof the utilitarian spirit of the age. 

[Illustration: Cotswold Cottages. 057. Png]

CHAPTER III. 

VILLAGE CHARACTERS. 

 "If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede ye tent it; A chiel's amang ye takin' notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. "

 R. BURNS. 

Every village seems to possess its share of quaint, curious people; butI cannot help thinking that our little hamlet has a more variedassortment of oddities than is usually to be met with in so smalla place. 

First of all there is the man whom nobody ever sees. Although he haslived in robust health for the past twenty years in the very centre ofthe hamlet, his face is unknown to half the inhabitants. Twice only hasthe writer set eyes on him. When a political contest is proceeding, hebecomes comparatively bold; at such times he has even been met with inthe bar of the village "public, " where he has been known to sitdiscussing the chances of the candidates like any ordinary being. But anelection is absolutely necessary if this strange individual is to bedrawn out of his hiding-place. The only other occasion on which we haveset eyes on him was on a lovely summer's evening, just after sunset: weobserved him peeping at us over a hedge, for all the world like the"Spectator" when he was staying with Sir Roger de Coverley. He issupposed to come out at sunset, like the foxes and the bats, and hasbeen seen in the distance on bright moonlight nights striding over theCotswold uplands. If any one approach him, he hurries away in theopposite direction; yet he is not queer in the head, but strong and inthe prime of life. 

Then there is that very common character "the village impostor. " Afterhaving been turned away by half a dozen different farmers, because henever did a stroke of work, he manages to get on the sick-list at the"great house. " Long after his ailment has been cured he will be seendaily going up to the manor house for his allowance of meat; somehow orother he "can't get a job nohow. " The fact is, he has got the name ofbeing an idle scoundrel, and no farmer will take him on. It is some timebefore you are able to find him out; for as he goes decidedly lame as hepasses you in the village street, he generally manages to persuade youthat he is very ill. Like a fool, you take compassion on him, and givehim an ounce of "baccy" and half a crown. For some months he hangs aboutwhere he thinks you will be passing, craving a pipe of tobacco; untilone day, when you are having a talk with some other honest toiler, hewill give you a hint that you are being imposed on. 

When a loafer of this sort finds that he can get nothing more out ofyou, he moves his family and goods to some other part of the country; hethen begins the old game with somebody else, borrowing a sovereign offyou for the expense of moving. As for gratitude, he never thinks of it. The other day a man with a "game leg, " who was, in spite of hislameness, a good example of "the village impostor, " in taking hisdeparture from our hamlet, gave out "that there was no thanks due to thebig 'ouse for the benefits he had received, for it was writ in the_manor parchments_ as how he was to have meat three times a week andblankets at Christmas as long as he was out of work. "

It is so difficult to discriminate between the good and the bad amongstthe poor, and it is impossible not to feel pity for a man who hasnothing but the workhouse to look forward to, even if he has come downin the world through his own folly. To those who are living in luxurythe conditions under which the poorer classes earn their daily bread, and the wretched prospect which old age or ill health presents to them, must ever offer scope for deep reflection and compassion. 

At the same time it must be remembered that in spite of "hard times"and "low prices, " as affecting the farmers, the agricultural labourer isbetter off to-day than he has ever been in past times. Food is very muchcheaper and wages are higher. The farmers seem to be more liberal in badtimes than in good. It is the same in all kinds of business. Exceptinjustice there is no more hardening influence in the affairs of lifethan success. It seems often to dry up the milk of human kindness in thebreast, and make us selfish and grasping. 

In the good times of farming there was doubtless much cause fordiscontent amongst the Cotswold labourers. The profits derived fromfarming were then quite large. The tendency of the age, however, was totreat the labouring man as a mere machine, instead of his being allowedto share in the general prosperity. ("Hinc illae lacrymae. ") Now thingsare changed. Long-suffering farmers are in many cases paying wages outof their fast diminishing capital. Many of them would rather lose moneythan cut down the wages. 

Then again agricultural labourers who are unable to find work go off tothe coal mines and big towns; some go into the army; others emigrate. Sothat the distress is not so apparent in this district as the badness ofthe times would lead one to expect. 

The Cotswold women obtain employment in the fields at certain seasons ofthe year; though poorly paid, they are usually more conscientious andhard-working than the men. 

Most of the cottages are kept scrupulously clean; they have an air ofhomely comfort which calls forth the admiration of all strangers. Thechildren, too, when they go to church on Sundays, are dressed with aneatness and good taste that are simply astonishing when one recalls theincome of a labourer on the Cotswolds--seldom, alas! averaging more thanfourteen shillings a week. A boy of twelve years of age is able to keephimself, earning about five shillings per week. Cheerful and manlylittle chaps they are. To watch a boy of fourteen years managing acouple of great strong cart-horses, either at the plough or with thewaggons, is a sight to gladden the heart of man. 

It is unfortunate that there are not more orchards attached to thegardens on the Cotswolds. The reader will doubtless remember Dr. Johnson's advice to his friends, always to have a good orchard attachedto their houses. "For, " said he, "I once knew a clergyman of smallincome who brought up a family very reputably, which he chiefly fed on_apple dumplings_. "

Talking of clergymen, I am reminded of some stories a neighbour ofours--an excellent fellow--lately told me about his parishioners on theCotswolds. One old man being asked why he liked the vicar, made answeras follows: "Why, 'cos he be so _scratchy after souls_. " The same manlately said to the parson, "Sir, you be an hinstrument"; and being askedwhat he meant, he added, "An hinstrument of good in this place. "

This old-fashioned Cotswold man was very fond of reciting long passagesout of the Psalms: indeed, he knew half the Prayer-book by heart; andone day the hearer, being rather wearied, exclaimed, "I must go now, forit's my dinner-time. " To whom replied the old man, "Oh! be off withthee, then; thee thinks more of thee belly than thee God. "

An old bedridden woman was visited by the parson, and the followingdialogue took place:--

"Well, Annie, how are you to-day?"

"O sir, I be so bad! My inside be that comical I don't know what to dowith he; he be all on the ebb and flow. "

The same clergyman knew an old Cotswold labourer who wished to get ridof the evil influence of the devil. So Hodge wrote a polite, thoughfirm, epistle, telling his Satanic Majesty he would have no more to dowith him. On being asked where he posted his letter, he replied: "A' duga hole i' the ground, and popped un in there. He got it right enough, for he's left me alone from that day to this. "

The Cotswold people are, like their country, healthy, bright, clean, andold-fashioned; and the more educated and refined a man may happen to be, the more in touch he will be with them--not because the peasants areeducated and refined, so much as because they are not _half_-educatedand _half_-refined, but simple, honest, god-fearing folk, who mind theirown business and have not sought out many inventions. I am referring nowto the labourers, because the farmers are a totally different class ofmen. The latter are on the whole an excellent type of what John Bullought to be. The labouring class, however, still maintain the oldcharacteristics. A primitive people, as often as not they are "nature'sgentlemen. "

In the simple matter of dress there is a striking resemblance betweenthe garb of these country people and that of the highly educated andrefined. It is an acknowledged principle, or rather, I should say, anunwritten law, in these days--at all events as far as men areconcerned--that to be well dressed all that is required of us is _not tobe badly dressed_. Simplicity is a _sine quâ non_; and we are furtherrequired to abstain from showing bad taste in the choice of shades andcolours, and to wear nothing that does not serve a purpose. To simplecountry folk all these things come by nature. They never trouble theirheads about what clothes they shall wear. The result is, the eye isseldom offended in old-fashioned country places by the latest inventionsof tailors and hatters and the ridiculous changes of fashion in whichthe greater part of the civilised world is wont to delight. Here are tobe seen no hideous "checks, " but plain, honest clothes of corduroy orrough cloth in natural colours; no absurd little curly "billycocks, " butgood, strong broad-brimmed hats of black beaver in winter to keep offthe rain, and of white straw in summer to keep off the heat. No whitesatin ties, which always look dirty, such as one sees in London andother great towns, but broad, old-fashioned scarves of many colours orof blue "birdseye" mellowed by age. The fact is that simplicity--thevery essence of good taste--is apparent only in the garments of the_best_-dressed and the _poorest_-dressed people in England. This is onemore proof of the truth of the old saying, "Simplicity is nature's firststep, and the last of art. "

The greatest character we ever possessed in the village was undoubtedlyTom Peregrine, the keeper. 

 "A man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. "

The eldest son of the principal tenant on the manor, and belonging to afamily of yeoman farmers who had been settled in the place for a hundredyears, he suddenly found that "he could not a-bear farming, " and took uphis residence as "an independent gentleman" in a comfortable cottage atthe gate of the manor house. Then he started a "sack" business--a tradewhich is often adopted in these parts by those who are in want of abetter. The business consists in buying up odds and ends of sacks, andletting them out on hire at a handsome profit. He was always intenselyfond of shooting and fishing; indeed, the following description whichSir Roger de Coverley gave the "Spectator" of a "plain country fellowwho rid before them, " when they were on their way to the assizes, suitshim exactly. "He is a yeoman of about an hundred pounds a year; andknocks down a dinner with his gun twice or thrice a week. He would be agood neighbour if he did not destroy so many partridges: in short, he isa very sensible man, shoots flying, and has been several times foremanof the petty jury. "

Perhaps with regard to the "shoots flying" the reservation should beadded, that should he have seen a covey of partridges "bathering" in aploughed field within convenient distance of a stone wall or thickfence, he might not have been averse to knocking over a brace for supperon the ground. And we had almost forgotten to explain that it was forthe manor-house table that he used to knock down a dinner with his guntwice or thrice a week, and not his own--for, some years ago, hepersuaded the squire to take him into his service as gamekeeper. When wecame to take up our abode at the manor, we found that he was a sort ofstanding dish on the place. Such a keen sportsman, it was explained, wasbetter in our service than kicking his heels about the village and onhis father's farm as an independent gentleman. And so this is how TomPeregrine came into our service. For my part I liked the man; he was sodelightfully mysterious. And the place would never have been the samewithout him; for he became part and parcel with the trees and the fieldsand every living thing. Nor would the woods and the path by the brookand the breezy wolds ever have been quite the same if his quaint figurehad no longer appeared suddenly there. Many a time was I startled by thesudden apparition of Tom Peregrine when out shooting on the hill; heseemed to spring up from the ground like "Herne the Hunter"--

 "Shaggy and lean and shrewd. With pointed ears And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, His dog attends him. "

The above lines of Cowper's exactly, describe the keeper's Irishterrier; the dog was almost as deep and mysterious as the man himself. When in the woods, Tom's attitude and gait would at times resemble themovements of a cock pheasant: now stealing along for a few yards, listening for the slightest sound of any animal stirring in theunderwood; now standing on tiptoe for a time, with bated breath. Did ablackbird--that dusky sentinel of the woods--utter her characteristicnote of warning, he would whisper, "Hark!" Then, after due deliberation, he would add, "'Tis a fox!" or, "There's a fox in the grove, " and thenhe would steal gently up to try to get a glimpse of reynard. He neverlooked more natural than when carrying seven or eight brace ofpartridges, four or five hares, and a lease of pheasants; it was alabour of love to him to carry such a load back to the village after aday's shooting. In his pockets alone he could stow away more game thanmost men can conveniently carry on their backs. 

He was the best hand at catching trout the country could produce. With arod and line he could pull them out on days when nobody else could get a"rise. " He could not understand dry-fly fishing, always using theold-fashioned sunk fly. "Muddling work, " he used to call the floatingmethod of fly fishing. 

But Tom Peregrine was cleverer with the landing-net than with the rod. Any trout he could reach with the net was promptly pulled out, if weparticularly wanted a fish. Then he would talk all day about any subjectunder the sun: politics, art, Roman antiquities, literature, and everyform of sport were discussed with equal facility. 

One day, when I was engaged in a slight controversy with his ownfather, the keeper said to me: "I shouldn't take any notice whatever ofhim"; then he added, with a sigh, "These Gloucestershire folk arecomical people. "

"Ah! 'tis a wise son that knows his own father in Gloucestershire, isn'tit, Peregrine?" said I, putting the Shakespearian cart before the horse. 

"Yes, it be, to be sure, to be sure, " was the reply. "I can't make 'emout nohow; they're funny folk in Gloucestershire. "

He gave me the following account of the "chopping" of one of our foxes:"I knew there was a fox in the grove; and there, sure enough, he was. But when he went toward the 'bruk, ' the hounds come along and _give himthe meeting_; and then they bowled him over. It were a very comical job;I never see such a job in all my life. I knew it would be a case, " headded, with a chuckle. 

The fact is, with that deadly aversion to all the vulpine race common toall keepers, he dearly loved to see a fox killed, no matter how orwhere; but to see one "chopped, " without any of that "muddling round andmessing about, " as he delighted to call a hunting run, seemed to him thevery acme of satisfaction and despatch. 

And here it may be said that Tom Peregrine's name did not bely him. Notonly were the keen brown eye and the handsome aquiline beak markedcharacteristics of his classic features, but in temperament and habit hebore a singular resemblance to the king of all the falcons. Who moredelighted in striking down the partridge or the wild duck? What moreassiduous destroyer of ground game and vermin ever existed than TomPeregrine? There never was a man so happily named and so eminentlyfitted to fulfil the destinies of a gamekeeper. 

 Who loves to trap the wily stoat? Who loves the plover's piping note? Who loves to wring the weasel's throat? Tom Peregrine. 

 What time the wintry woods we walk, No need have we of lure or hawk; Have we not Tom to _tower_ and talk? Tom Peregrine?

 When to the withybed we spy, A hungry hern or mallard fly, "Bedad! we'll bag un by and by, " Tom Peregrine. 

 "Creep _up wind_, sir, without a sound, And bide thy time neath yonder 'mound, ' Then knock un over on the ground, " Tom Peregrine. 

And so one might go on _ad infinitum_. 

A more amusing companion or keener fisherman never stepped. He had allsorts of quaint Gloucestershire expressions, which rolled out one afterthe other during a day's fishing or shooting. Then he was very fond ofreading amusing pieces at village entertainments, often copying thebroad Gloucestershire dialect; apparently he was not aware that his ownbrogue smacked somewhat of Gloucestershire too. At home in his own househe was most friendly and hospitable. If he could get you to "step in, "he would offer you gooseberry, ginger, cowslip, and currant wine, sloegin, as well as the juice of the elder, the blackberry, the grape, andcountless other home-brewed vintages, which the good dames ofGloucestershire pride themselves on preparing with such skill. Veryexcellent some of these home-made drinks are. 

The British farmer is remarkably fond of a lord. If you wanted to puthim into a good temper for a month, the best plan would be to ask a lordto shoot over his land, and tell him privately to make a great point ofshaking the honest yeoman by the hand, and all that kind of thing. Bythe bye, I was once told by a coachman that he was sure the Bicesterhounds were a first-rate pack, for he had seen in the papers that noless than four lords hunted with them. There is little harm in thisextraordinarily widespread admiration for titles; it is common to allnations. We can all love a lord, provided that he be a gentleman. Thegentlemen of England, whether titled or untitled, are in thought andfeeling a very high type of the human race. But the man I like best tomeet is he who either by natural insight or by the trained habit of hismind is able to look upon all mortals with eyes unprejudiced by outwardshow and circumstance, judging them by character alone. Such a man maynot be understood or be awarded the credit due to him as "lord of thelion heart" and despiser of sycophants and cringers. The habit of mind, nevertheless, is worth cultivating; it will be so very useful some day, when mortal garments have been put off and the vast inequalities ofdestiny adjusted, and we all stand unclothed before the Judge. 

Tom Peregrine was not a "great frequenter of the church"; indeed, bothfather and son often remarked to me that "'Twas a pity there was not achapel of ease put up in the hamlet, the village church being a fullmile away. " However, when Tom was ailing from any cause or other heimmediately sent for the parson, and told him that he intended in futureto go to church regularly every Sunday. Shakespeare would have enquiredif he was troubled "about some act that had no relish of salvationin't. " "Thomas, he's a terrible coward [I here quote Mrs. Peregrine]. Hecan't a-bear to have anything a-wrong with him; yet he don't mindkilling any animal. " He made a tremendous fuss about a sore finger hehad at one time; and when the doctor exclaimed, like Romeo, "Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much, " Tom Peregrine replied, with much the samehumour as poor Mercutio: "No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide asa church door; but 'tis enough. " I do not mean to infer that he quotedShakespeare, but he used words to the same effect. If asked whether hehad read Shakespeare, he might possibly have given the same reply as theyoung woman in _High Life Below Stairs_:

"KITTY: Shikspur? Shikspur? Who wrote it? No, I never read Shikspur. 

"LADY B. : _Then you have an immense pleasure to come_. "

Let it be said, however, that in many respects Tom was an exceedinglywell-informed and clever man. The family of Peregrines were noted, likeSir Roger de Coverley, for their great friendliness to foxes; and totheir credit let it be said that they have preserved them religiouslyfor very many years. I scarcely ever heard a word of complaint fromthem. All honour to those who neither hunt nor care for hunting, yet whoput up with a large amount of damage to crops and fences, as well asloss of poultry and ground game, and yet preserve the foxes for a sportin which they do not themselves take part. 

When conversing with me on the subject of preserving foxes, old Mr. Peregrine would wax quite enthusiastic "You should put a barley rick inthe Conygers, and thatch it, and there would always be a fox. " he wouldremark. All this I hold to be distinctly creditable. For what is thereto prevent a farmer from pursuing a selfish policy and warning the wholehunt off his land?

The village parson is quite a character. You do not often see the likenowadays. An excellent man in every way, and having his duty at heart, he is one of the few Tories of the old school that are left to us. Ruling his parish with a rod of iron, he is loved and respected by mostof his flock. In the Parish Council, at the Board of Guardians, his wordis law. He seldom goes away from the village save for his annualholiday, yet he knows all that is going on in the great metropolis, andwill tell you the latest bit of gossip from Belgravia. He has a goodproperty of his own in Somersetshire, but to his credit let it be saidthat his affections are entirely centred in the little Cotswold village, which he has ruled for a quarter of a century. 

 "Full loth were him to curse for his tithes, But rather would be given out of doubt Unto his poore parishens about Of his off'ring, and eke of his substance. He could in little thing have suffisance. Wide was his parish and houses far asunder, But he ne left not for no rain nor thunder In sickness and in mischief to visit The farthest in his parish much and lit, Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff, This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf, That first he wrought and afterwards he taught. "

 CHAUCER. 

Sermons are not so lengthy in our church as they were three hundredyears ago. Rudder mentions that a parson of the name of Winnington usedto preach here for two hours at a time, regularly turning thehour-glass; for in those days hour-glasses were placed near the pulpit, and the clergy used to vie with each other as to who could preach thelongest. I do not know if Mr. Barrow was ever surpassed in this respect. History relates that he succeeded in emptying his church of the wholecongregation, including the Lord Mayor and Aldermen of London--one manonly (an apprentice) remaining to the bitter end. Misguided laymen usedto amuse themselves in the same way. Fozbrooke mentions that one WillHulcote, a zealous lay preacher after the Reformation, used to mount thepulpit in a velvet bonnet, a damask gown, and a gold chain. What an asshe must have looked! This reminds me that at the age of twenty-four Iaccepted the office of churchwarden of a certain country parish. I donot recommend any of my readers to become churchwardens. You become asort of acting aide-de-camp to the parson, liable to be called out onduty at a moment's notice. No; a young man might with some advantage toothers and credit to himself take upon himself the office of ParishCouncillor, Poor Law Guardian, Inspector of Lunatic Asylums, HighSheriff, or even Public Hangman; but save, oh, save us from beingchurchwardens! To be obliged to attend those terrible institutionscalled "vestry meetings, " and to receive each year an examination paperfrom the archdeacon of the diocese propounding such questions as, "Doyou attend church regularly? If not, why not?" etc. , etc. , is thenatural destiny of the churchwarden, and is more than human nature canstand: in short, my advice to those thinking of becoming churchwardensis, "Don't, " with a very big _D_. 

According to the "Diary of Master William Silence, " in the olden times apedlar would occasionally arrive at the church door during the sermon, and proceed to advertise his wares at the top of his voice. Whereuponthe parson, speedily deserted by the female portion of his congregationand by not a few of the other sex, was obliged to bring his discourse toa somewhat inglorious conclusion. 

We learn from the same work that the churchwardens were in the habit ofdisbursing large sums for the destruction of foxes. When a fox wasmarked to ground the church bell was rung as a signal, summoning everyman who owned a pickaxe, a gun, or a terrier dog, to lend a hand indestroying him. We are talking of two or three hundred years ago, whenthe stag was the animal usually hunted by hounds on the Cotswolds and inother parts of England. 

Our village is a favourite meet of the V. W. H. Foxhounds. An amusingstory is told of a former tenant of the court house--a London gentleman, who rented the place for a time. He is reported to have made a specialrequest to the master of the hounds, that when the meet was held at "theCourt, " "his lordship" would make the fox pass in front of thedrawing-room windows, "For, " said he, "I have several friends comingfrom London to see the hunt. "

In a hunting district such as this the owners and occupiers of thevarious country houses are usually enthusiastic devotees of the chase. The present holder of the "liberty" adjoining us is a fox-hunter of theold school. An excellent sportsman and a wonderful judge of a horse, hedines in pink the best part of the year, drives his four-in-hand withsome skill, and wears the old-fashioned low-crowned beaver hat. 

We have many other interesting characters in our village; human naturevaries so delightfully that just as with faces so each individualcharacter has something to distinguish it from the rest of the world. The old-fashioned autocratic farmer of the old school is there ofcourse, and a rare good specimen he is of a race that has almostdisappeared. Then we have the village lunatic, whose mania is "religiousenthusiasm. " If you go to call on him, he will ask you "if you aresaved, " and explain to you how his own salvation was brought about. Unfortunately one of his hobbies is to keep fowls and pigs in his houseso that fleas are more or less numerous there, and your visits areconsequently few and far between. 

The village "quack, " who professes to cure every complaint under thesun, either in mankind, horses, dogs, or anything else by means ofherbs, buttonholes you sometimes in the village street. If once hestarts talking, you know that you are "booked" for the day. He is rathera "bore, " and is uncommonly fond of quoting the Scriptures in support ofhis theories. But there is something about the man one cannot helpliking. His wonderful infallibility in curing disease is set down byhimself to divine inspiration. Many a vision has he seen. Unfortunatelyhis doctrines, though excellent in theory, are seldom successful inpractice. An excellent prescription which I am informed completely cureda man of indigestion is one of his mixtures "last thing at night" andthe first chapter of St. John carefully perused and digested on top. 

I called on the old gentleman the other day, and persuaded him to giveme a short lecture. The following is the gist of what he said: "First ofall you must know that the elder is good for anything in the world, butespecially for swellings. If you put some of the leaves on your face, they will cure toothache in five minutes. Then for the nerves there'snothing like the berries of ivy. Yarrow makes a splendid ointment; andbe sure and remember Solomon's seal for bruises, and comfrey for 'hurts'and broken bones. Camomile cures indigestion, and ash-tree buds make astout man thin. Soak some ash leaves in hot water, and you will have adrink that is better than any tea, and destroys the 'gravel. 'Walnut-tree bark is a splendid emetic; and mountain flax, which growseverywhere on the Cotswolds, is uncommon good for the 'innards. ' 'Ettles[nettles] is good for stings. Damp them and rub them on to a 'wapse'sting, and they will take away the pain directly. " On my suggesting thatstinging nettles were rather a desperate remedy, he assured me that"they acted as a blister, and counteracted the 'wapse. ' Now, I'll tellyou an uncommon good thing to preserve the teeth, " he went on, "and thatis to _brush_ them once or twice a week. You buys a brush at thechymists, you know; they makes them specially for it. Oh, 'tis a capitalgood thing to cleanse the teeth occasionally!"

He wound up by telling me a story of a celebrated doctor who left asealed book not to be opened till after his death, when it was to besold at auction. It fetched six hundred pounds. The man who paid thissum was horrified on opening it to find it only contained the followingexcellent piece of advice: "Always remember to keep the feet warm andthe head cool. "

As I said good-bye, and thanked him for his lecture, he said: "Thosedoctors' chemicals destroy the 'innards. ' And be sure and put down ruefor the heart; and burdock, 'tis splendid for the liver. "

Nor must mention be omitted of old Isaac Sly, a half-witted labouringfellow with a squint in one eye and blind of the other, who at firstsight might appear a bad man to meet on a dark night, but is harmlessenough when you know him; he haunts the lanes at certain seasons of theyear, carrying an enormous flag, and invariably greets you with theintelligence that he will bring the flag up next Christmas the same asusual, according to time-honoured custom. He is the last vestige of theold wandering minstrels of bygone days, playing his inharmoniousconcertina in the hall of the manor house regularly at Christmas and atother festivals. 

Nor must we forget dear, honest Mr. White, the kindest and most pompousof men, who, after fulfilling his destiny as head butler in a greatestablishment, and earning golden opinions from all sorts and conditionsof men, finally settled down to a quiet country life in a pretty cottagein our village, where he is the life and soul of every convivialgathering and beanfeast, carving a York ham or a sirloin with greatnicety and judgment. He has seen much of men and manners in his day, andhas a fund of information on all kinds of subjects. Having plenty ofleisure, he is a capital hand at finding the whereabouts of outlyingfoxes; and once earned the eternal gratitude of the whole neighbourhoodby starting a fine greyhound fox, known as the "old customer, " out of adecayed and hollow tree that lay in an unfrequented spot by the river. He poked him out with a long pole, and gave the "view holloa" just asthe hounds had drawn all the coverts "blank, " and the people's faceswere as blank as the coverts; whereupon such a run was enjoyed as hadnot been indulged in for many a long day. 

But what of our miller--our good, honest gentleman farmer andmiller--now, alas! retired from active business? What can I say of him?I show you a man worthy to sit amongst kings. A little garrulous andinquisitive at times, yet a conqueror for all that in the battleof-life, and one of whom it may in truth be said, "And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman. "

As to the morals of the Gloucestershire peasants in general, and of ourvillage in particular, it may be said that they are on the wholeexcellent; in one respect only they are rather casual, not to sayprehistoric. 

The following story gives one a very good idea of the casual nature ofhamlet morals:--

A parson--I do not know of which village, but it was somewhere in thisneighbourhood--paid a visit to a newly married man, to speak seriouslyabout the exceptionally premature arrival of an heir. "This is aterrible affair, " said the parson on entering the cottage. "Yaas; 'twerea bad job to be sure, " replied the man. "And what will yer taketo drink?"

Let it in justice be said that such episodes are the exception and notthe rule. 

Among the characters to be met with in our Cotswold hamlet is thevillage politician. Many a pleasant chat have we enjoyed in his snugcottage, whilst the honest proprietor was having his cup of tea andbread and butter after his work. Common sense he has to a remarkabledegree, and a good deal more knowledge than most people give him creditfor. He is a Radical of course; nine out of ten labourers are _atheart_. And a very good case he makes out for his way of thinking, ifone can only put oneself in his place for a time. We have endeavoured toconvert him to our way of thinking, but the strong, reflective mind, "Illi robur, et aes triplex Circa pectus erat, "

is not to be persuaded. He will be true to "the colour"; this is hisfinal answer, even if your arguments overcome for the time being. Andyou cannot help liking the man for his straightforward, self-reliantnature; he is acting up to the standard he has set himself allthrough life. 

 "This above all, to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. "

And how many there are in the byways of England acting up to this motto, and leading the lives of heroes, though their reward is not to befound here!

There is no nobler sight on this earth than to behold men of all agesdoing their duty to the best of their ability, in spite of manifoldhardships and many a bitter disappointment; cheerfully and manfullyconfronting difficulties of all kinds, and training up children in thefear and knowledge of God. If this is not nobleness, there is no suchthing on earth. And it is owing to the vast amount of real, genuineChristianity that exists among these honest folk that life is renderedon the whole so cheerful in these Cotswold villages. Many small faultsthe peasants doubtless possess; such are inseparable from human nature. The petty jealousies always to be found where men do congregate existhere, and as long as the earth revolves they will continue to exist; butunderneath the rough, unpolished exterior there is a reef of gold, farricher than the mines of South Africa will ever produce, and as immortalas the souls in which it lies so deeply rooted and embedded. 

For the best type of humanity we need not search in vain among thehumble cottages of the hamlets of England. There shall we find thecourageous, brave souls who "scorn delights and live laboriousdays, "--men who estimate their fellows at their worth, and not accordingto their social position. Blunt and difficult to lead, not out ofhardness of heart or obstinate pigheadedness, but as Burns has put it:

 "For the glorious priviledge Of being independant. "

A few such are to be found in all our rural villages if one looks forthem; and if they are the exceptions to the general rule, it must alsobe remembered that men with "character" are equally rare amongst theupper and middle classes. 

Talking of village politics, I shall never forget a meeting held atNorthleach a few years ago. It was at a time when the balance of partieswas so even that our Unionist member was returned by the bare majorityof three votes, only to be unseated a few weeks afterwards on a recount. Northleach is a very Radical town, about six miles from my home; andwhen I agreed to take the chair, I little knew what an unpleasant job Ihad taken in hand. Our member for some reason or other was unable toattend. I therefore found myself at 7. 30 one evening facing two hundred"red-hot" Radicals, with only one other speaker besides myself to keepthe ball a-rolling. My companion was one of those professionalpoliticians of the baser sort, who call themselves Unionists because itpays better for the working-class politician--in just the same way asambitious young men among the upper classes sometimes become Radicals onthe strength of there being more opening for them on the "Liberal" side. 

Well, this fellow bellowed away in the usual ranting style for aboutthree-quarters of an hour; his eloquence was great, but truth was "morehonoured in the breach than in the observance. " So that when he satdown, and my turn came, the audience, instead of being convinced, wasfairly rabid. I was very young at that time, and fearfully nervous;added to which I was never much of a speaker, and, if interrupted atall, usually lost the thread of my argument. 

After a bit they began shouting, "Speak up. " The more they shouted themore mixed I got. When once the spirit of insubordination is roused inthese fellows, it spreads like wild-fire. The din became so great Icould not hear myself speak. In about five minutes there would have beena row. Suddenly a bright idea occurred to me. "Listen to me, " I shouted;"as you won't hear me speak, perhaps you will allow me to sing you asong. " I had a fairly strong voice, and could go up a good height; so Igave them "Tom Bowling. " Directly I started you could have heard a pindrop. They gave, me a fair hearing all through; and when, as a finalclimax, I finished up with a prolonged B flat--a very loud and longnote, which sounded to me something between a "view holloa" and thewhistle of a penny steamboat, but which came in nicely as a sort of_pièce de résistance_, fairly astonishing "Hodge"--their enthusiasm knewno bounds. They cheered and cheered again. Hand shaking went on allround, whilst the biggest Radical of the lot stood up and shouted, "Yoube a little Liberal, I know, and the other blokes 'ave 'ired [hired]you. " Whether we won any votes that evening I am doubtful, but certain Iam that this meeting, which started so inauspiciously, was moresuccessful than many others in which I have taken part in a Radicalplace, in spite of the fact that we left it amid a shower of stones fromthe boys outside. 

I do not think there is anything I dislike more than standing up toaddress a village audience on the politics of the day. Unless you happento be a very taking speaker--which his greatest friends could not accusethe present writer of being--agricultural labourers are a mostunsympathetic audience. They will sit solemnly through a long speechwithout even winking an eye, and your best "hits" are passed by insolemn silence. To the nervous speaker a little applause occasionally isdoubtless encouraging; but if you want to get it, you must put somebodydown among the audience, and pay them half a crown to make a noise. 

I suppose no better fellow or more suitable candidate for a Cotswoldconstituency ever walked than Colonel Chester Master, of the Abbey; yethis efforts to win the seat under the new ballot act were alwaysunavailing, saving the occasion on which he got in by three votes, andthen was turned out again within a month. An unknown candidate fromLondon--I will not say a carpet-bagger--was able to beat the localsquire, entirely owing to the very fact that he was a stranger. 

There is a good deal of chopping and changing about among theagricultural voters, in spite of a general determination to be true tothe "yaller" colour or the "blue, " as the case may be. As I passed downthe village street on the day on which our last election took place, Ienthusiastically exclaimed to a passer-by in whom I thought I recognisedone of our erstwhile firmest supporters, "We shall have our man in for acertainty this time. " "What--in the brook!" replied the turncoat, with aglance at the stream, and not without humour, his face purple withemotion. This was somewhat damping; but the hold of the paid socialagitator is very great in these country places, and it is scarcelycredible what extraordinary stories are circulated on the eve of anelection to influence the voters. At such times even loyalty is at adiscount At a Tory meeting a lecturer was showing a picture ofGibraltar, and expatiating on the English victory in 1704, when SirGeorge Rooke won this important stronghold from the Spaniards. "Howwould you like any one to come and take your land away?" exclaimed aRadical, with a great show of righteous indignation. And his sentimentsreceived the applause of all his friends. 

In these matters, and in the spirit of independence generally, countryfolk have much altered. No longer can it be said; as Addison quaintlyputs it in the _Spectator_, that "they are so used to be dazzled withriches that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a man ofestate as of a man of learning; and are very hardly brought to regardany truth, how important soever it may be, that is preached to them, when they know there are several men of five hundred a year who do notbelieve it. "

In such-like matters the labourers now show a vast deal of common sense, and the only wonder is that whilst paying but little deference either tomen of estate or men of learning, they yet allow themselves to be"bamboozled" by the promises and claptrap of the paid agitator. 

Narrow and ignorant as is the Toryism commonly displayed in countrydistricts, it is yet preferable, from the point of view of those whosemotto is _aequam memento_, etc. , to the impossible Utopia which theadvanced Radicals invariably promise us and never effect. 

A word now about the farmers of Gloucestershire. 

It is often asked, How do the Cotswold farmers live in these bad times?I suppose the only reply one can give is the old saw turned upside down:They live as the fishes do in the sea; the great ones eat up the littleones. The tendency, doubtless, in all kinds of trade is for the smallcapitalists to go to the wall. 

Some of the farmers in this district are yeoman princes, not onlypossessing their own freeholds, but farming a thousand or fifteenhundred acres in addition. Mr. Garne, of Aldsworth, is a fine specimenof this class. He makes a speciality of the original pure-bred Cotswoldsheep, and his rams being famous, he is able to do very well, in spiteof the fact that there is little demand for the old breed of sheep, themutton being of poor quality and the wool coarse and rough. Mr. Garnecarries off all the prizes at "the Royal" and other shows with hismagnificent sheep. A cross between the Hampshire downs and the Cotswoldsheep has been found to give excellent mutton, as well as fine and silkywool. The cross breed is gradually superseding the native sheep. Mr. Hobbs, of Maiseyhampton, is famous for his Oxford downs. These sheep arelikewise superior to the Cotswold breed. 

Barley does uncommonly well on the light limestone soil of these hills. The brewers are glad to get Cotswold barley for malting purposes. Finesainfoin crops are grown, and black oats likewise do well. The shallow, porous soil requires rain at least once a week throughout the spring andsummer. The better class of farmer on these hills does not have at all abad time even in these days. Very often they lead the lives of squires, more especially in those hamlets where there is no landowner resident. Hunting, shooting, coursing, and sometimes fishing are enjoyed by mostof these squireens, and they are a fine, independent class ofEnglishman, who get more fun out of life than many richer men, They willtell you with regard to the labourers that the following adage is stillto be depended upon:--

 "Tis the same with common natures: Use 'em kindly they rebel; But be rough as nutmeg-graters, And the rogues obey you well. "

[Illustration: An Old Cottage. 087. Png]

CHAPTER IV. 

THE LANGUAGE OF THE COTSWOLDS, WITH SOME ANCIENT SONGS AND LEGENDS. 

A very marked characteristic of the village peasant is his extraordinaryhonesty. Not one in ten would knock a pheasant on the head with hisstick if he found one on his allotment among the cabbages. Rabbitpoachers there are, but even these are rare; and as for housebreakingand robbery, it simply does not exist. The manor house has a tremendousnail-studded oak door, which is barred at night by ponderous clamps ofiron and many other contrivances; but the old-fashioned windows could beopened by any moderately skilful burglar in half a minute. There isabsolutely nothing to prevent access to the house at night, whilst inthe daytime the doors are open from "morn till dewy eve. " Most of thewindows are innocent of shutters. When in Ireland recently, I noticedthat the gates in every field were immensely strong, generally of iron, with massive pillars of stone on either side; but in spite of theseprecautions there was usually a gap in the hedge close by, through whichone might safely have driven a waggon. This reminded one of the Cotswoldmanor house and its strongly barricaded oak door, surrounded by windows, which any burglar could open "as easy as a glove, " as Tom Peregrinewould say. 

A strange-looking traveller, with slouching gait and mouldy wideawakehat, passes through the hamlet occasionally, leading a donkey in a cart. This is one of the old-fashioned hawkers. These men are usually poachersor receivers of poached goods. They are not averse to paying a small sumfor a basket of trout or a few partridges, pheasants, hares or rabbitsin the game season; whilst in spring they deal in a small way in theeggs of game birds. As often as not this class of man is accompanied bya couple of dogs, marvellously trained in the art of hunting the covertsand "retrieving" a pheasant or a rabbit which may be crouching in theunderwood. Hares, too, are taken by dogs in the open fields. One neverfinds out much about these gentry from the natives. Even the keeper isreticent on the subject. "A sart of a harf-witted fellow" is TomPeregrine's description of this very suspicious-looking traveller. 

The better sort of carrier, who calls daily at the great house with allkinds of goods and parcels from the big town seven miles off, isoccasionally not averse to a little poaching in the roadside fieldsamong the hares. The carriers are a great feature of these ruralvillages; they are generally good fellows, though some of them are a bittoo fond of the bottle on Saturday nights. 

The dogs employed by poachers are taught to keep out of sight and avoidkeepers and such-like folk. They know as well as the poacher himself thenature of their trade, and that the utmost secrecy must be observed. Tosee them trotting demurely down the road you would never think themcapable of doing anything wrong. A wave of the hand and they are intothe covert in a second, ready to pounce like a cat on a sittingpheasant. One short whistle and they are at their master's heels again. If in carrying game in their mouths they spied or winded a keeper, theywould in all probability contrive to hide themselves or make tracks forthe high road as quickly as possible, leaving their spoil in the thickunderwood, "to be left till called for. "

But to return once more to the honest Cotswold labourer. Occasionally anotice is put up in the village as follows:--

"There will be a dinner in the manor grounds on July--. Please bringknives and forks. "

These are great occasions in a Cotswold village. Knives and forks meanmeat; and a joint of mutton is not seen by the peasants more than "oncein a month of Sundays. " Needless to say, there is not much opportunityof studying the language of the country as long as the feast isprogressing. "Silence is golden" is the motto here whilst the viands arebeing discussed; but afterwards, when the Homeric desire of eating anddrinking has been expelled, an adjournment to the club may lead to asmoking concert, and, once started, there are very few Cotswold men whocannot sing a song of at least eighteen verses. For three hours anuninterrupted stream of music flows forth, not only solos, butoccasionally duets, harmoniously chanted in parts, and rendered with theutmost pathos. It cannot be said that Gloucestershire folk are endowedwith a large amount of musical talent; neither their "ears" nor theirvocal chords are ever anything great, but what they lack in quality theymake up in quantity, and I have listened to as many as forty songsduring one evening--some of them most entertaining, others extremelydull. The songs the labourer most delights in are those which aretypical of the employment in which he happens to be engaged. Some of theold ballads, handed down from father to son by oral tradition, are veryexcellent. The following is a very good instance of this kind of song;when sung by the carter to a good rollicking tune, it goes with a rarering, in spite of the fact that it lasts about a quarter of an hour. There would be about a dozen verses, and the chorus is always sung twiceat the end of each verse, first by the carter and then by thewhole company. 

"Now then, gentlemen, don't delay harmony, " Farmer Peregrine keepsrepeating in his old-fashioned, convivial way, and thus the ball is kepta-rolling half the night. 

 JIM, THE CARTER LAD. 

 "My name is Jim, the carter lad-- A jolly cock am I; I always am contented, Be the weather wet or dry. I snap my finger at the snow, And whistle at the rain; I've braved the storm for many a day, And can do so again. "

 (_Chorus_. )

 "Crack, crack, goes my whip, I whistle and I sing, I sits upon my waggon, I'm as happy as a king. My horse is always willing; As for me, I'm never sad: There's none can lead a jollier life Than Jim, the carter lad. "

 "My father was a carrier Many years ere I was born, And used to rise at daybreak And go his rounds each morn. He often took me with him, Especially in the spring. I loved to sit upon the cart And hear my father sing. Crack, crack, etc. "

 "I never think of politics Or anything so great; I care not for their high-bred talk About the Church and State. I act aright to man and man, And that's what makes me glad; You'll find there beats an honest heart In Jim, the carter lad. Crack, crack, etc. "

 "The girls, they all smile on me As I go driving past. My horse is such a beauty, And he jogs along so fast. We've travelled many a weary mile, And happy days have had; For none can lead a jollier life Than Jim, the carter lad. Crack, crack, etc. "

 "So now I'll wish you all good night It's time I was away; For I know my horse will weary If I much longer stay. To see your smiling faces, It makes my heart quite glad. I hope you'll drink your kind applause To Jim, the carter lad. Crack, crack, etc. "

The village choirs do very well as long as their organist or vicar isnot too ambitious in his choice of music. There is a fatal tendency inmany places to do away with the old hymns, which every one has knownfrom a boy, and substitute the very inferior modern ones now to be foundin our books. This is the greatest mistake, if I may say so. A man isfar more likely to sing, and feel deeply when he is singing, thosesimple words and notes he learnt long ago in the nursery at home. Andthere is nothing finer in the world than some of our old English hymns. 

I appeal to any readers who have known what it is to feel deeply; andfew there are to whom this does not apply, if some of those moments oftheir lives, when the thoughts have soared into the higher regions ofemotion, have not been those which followed the opening strain of theorgan as it quietly ushered in the old evening hymn, "Abide with me, fast falls the eventide, " or any other hymn of the same kind. It is thesame in the vast cathedral as in the little Norman village church. Thereare fifty hymns in our book which would be sufficient to provide thebest possible music for our country churches. The best organists realisethis. Joseph Barnby always chose the old hymns; and you will hear themat Westminster and St. Paul's. The country organist, however, imaginesthat it is his duty to be always teaching his choir some new anddifficult tune; the result in nine cases out of ten being "murder" and arapid falling off in the congregation. 

The Cotswold folk on the whole are fond of music, though they have not alarge amount of talent for it. The Chedworth band still goes the roundof the villages once or twice a year. These men are the descendants ofthe "old village musicians, " who, to quote from the _Strand MusicalMagazine_ for September 1897, "led the Psalmody in the village churchsixty years ago with stringed and wind instruments. Mr. Charles Smith, of Chedworth, remembers playing the clarionet in Handel's _Zadok thePriest_, performed there in 1838 in honour of the Queen's accession. " Hetalks of a band of twelve, made up of strings and _wood-wind_. 

I am bound to say that the music produced by the Chedworth band at thepresent day, though decidedly creditable in such an old-world village, is rather like the Roman remains for which the district is so famous; itsavours somewhat of the prehistoric. But when the band comes round andplays in the hall of our old house on Christmas Eve, I have many apleasant chat with the Chedworth musicians; they are so delightfullyenthusiastic, and so grateful for being allowed to play. When I gavethem a cup of tea they kept repeating, "A thousand thanks for all yourkindness, sir. "

It is inevitable that men engaged day by day and year by year in suchmonotonous employ as agricultural labour should be somewhat lacking inacuteness and sensibility; in no class is the hereditary influence somarked. Were it otherwise, matters would be in a sorry pass in countryplaces, for discontent would reign supreme; and once let "ambition mocktheir useful toil, " once their sober wishes learn to stray, how wouldthe necessary drudgery of agricultural work be accomplished at all? Inspite, however, of this marked characteristic of inertness--hereditaryin the first place, and fostered by the humdrum round of daily toil onthe farm--there is sometimes to be found a sense of humour and a love ofmerriment that is quite astonishing. A good deal of what is calledknowledge of the world, which one would have thought was only to beacquired in towns, nowadays penetrates into remote districts, so thatcountry folk often have a good idea of "what's what" I once overheardthe following conversation:

"Who's your new master, Dick? He's a bart. , ain't he?"

"Oh no, " was the reply; "he's only a _jumped-up jubilee knight_!"

Sense of humour of a kind the Cotswold labourer certainly has, eventhough he is quite unable to see a large number of apparently simplejokes. The diverting history of John Gilpin, for instance, read at asmoking concert, was received with scarce a smile. 

Old Mr. Peregrine lately told me an instance of the extraordinarysecretiveness of the labourer. Two of his men worked together in hisbarn day after day for several weeks. During that time they never spoketo each other, save that one of them would always say the last thing atnight, "Be sure to shut the door. "

Oddly enough they thoroughly appreciate the humour of the wonderfulthings that went on fifty and a hundred years ago. The old farmer I havejust mentioned told me that he remembers when he used to go to churchfifty years ago, how, after they had all been waiting half an hour, theclerk would pin a notice in the porch, "No church to-day; Parson C----got the gout. "

As with history so also with geography, the Cotswold labourer sometimesgets "a bit mixed. "

"'Ow be they a-gettin' on in Durbysher?" lately enquired a man atColn-St-Aldwyns. 

To him replied a righteously indignant native of the same village, "I've'eard as 'ow the English army 'ave killed ten thousand Durvishers(Dervishes). "

"Bedad!" answered his friend, "there won't be many left in Durbysher ifthey goes on a-killin' un much longer. "

Another story lately told me in the same village was as follows:--

An old lady went to the stores to buy candles, and was astonished tofind that owing to the Spanish-American war "candles was riz. "

"Get along!" she indignantly exclaimed. "_Don't tell me they fights bycandlelight_"

One of the cheeriest fellows that ever worked for us was a carter calledTrinder. He was the father of _twenty-one children_--by the same wife. He never seemed to be worried in the slightest degree by domesticaffairs, and was always happy and healthy and gay. This man's wageswould be about twelve shillings a week: not a very large sum for a manwith a score of children. Then it must be remembered that the boys wouldgo off to work in the fields at a very early age, and by the time theywere ten years old they would be keeping themselves. A large family likethis would not have the crushing effect on the labouring man that it hason the poor curate or city clerk. Nevertheless, one cannot help lookingupon the man as a kind of hero, when one considers the enormous numberof grandchildren and descendants he will have. On being asked the otherday how he had contrived to maintain such a quiverful, he answered, "I've always managed to get along all right so far; I never wanted forvittals, sir, anyhow. " This was all the information he would give. 

Talking of "vittals, " the only meat the labouring man usually indulgesin is bacon. His breakfast consists of bread and butter, and either teaor cocoa. For his dinner he relies on bread and bacon, occasionallyonly bread and cheese. In the winter he is home by five, and once morehas tea, or cocoa, or beer. Coffee is very seldom seen in the cottages. During the short days there is nothing to do but go to bed in theevening, unless a walk of over a mile to the village inn is consideredworth the trouble. But being tired and leg weary, a long walk does notusually appeal to the men after their evening meal; so to bed is theorder of the day, --and, thank Heaven! "the sleep of a labouring man issweet. " In the longer days of spring and summer there is plenty to do inthe allotments; and on the whole the allotments acts have been a greatblessing to the labourers. 

It is during the three winter months that penny readings and smokingconcerts are so much appreciated in the country. Too much cannot be donein this way to brighten the life of the village during the cold, darkdays of December and January, for the labouring man hates reading aboveall things. 

Perhaps the fact that these simple folk do not read the newspapers, oronly read those parts in which they have a direct interest--such asparagraphs indulging in socialistic castles in the air--has itsadvantages, inasmuch as it allows their common sense full play in allother matters, unhampered as it is (except in this one weak point ofsocialism) by the prejudices of the day. So that if one wanted to get anunprejudiced opinion on some great question of right or wrong, in theconsideration of which common sense alone was required--such a question, for instance, as is occasionally cropping up in these times in ourforeign policy--one would have to go to the very best men in thecountry, namely, those amongst the educated classes who think forthemselves, or to men of the so-called lowest strata of society, such asthese honest Cotswold labourers; because there is scarcely one man inten among the reading public who is not biassed and confused by themanifold contradictions and political claptrap of the daily papers, andled away by side issues from a clear understanding of the rights ofevery case. Our free press is doubtless a grand institution. As withindividuals, however, so ought it to be with nations. Let us, in ourcriticisms of the policy of those who watch over the destinies of othercountries, whilst firmly upholding our rights, strictly adhere to theprinciple of _noblesse oblige_. The press is every day becoming more andmore powerful for good or evil; its influence on men's minds has becomeso marked that it may with truth be said that the press rules publicopinion rather than that public opinion rules the press. But the writersof the day will only fulfil their destiny aright by approaching everyquestion in a broad and tolerant spirit, and by a firm reliance, inspite of the prejudices of the moment, on the ancient faith of _noblesseoblige_. However, the unanimity recently shown by the press in upholdingour rights at Fashoda was absolutely splendid. 

The origin of the names of the fields in this district is difficult totrace. Many a farm has its "barrow ground, " called after some old burialmound situated there; and many names like Ladbarrow, Cocklebarrow, etc. , have the same derivation. "Buryclose, " too, is a name often to be foundin the villages; and skeletons are sometimes dug up in meadows socalled. A copse, called Deadman's Acre, is supposed to have received itsname from the fact that a man died there, having sworn that he wouldreap an acre of corn with a sickle in a day or perish in the attempt. Itis more likely, however, to be connected with the barrows, which areplentiful thereabouts. 

Oliver Cromwell's memory is still very much respected among thelabouring folk. Every possible work is attributed to his hand, and eventhe names of places are set down to his inventive genius. Thus they tellyou that when he passed through Aldsworth he did not think very much ofthe village (it is certainly a very dull little place), so he snappedhis fingers and exclaimed, "That's all 'e's worth!" On arriving at ReadyToken, where was an ancient inn, he found it full of guests; hetherefore exclaimed, "It's already taken!" Was ever such nonsense heard?Yet these good folk believe every tradition of this kind, and delight intelling you such stories. Ready Token is a bleak spot, standing veryhigh, and having a clump of trees on it; it is therefore conspicuous formiles; so that when this country was an open moor, Ready Token was veryuseful as a landmark to travellers. Mr. Sawyer thinks the name is acorruption from the Celtic word "rhydd" and the Saxon "tacen, " meaning"the way to the ford, " the place being on the road to Fairford, wherethe Coln is crossed. 

One of the chief traditions of this locality, and one that doubtless hasmore truth in it than most of the stories the natives tell you, relatesthat two hundred years ago people were frequently murdered at ReadyToken inn when returning with their pockets full of money from the bigfairs at Gloucester or Oxford. A labouring friend of mine was telling methe other day of the wonderful disappearance of a packman and a"jewelrer, " as he called him. For very many years nothing was heard ofthem, but about twenty years ago some "skellingtons" were dug up on theexact spot where the inn stood, so their disappearance wasaccounted for. 

This same man told me the following story about the origin of Hangman'sStone, near Northleach:--

"A man stole a 'ship' [sheep], and carried it tied to his neck andshoulders by a rope. Feeling rather tired, he put the 'ship' down on topof the 'stwun' [stone] to rest a bit; but suddenly it rolled off theother side, and hung him--broke his neck. "

Hangman's Stone may be seen to this day. The real origin of the name maybe found in Fozbrooke's History of Gloucestershire. It was the place ofexecution in Roman times. 

"As illuminations in cases of joy, dismissal from the house in quarrels, wishing joy on New Year's Day, king and queen on twelfth day (from theSaturnalia), holding up the hand in sign of assent, shaking hands, etc. , are Roman customs, so were executions just out of the town, where alsothe executioner resided. In Anglo-Saxon times this officer was a man ofhigh dignity. "

A very common name in Gloucestershire for a field or wood is "conyger"or "conygre. " It means the abode of conies or rabbits. 

Some farms have their "camp ground"; and there, sure enough, if oneexamines it carefully, will be found traces of some ancient Britishcamp, with its old rampart running round it. But what can be thederivation of such names as Horsecollar Bush Furlong, Smoke AcreFurlong, West Chester Hull, Cracklands, Crane Furlong, Sunday's Hill, Latheram, Stoopstone Furlong, Pig Bush Furlong, and Barelegged Bush?

Names like Pitchwells, where there is a spring; Breakfast Bush Ground, where no doubt Hodge has had his breakfast for centuries under shelterof a certain bush; Rickbushes, and Longlands are all more or less easyto trace. Furzey Leaze, Furzey Ground, Moor Hill, Ridged Lands, and thePikes are all names connected with the nature of the fields ortheir locality. 

Leaze is the provincial name for a pasture, and Furzey Leaze would be arough "ground, " where gorse was sprinkled about. The Pikes would be afield abutting on an old turnpike gate. The word "turnpike" is neverused in Gloucestershire; it is always "the pike. " A field is a "ground, "and a fence or stone wall is a "mound. " The Cotswold folk do not talkabout houses; they stick to the old Saxon termination, and call theirdwellings "housen"; they also use the Anglo-Saxon "hire" for hear. Theword "bowssen, " too, is very frequently heard in these parts; it is aprovincialism for a stall or shed where oxen are kept. "Boose" is theword from which it originally sprang. A very expressive phrase in commonuse is to "quad" or "quat"; it is equivalent to the word "squat. " Otherwords in this dialect are "sprack, " an adjective meaning quick orlively; and "frem" or "frum, " a word derived from the Anglo-Saxon"fram, " meaning fresh or flourishing. The latter word is also used inLeicestershire. Drayton, who knew the Cotswolds, and wrote poetry aboutthe district, uses the expression "frim pastures. " "Plym" is theswelling of wood when it is immersed in water; and "thilk, " anotherAnglo-Saxon word, means thus or the same. 

A mole in the Gloucestershire dialect is an "oont" or "woont. " A barrowor mound of any kind is a "tump. " Anything slippery is described as"slick"; and a slice is a "sliver. " "Breeds" denotes the brim of a hat, and a deaf man is said to be "dunch" or "dunny. " To "glowr" is tostare--possibly connected with the word "glare. "

Two red-coated sportsmen, while hunting close to our village the otherday, got into a small but deep pond. They were said to have fallen intothe "stank, " and got "zogged" through: for a small pond is a "stank, "and to be "zogged" is equivalent to being soaked. 

"Hark at that dog 'yoppeting' in the covert! I'll give him a nation good'larroping' when I catch him!" This is the sort of sentence aGloucestershire keeper makes use of. To "larrop" is to beat. Oatmeal orporridge is always called "grouts"; and the Cotswold native does nottalk of hoisting a ladder, but "highsting" is the term he uses. Thesteps of the ladder are the "rongs. " Luncheon is "nuncheon. " Other wordsin the dialect are "caddie" = to humbug; "cham" = to chew; "barken" = ahomestead; and "bittle" = a mallet. 

Fozbrooke says that the term "hopping mad" is applied to people who arevery angry; but we do not happen to have heard it in Gloucestershire. Two proverbs that are in constant use amongst all classes are, "As sureas God's in Gloucestershire, " and, "'Tis as long in coming as Cotswold'berle'" (barley). The former has reference to the number of churchesand religious houses the county used to possess, the latter to thebackward state of the crops on the exposed Cotswold Hills. To meet a manand say, "Good-morning, nice day, " is to "pass the time of day withhim. " Anything queer or mysterious is described as "unkard" or "unket";perhaps this word is a provincialism for "uncouth. " A narrow lane orpath between two walls is a "tuer" in Gloucestershire vernacular. Another local word I have not heard elsewhere is "eckle, " meaning agreen woodpecker or yaffel. The original spelling of the word was"hic-wall. " In these days of education the real old-fashioned dialect isseldom heard; among the older peasants a few are to be found who speakit, but in twenty years' time it will be a thing of the past. 

The incessant use of "do" and "did, " and the changing of _o_'s into_a_'s are two great characteristics of the Gloucestershire talk. Beinganxious to be initiated into the mysteries of the dialect, I buttonholeda labouring friend of mine the other day, and asked him to try to teachit to me. He is a great exponent of the language of the country, and, like a good many others of his type, he is as well satisfied with hispronunciation as he is with his other accomplishments. The fact is that

 "His favourite sin Is pride that apes humility. "

It is _your_ grammar, not his, which is at fault. In the followingverses will be found the gist of what he told me:--

 "If thee true 'Glarcestershire' would know, I'll tell thee how us always zays un; Put 'I' for 'me, ' and 'a' for 'o'. On every possible occasion. 

 When in doubt squeeze in a 'w'-- 'Stwuns, ' not 'stones. ' And don't forget, zur, That 'thee' must stand for 'thou' and 'you'; 'Her' for 'she, ' and _vice versâ_. 

 Put 'v' for 'f'; for 's' put 'z'; 'Th' and 't' we change to 'd, '-- So dry an' kip this in thine yead, An' thou wills't talk as plain as we. "

The student in the language of the Cotswolds should study a very ancientsong entitled "George Ridler's Oven. " Strange to say, there is little ornothing in it about the oven, but a good deal of the old Gloucestershiretalk may be gleaned from it. It begins like this:

 GEORGE RIDLER'S OVEN. 

 A RIGHT FAMOUS OLD GLOUCESTERSHIRE BALLAD. 

 "The stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, The stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, _the stwuns_. "

This is sung like the prelude to a grand orchestral performance. Beginning somewhat softly, Hodge fires away with a gravity and emotionwhich do him infinite credit, each succeeding repetition of the word"stwuns" being rendered with ever-increasing pathos and emphasis, until, like the final burst of an orchestral prelude, with drums, trumpets, fiddles, etc, all going at the same time, are at length ushered in theopening lines of the ballad. 

 "The stwuns that built Gaarge Ridler's oven, And thauy qeum from the Bleakeney's Quaar; And Gaarge he wur a jolly ould mon, And his yead it graw'd above his yare. 

 "One thing of Gaarge Ridler's I must commend. And that wur vor a notable theng; He mead his braags avoore he died, Wi' any dree brothers his zons zshou'd zeng. 

 "There's Dick the treble and John the mean (Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace); And Gaarge he wur the elder brother, And therevoore he would zing the beass. 

 "Mine hostess's moid (and her neaum 'twur Nell) A pretty wench, and I lov'd her well; I lov'd her well--good reauzon why, Because zshe lov'd my dog and I. 

 "My dog has gotten zitch a trick To visit moids when thauy be zick; When thauy be zick and like to die, Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I. 

 "My dog is good to catch a hen, -- A duck and goose is vood vor men; And where good company I spy, Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I. 

 "Droo aal the world, owld Gaarge would bwoast, Commend me to merry owld England mwoast; While vools gwoes scramblin' vur and nigh, We bides at whoam, my dog and I. 

 "Ov their furrin tongues let travellers brag, Wi' their vifteen neames vor a puddin' bag; Two tongues I knows ne'er towld a lie, And their wearers be my dog and I. 

 "My mwother told I when I wur young, If I did vollow the strong beer pwoot, That drenk would pruv my auverdrow, And meauk me wear a thzreadbare cwoat. 

 "When I hev dree zixpences under my thumb, Oh, then I be welcome wherever I qeum; But when I hev none, oh, then I pass by, -- 'Tis poverty pearts good company. 

 "When I gwoes dead, as it may hap, My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap In vouled earms there wool us lie, Cheek by jowl, my dog and I. "

GLOSSARY. 

_stwuns_ = stones. _quaar_ = quarry. _yare_ = hair. _avoor_ = before. _auwn_ = own. _furrin_ = foreign. _greauve_ = grave. _thauy_ = they. _yead_ = head. _mead_ = made. _dree_ = three. _pleace_ = place. _pwoot_ = pewter. _yeal_ = ale. _qeum_ = come. _graw'd_ = grew. _braags_ = brag. _zshou'd_ = should. _beass_ = bass. _auverdrow_ = overthrow. _vouled earms_ = folded arms. _zitch_ = such. 

The song itself is as old as the hills, but I have taken the liberty ofappending a glossary, in order that my readers may be spared thetrouble of making out the meaning of some of the words. It was a longtime before it dawned upon me that "vouled earms" meant "folded arms ";"auverdrow" likewise was very perplexing. Like many of the old ballads, it sounds like a rigmarole from beginning to end; but there is really agreat deal more in it than meets the eye. George Ridler is no less apersonage than King Charles I. , and the oven represents the cavalierparty. (See Appendix. )

Such songs as these are deeply interesting from the fact that they arehanded down by oral tradition from father to son, and written copies arenever seen in the villages. The same applies to the play the mummers actat Christmas-time; all has to be learnt from the preceding generation ofcountry folk. But the great feature of our smoking concerts and villageentertainments has always been the reading of Tom Peregrine. This notedsportsman, who writes one of the best hands I ever saw, has kindlycopied out a recitation he lately gave us. It relates to the adventuresof one Roger Plowman, a Cotswold man who went to London, and is takenfrom a book, compiled some years ago by some Ciceter men, entitled"Roger Plowman's Excursion to London. " It was read at a harvest homegiven by old Mr. Peregrine in his huge barn, an entertainment whichlasted from six o'clock till twelve. I trust none of my readers will beany the worse for reading it. Tom Peregrine declares that when he firstgave it at a penny reading some years ago, one or two of the audiencehad to be carried out in hysterics--they laughed so much; and anotherman fell backwards off his chair, owing to the extreme comicality of it. The truth is, our versatile keeper is a wonderful reader, and speakingas he does the true Gloucestershire accent, in the same way as some ofthe squires spoke it a century or more ago, it is extremely amusing tohear him copying the still broader dialect of the labouring class. Hehas a tremendous sense of humour, and his epithet for anything amusingis "Foolish. " "'Tis a splendid tale; 'tis so desperate foolish, " hewould often say. 

ROGER PLOWMAN'S JOURNEY TO LONDON. 

Monday marnin' I wur to start early. Aal the village know'd I wura-gwain, an' sum sed as how I shood be murthur'd avoor I cum back. OnSunday I called at the manur 'ouse an' asked cook if she hed any messagevor Sairy Jane. She sed:

"Tell Sairy Jane to look well arter 'e, Roger, vor you'll get lost, tuckin, an' done vor. "

"Rest easy in yer mind, cook, " I zed; "Roger is toughish, an' he'll seethet the honour o' the old county is well show'd out and kep' up. "

Cook wished me a pleasant holiday. 

I started early on Monday marnin', 'tarmined to see as much as possible. I wur to walk into Cizzeter, an' vram thur goo by train to Lunnon. 

I wur delighted wi' Cizzeter. The shops an' buildin's round themarket-pleace wur vine; an' the church wur grand; didn't look as how hewur built by the same sort of peeple as put the shops up. 

When the Roomans an' anshunt Britons went to church arm-in-arm it wuralways Whitsuntide, an' arter church vetched their banners out wi' brasseagles on, an' hed a morris dance in the market-pleace. The anshuntBritons never hed any tailory done, but thay wur all artists wi' thepaint pot. The Consarvatives painted thurselves bloo, and the Radicalsyaller, an' thay as danced the longest, the Roomans sent to Parlyment torool the roost. 

I wur show'd the pleace wur the peeple started vor Lunnon. I walked in, an' thur wur a hole in the purtition, an' I seed the peeple a-payin'thur money vor bits o' pasteboord. I axed the mon if he could take Ito Lunnon. 

He sed, "Fust, second, or thurd?"

I sed, "Fust o' course, not arter; vor Sairy Jane ull be waitin'. "

He sed 'twer moor ner a pound to pay. 

I sed the paason sed 'twer about eight shillin'. 

"That's thurd class, " he sed; an' that thay ud aal be in Lunnon at thesame time. 

So I paid thurd class, an' he shuved out sum pasteboord, an' I put it inmy pocket, an' walked out; an' thur wur a row o' carridges waitin' vorLunnon; an' off we went as fast as a racehoss. 

I heerd sum say thay wur off to Cheltenham, Gloucester, Tewkesbury, North Wales; an' I sed to meself, "I be on the rong road. Dang thebuttons o' that little pasteboord seller! he warn't a 'safe mon' to hevto do wi'. "

I enquired if the peeple hed much washin' to do for the railway abouthere, an' thay wanted to know what I required to know vor. 

I sed because thur war such a long clothesline put up aal the wayalong. An' thay aal bust out a-larfin, ' an' sed 'twur the tallergraph;an' one sed as how if the Girt Western thought as how 'twould paybetter, thay ud soon shet up shop, an' take in washin'. 

Never in aal me life did I go at such a rate under and awver bridges androo holes in the 'ills. We wur soon at Swindon, wur a lot wur at workas black as tinkers. We aal hed to get out, an' a chap in green clothessed we shood hev to wait ten minits. 

Thur wur a lot gwain into a room, an' I seed they wur eatin' anddrinkin'; so I ses to meself, "I be rayther peckish, I'll go in an' seeif I can get summut. " So in I goes; an' 'twer a vine pleace, wi' sumnation good-looking gurls a-waitin'. 

"I'll hev a half-quartern loaf, " I sed. 

"We doan't kip a baker's shop, " she sed. "Thur's cakes, an' biskits, an'sponge cakes. "

"Hev 'e got sum good bacon, raythur vattish?" I sed. 

"No, sur; but thur's sum good poork sausingers at sixpence. "

"Hand awver the pleat, young 'ooman, " I sed, "an' I'll trubble you vorthe mustard, an' salt, an' that pleat o' bread an' butter, an' I'll setdown an' hev a bit of a snack. "

The sausingers wur very good, an' teasted moorish aal the time; but thebread an' butter wur so nation thin that I had to clap dree or vourpieces together to get a mouthful. I didn't seem to want a knife orvork, but the young 'ooman put a white-handled knife an' silvervork avoor me. 

The pleat o' bread an' butter didn't hold out vor the sausingers, so Ihed another pleat o' bread an' butter, an' wur getting on vine. I seem'dto want summut to wet me whistle, an' wur gwain to order a quart o' ale, when I heers a whistle an' a grunt vram a steamer, an' out I goos; an', begum! he wur off. 

I beckuned to the chap to stop the train, wi' me vork as I hed jeststuck into the last sausinger. I hed clapt a good mouthful in, or Icould hev hollur'd loud enough vor him to heer. The train didn't stop, an' the vellers in green laughed to see I wur left in the lurch, as Itell'd them that Sairy Jane would be sure to meet the Lunnon train. Thaysed I could go in an' vinish the sausingers now, an' that wur what Iintended to do. 

I asked the young 'ooman for a bottle o' ale, when she put a tallishbottle down wi' a beg head; an' as I wur dry I knocked the neck off, an'the ale kum a-fizzing out like ginger pop, --an' 'twer no use to try tostop the fizzle. I had aal I could get in a glass, an' it zeemedgoodish. She soon run back wi' another bottle in her hand, an' I tell'dher 'twer pop she hed put down. 

"What hev you bin an' dun, sur?" she sed; "that wur a bottle o' Moses'sshampane, at seven shillin's an' sixpence a bottle. "

I tell'd her I know'd 'twer nothin' but pop, as it fizzled so. Thur wurtwo or dree gentlemen in, an' thay larfed at the fizzle an' I. It seemedto meak me veel merryish, an' I zed, "What's to pay, young 'ooman?"

She sed, "Thirteen shillin's, sur. "

"Thirteen scaramouches!" I sed. "What vor?"

"Seven sausingers, dree and sixpence; twenty-vour slices o' bread an'butter, two shillin's; an' a bottle of shampane, seven andsixpence;--kums to thirteen shillin's, " she sed. 

"Yer tell'd me as how the sausingers wur sixpence, " I sed; "an' theslices o' bread ud cut off a tuppeny loaf. "

She sed the sausingers wur sixpence each, an' twenty-vour slices o'bread an' butter wur a penny each--two shillin's. 

I sed, "Do 'e call that reysonable, young 'ooman? 'cause I bain'ta-gwain to pay thirteen shillin's vor't, an' lose me train, an'disappoint Sairy Jane. Thirteen shillin's vor two or dree sausingers, afew slices o' bread an' butter, an' a bottle o' pop--not vor Roger, ifhe knows it"

Up kums a chap an' ses, "Be you gwain to pay vor wat you hev hed?"

"To be sure I be. Thur's sixpence vor the sausingers, tuppence vor breadan' butter, an' dreppence the pop, --that meaks 'levenpence"; an' I drowsdown a shillin', and ses, "Thur's the odd penny vor the young 'ooman aswaited upon me. "

"You hed thirteen shillin's worth o' grub an' shampane, an' you'll hevto pay twelve shillin's moor or I shall take 'e away an' lock 'e up vorthe night, " he sed. 

"Do 'e thenk as how you could do aal that, young man?" I sed. "Nodisrespect to 'e though, vor that don't argify; but I could ketch holdon 'e by the scroff o' yer neck an' the seat o' yer breeches, an' pitch'e slick into the roadway among the iron. "

"Look heer, Meyster Turmot, you'll hev to pay twelve shillin' moor avooryou gwoes out o' heer, or Lunnon won't hold 'e to-night. "

I know'd Sairy Jane ud be a-waitin', an' as he sed the train were moastready, I drows down a suverin', an' hed the change, an' as I wur a-gwainout I hollurs out as how I shood remember Swindleum stashun. I heer'dthe lot a-larfin, an' hed moast a mind to go in an' twirl me ground ashamong um vor thur edification. 

I wur soon on the road agen, a-gwain like a house a-vire, an' thur wurmore clotheslines aal the way along on pwosts. 

W'en we got nearish to Lunnon I seed sum girt beg round barrels paintedblack. [3] I axed a chap what thay wur, an' he sed that thay wur begbarrels o' stingo, an' thur wur pipes laid on to the peeple's housen vorthay to draw vram. 

[Footnote 3: Gasometers. ]

I sed that wur very good accommodashun to hev XXX laid on vor use. 

We soon druv into the beggest pleace I wur ever in since I wur born'd. Thay sed 'twer Paddington, an' that I wur to get out, vor they wurn'ta-gwain to drive no furder. I hed paid to go to Lunnon, an' thay shooddrive all the way when thay wur paid avoor'and. 

I wur tell'd Paddington wur the Lunnon stashun by a porter, an' I look'dround vor Sairy Jane, as she sed as how her ud be heer at one o'clock;and porter sed 'twer then dree o'clock, an' likely Sairy Jane had goneaway. Drat thay sausingers as mead I too late vor the train!

I set down to wait for Sairy Jane, as I didn't know her directions, an'hed left the letter she sent at whoam. Arter waitin' for a long while Istarted out, an' 'oped to see her in sum part o' Lunnon. 

 * * * * *

Another story Tom Peregrine is fond of reading to us relates how alabouring man was recommended to get some oxtail soup to strengthen him. He goes into the town and sees "Oxikali Soap" written up on a shopwindow. He buys a cake of it, makes his wife boil it up in the pot, andthen proceeds to drink it for his health. When he has taken a spoonfulor two and found it very unpleasant, his wife makes him finish it up, saying it is sure to do him good; and she consoles him with theassurance that all medicine is nasty. 

At the harvest home in the big barn, after the applause which followedTom Peregrine's recitation had died away, a sturdy carter stood up andsang a very old Gloucestershire song, which runs as follows:--

 THE TURMUT HOWER. 

 "I be a turmut hower, Vram Gloucestershire I came; My parents be hard-working folk, Giles Wapshaw be my name. The vly, the vly, The vly be on the turmut, An' it be aal me eye, and no use to try To keep um off the turmut. 

 "Zum be vond o' haymakin', An' zum be vond o' mowin', But of aal the trades thet I likes best Gie I the turmut howin'. The vly, etc. 

 "'Twas on a summer mornin', Aal at the brake o' day, When I tuck up my turmut hower, An' trudged it far away. The vly, etc. 

 "The vust pleace I got work at, It wus by the job, But if I hed my chance agen, I'd rayther go to quod. The vly, etc. 

 "The next pleace I got work at, 'Twer by the day, Vor one old Varmer Vlower, Who sed I wur a rippin' turmut hower. The vly, etc. 

 "Sumtimes I be a-mowin', Sumtimes I be a-plowin', Gettin' the vurrows aal bright an' clear Aal ready vor turmut sowin'. The vly, etc. 

 "An' now my song be ended I 'ope you won't call encore; But if you'll kum here another night, I'll seng it ye once more. The vly, etc. "

[Illustration: On the Wolds. 116. Png]

CHAPTER V. 

ON THE WOLDS. 

Time passes quickly for the sportsman who has the good fortune to dwellin the merry Cotswolds. Spring gives place to summer and autumn towinter with a rapidity which astonishes us as the years roll on. 

So diversified are the amusements that each season brings round that notime of year lacks its own characteristic sport. In the spring, ere redcoats and "leathers" are laid aside by the fox-hunting squire, there isthe best of trout-fishing to be enjoyed in the Coln andWindrush--streams dear to the heart of the accomplished expert with the"dry" fly. In spring, too, are the local hunt races at Oaksey andSherston, at Moreton-in-the-Marsh and Andoversford. Pleasant littlecountry gatherings are these race meetings, albeit the _bonâ-fide_hunter has little chance of distinguishing himself between the flags inany part of England nowadays. The Lechlade Horse Show, too, is a greatinstitution in the V. W. H. Country at the close of the hunting season. 

Annually at Whitsuntide for very many centuries "sports" have been heldin all parts of the country. It is said that they are the _floralia_ ofthe Romans. Included in these sports are many of those amusements of themiddle ages of which Ben Jonson sang:

 "The Cotswold with the Olympic vies In manly games and goodly exercise. "

Horse-racing is a great feature in the programme of these Whitsuntidefestivities. 

The "may-fly" carnival among the trout, together with lots of cricketmatches, make the time pass all too quickly for those who spend theglorious summer months in the Cotswolds. By the time the CirencesterHorse Show is over, the cubs are getting strong and mischievous. Directly the corn is cut the hounds are out again in the lovelySeptember mornings. By this time partridges are plentiful, and must beshot ere they get too wild. So year by year the ball is kept rolling inthe quiet Cotswold Hills; the days go by, yet content reigns amongstall classes. 

 "Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. "

Then there is so much to do indirectly connected with sport of allkinds, if you live in a Cotswold village. Woods and fox coverts must bekept in good order, so that there may always be cover to shelter gameand foxes. Cricket grounds afford unlimited scope for labour andexperiment. 

If you either own or rent a trout stream there is no end to theimprovements that can be made with a little time and labour. Deep holesor even lakes may be dug, great stones and fir poles may be utilised, toform eddies and waterfalls and homes for the trout. By means of a littlestocking with fresh blood a stream may often be turned from a worthlesspiece of water into a splendid fishery. There is no limit to thearticles of food which can be imported. Gammari, or fresh-water shrimps, caddis and larvae, and various species of weeds which nourish insectsand snails--notably the _chara flexilis_ from Loch Leven--may all beprocured and transplanted to your water. The beautiful springs whichfeed the Coln at various intervals, where the watercress grows freely, would be of great service in forming lakes; there is so much poor marshyland even in the fertile valleys that might be utilised, with advantageand profit for the purpose of trout preserving. 

Talking of watercress, this is a branch of farming which appears to besomewhat neglected on the banks of the Coln. The villagers tell you thatwatercress, like the oyster, is good in every month with an "r" in it:so that all through the year, save in May, June, July, and August, watercress may be picked and sent to market. But the proprietor ofwatercress beds attaches little importance to the fact that he possesseslarge beds of this wholesome and reproductive plant, and you will notsee it on his table once in a month of Sundays. In London one eatswatercress all the year round, more especially in the months without an"r, " but it does not come from the Cotswolds. 

There is not much covert shooting on these hills. The country is so openand the coverts so small and deficient in underwood that pheasantpreserving on a large scale is not practicable; for this reason thepreservation of foxes is the first consideration. At Stowell, Sherborne, Rendcombe, Barnsley, and Cirencester, as well as on a few other largeestates, a large head of game is reared; while foxes are plentiful too. But the owners and occupiers of most of the manors are content to relyon nature to supply them with game in due season. 

However, for those gunners who, like the writer, are both unskilful andunambitious, the shooting obtained on the Cotswold Hills is veryenjoyable. In September from ten to twenty brace of partridges are to bepicked up, together with what hares a man cares to shoot, and a fewrabbits. Then landrails or corncrakes, and last, but not least, anoccasional quail, are usually included in the bag. Quails are ratherpartial to this district; during the first fortnight of September a feware generally shot on the manor we frequent. On August 17th this year wefound a nest containing five young quails about half-grown. 

But the real pleasure connected with this kind of sport lies in thesense of wildness. The air is almost as good a tonic as that of theScotch moors, whilst there is the additional satisfaction of being athome in September instead of flying away to the North, and having to putup with all the discomfort of a long railway journey each way. 

There is no time of year one would sooner spend at home on Cotswold thanthe month of September. Nature is then at her best: the cold, bleakhills are clothed with the warmth of golden stubble; the autumnal hazenow softens the landscape with those lights and shades which add so muchof loveliness and sense of mystery to a hill country; the rich aftermathis full of animal life; birds of all descriptions are less wild and moreeasily observed than is the case later on, when the pastures and downshave been thinned by frost and there is no shelter left. Now you may seethe kestrels hovering in mid air, and the great sluggish heron wendinghis ethereal way to the upper waters of the trout stream. You watch himtill he drops suddenly from the heavens, to alight in the little valleywhich lies a short mile away, invisible amid the far-stretchingtablelands. Occasionally, too, a marsh-harrier may be met with, but thisis a _rara avis_ even in these outlandish parts. Peregrine falcons areuncommon too, though one may yet see a pair of them now and then if onekeeps a sharp look-out at all times and seasons. There are wimbrels andcurlews that have been shot here during recent years stuffed and hung upin glass cases in old Mr. Peregrine's house. 

Of other birds which are becoming scarcer year by year in England, thekingfishers are not uncommon in these parts; you will often see thebrilliant little fellow dart past you as you walk by the stream insummer. Water-ousels or dippers are scarce; we have seen but onespecimen in the last three years. 

In September, as you walk over the fields, the Cotswolds are seen attheir best. Somehow or other a country never looks so well from theroads as it appears when you are in the fields. The man who prefers thehigh road had better not live in the Cotswolds; for these roads, mendedas they are with limestone in the more remote parts of the district, become terribly sticky in winter, while the grass fields and stubblesare generally as dry as a bone. There is but a small percentage of clayin the soil, but a good deal of lime, and five inches down is the hardrock; therefore this light, stony soil never holds the rain, but allowsit to percolate rapidly through, even as a sieve. When the sun is hotafter a frost the ploughs "carry" certainly, but this is because theydry so quickly; they seldom remain thoroughly wet for any length oftime. Consequently, in hunting, the feet of hounds, horses, and even offoxes pick up the sticky, arable soil, instead of splashing through it, and scent is spoiled thereby. Doubtless the lime in the soil adds to itsstickiness. It is amusing to watch a fox "break" covert and make his wayover a plough which "carries": he travels very badly; we have seen himfail to jump a sheep hurdle at the first attempt. Fortunately for thefox, the hounds are also handicapped by these conditions, and scent iswretched. This might appear at first sight to show that the scent offoxes is chiefly given off from their feet. We can recall few occasionson which a plough that "carried" held a "burning scent. " But littlethough we know of the mysteries of "scent, " it is generally agreed thatthe "steaming trail" emanates chiefly from the body and breath of a fox, even though on certain days there is no evidence of any scent, save onthe ground. It is probable, however, that on light ploughlandsevaporation is so great when the sun is shining (unless the wind issufficiently cold to counteract the heat of the sun and prevent rapidevaporation) that all scent from the body and breath of the fox, savethat which happens to cling to the ground, is borne upwards and lost inthe upper air. _The hounds therefore have to fall back on whatever scentmay remain clinging to the soil_, those occasions of course exceptedwhen the great density or gravity of the air prevents scent from risingand dispersing, and causes it to hang _breast high_. 

After some years of careful experiment with the hygrometer andbarometer, and after an intricate investigation of scent (thatmysterious matter which is given off from the skin and breath of foxes), I have come to the conclusion that if we could get an Isaac Newton to"whip in" to a Tom Firr for about a twelvemonth, we might very likelycome to know all about it. In standing on ground whereon "angels fear totread, " I am fully aware that I speak as a fool. But let me state thatit is on the barometer that I now place my somewhat limited reliance ona hunting morning, and not on the hygrometer, on the weight of thecolumn of air on a given point of the surface of the earth, rather thanon the state of the evaporations, the relative humidity, and the dewpoint. And I have noticed that the best scenting days have been thosewhen the thermometer has given readings from 38º up to 46º Fahrenheit inthe shade. A high and steady glass, an almost imperceptible east ornorth-east wind, with the ground soaked with moisture and no frostduring the previous night, is the only combination of conditions underwhich scent on the grass is a moral certainty. On the other hand, a lowand unsteady glass, a warm, gusty south or west wind, with a hot sun, following a frost, or a day with cold showers, with bright, sunnyintervals, or during the afternoon (but not always the morning) before astorm of wind or rain, --such are the conditions which make so many ofour attempts to hunt the fox by scent a miserable farce; yet even onthese days hounds may run during some part of the day. When thebarometer is thoroughly unsettled there may be light local currents, perfectly imperceptible to man, yet felt by cows and sheep--currentscreated like winds by a variation of temperature in different parts ofany given field, and which will scatter the scent and spoil the sport. These currents, rapid evaporation combined with a lack of steadyatmospheric pressure, and that sticky state of soil which on ploughedland invariably follows a frost, and in a lesser degree affects grass, causing a fox to take his pad scent on with him (all the particles thatdo not cling to the ground having been diffused and lost in theair), --these are the curses of modern hunting fields and the chiefcauses of bad scenting days. 

After September is past the shooting man will not get very much sport onthe Cotswolds, as far as the partridges are concerned, for they are notnumerous enough to be worth driving; they soon become as wild as theycan possibly be. On Hatherop and some other estates good partridgedriving is enjoyed. The farmers are very fond of shooting them under a"kite, "--this, as it is hardly necessary to explain, is an artificialrepresentation of the hawk. It is flown high up in the air at somedistance ahead of the guns. The birds, seeing what they take to be avery large and savage-looking hawk hovering above them, ready to pouncedown at a moment's notice, become frightened, and lie crouching in thehedges and turnips, until they almost have to be kicked up by thesportsmen. But when once they do get up they fly straight away, nor dothey come back for a long time. This mode of shooting is all very wellonce in a way, but if indulged in habitually it scares the birds, driving them on to other manors. Not having seen it successfully carriedout, we are not fond of the method, but there are good sportsmen inthese parts who advocate it. Some maintain that this cannot be called areally sportsmanlike way of shooting partridges, though there isdoubtless room for two opinions on the question. 

Later on in the autumn, when November frosts begin to attract snipes tothe withybeds and water meadows by the Coln, the unambitious gunner mayoften enjoy the charm of a small and select mixed bag. 

Two of us went out for an hour last winter before breakfast, having beeninformed that a woodcock was lying in an ash copse by the river. We gotthe woodcock--a somewhat _rara avis_ in small, isolated coverts on thehills; in addition, the bag contained one snipe, one wild duck, twopheasants, six rabbits, a pigeon, a heron, and some moorhens. Now thiswas very good sport, because it was totally unexpected. The majority ofshooting people might not think much of so small a bag, but it must beremembered that the charm of this kind of shooting is its wildness. Itseems rather hard to kill herons, but anybody who has tried to preservetrout will agree that herons are the greatest enemies with which thetrout-fisher has to contend. One heron will clear a shallow stream in avery short time. When the floods are out, trout fall a ready prey tothese rapacious birds. The kingfishers likewise have a very good time. The fish will gorge themselves with worms picked up on the inundatedmeadows, until they are so full that the worms actually begin fallingout of their mouths. I picked several up last autumn which had beenstabbed, I suppose, by a heron. They were unharmed, save for a smallround hole, as if made by a bullet; there was no other mark on them. Butwhen taken up, the worms came out of their mouths by the score!Kingfishers are carefully preserved, in spite of their destructiveness, but one must draw the line at herons. 

Waiting for wild duck coming into the "spring" on a frosty night iscold work, but very good fun. They breed here in fair numbers, and flyaway in August. But when the ground becomes "scrumpety, " as the nativessay, with the first severe frost, back they come from the frozen meresto their old home; and if one can keep out of sight (and this is no easymatter in December) many a shot can be obtained in the withybeds by theriver. Teal and widgeon may be shot occasionally in the same manner. 

Sometimes, when you are upon the hills with Tom Peregrine, the keeper, trying to pick up a brace or two of partridges for the house, he willsuddenly say, "_Quad down!_" then, throwing himself on to his hands andknees in breathless anxiety, he will begin whistling for "all he knows. "You imitate him to the best of your ability, and soon, if you are lucky, an enormous flock of golden plover flash over you. Four barrels arefired almost instantaneously, and the deadly "twelve-bore" of yourcompanion is seldom fired in vain. 

Green plover, or lapwings, are numerous enough on the Cotswolds. Theyare wonderfully difficult to circumvent, nevertheless. You crouch downunder a wall, while your men go ever so far round to drive them to you;but it is the rarest thing in the world to bag one. Their eggs are verydifficult to find in the breeding season. It is the male bird that, likea terrified and anxious mother, flies round and round you with piteouscries; the female bird, when disturbed, flies straight away. 

Pigeon-shooting with decoys is a very favourite amusement among theCotswold farmers. They manage to bag an enormous quantity in a hardwinter, sometimes getting over a hundred in a day. Wood-pigeons come inthousands to the stubble fields when the beech nuts have come to an end. Large flocks of them annually migrate to England from Northern Europe. Crouching in a hedge or under a wall, you may enjoy as pretty a day'ssport as ever fell to the lot of mortal man. A few dead birds are placedon the stubble to attract the flocks, and a grand variety of flyingshots may be obtained as the wood-pigeons fly over. The year 1897 wasremarkable for this shooting. Between November 20th and 30th two of ourfarmers killed close on a thousand of these birds. Some of themdoubtless were potted on the ground. Tom Peregrine remarked that "henever saw such a sight of dead pigeons. The cheese-room up at the farmwas full of them. " The vast flocks that blacken the skies for a fewshort weeks in November disappear as suddenly as they come. AfterNovember they are no more seen. 

There would be many more partridges were it not for the rooks andmagpies. Hedges wherein the birds can hide their nests are few and farbetween in the wall country, so the keen-eyed rook spies out many a nestin the spring of the year. For this reason and because they eat thecorn, the farmers hate them. We cannot share their feelings. We shouldbe sorry to see the old rookery in the garden diminished in theslightest degree. Jays and magpies are terribly numerous; they are rareegg-stealers. We have seen as many as twelve of the latter latelyflying all together. Magpies are difficult to get at; they will sitperched upon the topmost twigs of the trees, but will invariably flyaway before you get within shot. 

It is interesting to rear a few pheasants annually. There is no birdwhich gives more delight, even if fairly tame; their beautiful colouringand cheerful crowing are always pleasant in the garden and woods aroundyour house. If you feed them every day, they will come regularly up tothe very door; and with them come the swans, waddling up from the water, looking very much out of their element. Sometimes, too, a moorhen willjoin the party; whilst two little wild ducks, the sole survivors of abrood of sixteen, which were attacked and killed by a stoat, will takefood right out of the mouths of the good-natured old swans. Peacocks Iwould not care to have round the house; but there is nothing more intouch with English country life than the glorious red, green, and browncolouring of a "fine" cock pheasant strutting proudly across the lawn onhis way to his roosting-place in the firs, contrasting as he does withthe majestic form and snowy plumage of the stately swans, which glideabout the silent Coln at the bottom of the garden--the incarnation ofgrace and symmetry. Truly some of the most common of animals are alsothe most beautiful. 

Besides the rooks, there is another bird which the farmers love to wageincessant war upon. The other day I received the following messageprinted on the back of a postcard:--

"A meeting will be held at the Swan Hotel, Bibury, on Friday, November13th, at 6. 30 p. M. , to arrange about starting a _Sparrow Club_ for thedistrict. "

 * * * * *

"_What is a Sparrow Club?_" I anxiously enquired the other day of alabouring man, a particular friend of mine, whom I happened to fall inwith on his way to chapel. He answered that it was a club for killingsparrows when they get too numerous--paying boys a farthing a head forevery bird they catch, and giving prizes for the greatest number killed. Boys may often be seen out at night, with long poles and nets attachedto them, catching sparrows in the trees. But my friend tells me that theway he likes to catch them is to go into a barn at night with a lantern. "You must hold the lantern under your coat so as to half screen thelight, and the birds will fly at the light and settle on yourshoulders. " He tells me you can pick them off your clothes by the dozen. I have never tried it, certainly, as, personally, I have no quarrel withthe sparrows. I was disappointed that the "Sparrow Club, " for which agreat public meeting had to be convened, was not of a more excitingnature. One was led to believe by the importance of the printed postcardthat some good old English custom was about to be revived. 

A farmer has just brought me in a peregrine falcon that he shot thismorning. He is of course very proud of the achievement. It is useless toargue with him on the question of preserving birds that are becomingscarce in England. He considers that a _rara avis_ such as this, whichis "here to-day and gone to-morrow, " is a prize which does not oftenfall to the lot of the gunner; it must be bagged at all hazards. Nor isit easy to answer the argument which he seldom fails to put forth, thatif he doesn't shoot it, somebody else will. 

Talking of rare birds, I shall never forget seeing a wild swan comesailing up the Coln during a very hard frost two years ago. Two of uswere out after wild duck, and it was a grand sight to watch thismagnificent bird winging his way rapidly up stream at a height of aboutfifty yards. It is rare indeed to see them in these parts, though thevicar of Bibury tells me that seven wild swans were once seen on theColn near that village; but this was some years ago. On the sameauthority I learn that a Solan goose, or gannet, has been known to visitthis stream. Tom Peregrine shot one a few years back; also a puffin, abird with a parrot-like beak and of the auk tribe. Wild geese frequentlypass over us, following the course of the stream. 

On a bright, warm day in October, such a day as we usually have a scoreor more of in the course of our much-abused English autumn, it ispleasant to take one's gun and, leaving behind the quiet, peacefulvalley and the old-world houses of the Cotswold hamlet, to ascend thehill and seek the great, rolling downs, a couple of miles away from anysign of human habitation. You may get a shot at a partridge or awood-pigeon as you go. Hares you might shoot, if you cared to, in everyfield. But on the other hand you will be equally well pleased if yourgun is not fired off, for it is peace and quiet that you are really insearch of, --the noise of a shot and the jar of a gun do not suit yourpresent mood. 

After walking for half an hour you come to a bit of high ground, whereyou have often stood before, and, resting your gun against a wall, yougaze at the view beyond. 

 "Quocunque adspicias, nihil est nisi gramen et aer. "

Nothing particularly striking, perhaps, is visible to the eye, yet to mymind there is a charm about it which the pen is quite unable todescribe. Below is a wide expanse of undulating downland, divided intofifty-acre fields by means of loose, uncemented walls of grey stone. Thegrass is green for the time of year, and scattered about are horses, cattle, and sheep, contentedly nibbling the short fine turf. In themidst of mile upon mile of rolling downs stands forth prominently onefield of plough, of the richest brown hue; whilst six miles away a longbelt of tall trees, half hidden by haze, marks the outline of StowellPark. Save for one ivy-covered homestead, miles away on the right, nothing else is in sight. 

It is past five o'clock, and the sun, which has been shining brightlyall day, with that genial warmth which one only fully appreciates as thewinter approaches, is beginning to descend. It is the lights and shadeswhich play over this wide stretch of open country which makes thelandscape look so beautiful. And when the wreaths of white, woollyclouds begin to glow round their furthermost edges like coals of fire ona frosty night, with all the promise of a brilliant sunset, this stretchof hill and plain wears an aspect which, once seen, you will neverforget. It takes your thoughts away into the great unknown--theinfinite, --that mysterious world which is ever around us, and whichseems nearer when we are looking at a beautiful sunset or a beautifulview than at any other time in this life, save, for ought we know, during the last few moments of our earthly existence. And although nohuman habitation is anywhere to be seen, the air is full of the spiritsof bygone generations and of bygone _races_ of men. There are traces ofhumanity in all directions, wherever your eye may gaze, but they are thetraces of a forgotten people. 

Yonder semicircular ridge was once the rampart of an ancient Britishtown; though, save in the tangled copse hard by, where the plough hasnever been at work, it is fast disappearing. Many a stone lying aboutthe camp bears unmistakable marks of fire. 

A glance of the eye westwards, and your thoughts are carried back to theRoman invasion; for scarce five miles off lies the ancient Roman villaof Chedworth. Then, again, tradition has it that a mile away from thisspot, and close to the old manor house, skirmishes were fought in laterdays, at the time the Civil Wars were raging, when many a chivalrouscavalier and many a stern, unbending Puritan lay dead on yonder field, or, maybe, was carried into the old house to linger and to die in thevery room in which you slept last night. Everywhere in England arebattlefields; but they are, in the words of De Quincey, "battlefieldsthat nature has long ago reconciled to herself with the sweet oblivionof flowers. "

This very mound on which you are standing, is it not the burying-placeof a race which dwelt on the Cotswolds full three thousand years ago?And were not human remains found here a few years back, when this, incommon with many other barrows hard by, was opened, and an undergroundchamber discovered therein--the earthly resting-place of the bones ofthe unknown dead?

"The silence of deep eternities, of worlds from beyond the morningstars--does it not speak to thee? The unborn ages, --the old graves, withtheir long-mouldering dust, --the very tears that wetted it, now alldry, --do not these speak to thee what ear hath not heard?"

 "Solemn before us Veiled the dark Portal-- Goal of all mortal. Stars silent rest o'er us, Graves under us silent. "

Well has Carlyle translated the great German poet. And the old barrowsthat lie scattered over these wide-stretching downs are not dumb; theyare continually speaking to us of those things "which ear hath notheard"; and at no time have they more to tell than at the close of amild, peaceful day in October, when all else, save for the fainttinkling of the distant sheep-bells, is silent as death, and the sun, ere once more disappearing, is shedding a solemn glow over the deserted, mysterious uplands of the Cotswold Hills. 

But the partridges are "calling" all around, and a covey actuallypasses over your head. Your sporting instincts begin to revive, and youtake up your gun and proceed to stalk that covey, stealing round under awall. Then you suddenly remember that the V. W. H. Hounds meet in yourvillage to-morrow, and you begin wondering whether they will once againfind the great dog fox that several times last season led you over thewide, open country that now lies mapped out before you. _Your_ fox, too, one of a litter you came upon two springs ago, in a little spinney nothalf a mile from where you are standing now, stub-bred and of thegreyhound stamp, fleet of foot and lithe of limb. Each time the houndshad come to draw he was at home in the covert on the brow of the hillwhich shelters the old manor house you inhabit from the cold blast ofwinter. Here he loved to dwell, and hunt moorhens and dabchicks andwater-rats all night long by the banks of silvery Coln. But on threeoccasions within six weeks, no sooner did the hounds enter the wood thana shrill scream proclaimed him away on the far side. You were mounted ona good horse, and were away as soon as the pack. And then for thirtyminutes the "old customer" cantered away over those broad pastures, hounds and horses tearing after him on a breast-high scent, but nevergaining an inch of ground. Two leagues were quickly traversed ere yonderdistant belt of trees was reached, where the dry leaves lay rotting onthe ground, and there was not an atom of scent. So he saved his life, and the tired, mud-bespattered sportsmen vow that there never was sucha run seen before, so thrilling is the ecstasy of "pace" and soenchanting the stride of a well-bred horse. 

'Tis a wild, deserted tract of country that stretches from Cirencesterright away to the north of Warwickshire. For fifty miles you mightgallop on across those undulating fields, and meet no human being onyour way. We have ridden forty miles on end along the Fosseway, and, save in the curious half-forsaken old towns of Moreton-in-the-Marsh andStow-on-the-Wold, we scarcely met a soul on the journey. What amarvellous work was that old Roman Fosseway! Raised high above the levelof the adjoining fields, it runs literally "as straight as an arrow"through the heart of the grassy Midlands. And what a rare huntingcountry it passes through! We saw but one short piece of barbed wire inour journey of over forty miles. Now that farming is no longerremunerative, the whole country seems to be given up to hunting. Dependupon it, it is this sport alone that circulates money through thisdeserted land. 

Time was when the uplands of Gloucestershire were almost entirely underthe plough, when good scenting days seldom gladdened the heart of thehunting man, and when, in a ride over the Cotswold tableland, theexcitement of a fast gallop on grass was an impossibility. Those werethe days when land at thirty shillings an acre was eagerly sought afterand the wheat crop amply repaid those who cultivated it. Now, alas!farms are to be had for the asking, rent free; but nobody will takethem, and the country is rapidly going back to its originaluncultivated state. The farmer, nevertheless, does not lose heart. 

To lay down such light land into permanent pasture does not pay; it istherefore left to its own devices, with the result that in a short timeweeds and moss and rough grasses spring up--less unprofitable thanploughed fields, and almost as favourable for hunting the fox as thefair pastures of the Vale of Aylesbury. However, "Nihil est ab omni Parte beatum. "

There are other things to be done in this life besides riding acrosscountry in the wake of the flying pack, glorious and exhilarating thoughthe pastime be; and the sooner these great wastes of unprolific land areonce more transformed into wheat-growing plough, the better will it befor all of us. 

So you stroll dreamily homewards, musing on these things, and wonderingwhether you will have another glorious gallop to-morrow. You will justgo round by that spinney to see if the earth you gave orders to bestopped up is properly closed. But stop! What is that lying curled upunder the wall not ten yards off? See, he stirs! he rises lazily andlooks round! 'Tis the very fox! Long and lean and wiry is he, fine drawnand sleek as a trained racehorse, with a brush nearly two feet long!Brown as the ploughed field you were looking at just now, save for thetip of his brush, which is white as snow. He trots off along the wall, offering the easiest of broadside shots if you were villain enough totake advantage of it. He does not hurry; he stops and looks round aftera bit, as much as to say, "I trust you. " But when you steal cautiouslytowards him he once more lollops along. You follow, to see where he goesto when he has jumped over the high wall into the next field. But hedoes not jump over, but _on to_ the wall, and there he sits looking atyou until you are once more nearly up to him; then he disappears theother side, and you run up and peep over. He is nowhere to be seen! Youlook along the wall for a hole into which he could have popped, but invain. You stoop down and try to track him by scent and the mark of hispad, but all to no purpose; and from that day to this you have neverdiscovered what became of him. 

[Illustration: "THE OLD CUSTOMER. " 138. Png]

CHAPTER VI. 

A GALLOP OVER THE WALLS. 

 "Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size. "

 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

The next morning you are up betimes, for the hounds meet at the house atnine o'clock. You are not sorry on looking out of your window to seethat a thick mist at present envelopes the country. With the ground inthe dry state it is in, this mist, accompanied as it is by a heavy dew, is your only chance of a scent. How else could they hunt the jackal inIndia if it was not for this dew? Thus reflecting, you recall pleasantrecollections of gallops over hard ground with the Bombay hounds, andcomfort yourself with the thought that the ground here to-day cannot beas hard as that Indian soil. You are soon into your breeches and bootsand down to breakfast. In the dining-room a large party is alreadyassembled, for there are five men and two ladies turning out from thehouse, whilst one or two keen sportsmen have already put in anappearance from afar. 

The hounds turn up punctual to the appointed time. How beautiful andmajestic they look as they suddenly come into sight amid beech and ashand walnut, whilst the bright pageant advances leisurely and in orderover the ancient ivy-covered bridge which spans the silent river, wherethe morning mist still hangs, and the grass shines white with silverydew. In good condition they look, too--a credit to their huntsman, whoevidently has not neglected giving them plenty of exercise on the roadsduring the summer. You greet the genial master; then in answer to hisenquiry as to where you would like him to draw, you point to the hangingwood on the brow of the hill, and tell him that as you heard thembarking there this very morning it is a certain find. No sooner are thewords out of your mouth than a holloa breaks the silence of the earlymorn: the gardener has "viewed" a cub within a hundred yards of thehouse. Desperately bold are the cubs at this time of year, before theyhave been hunted. Their first experience of being "stopped out" for thenight does not seem to have frightened them at all. They have beenkicking up a rare shindy most of the night in the covert close tothe house. 

 "Alas I regardless of their doom, The little victims play. "

By to-night they will have become sadder and wiser beings. Severalpeople will be glad of this, the keeper included: for the fowls havesuffered lately; there have also been one or two well-planned andcarefully thought out sallies on the young pheasants--without muchdamage, however. Not long ago a bold young cub spent some time inbreaking open the lid of one of the coops, in which were some latepheasants. He actually forced the wire netting from the roof of thecoop, although it was firmly nailed to the woodwork. But he could notquite get his head in, for when the keeper arrived on the scene at fiveo'clock a. M. , there he was, clawing and scratching at the birds. Hisefforts met with no success, however, for not a single bird was badlyinjured, though some damage might have been done if Master Reynard hadnot been interrupted at this critical moment. Young cubs are likepuppies, very mischievous. There are plenty of rabbits about, and theyare the food foxes like best; poultry and pheasants are pursued andkilled out of pure love of mischief. 

We must return to the hounds. Our huntsman wisely determines not to goto the holloa, for he prefers to let the young entry draw for theirgame. Besides which, if this cub has gone away, he is one of the rightsort, and does not require schooling. For as we all know, one of theobjects of cub-hunting is to teach the young foxes that if they don'tleave the covert when the hounds are thrown in, they will get a raredusting. So, the hounds having been taken to the "up-wind" end of thewood, the huntsman begins drawing steadily "down wind. " Let them haveevery chance now; it will be quite early enough to begin drawing up windwhen the leaf is off and Reynard has got a bit shy. Blood is anexcellent thing for young hounds, nay, for all hounds, early in theseason; but we don't want to chop any cubs before they know where theyare or what it all means. 

And soon the whole valley re-echoes with hound music, as the pack comecrashing towards us through the thick underwood. We get a splendid viewof the proceedings--for the covert is a long, narrow strip of about tenacres, running in the shape of a bow round the hill immediately abovethe place where we are stationed. There is another small wood of aboutthe same size on the other side of the little valley. For this our foxmakes, the hounds dashing close after him through the brook. Round andround they go, and it is evident that this cub (unlike several of hisbrethren who have taken their departure, viewed by the whole field, but_not_ holloaed at) does not intend to face the open country. Scent isgood in covert, perhaps because there are at present few of those dryleaves on the ground that spoil scent after the "fall of the leaf"; theresult is, we kill a cub. This will be a lesson to the rest of thefamily when they return to-night and discover the fearful end thatbefalls foxes that "hang in covert. " Another cub having gone to groundin a rabbit-hole, the keeper is given injunctions to have this hole, together with any other large ones he can find, stopped up, afterallowing a day or two to pass, especially making sure, by the use ofterriers and also by the tracks, that he does not stop any cubs in. 

We now leave the home coverts and start away for a withybed about a mileup the river, where we are told there is a litter. Here, however, we donot find, though it is the likeliest place in the world for a fox. Asthe hounds dash into the withybed a whole string of wild ducks get up, circle round us, and then fly straight away up stream in the shape ofthe letter V--a sight unsurpassed if you happen to be a lover of nature. 

Our next draw is an isolated artificial gorse of about six acres. If wefind here, we must have a gallop, for there is no covert of any sizewithin a four-mile radius; a fine open country lies all around; walls tojump and large fields of fifty acres apiece to gallop over. There issome light plough, but each year the plough gets scarcer, for theCotswolds are rapidly being allowed to tumble back into grass or, rather, into _weeds_. 

A great proportion of the stone-wall country hereabouts consists ofdowns divided into large enclosures; when the walls are low there is noreason why the pace should not be almost as good as it is in anunenclosed country. Happily to-day we seem to be in for a quick thing, for before the whip has had time to get to the end of the covert, houndsare away, without a sound, and we start off fully two hundred yardsbehind them. 

The old fox, for a fiver! But there is no stopping them; so, knowing thecountry and the earth he is making for, you make tracks, as hard asyour horse can pelt, in the direction in which the hounds are going, andvery soon they turn to you, and you find yourself almost alongside ofthem. They are running "mute, " with their noses several inches off theground; it almost looks as if they had "got a view" of him. But this isnot the case. Scent is "breast high. " Two old hounds that you knowwell--Crusty and Governor--are leading, though you are glad that one ortwo you do not know (evidently some of this year's entry) are notfar behind. 

The country, which has so far been rather hilly, now opens out into aflat tableland. You fly on, thankful that you are on a thoroughbred, andthat he is in good condition. It pays well to keep a horse "up" all thesummer in this country, for some of the quickest things of the seasontake place in October. Scent is often good at this time of the year, because the fields are full of keep: there is plenty of rough grassabout. Later on they will be pared down by sheep, and the frost willmake them as bare as a turnpike road. Then again that abomination, a"carrying" plough, is not so likely to be met with in October; the whitefrosts are not severe enough. Later on they are a constant source ofannoyance to a huntsman, and invariably cause a check. 

But your horse, well bred and fit though he be, is doing all he can tolive with the hounds. Fortunately, you know that he is too good tochance a wall, even when blown. At the pace hounds are going you havenot much time to trot slowly at the walls in the orthodox fashion; youmust take them as they come, high and low alike, at a fair pace, takinga pull a few strides before your mount takes off. Oh, how exhilaratingis a gallop in this fine Cotswold air in the cool autumnal morning! andwhat a splendid view you get of hounds! Here are no tall fences to hidethem from your sight and to tempt a fox to run the hedgerows, no boggywoodlands where your horse flounders up to his girths in yellow clay, noridge and furrow, and no deep ploughed fields. 

What is the charm which belongs so exclusively to a fast and _straight_"run" over this wild, uncultivated region? It does not lie in thesuccessful negotiation of Leicestershire "oxers, " Aylesbury "doubles, "or Warwickshire "stake-and-bound" fences, for there need be no obstaclegreater than an occasional four-foot stone wall. Perhaps it lies partlyin the fact that in a run over a level stone-wall country, where theenclosures are large and the turf sound, given a good fox and a "burningscent, " hounds and horses travel at as great a pace as they attain inany country in England. Here, moreover, if anywhere, is to be found the"greatest happiness for the greatest number, " the maximum of sport withthe minimum of danger; the fine, free air of the high-lying Cotswoldplains; the good fellowship engendered when all can ride abreast; thevery muteness of the flying pack; the onslaught of a light brigade, orof "a flying squadron under the Admiral of the Red" sailing away over asea of grass towards a region almost untrodden by man; the long sweepingstride of a well-bred horse; the unceasing twang of the horn toencourage flagging hounds beaten off by the pace and those which gotleft behind at the start; lastly, the _glorious uncertainty_! Can itlast? Where will it all end? Shall we run "bang into him" in the open, or will he beat us in yonder cold scenting woodland standing boldlyforth on the skyline miles ahead? All these things add a peculiarfascination to a fast run over this wild country. 

Sooner or later there is a sudden check, a couple of sharp turns, andthe spell is gone. Hounds may run back ever so well, to the very covertwhence an hour ago they forced him. The pleasure of watching them workout a scent, growing rapidly colder, may indeed be left to us; but theglorious possibilities, which lasted as long as a gallant thoughinvisible "quarry" was leading us _straight away_ from home intounfamiliar regions, have passed away; the record run, which we thoughthad really commenced at last, far, far into the unknown land, into thecountry leading to nowhere, is not yet attained, --probably it never willbe, for it existed in the human imagination alone during that thrillingthirty-minutes' burst, and was beyond the compass of foxes, horses, and hounds. 

As a set off to this it must be admitted that fast runs do not takeplace every day on these hills. Perhaps there will not be more than halfa dozen "clinkers" in a season with a "two-day-a-week" pack. For thisreason, as regards all-round sport, the wall country cannot compare witha vale: a stranger might hunt there for three weeks in March, and at theend of that time take himself off in disappointment and disgust, declaring these fast-flying runs he had heard so much about to be aninvention and a myth, and the wall country only fit for fools andfunkers. For good scenting days in this hill country are few and farbetween, and a bad day in the wall district is the poorest funimaginable. For this the field have generally themselves to thank, sincethey will not give the hounds a chance. 

But there is a burning scent this morning, as there generally is whenthe dew is just going off. For twenty-five minutes hounds do not checkonce. The earth our fox has been making for is fortunately closed. Thiscauses a moment's uncertainty among the hounds, but not a check, forthey drive straight onwards, and it is evident that he is making forsome earths five miles away in a neighbouring hunt's territory, whichinstinct tells him will be open. 

There they go, old T. K. And J. A. , and several ladies, past masters inthe craft of crossing a country with the maximum of elegance and skilland the minimum of risk to their horses, themselves, or their friends. Though the hounds are travelling at their greatest possible pace, theyride alongside them, looking as cool as cucumbers (too cool, I think, for their own enjoyment; for the more excitable though less experiencedrider probably enjoys himself more). Note how each wall, varying inheight from three to four and a half feet, is taken at a steady pace bythose well-schooled horses; even a five-foot wall, coped with sharp, jagged stones pointing straight upwards, does not turn them one hair'sbreadth from the line. And please note also that each has two hands onthe reins, and no whip hand flung high in the air, or elbows thrustoutwards, you gentlemen who are fond of painting pictures of huntingscenes for the press!

A good rider sitting at his ease on horseback, "As if an angel dropped down from the clouds To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship, "

resembles a skilful musician seated at a piano or an organ. There is thesame kind of communication between the man and the instrument, wherebythe stricken chords respond to the lightest touch of the master, whoguides as with a silken thread the keys that set the trembling stringsin motion. For the rider's keys are curb and snaffle, and his hands, bymeans of the bridle, control the sensitive bars of his horse'smouth--the most harmonious, delicate organ yet discovered on earth, buttoo often, alas! thumped and banged on to such an awful extent byunsympathetic, heavy hands, as to become considerably out of tune, whereby discord occasionally reigns supreme instead of sweetmelodious harmony. 

Goodness gracious! what's up? Our horse, which has never refused before, has stopped dead at a wall. We stand up in the stirrups and peep over, and there below us is a narrow but deep quarry, a veritable death trapfor the unwary sportsman. This is indeed a merciful escape; and how canwe be too thankful that a horse--wise, sagacious animal that he is--hasbeen endowed with an extraordinary instinct whereby he can _smell_danger, even though he cannot see it. Writing of this--one of thenumerous escapes a merciful dispensation of Providence has granted us inthe hunting field--we are reminded that no less than five good men andtrue have been killed suddenly with the V. W. H. Hounds during the lasteighteen years. The list commences with George Whyte Melville, prince ofhunting men, who broke his neck in a ploughed field in 1878. And it is avery remarkable fact that Mr. Noel Smith was killed in 1896, onprecisely the same day--viz. , the first Thursday of December--as that onwhich Whyte Melville lost his life eighteen years before. 

But soon after crossing a road, hounds suddenly check. After castingthemselves beautifully forward right-and left-handed until they havecompleted a half circle, they throw up their heads and look round forthe huntsman. By a sort of instinct, the result of previous observation, the foremost riders anticipated that check, and did not follow houndsover the road, though one or two later arrivals press forward rather tooeagerly. The huntsman, who is not far off, seeing at a glance that thereis no other cause for checking, as the hounds are in the middle of alarge grass field, immediately decides that the fox has turned sharpdown wind (he has been running up wind all the way), and casts hishounds left-handed and back towards the lane without much delay. 

"And now, " to quote from Mr. Madden's "Diary of Master William Silence, ""may be seen the advantage of a good character honestly won. " Crusty isbusy "feathering" down the road, and as he is an absolutely reliablehound, the rest of the pack are not long in coming back to him, andsoon, cheered by their huntsman, they are in full cry again. 

Our fox has run the road for a quarter of a mile. This manoeuvre hasprobably saved his life, for it has given him time to get his breathback. In addition to this, the instant Reynard turned down wind thescent changed from a very good one to a most indifferent one. How oftenthis happens in a run! And it is one of the fox-hunter's chiefconsolations that there is scarcely a day throughout the season on whicha run is impossible, if only a fox will set his head resolutely _upwind_, just as in a ringing run there is a certain amount of consolationin the thought that a fox _must travel up wind part of the way_. 

It is evident that, being beaten, Reynard has given up all idea of goingfor the earths three miles away. He is beginning, like all tired foxes, to twist and turn. There is no scent on the road; the hounds aretherefore laid on in a grass field, and feather across it in anuncertain sort of way. This gives an opportunity to a sportsman who hasjust arrived by the road to proclaim that "as usual they are huntinghares. " However, there is some pretty hunting done by the pack up ahedgerow and across a ploughed field; but with scent growing less andless, as is always the case with a tired, twisting fox, we do not getalong very fast. Hares are jumping up in all directions, and a terriblenuisance they are on this sort of occasion! That hounds will stick totheir fox, twist and turn though he may, in spite of hares, is a factthat is often proved in this country, when a lucky view has once moreput them on good terms with the hunted fox, at a time when half thefield have been crying "hare. " But when a fox's scent has graduallydiminished until it tends to vanishing point, it is useless to attemptto hunt him. This appears to be the case this morning, for the sun hasscattered the mists, and has been shining the last ten minutes withtremendous vigour. We are glad when the master decides to give it up, for we hope to have some more runs with this old fox later on in theseason. Hounds and horses have had enough for the time of year. So weturn our horses' heads to the cool breeze that is ever present on theCotswolds, making the climate there one of the most delightful in theworld in summer and autumn. And as we ride slowly homeward over thehill, past golden stubble fields, there is much that is picturesque tobe seen on all sides: for some late barley is not yet gathered in;horses, drawing great yellow waggons, and old-fashioned Cotswoldlabourers are busy amongst the sheaves; and there is an air of activityand animation in the fields that is absent a month or two later. Bleakand desolate does this country sometimes look in winter, though when thesun shines it is fair enough. And suddenly, as we ride along, a lovelyvalley is seen below: old-world farmhouses and gabled cottages come intoview, nestling amid stately elms and beech trees already touched byautumn's hand. As we gradually descend the hill, everything looks morebeautiful than ever this morning; for we have had a gallop. For to-dayat least we shall be in a thoroughly good temper. Whatever the morrowmay bring forth, everything will appear to-day in the best possiblelight. Such an excellent tonic is a fast gallop over the walls forbanishing dull care away. 

[Illustration: The Old Mill, Ablington. 152. Png]

CHAPTER VII. 

A COTSWOLD TROUT STREAM. 

"We may say of angling as Dr. Boteler said of strawberries: DoubtlessGod could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did; and so, if I might be judge, God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocentrecreation than angling. '"--_The Compleat Angler_. 

Very few trout we have caught this season ('98) are pink-fleshed whencooked. Last year there were a good number. The reason probably is thatthey have not been feeding on the fresh-water shrimps or crustaceans, owing to the abundance of olive duns and other flies that have been onthe water. Last winter, being so mild, was very favourable for thehatching out of fly in the spring. A hard winter doubtless commits sadhavoc among the caddis and larvae at the bottom of the river; thetrout, not being able to get much fly, are then compelled to fall backon the crustaceans. The food in these limestone rivers is so plentifulthat the fish are able to pick and choose from a very varied bill offare. This is the reason they are so difficult to catch. One is not ableto increase the stock of trout to any great extent, thereby making themeasier to catch, because the fish one introduces into the water are aptto crowd together in one or two places, with the result that they arefar too plentiful in the shallows, where there is little food, and tooscarce in the deeper water. Of the Loch Leven trout, turned in two yearsago as yearlings, more than two-thirds inhabit the quick-running, gravelly reaches; in consequence, they have grown very little. The fewthat have stayed in the deeper water have done splendidly; they are nowabout three-quarters of a pound in weight. No fish, not even sea trout, fight so well as these bright, silvery "Loch Levens. " They have cost usno end of casts and flies already this season, --not yet a month old. Experience proves, however, that ordinary _salmo fario_, or common brooktrout, are the best for turning down; for the Loch Leven trout requiredeep water to grow to any size. 

When a boy, I made a strange recovery of an eel that I had hooked andlost three weeks before. I was fishing with worms in a large deep holein Surrey. My hook was a salmon fly with the feathers clipped off. Ihooked what I believed to be an eel, but he broke the line throughgetting it entangled in a stick on the bottom. Three weeks afterwards, when fishing in the same fashion and in the same place, the line gotfixed up on the bottom. I pulled hard and a stick came away. On thatstick, strange to say, was entangled my old gut casting-line, and at theend of the line was an eel of two pounds' weight! On cutting him open, there, sure enough, was the identical clipped salmon fly; it had beeninside that eel for three weeks without hurting him. This sounds like aregular angler's yarn, and nobody need believe it unless he likes;nevertheless, it is perfectly true. I had got "fixed up" in the samestick that had broken my line on the previous occasion. 

That fish have very little sense of feeling is proved time after time. There is nothing unusual in catching a jack with several old hooks inhis mouth. With trout, however, the occurrence is more rare. Last seasonmy brother lost a fly and two yards of gut through a big trout breakinghis tackle, but two minutes afterwards he caught the fish and recoveredhis fly and his tackle. We constantly catch fish during the may-fly timewith broken tackle in their mouths. 

Who does not recollect the rapturous excitement caused by the first fishcaught in early youth? My first capture will ever remain firmlyimpressed on the tablet of the brain, for it was a red herring--"acommon or garden, " prime, thoroughly salted "red herring"! It came aboutin this way. At the age of nine I was taken by my father on a yachtingexpedition round the lovely islands of the west coast of Scotland. Wewere at anchor the first evening of the voyage in one of the beautifulharbours of the Hebrides, and, noticing the sailors fishing over theside of the boat, I begged to be allowed to hold the line. Somehow orother they managed to get a "red herring" on to the hook when myattention was diverted; so that when I hauled up a fish that in thedarkness looked fairly silvery my excitement knew no bounds. After thesailors had taken it off the hook, and given it a knock on the head, Irushed down with it into the cabin, where my father and three otherswere dining. Throwing my fish down on to the table, I delightedlyexclaimed, "Look what I have caught, father; isn't it a lovely fish?" Icould not understand the roars of laughter which followed, as one of theparty, with a horrified glance at my capture, shouted, "Take it away, take it away!" _Non redolet sed olet_. Oddly enough, although after thisI caught any amount of real live fish, I never realised until monthsafterwards how miserably I had been taken in by the boat's crew on thateventful night. 

Not long afterwards, whilst fishing with a worm just below the falls atMacomber, in the Highlands, I made what was for a small boy a remarkablecatch of sea trout. I forget the exact number, but I know I had to takethem back in sacks. They were "running" at the time, and it was verypretty to see them continually jumping up the seven-foot ladder out ofthe Spean into the Lochy. Underneath this ladder, where the water boiledand seethed in a thousand eddies, hundreds of trout lay ready to jump upthe fall. Into this foaming torrent I threw my heavily leaded bait. Nosooner was the worm in the water than it was seized by a fine sea trout. Some of them were nearly two pounds; and although I had a strongcasting-line, they were often most difficult to land, for a series ofsmall cataracts dashed down amongst huge rocks and slippery boulders, until, a hundred feet below, the calm, deep Macomber pool was reached. As the fish, when hooked, would often dash down this foaming torrentinto the pool below, they gave a tremendous amount of play before theywere landed. There was an element of danger about it, too, as a falsestep might have led to ugly complications amongst the rocks, over whichthe water came pouring down at the rate of ten miles an hour. A boy oftwelve years old, as I was then, would not have stood a chance in thatroaring torrent. A terrible accident happened here a few yearsafterwards. A party went from the house, where I always stayed, to fishat Macomber Falls. There were four ladies and two men. Whilst they weresitting eating their luncheon at this romantic spot, an argument aroseas to whether a man falling into the seething pool below the fall wouldbe drowned or not. The water was only about two feet deep; but the placewas a miniature whirlpool, and, once started down the pent-in torrent, aman would be dashed along the rocky bed and carried far out into thedeep Macomber pool beyond. A gentleman from Lincolnshire argued that inwould be impossible for any one to be drowned in such shallow water. This was at lunch. Little did he imagine that within half an hour histheory would be put to the test. But so it was; for whilst he wasstanding on the rocks fishing, with a large overcoat on, he slipped andfell in. His fishing-line became entangled round his legs, and he wasborne away at the mercy of the current. Unfortunately only ladies werepresent, his friend having gone down stream. Twice he clutched hold ofthe rocky bank opposite them, but it was too slippery, and his hold gaveway. A man jumping across the chasm might possibly have saved him byrisking his own life, for it was only fourteen feet wide; but it wouldhave been madness for any of the ladies to have attempted it. So thepoor fellow was drowned in two feet of water, before their eyes, and inspite of their brave endeavours to save him. He must have been stunnedby repeated blows from the rocks, or else I think he would have baffledsuccessfully with the torrent. The overcoat must have hampered him mostdreadfully. It was a terrible affair, reminding one of the death of"young Romilly" in the Wharfe, of which Wordsworth tells in thatbeautiful poem, the "Force of Prayer. " Bolton Abbey, as everybody knows, was built hard by, on the river bank, by the sorrowful mother, in honourof her boy. 

 "That stately priory was reared; And Wharf, as he moved along To matins, join'd a mournful voice, Nor failed at evensong. "

How many a beautiful spot in the British Isles has been endowed with aromance that will never entirely die away owing to some catastrophe ofthis kind! Macomber Falls are very beautiful indeed, but one cannot passthe place now without a shudder and a sigh. 

It has been said that "the test of a river is its power to drown aman. " There is doubtless a peculiar grandeur about the roaring torrent;but to me there is a still greater charm in the gentle flow of a southcountry trout stream, such as abound in Hampshire, Wiltshire, and in theCotswolds. I do not think the Coln is capable of drowning a man, thoughone of the Peregrine family told me the other day that the only two menwho ever bathed in our stream died soon afterwards from the shock of theintensely cold water! But then, it must be remembered that the oldprejudice against "cold water" still lingers amongst the country folk ofGloucestershire; so that this story must always be taken _cumgrano salis_. 

 * * * * *

There are few trout streams to our mind more delightful from theangler's point of view than the Gloucestershire Coln. Rising a few milesfrom Cheltenham, it runs into the Thames near Lechlade, and affords somefifteen miles or more of excellent fishing. The scenery is of that quietand homely type that belongs so exclusively to the chalk and limestonestreams of the south of England. 

From its source to the point at which it joins the Isis, the Coln flowscontinuously through a series of parks and small well-wooded demesnes, varied with picturesque Cotswold villages and rich water meadows. Itswells out into fishable proportions just above Lord Eldon's Stowellproperty, steals gently past his beautiful woods at Chedworth and theRoman villa discovered a few years ago, then onward through the quaintold-world villages of Fossbridge to Winson and Coln-St-Dennis. Thoughnot a hundred miles from London, this part of Gloucestershire is one ofthe most primitive and old-fashioned districts in England. Until the newrailway between Andover and Cheltenham was opened, four years ago, witha small station at Fosscross, there were many inhabitants of theseold-world villages who had never seen a train or a railway. Only theother day, on asking a good lady, the wife of a farmer, whether she hadever been in London, I received the reply, "No, but I've been toCheltenham. " This in a tone of voice that meant me to understand thatgoing to Cheltenham, a distance of about sixteen miles, was quite asimportant an episode in her life as a visit to London would have been. 

On leaving Winson the Coln widens out considerably, and for the next twomiles becomes the boundary between Mr. Wykeham-Musgrave's property ofBarnsley and the manor of Ablington. It flows through the picturesquehamlet of Ablington, within a hundred yards of the old Elizabethan manorhouse, over an artificial fall in the garden, and passes onward on itssecluded way through lovely woodland scenery, until it reaches thevillage of Bibury; here it runs for nearly half a mile parallel with themain street of the village, and then enters the grounds of Bibury Court. I know no prettier village in England than Bibury, and no snuggerhostelry than the Swan. The landlady of this inn has a nice littlestretch of water for the use of those who find their way to Bibury; anda pleasanter place wherein to spend a few quiet days could not be found. The garden and old court house of Bibury are sweetly pretty, the house, like Ablington, being three hundred years old; the stream passes withina few yards of it, over another waterfall of about ten feet, and soonreaches Williamstrip. Here, again, the scenery is typical of ruralEngland in its most pleasing form; and the village of Coln-St. -Aldwynsis scarcely less fascinating than Bibury. 

After leaving the stately pile of Hatherop Castle and Williamstrip Parkon the left, the Coln flows silently onwards through the delightfuldemesne of Fairford Park. Here the stream has been broadened out into alake of some depth and size, and holds some very large fish. Anothermile and Fairford town is reached, another good specimen of the Cotswoldvillage--for it is a large village rather than a town--with its lovelychurch, famous for its windows, its gabled cottages, and comfortableBull Inn. There are several miles of fishing at the Bull, as many anOxonian has discovered in times gone by, and we trust will again. 

From what we have said, it will easily be gathered that this stream isunsurpassed for scenery of that quiet, homely type that Kingsleyeulogises so enthusiastically in his "Chalk Stream Studies, " and I aminclined to agree with him in his preference for it over the grandersurroundings of mountain streams:

"Let the Londoner have his six weeks every year among crag and heather, and return with lungs expanded and muscles braced to his nine months'prison. The countryman, who needs no such change of air and scene, willprefer more homelike, though more homely, pleasures. Dearer to him thanwild cataracts or Alpine glens are the still hidden streams which Bewickhas immortalised in his vignettes and Creswick in his pictures. The longgrassy shallow, paved with yellow gravel, where he wades up between lowwalls of fern-fringed rock, beneath nut and oak and alder, to the lowbar over which the stream comes swirling and dimpling, as thewater-ouzel flits piping before him, and the murmur of the ringdovecomes soft and sleepy through the wood, --there, as he wades, he sees ahundred sights and hears a hundred tones which are hidden from thetraveller on the dusty highway above. "

But _chacun à son goût_! Let us now see what sort of sport may be had inthe Coln. To begin with, it must be described as a "may-fly" stream. This means, of course, that there is a tremendous rise of fly early inJune, with the inevitable slack time before and after the may-fly time. 

But there is much pleasant angling to be had at other times. The seasonbegins at the end of March, when a few small fish are rising, and may becaught with the March brown or the blue and olive duns. Few big fish arein condition until May, but much fun can be had with the smaller onesall through April. The half-pounders fight splendidly, and give one theidea, on being hooked, of pulling three times their real weight. TheApril fishing, at all events after the middle of the month, is verydelightful in this river. One does not actually kill many fish, for alarge number are caught and returned. 

In May, when the larger fish begin to take up their places for thesummer, one may expect good sport. This season, however, has been verydisappointing; and, judging by the way the fish were feeding on thebottom for the first fortnight of the month, one is led to expect anearly rise of the may-fly. Until the "fly is up, " the April flies, especially the olive dun, are all that are necessary. For a couple ofweeks before the "fly-fisher's carnival" sport is always uncertain. 

If the wind is in a good quarter, sport may be had; but should it beeast, the trout will not leave the caddis, with which the bed of theriver is simply alive at this time. Of late years good sport has beenobtained at the latter end of May with small flies. The may-flygenerally comes up on the higher reaches about the last week in May, orabout June 1st, though at Fairford, lower down, it is a week earlier. Agood season means a steady rise of fly, lasting for nearly three weeks, but with no great amount of fly on any one day. A bad may-fly seasonmeans, as a rule, a regular "glut" of fly for three or four days, sothat the fish are stuffed full almost to bursting point, and will notlook at the natural fly afterwards, much less at your neatly "cocked"artificial one. 

Large bags can, of course, be made on certain days in the may-flyseason; but I do not know of any better than one hundred and six fish inthree days, averaging one pound apiece. 

Sport, however, is not estimated by the number of fish taken, and thereis no better day's fun for the real fisherman than killing four or fivebrace of good fish when the trout are beginning to get tired of the fly, but are still to be caught by working hard for them. The "alder" willoften do great execution at this time, and a small blue dun is sometimesvery killing in the morning or evening. 

After the "green-drake" has lived his short life and disappeared, thereis a lull in the fishing, and the sportsman may with advantage takehimself off to London to see the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match. Allthrough July and August, when the water gets low and clear, the best andlargest fish may be taken from an hour before sunset up to eleveno'clock at night by the red palmer. Although it savours somewhat ofpoaching, I confess to a weakness for evening and night fishing. Thecool water meadows, the setting sun, with its golden glow on the water, add a peculiar charm to fishing at this time of day in the hot summermonths. And then--the splash of your fish as you hook him! How magnifiedis the sound in the dim twilight, when you cannot see, but can only hearand feel your quarry! And what satisfaction to know that that great"logger-headed" two-pounder, that was devouring goodness knows how manyyearlings and fry daily, is safe out of the water and in your basket!

On rainy days in these months good sport may be had with the wet fly;and in September a yellow dun, or a fly that imitates the wasp, willkill, if only you can keep out of sight, and place a well-dried flyright on the fish's nose. 

The dry fly and up stream is of course the orthodox method of fishing inthis as in other south-country chalk or limestone streams. No floggingthe water indiscriminately all the way up, but marking your fish down, and stalking him, is the real game. For those who fish "wet" sport isnot so good as it used to be, owing to the "schoolmaster being abroad"amongst trout as well as amongst men; but on certain windy days thismethod is the only one possible. There is a good deal of prejudiceagainst the "chuck-and-chance-it" style among the advocates of thedry-fly method of fishing. That a man who fishes with a floating flyshould be set down as a better sportsman than one who allows his fly tosink is, to my thinking, a narrow-minded argument, and one, moreover, that is not borne out by facts. True, in some clear chalk streams thefish can only be killed with the dry fly; and in such cases it isunsportsmanlike to thrash the water--in the first place, because thereis no chance of catching fish, and in the second, in the interest ofother anglers, because it is likely to make the fish shy. And thereforeit is a somewhat selfish method of fishing. 

But let those accomplished exponents of the art of fishing who are toofond of applying the epithet "poacher" to all those who do not fish intheir own particular style remember that there are but few streams inEngland sluggish enough for dry-fly fishing; consequently manyfirst-rate fishermen have never acquired the art. The dry-fly angler hasno more right to consider himself superior as a sportsman to theadvocate of the old-fashioned method than the county cricketer has toconsider himself superior to the village player. In both cases time andpractice have done their work; but the best fishermen and the mostpractised exponents of the game of cricket are very often inferior totheir less distinguished brethren as _sportsmen_. At the same time, wereI asked which of all our English sports requires the greatest amount ofperseverance, the supremest delicacy of hand, the most assiduouspractice, and the most perfect control of temper, in order thatexcellence may be attained, I would unhesitatingly answer, "Dry-flyfishing on a real chalk stream"; and I would sooner have one successfulday under such conditions than catch fifty trout by flogging aScotch burn. 

In the Coln the fish run largest at Fairford, where the water has beendeepened and broadened; and there three-pounders are not uncommon. Thenat Hatherop and Williamstrip there are some big fish. Higher up thetrout run up to two and a half pounds; and the average size of fishkilled after May 1st is, roughly speaking, one pound. The higher reachesare very much easier to fish, for the following reason: at Bibury, andat intervals of about half a mile all the way down, the river is fed bycopious springs of transparent water; the lower down you go, and themore springs that fall into the river, the more glassy does it become. The upper reaches of this river may be described as easy fishing. Thewater, when in good trim, is of a whey colour, though after June itbecomes low and very clear. The flies I have mentioned are the only onesreally necessary, and if the fish will not take them they will probablytake nothing. They are, to sum up:

 (1) March Brown. (2) Olive Dun. (3) Blue Dun. (4) May-fly. (5) Alder. (6) Palmer. 

"Wykeham's Fancy" and the "Grey Quill Gnat" are the only other fliesthat need be mentioned. The former has a great reputation on the river, but we ourselves have used it but little. 

The food on the Coln is most abundant, and to this must be attributedthe extraordinary size of the fish as compared with the depth and bulkof water. That one hundred and fifty brace of trout, averaging a poundin weight, are taken with rod and line each year on a stretch of watertwo miles in length, and varying in depth from two to three feet, with afew deep holes, the width of the water being not more than thirty feetfor the most part, is sufficient proof that there is abundance of foodin the river. 

Where the water is shallow we have found great advantage accrue byputting in large stones and fir poles, to form ripples and also homesfor the fish. By this means shallow reaches can be made to hold goodfish, and the eddies and ripples make them easy to catch. The stones addto the picturesqueness of the stream, for they soon become coated withmoss, and give the idea in some places of a rocky Scotch burn. Apleasant variety of fishing is thus obtained; for at one time you arethrowing a dry fly on to the still and unruffled surface of the broaderreaches, and a hundred yards lower down you may have to use a wet fly inthe narrower and quicker parts, where the stones cause the water to"boil up" in all directions, and the eddies give a chance to those whoare uninitiated into the mysteries of dry-fly angling. 

The large fish prefer sluggish water, but in these artificial ripplesfish may be caught on days on which the stream would be unfishable underordinary circumstances. It would be invidious to make comparisonsbetween the Coln and the Hampshire rivers--the Itchen and theTest, --these are larger rivers, with larger fish, and they require abetter fisherman than those stretches of the Coin that we are dealingwith, although the lower reaches of the latter stream are difficultenough for most people. 

Otters used to be considered scarce on the River Coln, but two havelately been trapped in the parish of Bibury. With pike and coarse fishwe are not troubled on the upper reaches, though lower down they existin certain quantities. Of poachers I trust I may say the same. Rumourhas sometimes whispered of nets kept in Bibury and elsewhere, and ofmidnight raids on the neighbouring preserves; but though I have walkeddown the bank on many a summer night, I have never once come uponanything suspicious, not even a night-line. The Gloucestershire nativeis an honest man. He may think, perhaps, that he has nothing to learnand cannot go wrong, but burglaries are practically unknown, andpoaching is not commonly practised. 

To sum up, the River Coln affords excellent sport amid surroundingsseldom to be found in these days. The whole country reminds one of thedays of Merrie England, so quaint and rural are the scenes. The housesand cottages are all built of the native stone, which can be obtainedfor the trouble of digging, so there is no danger of modern villas orthe inroads of civilisation spoiling the face of the country. Andmoreover, these country people; being simple in their tastes, have neverendeavoured to improve on the old style of building; the newer cottages, with their pointed gables, closely resemble the old Elizabethan houses. The new stone soon tones down, and every house has a pretty gardenattached to it. 

I have just returned from a stroll by the river, with my rod in hand, onthe look-out for a rise. Not a fish was stirring. It is the middle ofMay, and this glorious valley is growing more and more glorious everyday. An evening walk by the stream is delightful now, even though youmay begin to wonder if all the fish have disappeared. The air is full ofjoyful sounds. The cuckoo, the corncrake, and the cock pheasant seem tobe vieing with each other; but, alas! nightingales there are none. As Icome round a bend, up get a mallard and a duck, and beautiful they lookas they swing round me in the dazzling sunlight. A little further on Icome upon a whole brood of nineteen little wild ducks. The old mothersare a good deal tamer now than they were in the shooting season. Many atime have they got up, just out of shot, when I was trying to wile awaythe time during the great frost with a little stalking. A kingfishershoots past; but I have given up trying to find her nest. There is abrood of dabchicks, and, a little further on, another family ofwild duck. 

The spring flowers are just now in their flush of pride and glory. Clothing the banks, and reflected everywhere in the blue waters of thestream, are great clusters of marsh marigolds painting the meadows withtheir flaming gold; out of the decayed "stoles" of trees that fell bythe water's edge years and years ago springs the "glowing violet"; hereand there, as one throws a fly towards the opposite bank, a purple glowon the surface of the stream draws the attention to a glorious mass ofviolets on the mossy bank above; myriads of dainty cuckoo flowers, "With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears, "

are likewise to be seen. Farther away from the stream's bank, on theupland lawn and along the hedge towards the downs, the deep purple ofthe hyacinth and orchis, and the perfect blue of the little eyebright orgermander speedwell, are visible even at a distance. In a week the lilacand sweet honeysuckle will fill the air with grateful redolence. 

Ah! a may-fly. But I know this is only a false alarm. There are always afew stray ones about at this time; the fly will not be "up" for ten daysat least. When it does come, the stream, so smooth and glassy now, willbe "like a pot a-boiling, " as the villagers say. You would not think itpossible that a small brook could contain so many big fish as will showthemselves when the fly is up. 

In conclusion, we will quote once more from dear old Charles Kingsley, for what was true fifty years ago is true now--at all events, in thispart of Gloucestershire; and may it ever remain so!

"Come, then, you who want pleasant fishing days without the waste oftime and trouble and expense involved in two hundred miles of railwayjourney, and perhaps fifty more of highland road; come to pleasantcountry inns, where you can always get a good dinner; or, better still, to pleasant country houses, where you can always get good society--torivers which always fish brimful, instead of being, as these mountainones are, very like a turnpike road for three weeks, and then likebottled porter for three days--to streams on which you have strongsouth-west breezes for a week together on a clear fishing water, insteadof having, as on these mountain ones, foul rain spate as long as thewind is south-west, and clearing water when the wind chops up to thenorth, --streams, in a word, where you may kill fish four days out offive from April to October, instead of having, as you will most probablyin the mountain, just one day's sport in the whole of yourmonth's holiday. "

[Illustration: A bridge over the Coln. 171. Png]

CHAPTER VIII. 

WHEN THE MAY-FLY IS UP. 

 "Just in the dubious point where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly. "

 THOMSON'S _Seasons_. 

When does the may-fly come, the gorgeous succulent may-fly, that we alllove so well in the quiet valleys where the trout streams wend theirsilent ways?

It comes "of a Sunday, " answers the keeper, who would fain see theprejudice against fishing "on the Sabbath" scattered to the four windsof heaven. He thinks it very contrary of the fly that it shouldinvariably come up "strong" on the one day in the week on which thetrout are usually allowed a rest. 

"'Tis a most comical job, but it always comes up thickest of a Sunday, "he frequently exclaims. Then, if you press him for further particulars, he grows eloquent on the subject, and tells you as follows: "We alwaysreckons to kill the most fish on 'Durby day. ' 'Tis a most singularthing, but the 'Durby day' is always the best. "

Now, considering that Derby day is a movable feast, saving that italways comes on a Wednesday, there would appear to be no more logic inthis statement than there is in the one about the fly coming up strongon a Sunday. However, so deep rooted is the theory that the Derby andthe cream of the may-fly fishing are inseparably associated that we havecome to talk of the biggest rise of the season as "the Derby day, "whatever day of the week it may happen to be. 

Thus Tom Peregrine, the keeper, when he sees the fly gradually comingup, will say: "I can see how it will be--next Friday will be Durby day. You must 'meet' the fly that day; 'be sure and give it the meeting, 'sir. We shall want six rods on the water on Friday. " He is sodesperately keen to kill fish that he would sooner have six rods andmoderate sport for each fisherman than three rods and good sport allround. Wonderfully sanguine is this fellow's temperament:

 "A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident to-morrows. "

It is always "just about a good day for fishing" before you start; andif you have a bad day, he consoles you with an account of anextraordinary day last week, or one you are to have next week. Sometimesit was last season that was so good; "or it will be a splendid seasonnext year, " for some reason or other only known to himself. 

Three good anglers are quite sufficient for two miles of fishing on thebest of days. Experience has taught us that "too many cooks spoil thebroth" even in the may-fly season. 

I shall never forget a most lamentable, though somewhat laughable, occurrence which took place five years ago. Foolishly responding to theentreaties of our enthusiastic friend the keeper, we actually did askfive people to fish one "Durby day. " As luck would have it they allcame; but unfortunately a neighbouring squire, who owns part of thewater, but who seldom turns up to fish, also chose that day, and withhim came his son. Seven was bad enough in all conscience, but imagine myfeelings when a waggonette drove up, full of _undergraduates fromOxford_: my brother, who was one of the undergraduates, had brought themdown on the chance, and without any warning. Of course they all wantedto fish, though for the most part they were quite innocent of the art ofthrowing a fly. Result: ten or a dozen fisherman, all in each other'sway; every rising fish in the brook frightened out of its wits; and verylittle sport. The total catch for the day was only thirty trout, orexactly what three rods ought to have caught. 

These were the sort of remarks one had to put up with: "I say, oldchap, there's a d----d fellow in a mackintosh suit up stream; he'sbagged my water"; or, "Who is that idiot who has been flogging away allthe afternoon in one place? Does he think he's beating carpets, or is hean escaped lunatic from Hanwell?"

The whole thing was too absurd; it was like a fishing competition on theThames at Twickenham. 

Since this never-to-be-forgotten day I have come to the conclusion thatto have too few anglers is better than too many; also, alas! that it isquite useless to ask your friends to come unless they are accomplishedfishermen. It takes years of practice to learn the art of catchingsouth-country trout in these days, when every fish knows as well as wedo the difference between the real fly and the artificial. One might aswell ask a lot of schoolboys to a big "shoot, " as issue indiscriminateinvitations to fish. 

It is a prochronism to talk of the _May_-fly; for, as a matter of fact, the first ten days of _June_ usually constitute the may-fly season. Oflate years the rise has been earlier and more scanty than of yore. Thereare always several days, however, during the rise when all the biggestfish in the brook come out from their homes beneath the willows, take upa favourable place in mid stream, and quietly suck down fly after flyuntil they are absolutely stuffed. To have fished on one of these daysin any well-stocked south-country brook is something to look back uponfor many a long day. In a reach of water not exceeding one hundred yardsin length there will be fish enough to occupy you throughout the day. You may catch seven or eight brace of trout, none of which are under apound in weight, where you did not believe any large ones existed. Thefact is, the larger fish of a trout stream are more like rats in theirhabits than anything else; they stow themselves away in holes in thebank and all sorts of inconceivable places, and are as invisible by dayas the otter itself. 

That man derives the greatest enjoyment from this annual carnival amongthe trout who has been tied to London all through May, sweltering in astuffy office and longing for the country. Though his sympathies arebound up heart and soul in country pursuits, he has elected to "livelaborious days" in the busy haunts of men. He does it, though he hatesit; for he has sufficient insight to know that self-denial in some formor other is the inevitable destiny of mortal man: sooner or later it hasto be undergone by all, whether we like it or not

 "Quanto quisque sibi plura negaverit Ab dis plura feret"

Horace never wrote anything truer than that, though we are not tosuppose that the second line will necessarily come true in this life. 

We will imagine that our friend is a briefless barrister, but a fine, all-round sportsman; a crack batsman, perhaps, at Eton and Oxford, orone of whom it might be said:

 "Give me the man to whom nought comes amiss, One horse or another, that country or this-- Who through falls and bad starts undauntedly still Rides up to the motto, 'Be with them I will. '"

There may be good sportsmen enough enjoying life throughout the countryvillages of Merrie England, but in my humble opinion the _best_sportsmen must be sought in stifling offices in London, or serving"their country and their Queen" under the burning sun of a far country, or maybe in the reeking atmosphere of the East End, or as missionariesin that howling wilderness the inhospitable land of "theheathen Chinee. "

Sitting in his dusty chambers, poring over grimy books and legalmanuscripts, our "briefless" friend receives a telegram which he hasbeen expecting rather anxiously the last few days. As brief as he is"briefless, " it brings a flush to his cheek which has not been seenthere since that great run with the hounds last Christmas holidays. "Thefly is up; come at once. " These are the magic words; and no time is lostin responding to the invitation, for, as prearranged, he is to start forGloucestershire directly the wire arrives. 

There is no need to rush off to Mr. Farlow and buy up his stock ofmay-flies; for though he does not tie his own flies, our angling friendhas a goodly stock of them neatly arranged in rows of cork inside ablack tin box; and, depend upon it, they are the _right_ ones. 

Many a fisherman goes through a lifetime without getting the right fliesfor the water on which he angles. It is ten to one that those in theshops are too light, both in the body and the wing; the may-fliesusually sold are likewise much too big. About half life-size is quitebig enough for the artificial fly, and as a general rule they cannot betoo _dark_. 

Some years ago we caught a live fly, and took it up to London for theshopman to copy. "At last, " we said to ourselves, "we have got the rightthing. " But not a bit of it. The first cast on to the water showed usthat the fly was utterly wrong. It was far too light. The fact is, theinsect itself appears very much darker on the water than it does in theair. But the artificial fly shows ten times lighter as it floats on thestream than it does in the shop window. 

Dark mottled grey for your wings, and a brown hackle, with a dark ratherthan a straw-coloured body, is the kind of fly we find most killing onthe upper Coln. Of course it may be different on other streams, but Isuspect there is a tendency to use too light a fly everywhere, saveamong those who have learnt by experience how to catch trout. As SirHerbert Maxwell has proved by experiment, trout have no perception ofcolour except so far as the fly is light or dark. He found dark blue andred flies just as killing as the ordinary may-fly. 

For the dry-fly fisherman equipment is half the battle. Show me the manwho catches fish; ten to one his rod is well balanced and strong, hisline heavy, though tapered, and his gut well selected and stained. Thefly-book stamps the fisherman even more truly than the topboot stampsthe fox-hunter. Nor does the accomplished expert with the dry flydisdain with fat of deer to grease his line, nor with paraffin to dresshis fly and make it float. But he keeps the paraffin in a leather caseby itself, so that his coat may not remain redolent for months. Fromtop to toe he is a fisherman. His boots are thick, even though he doesnot require waders; on his knees are leather pads to ward offrheumatism; whilst on his head is a sober-coloured cap--not a whitestraw hat flashing in the sunlight, and scaring the timid troutto death. 

Thus appears our sportsman of the Inner Temple not twelve hours after wesaw him stewing in his London chambers. What a metamorphosis is this!Just as the may-fly, after two years of confinement as a wretched grubin the muddy bed of the stream, throws off its shackles, gives its wingsa shake, and soars into the glorious June atmosphere, happy to be free, so does the poor caged bird rejoice, after grubbing for an indefiniteperiod in a cramped cell, to leave darkness and dirt and gloom (thoughnot, like the may-fly, for ever), and flee away on wings the mightysteam provides until he finds himself once again in the fresh greenfields he loves so well. And truly he gets his reward. He has come intoa new world--rather, I should say, a paradise; for he comes when meadowsare green and trees are at their prime. Though the glory of the lilachas passed away, the buttercup still gilds the landscape; barley fieldsare bright with yellow charlock, and the soft, subdued glow of sainfoingives colour to the breezy uplands as of acres of pink carnations. Onone side a vast sheet of saffron, on the other a lake of rubies, ripplesin the passing breeze, or breaks into rolling waves of light and shadeas the fleecy clouds sweep across azure skies. He comes when roses, pinkand white and red, are just beginning to hang their dainty heads inmodest beauty on every cottage wall or cluster round the ancient porch;when from every lattice window in the hamlet (I wish I could say every_open_ window) rows of red geraniums peep from their brown pots ofterra-cotta, brightening the street without, and filling the cosy roomswith grateful, unaccustomed fragrance; when the scent of the sweet, short-lived honeysuckle pervades the atmosphere, and the faces of thehandsome peasants are bronzed as those of dusky dwellers underItalian skies. 

 No daintie flowre or herbe that grows on ground; No arborett with painted blossoms drest, And smelling sweete, but there it might be found, To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al around. 

 E. SPENSER. 

What a pleasant country is this in which to spend a holiday! How whiteare the limestone roads! how fresh and invigorating is the upland air!The old manor house is deserted, its occupants having gone to London. But a couple of bachelors can be happy in an empty house, withoutservants and modern luxuries, as long as the may-fly lasts. It ispleasant to feel that you can dine at any hour you please, and wear whatyou please. The good lady who cooks for you is merely the wife of one ofthe shepherds; but her cooking is fit for a king! What dinner could bebetter than a trout fresh from the brook, a leg of lamb from the farm, and a gooseberry tart from the kitchen garden? For vegetables you mayhave asparagus--of such excellence that you scarcely know which end tobegin eating--and new potatoes. 

For my part, I would sooner a thousand times live on homely fare in thecountry than be condemned to wade through long courses at London dinnerparties, or, worse still, pay fabulous prices at "Willis's Rooms, " the"Berkeley, " or at White's Club. 

What a comfort, too, to be without housemaids to tidy up your papers inthe smoking-room and shut your windows in the evening! How healthful tosleep in a room in which the windows have been wide open night and dayfor months past!

Sport is usually to be depended upon in the may-fly time, as long as youare not late for the rise. Of late years the fly has "come up" so earlyand in such limited quantities that but few fishermen were on thewater in time. 

We are apt to grumble, declaring that the whole river has gone to thebad; that the fish are smaller and fewer in numbers than of yore, --butis this borne out by facts? The year 1896 was no doubt rather a failureas regards the may-fly; but as I glance over the pages of the game-bookin which I record as far as possible every fish that is killed, I cannothelp thinking that sport has been very wonderful, take it all round, during six out of seven seasons. 

It is a lovely day during the last week in May. There has been no rainfor more than a fortnight; the wind is north-east, and the sun shinesbrightly, --yet we walk down to the River Coln, anticinating a good day'ssport among the trout: for, during the may-fly season, no matter howunpropitious the weather may appear, sport is more of a certainty onthis stream than at any other time of year. Early in the season droughtdoes not appear to have any effect on the springs; we might get no rainfrom the middle of April until half-way through June, and yet the waterwill keep up and remain a good colour all the time. But after June is"out, " down goes the water, lower and lower every week; no amount ofrain will then make any perceptible increase to the volume of thestream, and not until the nights begin to lengthen out and the autumnalgales have done their work will the water rise again to its normalheight. If you ask Tom Peregrine why these things are so, he will onlytell you that after a few gales the "springs be _frum_. " The word"frum, " the derivation of which is, Anglo-Saxon, "fram, " or "from" =strong, flourishing, is the local expression for the bursting ofthe springs. 

Our friend Tom Peregrine is full of these quaint expressions. When hesees a covey of partridges dusting themselves in the roads, he will tellyou they are "bathering. " A dog hunting through a wood is always said tobe "breveting. " "I don't like that dog of So-and-so's, he do 'brevet'so, " is a favourite saying. The ground on a frosty morning "scrumps" or"feels scrumpety, " as you walk across the fields; and the partridgeswhen wild, are "teert. " All these phrases are very happy, the sound ofthe words illustrating exactly the idea they are intended to convey. Besides ordinary Gloucestershire expressions, the keeper has a largevariety that he has invented for himself. 

When the river comes down clear, it is invariably described as likelooking into a gin bottle, or "as clear as gin. " A trout rising boldlyat a fly is said to "'quap' up, " or "boil up, " or even "come at it likea dog. " The word "mess" is used to imply disgust of any sort: "I see oneboil up just above that mess of weed"; or, if you get a bit of weed onthe hook, he will exclaim, "Bother! that mess of weed has put him down. "Sometimes he remarks, "Tis these dreadful frostis that spileseverything. 'Tis enough to sterve anybody. " When he sees a bad fishermanat work, he nods his head woefully and exclaims, "He might as well throwhis 'at in!" Then again, if he is anxious that you should catch aparticular trout, which cannot be persuaded to rise, he always says, "Terrify him, sir; keep on terrifying of him. " This does not mean thatyou are to frighten the fish; on the contrary, he is urging you to stickto him till he gets tired of being harassed, and succumbs to temptation. All these quaint expressions make this sort of folk very amusingcompanions for a day's fishing. 

It is eleven o'clock; let us walk down stream until we come to a bend inthe river where the north-east wind is less unfavourable than it is inmost parts. There is a short stretch of two hundred yards, where, as wefish up stream, the breeze will be almost at our backs, and there arefish enough to occupy us for an hour or so; afterwards, we shall have to"cut the wind" as best we can. 

As we pass down stream the pale olive duns are hatching out in fairnumbers, and a few fish are already on the move. What lovely, delicatethings are these duns! and how "beautifully and wonderfully are theymade"! If you catch one you will see that it is as delicate andtransparent as it can possibly be. Not even the may-fly can compare withthe dun. And what rare food for trout they supply! For more than sixweeks, from April 1st, they hatch out by thousands every sunny day. Themay-fly may be a total failure, but week after week in the early springyou may go down to the riverside with but one sort of fly, and if thereare fish to be caught at all, the pale-winged olive dun will catch them;and in spite of the fact that there are a few may-flies on the water, itis with the little duns that we intend to start our fishing to-day. Thetrout have not yet got thoroughly accustomed to the green-drake, and the"Durby day" will not be here for a week. It is far better to leave them"to get reconciled" to the new fly (as the keeper would put it); theywill "quap" up all the better in a few days if allowed, in anglingphraseology, "to get well on to the fly. "

On arriving at the spot at which we intend commencing operations, it isevident that the rise has begun. Happily, everything was in readiness. Our tapered gut cast has been wetted, and a tiny-eyed fly is at the end. The gut nearest the hook is as fine as gut can possibly be. Anythingthicker would be detected, for a spring joins the river at this pointand makes the water rather clear. Higher up we need not be soparticular. There is a fish rising fifteen yards above us; so, crouchinglow and keeping back from the bank, we begin casting. A leatherkneecap, borrowed from the harness-room, is strapped on to the knee, andis a good precaution against rheumatism. The first cast is two feetshort of the rise, but with the next we hook a trout. He makes atremendous rush, and runs the reel merrily. We manage to keep him out ofthe weeds and land him--a silvery "Loch Leven, " about three-quarters ofa pound, and in excellent condition. Only two years ago he was put intothe stream with five hundred others as a yearling. The next two risingfish are too much for us, and we bungle them. One sees the line, owingto our throwing too far above him, and the other is frightened out ofhis life by a bit of weed or grass which gets hitched on to the barb ofthe hook, and lands bang on to his nose. These accidents will happen, sowe do not swear, but pass on up stream, and soon a great brown tailappears for a second just above some rushes on the other side. Kneelingdown again, we manage, after a few casts--luckily short of our fish--todrop the fly a foot above him. Down it sails, not "cocking" as nicely ascould be wished, but in an exact line for his nose. There is a slightdimple, and we have got him. For two or three minutes we are at themercy of our fish, for we dare not check him--the gut is too fine. But, lacking condition, he soon tires, and is landed. He is over a pound anda half, and rather lanky; but kill him we must, for by the size of hishead we can see that he is an old fish, and as bad as a pike for eatingfry. Two half-pounders are now landed in rapid succession, and returnedto the water. Then we hook a veritable monster; but, alas! he makes aterrific rush down stream, and the gut breaks in the weeds. Of course heis put down as the biggest fish ever hooked in the water. As a matter offact, two pounds would probably "see him. " Putting on another olive dun, we are soon playing a handsome bright fish of a pound, with thickshoulders and a small head. And a lovely sight he is when we get him outof the water and knock him on the head. 

We now come to a place where some big stones have been placed to makeripples and eddies, and the stream is more rapid. Glad of the chance ofa rest from the effort of fishing "dry, " which is tiring to the wristand back, we get closer to the bank, and flog away for five minuteswithout success. Suddenly we hear a voice behind, and, looking round, see our mysterious keeper, who is always turning up unexpectedly, without one's being able to tell where he has sprung from. "The fish beall alive above the washpool. I never see such a sight in all my life!"he breathlessly exclaims. 

"All right, " we reply; "we'll be up there directly. But let's first ofall try for the big one that lies just above that stone. "

"There's one up! . .. There's another up! The river's boiling, " says ourloquacious companion. 

"That's the big fish, " we reply, vigorously flogging the air to dry thefly; for when there is a big fish about, one always gives him as neatlya "cocked" fly as is possible. 

"_Must_ have him! Bang over him!" exclaims Tom Peregrine excitedly. 

But there is no response from the fish. 

"Keep _terrifying_ of him, keep _terrifying_ of him, " whispers Tom;"he's bound to make a mistake sooner or later. " So we try again, and atthe same moment that the fly floats down over the monster's nose hemoves a foot to the right and takes a live may-fly with a big roll anda flop. 

"Well, I never! Try him with a may-fly, sir, " says Peregrine. 

Thinking this advice sound, we hastily put on the first may-fly of theseason; and no sooner have we made our cast than, as Rudyard Kiplingonce said to the writer, there is a boil in the water "like the launchof a young yacht, " a tremendous swirl, and we are fast into a famoustrout. Directly he feels the insulting sting of the hook he rushes downstream at a terrific rate, so that the line, instead of being taut, dangles loosely on the water. We gather the line through the rings inbreathless haste--there is no time to reel up--and once more get a tightstrain on him. Fortunately there are no weeds here; the current is toorapid for them. Twice he jumps clean out of the water, his broad, silvery sides flashing in the sunlight. At length, after a five minutes'fight, during which our companion never stops talking, we land the bestfish we have caught for four years. Nearly three pounds, he is as "fatas butter, " as bright as a new shilling, with the pinkest of pink spotsalong his sides, and his broad back is mottled green. The head is small, indicating that he is not a "cannibal, " but a real, good-conditioned, pink-fleshed trout. And it is rare in May to catch a big fish that hasgrown into condition. 

We have now four trout in the basket. "A pretty dish of fish, " asPeregrine ejaculates several times as we walk up stream towards thewashpool. For thirty years he has been about this water, and has seenthousands of fish caught, yet he is as keen to-day as a boy with hisfirst trout. As we pass through a wood we question him as to a smallstone hut, which appeared to have fallen out of repair. 

"Oh!" he replied, "that was built in the time of the Romans"; and thenhe went on to tell us how a _great_ battle was fought in the wood, andhow, about twenty years ago, they had found "a _great_ skeleton of aman, nearly seven feet long"--a sure proof, he added, that the Romanshad fought here. 

As a matter of fact, there are several Roman villas in theneighbourhood, and there was also fighting hereabouts in the Civil Wars. But half the country folk look upon everything that happened more than ahundred years ago as having taken place in the time of the Romans; andOliver Cromwell is to them as mythical a personage and belonging to anequally remote antiquity as Julius Caesar. The Welsh people are just thesame. The other day we were shown a huge pair of rusty scissors whilststaying in Breconshire. The man who found them took them to the "bighouse" for the squire to keep as a curiosity, for, "no doubt, " he said, "they once belonged to _some great king_"!

To our disgust, on reaching the upper water we found it as thick aspea-soup. Sheep-washing had been going on a mile or so above us. Neverhaving had any sport under these conditions in past times, we had quitedecided to give up fishing for the day; but Tom Peregrine, who is eversanguine, swore he saw a fish rise. To our astonishment, on putting thefly over the spot, we hooked and landed a large trout Proceeding upstream, two more were quickly basketed. When the water comes down asthick as the Thames at London Bridge, after sheep washing, the big troutare often attracted out of their holes by the insects washed out of thewool; but they will seldom rise freely to the artificial fly on suchoccasions. To-day, oddly enough, they take any fly they can see in thethick water, and with a "coch-y-bondu" substituted for the may-fly, asbeing more easily seen in the discoloured water, any number of fish wereto be caught. But there is little merit and, consequently, littlesatisfaction in pulling out big trout under these conditions, so that, having got seven fish, weighing nine pounds, in the basket, we aresatisfied. 

As a rule, it is only in the may-fly season that the biggest fish risefreely; an average weight of one pound per fish is usually consideredfirst-rate in the Coln. On this day, however, although the may-fly wasnot yet properly up, the big fish, which generally feed at night, hadbeen brought on the rise by the sheep-washing. 

All the way home we are regaled with impossible stories of big fishtaken in these waters, one of which, the keeper says, weighed fivepounds, "all but a penny piece. " As a matter of fact, this fish wastaken out of a large spring close to the river; and it is very rarelythat a three-pounder is caught in the Coln above Bibury, whilst anythingover that weight is not caught once in a month of Sundays. Last January, however, a dead trout, weighing three pounds eight ounces, was found atBibury Mill, and a few others about the same size have been taken duringrecent years. At Fairford, where the stream is bigger, a five-pounderwas taken during the last may-fly. 

We are pleased to find that our friend from London, who has been fishingthe same water, has done splendidly; he has killed six brace of goodtrout, besides returning a large number to the water. With a glow ofsatisfaction he

 "Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragg'd; And where the very monarch of the brook, After long struggle, had escaped at last. "

 WORDSWORTH. 

We laid our combined bag on the cool stone floor in the game larder;

 "And verily the silent creatures made A splendid sight, together thus exposed; Dead, but not sullied or deformed by death, That seem'd to pity what he could not spare. "

 WORDSWORTH. 

But the killing of trout is only a small part of the pleasure of beinghere when the may-fly is up. How pleasant to live almost entirely in theopen air! after the day's fishing is over to rest awhile in the coolmanor house hard by the stream, watching from the window of theoak-panelled little room the wonders of creation in the garden throughwhich the river flows! Now, from the recesses of the overhanging boughson the tiny island opposite, a moorhen swims forth, cackling and peckingat the water as she goes. She is followed by five little balls of blackfur--her red-beaked progeny; they are fairly revelling in the eveningsunlight, diving, playing with each other, and thoroughly enjoying life. 

Up on the bough of the old fir, bearing its heavy mantle of ivy frombase to topmost twig, and not twenty yards from the window, a thrushsits and sings. You must watch him carefully ere you assure yourselfthat those sweet, trilling notes of peerless music come from that tinythroat. A rare lesson in voice production he will teach you. Deepbreathing, headnotes clear as a bell and effortless, as only three orfour singers in Europe can produce them, without the slightest sense ofstrain or throatiness--such are the songs of our most gifted denizens ofthe woods. 

What a wondrous amount of life is visible on an evening such as this!Among the fast-growing nettles beyond the brook scores of rabbits arerunning to and fro, some sitting up on their haunches with ears pricked, some gamboling round the lichened trunk of the weeping ash tree. 

Out of the water may-flies are rising and soaring upwards to circleround the topmost branches of the firs. Looking upwards, you may seehundreds of them dancing in unalloyed delight, enjoying their briefexistence in this beautiful world. 

Birds of many kinds, swallows and swifts, sparrows, fly-catchers, blackbirds, robins and wrens, all and sundry are busy chasing the poorgreen-drakes. As soon as the flies emerge from their husks and hoverabove the surface of the stream, many of them are snapped up. But thetrout have "gone down, "--they are fairly gorged for the day; they willnot trouble the fly any more to-night. 

And then those glorious bicycle rides in the long summer evenings, when, scarcely had the sun gone down beyond the ridge of rolling uplands thanthe moon, almost at the full, and gorgeously serene, cast her soft, mysterious light upon a silent world. One such night two anglers, gliding softly through the ancient village of Bibury, dismounted fromtheir machines and stood on the bridge which spans the River Coln. Belowthem the peaceful waters flowed silently onwards with all the smoothnessof oil, save that ever and anon rays of silvery moonlight fell instreaks of radiant whiteness upon its glassy surface. 

From beneath the bridge comes the sound of busy waters, a sound, as isoften the case with running water, that you do not hear unless youlisten for it carefully. Close by, too, at the famous spring, crystalwaters are welling forth from the rock, pure and stainless as they werea thousand years ago. All else is silent in the village. The sky isflecked by myriads of tiny cloudlets, all separate from each other, andmostly of one shape and size; but just below the brilliant orb, whichfloats serene and proud above the line of mackerel sky, fantastic peaksof clouds, like far-off snow-capped heights of rugged Alps, arepointing upwards. 

Suddenly there comes a change. A fairy circle of prismatic colour isgathering round the moon, beautifying the scene a thousandfold; an innergirdle of hazy emerald hue immediately surrounds the lurid orb, which isnow seen as "in a glass darkly"; whilst encircling all is a narrow rimof red light, like the rosy hues of the setting sun that have scarcelydied away in the west. The beauty of this lunar rainbow is enhanced bythe framework of shapely ash trees through whose branches it is seen. 

Along the river bank, nestling under the hanging wood, are rows of oldstone cottages, with gables warped a little on one side. One lightshines forth from the lattice window of the ancient mill; but in thecool thick-walled houses the honest peasants are slumbering in deep, peaceful sleep. 

 "Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God, the very houses seem asleep. "

 WORDSWORTH. 

We are in the very heart of England. What a contrast to London at night, where many a poor fellow must be tossing restlessly in the stiflingatmosphere!

As we return towards the old manor house the nightjar, or goatsucker, is droning loudly, and a nightingale--actually a nightingale!--issinging in the copse. These birds seldom visit us in the Cotswolds. Inthe deserted garden the scent of fresh-mown hay is filling the air, and

 "The moping owl doth to the moon complain Of such as wander near her secret bower. "

As we go we pluck some sprigs of fragrant honeysuckle and carry themindoors. And so to bed, passing on the broad oak staircase the weirdpicture of the man who built this rambling old house more than threehundred years ago. 

There is a plain everyday phenomenon connected with pictures, and moreespecially photographs, which must have been noticed time after time bythousands of people; yet I never heard it mentioned in conversation orsaw it in print. I allude to the extraordinary sympathy the features ofa portrait are capable of assuming towards the expression of countenanceof the man who is looking at it. There is something at times almostuncanny in it. Stand opposite a photograph of a friend when you arefeeling sad, and the picture is sad. Laugh, and the mouth of your friendseems to curl into a smile, and his eyes twinkle merrily. Relapse intogloom and despondency, and the smile dies away from the picture. Oftenin youth, when about to carry out some design or other, I used to glanceat my late father's portrait, and never failed to notice a look ofapproval or condemnation on the face which left its mark on the memoryfor a considerable time. The countenance of the grim old gentleman inthe portrait on the stairs ("AETATIS SUAE 92. 1614 A. D. ") wore adistinct air of satisfaction to-night as I passed by on my way to bed;he always looks pleased after there has been a good day with the hounds, and likewise in the summer when the may-fly is up. 

[Illustration: Burford Priory. 194. Png]

CHAPTER IX. 

BURFORD, A COTSWOLD TOWN. 

Burford and Cirencester are two typical Cotswold towns; and perhaps thefirst-named is the most characteristic, as it is also the most remoteand old-world of all places in this part of England. It was on a lovelyday in June that we resolved to go and explore the ancient priory andglorious church of old Burford. A very slow train sets you down atBampton, commonly called Bampton-in-the-Bush, though the forest whichgave rise to the name has long since given place to open fields. 

There are many other curious names of this type in Gloucestershire andthe adjoining counties. Villages of the same name are oftendistinguished from each other by these quaint descriptions of theirvarious situations. Thus:

 Moreton-in-the-Marsh distinguishes from More-ton-on-Lug. Bourton-on-the-Water distinguishes from Bourton-on-the-Hill. Stow-on-the-Wold distinguishes from Stowe-Nine-Churches. 

Then we find

 Shipston-on-Stour and Shipton-under-Whichwood. Hinton-on-the-Green and Hinton-in-the-Hedges. Aston-under-Hill and Aston-under-Edge. 

It may be noted in passing that the derivation of the word"Moreton-in-the-Marsh" has ever been the subject of much controversy. But the fact that the place is on the ancient trackway from Cirencesterto the north, and also that four counties meet here, is sufficientreason for assigning Morton-hen-Mearc (=) "the place on the moor by theold boundary" as the probable meaning of the name. 

We were fortunate enough to secure an outside seat on the rickety old"bus" which plies between Bampton and Burford, and were soon slowlytraversing the white limestone road, stopping every now and then to setdown a passenger or deposit a parcel at some clean-looking, stone-facedcottage in the straggling old villages. 

It was indeed a glorious morning for an expedition into the Cotswolds. The six weeks' drought had just given place to cool, showery weather. Alight wind from the west breathed the fragrance of countless wildflowers and sweet may blossom from the leafy hedges, and the scent ofroses and honeysuckle was wafted from every cottage garden. After amonth spent amid the languid air and depressing surroundings of London, one felt glad at heart to experience once again the grand, pure air andrural scenery of the Cotswold Hills. 

What strikes one so forcibly about this part of England, after a sojournin some smoky town, is its extraordinary cleanliness. 

There is no such thing as _dirt_ in a limestone country. The very mudoff the roads in rainy weather is not dirt at all, sticky though itundoubtedly is. It consists almost entirely of lime, which, though itburns all the varnish off your carriage if allowed to remain on it for afew days, has nothing repulsive about its nature, like ordinary mud. 

How pleasant, too, is the contrast between the quiet, peaceful countrylife and the restless din and never-ceasing commotion of the "busyhaunts of men"! As we pass along through villages gay with flowers, weconverse freely with the driver of the 'bus, chiefly about fishing. Thegreat question which every one asks in this part of the world in thefirst week in June is whether the may-fly is up. The lovely green-drakegenerally appears on the Windrush about this time, and then for ten daysnobody thinks or talks about anything else. Who that has ever witnesseda real may-fly "rise" on a chalk or limestone stream will deny that itis one of the most beautiful and interesting sights in all creation?Myriads of olive-coloured, transparent insects, almost as large asbutterflies, rising out of the water, and floating on wings as light asgossamer, only to live but one short day; great trout, flopping androlling in all directions, forgetful of all the wiles of which they aregenerally capable; and then, when the evening sun is declining, thefemale fly may be seen hovering over the water, and dropping her eggstime after time, until, having accomplished the only purpose for whichshe has existed in the winged state, she falls lifeless into the stream. But though these lovely insects live but twenty-four hours, and duringthat short period undergo a transformation from the _sub-imago_ to the_imago_ state, they exist as larvae in the bed of the river for quitetwo years from the time the eggs are dropped. The season of 1896 was oneof the worst ever known on some may-fly rivers; probably the great frosttwo winters back was the cause of failure. The intense cold is supposedto have killed the larvae. 

The Windrush trout are very large indeed; a five-pound fish is not atall uncommon. The driver of the 'bus talked of monsters of eight poundshaving been taken near Burford, but we took this _cum grano salis_. 

After a five-mile drive we suddenly see the picturesque old town belowus. Like most of the villages of the country, it lies in one of thenarrow valleys which intersect the hills, so that you do not get a viewof the houses until you arrive at the edge of the depression in whichthey are built. 

Having paid the modest shilling which represents the fare for the fivemiles, we start off for the priory. There was no difficulty in findingour way to it. In all the Cotswold villages and small towns the "bighouse" stands out conspicuously among the old cottages and barns andfarmhouses, half hidden as it is by the dense foliage of giant elms andbeeches and chestnuts and ash; nor is Burford Priory an exception to therule, though its grounds are guarded by a wall of immense height on oneside. And then once more we get the view we have seen so often onCotswold; yet it never palls upon the senses, but thrills us with itsown mysterious charm. Who can ever get tired of the picture presented bya gabled, mediaeval house set in a framework of stately trees, amidwhose leafy branches the rooks are cawing and chattering round theirancestral nests, whilst down below the fertilising stream silentlyfulfils its never-ceasing task, flowing onwards everlastingly, caringnothing for the vicissitudes of our transitory life and the hopes andfears that sway the hearts of successive generations of men?

There the old house stands "silent in the shade"; there are the "nurserywindows, " but the "children's voices" no longer break the silence of thestill summer day. Everywhere--in the hall, in the smoking-room, wherethe empty gun-cases still hang, and in "my lady's bower, "

 "Sorrow and silence and sadness Are hanging over all. "

Until we arrived within a few yards of the front door we had almostforgotten that the place was a ruin; for though the house is but anempty shell, almost as hollow as a skull, the outer walls areabsolutely complete and undamaged. At one end is the beautiful oldchapel, built by "Speaker" Lenthall in the time of the Commonwealth. There is an air of sanctity about this lovely white freestone templewhich no amount of neglect can eradicate. The roof, of fine stucco work, has fallen in; the elder shrubs grow freely through the crevices in thebroken pavement under foot, --and yet you feel bound to remove your hatas you enter, for "you are standing on holy ground. "

 "EXUE CALCEOS, NAM TERRA EST SANCTA. "

Over the entrance stands boldly forth this solemn inscription, whilstangels, wonderfully carved in white stone, watch and guard the sacredprecincts. At the north end of the chapel stands intact the altar, and, strangely enough, the most perfectly preserved remnants of the wholebuilding are two white stone tablets plainly setting forth the TenCommandments. The sun, as we stood there, was pouring its rays throughthe graceful mullioned windows, lighting up the delicate carving, --workthat is rendered more beautiful than ever by the "tender grace of a daythat is dead, "--whilst outside in the deserted garden the birds weresinging sweetly. The scene was sadly impressive; one felt as one doeswhen standing by the grave of some old friend. As we passed out of thechapel we could not help reflecting on the hard-heartedness of men fiftyyears ago, who could allow this consecrated place, beautiful and fairas it still is, to fall gradually to the ground, nor attempt to putforth a helping hand to save it ere it crumbles into dust. Howungrateful it seems to those whose labour and hard, self-sacrificingtoil erected it two hundred and fifty years ago! Those men of whomRuskin wrote: "All else for which the builders sacrificed has passedaway; all their living interests and aims and achievements. We know notfor what they laboured, and we see no evidence of their reward. Victory, wealth, authority, happiness, all have departed, though bought by many abitter sacrifice. "

It should be mentioned, however, that Mr. R. Hurst is at the presenttime engaged in a laudable endeavour to restore this chapel to itsoriginal state. Inside the house the most noteworthy feature of interestis a remarkably fine ornamental ceiling. Good judges inform us that theballroom ceiling at Burford Priory is one of the finest examples of oldwork of the kind anywhere to be seen. The room itself is a very largeand well-proportioned one; the oak panels, which completely cover thewalls, still bear the marks of the famous portraits that once adornedthem. Charles I. And Henry Prince of Wales, by Cornelius Jansen; QueenHenrietta Maria, by Vandyke; Sir Thomas More and his family, by Holbein;Speaker Lenthall, the former owner of the house; and many other finepictures hung here in former times. The staircase is a fine broadone, of oak. 

But now let us leave the inside of the house, which _ought_ to be sobeautiful and bright, and _is_ so desolate and bare, for it is of nogreat age, and let us call to mind the picture which Waller painted, engravings of which used to adorn so many Oxford rooms: "The EmptySaddle. " For, standing in the neglected garden we may see the veryterrace and the angle of the house which were drawn so beautifully byhim. Then, as we stroll through the deserted grounds towards thepeaceful Windrush, where the great trout are still sucking down the poorshort-lived may-flies, let us try to recollect what manner of men usedto walk in these peaceful gardens in the old, stirring times. 

Little or nothing is known of the monastery which doubtless existedsomewhere hereabouts prior to the dissolution in Henry VIII. 's reign. 

Up to the Conquest the manor of Burford was held by Saxon noblemen. Itis mentioned in Doomsday Book as belonging to Earl Aubrey; but the firstnotable man who held it was Hugh le Despencer. This man was one ofEdward II. 's favourites, and was ultimately hung, by the queen'scommand, at the same time that Edward was committed to KenilworthCastle. Burford remained with his descendants till the reign of HenryV. , when it passed by marriage to a still more notable man, in theperson of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the "kingmaker. " Space doesnot allow us to romance on the part that this great warrior played inthe history of those times; Lord Lytton has done that for us in hissplendid book, "The Last of the Barons. " Suffice it to say that he leftan undying fame to future generations, and fell in the Wars of the Roseswhen fighting at the battle of Barnet against the very man he had set onthe throne. The almshouses he built for Burford are still to be seenhard by the grand old church. 

 "For who lived king, but I could dig his grave? And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his brow? Lo, now my glory's smear'd in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all my lands, Is nothing left me, but my body's length!"

 3 _King Henry VI_. , V. Ii. 

In the reign of Henry VIII. This manor, having lapsed to the Crown, wasgranted to Edmund Harman, the royal surgeon. Then in later days Sir JohnFortescue, Chancellor of the Exchequer to Queen Elizabeth, got hold ofit, and eventually sold it to Sir Lawrence Tanfield, a great judge inthose times. The latter was buried "at twelve o'clock in the Night" inthe church of Burford; and there is a very handsome aisle there and animmense monument to his memory. The Tanfield monument, though somewhatugly and grotesque, is a wonderful example of alabaster work. The costof erecting it and the labour bestowed must have been immense. It wasthis knight who built the great house of which the present ruins formpart, and the date would probably be about 1600. But in 1808 nearly halfthe original building is supposed to have been pulled down, and what wasallowed to remain, with the exception of the chapel, has been verymuch altered. 

It was in the time of Lucius Carey's (second Lord Falkland) ownership ofthis manor that the place was in the zenith of its fame. Thisaccomplished man, whose father had married Chief Justice Tanfield'sonly daughter, succeeded his grandfather in the year 1625. He gatheredtogether, either here or at Great Tew, a few miles away, half theliterary celebrities of the day. Ben Jonson, Cowley, and Chillingworthall visited Falkland from time to time. Lucius Carey afterwards becamethe ill-fated King Charles's Secretary of State, an office which heconscientiously filled until his untimely death. 

Falkland left little literary work behind him of any mark, yet of noother man of those times may it be said that so great a reputation forability and character has been handed down to us. Novelists and authorsdelight in dwelling on his good qualities. Even in this jubilee year of1897 the author of "Sir Kenelm Digby" has written a book about theFalklands. Whyte Melville, too, made him the hero of one of his novels, describing him as a man in whose outward appearance there were noindications of the intellectual superiority he enjoyed over his fellowmen. Indeed, as with Arthur Hallam in our own times, so it was withFalkland in the mediaeval age. Neither left behind them any work oftheir own by which future generations could realise their abilities andalmost godlike charm, yet each has earned a kind of immortality throughbeing honoured and sung by the pens of the greatest writers of hisrespective age. 

That great, though somewhat bombastic, historian, Lord Clarendon, tellsus that Falkland was "a person of such prodigious parts of learning andknowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, ofso flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of thatprimitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no otherbrand upon this odious and accursed Civil War than that single loss, itmust be most infamous and execrable to all posterity. " From the sameauthority we learn that although he was ever anxious for peace, yet hewas the bravest of the brave. At the battle of Newbury he put himself inthe first rank of Lord Byron's regiment, when he met his end through amusket shot. "Thus, " says Clarendon, "fell that incomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, having so much despatched thetrue business of life that the eldest rarely attain to that immenseknowledge, and the youngest enter not into the world with moreinnocency. "

When it is remembered that Falkland was not a soldier at all, but alearned scholar, whose natural proclivities were literature and the artsof peace, his self-sacrifice and bravery cannot fail to call forthadmiration for the man, and we cannot but regret his untimely end. 

King Charles was several times at Burford, for it was the scene of muchfighting in the Civil Wars. 

It was in the year 1636 that Speaker Lenthall purchased Burford Priory. He was a man of note in those troublous times, and even Cromwell seemsto have respected him; for, although the latter came down to the Houseone day with a troop of musketeers, with the express intention ofturning the gallant Speaker out of his chair, and effected his objectamid the proverbial cries of "Make way for honester men!" yet we findthat within twelve months the crafty old gentleman had once more gotback again into the chair, and remained Speaker during the Protectorateof Richard Cromwell. He declared on his deathbed that, although, likeSaul, he held the clothes of the murderers, yet that he never consentedto the death of the king, but was deceived by Cromwell and his agents. 

The priory remained in the Lenthall family up to the year 1821. At thepresent time it belongs to the Hurst family. 

We have now briefly traced the history of the manor from the time of theConquest, and, doubtless, all the men whose names occur have spent agood deal of time on this beautiful spot. 

Alas that the garden should be but a wilderness! The carriage driveconsists of rich green turf. In a summer-house in the grounds JohnPrior, Speaker Lenthall's faithful servant, was murdered in the year1697. The Earl of Abercorn was accused of the murder, but was acquitted. 

In addition to King Charles I. , many other royal personages have visitedthis place. Queen Elizabeth once visited the town, and came withgreat pomp. 

The Burgesses' Book has a note to the effect that in 1663 twenty-onepounds was paid for three saddles presented to Charles II. And hisbrother the Duke of York. Burford was celebrated for its saddles inthose days. It was a great racing centre, and both here and at Bibury(ten miles off) flat racing was constantly attracting people from allparts. Bibury was a sort of Newmarket in old days. Charles II. Was atBurford on three occasions at least. 

It was in the year 1681 that the Newmarket spring meeting wastransferred to Bibury. Parliament was then sitting at Oxford, somethirty miles away; so that the new rendezvous was more convenient thanthe old. Nell Gwynne accompanied the king to the course. For a hundredand fifty years the Bibury club held its meetings here. The oldestracing club in England, it still flourishes, and will in future hold itsmeetings near Salisbury. 

In 1695 King William III. Came to Burford in order to influence thevotes in the forthcoming parliamentary election. Macaulay tells us thattwo of the famous saddles were presented to this monarch, and remarksthat one of the Burford saddlers was the best in Europe. William III. Slept that night at the priory. The famous "Nimrod, " in his "Life of aSportsman, " gives us a picture, by Alken, of Bibury racecourse, andtells us how gay Burford was a hundred years ago:

"Those were Bibury's very best days. In addition to the presence ofGeorge IV. , then Prince of Wales, who was received by Lord Sherborne forthe race week at his seat in the neighbourhood, and who every dayappeared on the course as a private gentleman, there was a galaxy ofgentlemen jockeys, who alone rode at this meeting, which has never sincebeen equalled. Amongst them were the Duke of Dorset, who always rode forthe Prince; the late Mr. Delme-Radcliffe; the late Lords CharlesSomerset and Milsington; Lord Delamere, Sir Tatton Sykes, and many otherfirst-raters. 

"I well remember the scenes at Burford and all the neighbouring townsafter the races were over. That at Burford 'beggars' description; for, independently of the bustle occasioned by the accommodation necessaryfor the club who were domiciled in the town, the concourse of persons ofall sorts and degrees was immense. "

Old Mr. Peregrine told me the other day that during the race week theshopkeepers at Bibury village used to let their bedrooms to thevisitors, and sleep on the shop board, while the rest of the familyslept underneath the counter. 

 * * * * *

Ah well! _Tempora mutantur!_ "Nimrod" and his "notables" are all gone. 

 "The knights' bones are dust, And their good swords rust, Their souls are with the saints, I trust. "

And whereas up to fifty years ago Burford was a rich country town, famous for the manufacture of paper, malt, and sailcloth--enriched, too, by the constant passage of numerous coaches stopping on their way fromOxford to Gloucester--it is now little more than a village--thequietest, the cleanest, and the quaintest place in Oxfordshire. Perhapsits citizens are to be envied rather than pitied:

 "bene est cui deus obtulit Parca, quod satis est, manu. "

Let us go up to the top of the main street, and sit down on the ancientoak bench high up on the hill, whence we can look down on the old-worldplace and get a birdseye view of the quaint houses and the surroundingcountry. And now we may exclaim with Ossian, "A tale of the times ofold! The deeds of days of other years!" For yonder, a mile away from thetown, the kings of Mercia and Wessex fought a desperate battle in theyear A. D. 685. Quite recently a tomb was found there containing a stonecoffin weighing nearly a ton. The bones of the warrior who fought anddied there were marvellously complete when disturbed in theirresting-place--in fact, the skeleton was a perfect one. 

"Whose fame is in that dark green tomb? Four stones with their heads ofmoss stand there. They mark the narrow house of death. Some chief offame is here! Raise the songs of old! Awake their memory in thetomb. " [4]

[Footnote 4: Ossian. ]

Tradition has it that this was the body of a great Saxon chief, Aethelhum, the mighty standard-bearer of the Mercian King Ethelbald. Itwas in honour of this great warrior that the people of Burford carried astandard emblazoned with a golden dragon through the old streets onmidsummer eve, annually, for nigh on a thousand years. We are told thatit was only during last century that the custom died out. 

How beautiful are some of the old houses in the broad and stately HighStreet!

The ancient building in the centre of the town is called the "Tolsey";it must be more than four hundred years old. The name originated in thecustom of paying tolls due to the lord of the manor in the building. There are some grand old iron chests here; one of these old boxescontains many interesting charters and deeds, some of them bearing thesignatures of chancellors Morton, Stephen Gardiner, and Ellesmere. Thereare letters from Elizabeth, and an order from the Privy Council withArlington's signature attached. "The stocks" used to stand on the northside of this building, but have lately been removed. Then the housesopposite the Tolsey are as beautiful as they possibly can be. They arefifteenth century, and have oak verge-boards round their gables, carvedin very delicate tracery. 

Another house has a wonderful cellar, filled with grandly carvedstonework, like the aisle of a church; this crypt is probably more thanfive hundred years old. Perhaps this vaulted Gothic chamber is a remnantof the old monastery, the site of which is not known. Close by is anancient building, now turned into an inn; and this also may have beenpart of the dwelling-place of the monks of Burford. From the vaultedcellar beneath the house, now occupied by Mr. Chandler, ran anunderground passage, evidently connected with some other building. 

How sweetly pretty is the house at the foot of the bridge, as seen fromthe High Street above! The following inscription stands out prominentlyon the front:--

 "SYMON WYSDOM ALDERMAN THE FYRST FOUNDER OR THE SCHOLE IN BURFORD GAVE THE TENEMENES IN A. D. 1577. "

The old almshouses on the green by the church have an inscription tothe effect that they were founded by Richard Earl of Warwick (thekingmaker), in the year 1457. They were practically rebuilt aboutseventy years ago; but remnants of beautiful Gothic architecture stillremain in the old stone belfry, and here and there a piece of traceryhas been preserved. In all parts of the town one suddenly alights uponbeautiful bits of carved stone--an Early English gateway in one street, and lancet doorways to many a cottage in another. Oriel windows are alsoplentiful. Behind the almshouses is a cottage with massive buttresses, and everywhere broken pieces of quaint gargoyles, pinnacles, and otherremnants of Gothic workmanship are to be seen lying about on the wallsand in odd corners. A careful search would doubtless reveal many a finepiece of tracery in the cottages and buildings. At some period, however, vandalism has evidently been rampant. Happening to find our way into theback premises of an ancient inn, we noticed that the coals were heapedup against a wall of old oak panelling. 

And now we come to the most beautiful piece of architecture in theplace--the magnificent old church. It is grandly situated close to thebanks of the Windrush, and is more like a cathedral than a villagechurch. The front of the porch is worked with figures representing ourLord, St. Mary Magdalene, and St. John the Evangelist; but the headswere unfortunately destroyed in the Civil Wars. Inside the porch therich fan-tracery, which rises from the pilasters on each side, is carvedwith consummate skill. 

Space does not allow us to dwell on the grandeur of the massive Normantower, the great doorway at the western entrance with its splendidmoulding, the quaint low arch leading from nave to chancel, and theother specimens of Norman work to be seen in all parts of thismagnificent edifice. Nor can we do justice to the glorious nave, withits roof of oak; nor the aisles and the chancel; nor the beautifulLeggare chapel, with its oak screen, carved in its upper part infifteenth-century tracery, its faded frescoes and ancient altar tomb. The glass of the upper portion of the great west window and the windowof St Thomas' chapel are indeed "labyrinths of twisted tracery andstarry light" such as would delight the fastidious taste of Ruskin. Several pages might easily be written in describing the wonderful andgrotesque example of alabaster work known as the Tanfield tomb. The onlyregret one feels on gazing at this grand old specimen of the toil of oursimple ancestors is that it is seldom visited save by the natives ofrural Burford, many of whom, alas! must realise but little theexceptional beauty and stateliness of the lovely old church with whichthey have been so familiar all their lives. 

A few years ago Mr. Oman, Fellow of All Souls', Oxford, made a curiousdiscovery. Whilst going through some documents that had been for manyyears in the hands of the last survivor of the ancient corporation, andbeing one of the few men in England in a position to identify thehandwriting, he came across a deed or charter signed by "the greatkingmaker" himself; it was in the form of a letter, and had referenceto the gift of almshouses he made to Burford in 1457 A. D. The boldlywritten "R. I. Warrewyck" at the end is the only signature of thekingmaker's known to exist save the one at Belvoir. In this letterprayers are besought for the founder and the Countess Anne his wife, whilst attached to it is a seal with the arms of Neville, Montacute, Despencer, and Beauchamp. 

On the font in the church is a roughly chiselled name:

 "ANTHONY SEDLEY. 1649. Prisner. "

Not only prisoners, but even their _horses_, were shut up in these grandold churches during the Civil Wars. This Anthony Sedley must have beenone of the three hundred and forty Levellers who were imprisoned herein 1649. 

The register has the following entry:--

"1649. Three soldiers shot to death in Burford Churchyard, buried May17th. "

Burford was the scene of a good deal of fighting during the Civil Wars. On January 1st, 1642, in the dead of night, Sir John Byron's regimenthad a sharp encounter with two hundred dragoons of the Parliamentaryforces. A fierce struggle took place round the market cross, duringwhich Sir John Byron was wounded in the face with a poleaxe. Cromwell'ssoldiers, however, were routed and driven out of the town. 

In the parish register is the following entry :--

"1642. Robert Varney of Stowe, slain in Burford and buried January 1st. 

"1642. Six soldiers slain in Burford, buried 2nd January. 

"1642. William Junks slain with the shot of musket, buried January 10th. 

"1642. A soldier hurt at Cirencester road was buried. "

Many other entries of the same nature are to be seen in the parishregister. 

The old market cross of Burford has indeed seen some strange things. Mr. W. J. Monk, to whose "History of Burford" I am indebted for valuableinformation, tells us that the penance enjoined on various citizens ofBurford for such crimes as buying a Bible in the year 1521 was asfollows:--

"Everyone to go upon a market day thrice about the market of Burford, and then to stand up upon the highest steps of the cross there, aquarter of an hour, with a faggot of wood upon his shoulder. 

"Everyone also to beare a faggot of wood before the procession on acertain Sunday at Burford from the Quire doore going out, to the quiredoore going in, and once to bear a faggot at the burning of a heretic. 

"Also none of them to hide their mark [+] upon their cheek (brandedin), " etc. , etc. 

"In the event of refusal, they were to be given up to the civilauthorities to be burnt. "

[Illustration: The Manor-House, Coln St. Aldwyns. 214. Png]

CHAPTER X. 

A STROLL THROUGH THE COTSWOLDS. 

 "In Gloucestershire These high, wild hills and rough, uneven ways Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome. "

_King Richard II_. 

It cannot be said that there are many pleasant walks and drives in theCotswold country, because, as a rule, the roads run over the bleaktableland for miles and miles, and the landscape generally consists ofploughed fields divided by grey stone walls; the downs I have referredto at different times are only to be met with in certain districts. Onceupon a time the whole of Cotswold was one vast sheep walk from beginningto end. It was about a hundred and fifty years ago that the idea ofenclosing the land was started by the first Lord Bathurst. Early in theeighteenth century he converted a large tract of downland roundCirencester into arable fields; his example was soon followed by others, so that by the middle of last century the transformation of threehundred square miles of downs into wheat-growing ploughed fields hadbeen accomplished. It is chiefly owing to the depression in agriculturalproduce that there are any downs now, for they merely exist because thetenants have found during the last twenty years that it does not pay tocultivate their farms, hence they let a large proportion go backto grass. 

But there is one very pleasant walk in that part of the Cotswolds weknow best, and this takes you up the valley of the Coln to the Romanvilla at Chedworth. 

The distance by road from Fairford to the Chedworth woods is abouttwelve miles; and at any time of the year, but more especially in thespring and autumn, it is a truly delightful pilgrimage. 

And here it is worth our while to consider for a moment how tremendouslythe abolition of the stage coach has affected places like Fairford, Burford, and other Cotswold towns and villages. It was through theseold-world places, past these very walls and gables, that the mailcoaches rattled day after day when they "went down with victory"conveying the news of Waterloo and Trafalgar into the heart of merryEngland. In his immortal essay on "The English Mail Coach, " De Quinceyhas told us how between the years 1805 and 1815 it was worth payingdown five years of life for an outside place on a coach "going down withvictory. " "On any night the spectacle was beautiful. The absoluteperfection of all the appointments about the carriages and the harness, their strength, their brilliant cleanliness, their beautifulsimplicity--but more than all, the royal magnificence of thehorses--were what might first have fixed the attention. But the nightbefore us is a night of victory: and behold! to the ordinary displaywhat a heart-shaking addition! horses, men, carriages, all are dressedin laurels and flowers, oak leaves and ribbons. " The brilliancy of theroyal liveries, the thundering of the wheels, the tramp of thosegenerous horses, the sounding of the coach horn in the calm evening air, and last, but not least, the intense enthusiasm of travellers andspectators alike, as amid such cries as "Salamanca for ever!" "Hurrahfor Waterloo!" they cheered and cheered again, letting slip the dogs ofvictory throughout those old English villages, --all these things musthave united the hearts of the classes and masses in one common bond, rendering such occasions memorable for ever in the hearts of the simplecountry folk. In small towns like Burford and Northleach, situated fiveor six miles from any railway station, the prosperity and happiness ofthe natives has suffered enormously by the decay of the stage coach; andeven in smaller villages the cheering sound of the horn must have beenvery welcome, forming as it did a connecting link between these remotehamlets of Gloucestershire and the great metropolis a hundredmiles away. 

Fairford Church is known far and wide as containing the most beautifulpainted glass of the early part of the sixteenth century to be foundanywhere in England. The windows, twenty-eight in number, are usuallyattributed to Albert Dürer; but Mr. J. G. Joyce, who published a treatiseon them some twenty years ago, together with certain other highauthorities, considered them to be of English design and workmanship. They would doubtless have been destroyed in the time of the Civil Warsby the Puritans had they not been taken down and hidden away by a memberof the Oldysworth family, whose tomb is in the middle chancel. 

John Tame, having purchased the manor of Fairford in 1498, immediatelyset about building the church. He died two years later, and his soncompleted the building, and also erected two other very fine churches inthe neighbourhood--those at Rendcombe and Barnsley. He was a greatbenefactor to the Cotswold country. Leland tells us that the town ofFairford never flourished "before the cumming of the Tames into it. "

You may see John Tame's effigy on his tomb, together with that of hiswife, and underneath these pathetic lines:

 "For thus, Love, pray for me. I may not pray more, pray ye: With a pater noster and an ave: That my paynys relessyd be. "

If I remember rightly his helmet and other parts of his armour stillhang on the church wall. Leland describes Fairford as a "pratyuplandish towne, " meaning, I suppose, that it is situated on highground. It is certainly a delightful old-fashioned place--a very goodtype of what the Cotswold towns are like. Chipping-Campden and Burfordare, however, the two most typical Cotswold towns I know. 

In the year 1850 a remarkable discovery was made in a field close toFairford. No less than a hundred and fifty skeletons were unearthed, andwith them a large number of very interesting Anglo-Saxon relics, some ofthem in good preservation. In many of the graves an iron knife was foundlying by the skeleton; in others the bodies were decorated with bronzefibulae, richly gilt, and ornamented in front. Mr. W. Wylie, in hisinteresting account of these Anglo-Saxon graves, tells us that some ofthe bodies were as large as six feet six inches; whilst one or twowarriors of seven feet were unearthed. All the skeletons were veryperfect, even though no signs of any coffins were to be seen. Bronzebowls and various kinds of pottery, spearheads of several shapes, alarge number of coloured beads, bosses of shields, knives, shears, andtwo remarkably fine swords were some of the relics found with thebodies. A glass vessel, coloured yellow by means of a chemical processin which iron was utilised, is considered by Mr. Wylie to be of Saxonmanufacture, and not Venetian or Roman, as other authorities hold. 

Whether this is merely an Anglo-Saxon burial-place, or whether thebodies are those of the warriors who fell in a great battle such as thatfought in A. D. 577, when the Saxons overthrew the Britons and took fromthem the cities of Gloucester, Cirencester, and Bath, it is impossibleto determine. The natives are firmly convinced that the skeletonsrepresent the slain in a great battle fought near this spot; but this isonly tradition. At all events, the words of prophecy attributed to theold Scotch bard Ossian have a very literal application with reference tothis interesting relic of bygone times: "The stranger shall come andbuild there and remove the heaped-up earth. An half-worn sword shallrise before him. Bending above it, he will say, 'These are the arms ofthe chiefs of old, but their names are not in song. '" The "heaped-up"earth has long ago disappeared, for there are no "barrows" now to beseen. Cottages stand where the old burial mounds doubtless once existed, and all monumental evidences of those mighty men--the last, perhaps, ofan ancient race--have long since been destroyed by the ruthless handof time. 

The manor of Fairford now belongs to the Barker family, to whom it camethrough the female line about a century ago. 

We must now leave Fairford, and start on our pilgrimage to the Romanvilla of Chedworth. At present we have not got very far, having lingeredat our starting-point longer than we had intended. The first two milesare the least interesting of the whole journey; the Coln, broadened outfor some distance to the size of a lake, is hidden from our view by thetall trees of Fairford Park. It was along this road that John Keble, thepoet used to walk day by day to his cure at Coln-St. -Aldwyns. His homewas at Fairford. Two eminent American artists have made their home inFairford during recent years--Mr. Edwin Abbey and Mr. J. Sargent, bothR. A's. Close by, too, at Kelmscott, dwelt William Morris, the poet. 

On reaching Quenington we catch a glimpse of the river, whilst high upon the hill to our right stands the great pile of Hatherop Castle. Thisplace, the present owner of which is Sir Thomas Bazley, formerlybelonged to the nunnery of Lacock. After the suppression of themonasteries it passed through various heiresses to the family of Ashley. It was practically rebuilt by William Spencer Ponsonby, first Lord deMauley; his son, Mr. Ashley Ponsonby, sold it to Prince Duleep Singh, from whom it passed to the present owner. Sir Thomas Bazley has donemuch for the village which is fortunate enough to claim him as aresident; his estate is a model of what country estates ought to be, unprofitable though it must have proved as an investment. 

As we pass on through the fair villages of Quenington andColn-St. -Aldwyns we cannot help noticing the delightful character of thehouses from a picturesque point of view; in both these hamlets there arethe same clean-looking stone cottages and stone-tiled roofs. Here andthere the newer cottages are roofed with ordinary slate; and this seemsa pity. Nevertheless, there still remains much that is picturesque to beseen on all sides. Roses grow in every garden, clematis relieves withits rich purple shade the walls of many a cosy little dwelling-house, and the old white mills, with their latticed windows and pointedgables, are a feature of every tiny hamlet through which theriver flows. 

 "How gay the habitations that adorn This fertile valley! Not a house but seems To give assurance of content within, Embosom'd happiness, and placid love. "

 WORDSWORTH. 

The beautiful gabled house close to the Norman church ofColn-St. -Aldwyns is the old original manor house. Inside it is an oldoak staircase, besides other interesting relics of the Elizabethan age. For many years this has been a farmhouse, but it has recently beenrestored by its owner, Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, the present Chancellorof the Exchequer, who intends to make it his country abode. A piece ofcarved stone with four heads was discovered by the workmen engaged inthe restoration, and is to be placed over the front door. It isdoubtless a remnant of an old monastery, and dates back to Norman times. 

Williamstrip House and Park lie on your right-hand side as you leave thevillage of "Coln" behind you. This place also belongs to Sir MichaelHicks-Beach; it has always seemed to us the _beau-ideal_ of an Englishhome. A medium-sized, comfortable square house of the time of George I. , surrounded by some splendid old trees, in a park not too large, a coupleof miles or so of excellent trout-fishing, very fair shooting, and goodhunting would seem to be a combination of sporting advantages that fewcountry places enjoy. Williamstrip came into the family of the presentowner in 1784. The three parishes of Hatherop, Quenington, andColn-St. -Aldwyns practically adjoin each other. Each has its beautifulchurch, the Norman doorways in that of Quenington being well worth avisit. Close to the church of Quenington are the remnants of an ancientmonastery. 

The "Knights Templar" of Quenington were famous in times gone by. Thereis a fine entrance gate and porch on the roadside, which no doubt led tothe abbey. 

There is little else left to remind us of these Knights Templar. Hereand there are an old lancet window or a little piece of Gothic traceryon an ancient wall, an old worm-eaten roof of oak or a heap of ruinedstones on a moat-surrounded close, --these are all the remnants to befound of the days of chivalry and the monks of old. 

We have now two rather uneventful miles to traverse betweenColn-St. -Aldwyns and Bibury, for we must once more leave the valley andset out across the bleak uplands. On the high ground we have theadvantage of splendid bracing air at all events. The hills have a charmof their own on a fine day, more especially when the fields are full ofgolden corn and the old-fashioned Cotswold men are busy amongthe sheaves. 

And very soon we get a view which we would gladly have walked twentymiles to see. Down below us and not more than half a mile away is thefine old Elizabethan house of Bibury, standing out from a background ofmagnificent trees. Close to the house is the grey Norman tower of thevillage church, which has stood there for mote than six centuries. Nestling round about are the old stone-roofed cottages, like those wehave seen in the other villages we have passed through. A broad reach ofthe Coln and a grand waterfall enhance the quiet and peaceful beauty ofthe scene. But this description falls very short of conveying anyadequate idea of the truly delightful effect which the old greybuildings set in a framework of wood and water present on a fineautumnal afternoon. 

Never shall I forget seeing this old place from the hill above duringone September sunset. There was a marvellous glow suffused over thewestern sky, infinitely beautiful while it lasted; and immediately belowa silvery mist had risen from the surface of the broad trout stream, andwas hanging over the old Norman tower of the church. Amid the rush ofthe waterfall could be heard the distant voices of children in thevillage street. Then on a sudden the church clock struck the hour ofsix, in deep, solemn tones. Against the russet-tinted woods in thebackground the old court house stood out grey and silent under theshadow of the church tower, preaching as good a sermon as any Iever heard. 

 "An English home, grey twilight poured On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep, --all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient peace. "

Bibury Court is a most beautiful old house. Some of it dates back toHenry VIII. 's time. The most remarkable characteristic of its interioris a very fine carved oak staircase. The greater part of this house wasbuilt in the year 1623 by Sir Thomas Sackville. It was long the seat ofthe Creswell family, before passing by purchase to the family of thepresent owner--Lord Sherborne. The fine old church has some Saxon workin it, whilst the doorways and many other portions are Norman. Itsdelightful simplicity and brightness is what pleases one most. On comingdown into the village, one notices a little square on the left, not atall like those one sees in London, but very picturesque and cleanlooking. In the olden times were to be seen in many villages littlecourts of this kind; in the centre of them was usually a great tree, round which the old people would sit on summer evenings, while thechildren danced and played around. Gilbert White speaks of one atSelborne, which he calls the "Plestor. " The original name was"Pleystow, " which means a play place. We have noticed them in many partsof the Cotswold country. Here, too, children are playing about under theshade of some delightful trees in the centre of the miniature square, whilst the variegated foliage sets off the gabled cottages which formthree sides of it. 

I have often wondered, as I stood by these chestnut trees, whether thereis any architecture more perfect in its simplicity and grace than thatwhich lies around me here. Not a cottage is in sight that is not worthyof the painter's brush; not a gable or a chimney that would not beworthy of a place in the Royal Academy. The little square is borderedfor six months of the year with the prettiest of flowers. Even as lateas December you may see roses in bloom on the walls, and chrysanthemumsof varied shade in every garden. Then, as we passed onwards, "On the stream's bank, and everywhere, appeared Fair dwellings, single or in social knots; Some scattered o'er the level, others perch'd On the hill-sides--a cheerful, quiet scene. "

 WORDSWORTH. 

There is a Gothic quaintness about all the buildings in the Cotswolds, great and small alike, which is very charming. Bibury is indeed a prettyvillage. As you walk along the main street which runs parallel with theriver, an angler is busy "swishing" his rod violently in the air to"dry" the fly, ere he essays to drop it over the nose of one of thespeckled fario which abound; so be careful to step down off the pathwhich runs alongside the stream, in case you should put the fish "down"and spoil the sport. And now on our left, beyond the green, may be seena line of gabled cottages called "Arlington Row, " a picture of which byG. Leslie was hung at the Royal Academy this year (1898). 

A few hundred yards on you stop to inspect the spring which rises in thegarden of the Swan Hotel. It has been said that two million gallons aday is the minimum amount of water poured out by this spring. Itconsists of the rain, which, falling on a large area of the hillcountry, gradually finds its way through the limestone rocks andeventually comes out here. It would be interesting to trace the courseof some of these underground rivers; for a torrent of water such as thiscannot flow down through the soft rock without in the course ofthousands of years, producing caves and grottoes and undergroundgalleries and all the wonders of the Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, with itsstalactite pillars and fairy avenues and domes--though the Cotswoldcaves are naturally on a much smaller scale. At Torquay and on theMendip Hills, as everybody knows, there are caves of wondrous beauty, carved by the water within the living rock. 

Probably within a hundred yards of Bibury spring there are beautifulhidden caves, such as those funny little "palaeolithic" men lived in afew thousand years ago; but why there have not been more discoveries ofthis nature in this part of the Cotswolds it is difficult to say. Thereis a cave hereabouts, men say, but the entrance to it cannot now befound. There is likewise a Roman villa on the hill here which has notyet been dug out of its earthy bed. A hundred years ago a large numberof Roman antiquities were discovered near this village. 

We now leave Bibury behind us, and a mile on we pass through the hamletof Ablington, which is very like Bibury on a smaller scale, with itsancient cottages, tithe barns and manor house; its springs oftransparent water, its brook, and wealth of fine old trees. We have notime to linger in this hamlet to-day, though we would fain pause toadmire the old house. 

 "The pillar'd porch, elaborately embossed; The low, wide windows with their mullions old; The cornice richly fretted of grey stone; And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers, And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned. "

 WORDSWORTH

After leaving Ablington we once more ascend the hill and make our wayalong an old, disused road, probably an ancient British track, inpreference to keeping to the highway--in the first place because it isby far the shortest, and secondly because we intend to go somewhat outof our way to inspect two ancient barrows, the resting-place of thechiefs of old, of whom Ossian (or was it Macpherson?)[5] sang: "If fallI must in the field, raise high my grave. Grey stones and heaped-upearth shall mark me to future times. When the hunter shall sit by themound and produce his food at noon, 'Some warrior rests here, ' he willsay; and my fame shall live in his praise. "

[Footnote 5: In spite of Dr. Johnson and other eminent critics, onecannot help believing in the genuineness of some of the poems attributedto Ossian. "The proof of the pudding is in the eating"; and thosewonderful old songs are too wild and lifelike to have had their originin the eighteenth century. Macpherson doubtless enlarged upon theoriginals, but he must have had a good foundation to work upon. ]

A very large barrow lies about a mile out of our track to the righthand; as it is somewhat different from the other barrows in theneighbourhood, we will briefly describe it. It is a "long barrow, " withthe two horns at one end that are usually associated with "long"barrows. In the middle of the curve between these ends stands a greatstone about five feet square, not very unlike our own gravestones, though worn by the rains of thousands of years. The mound is surroundedby a double wall of masonry. At the north end, when it was opened fortyyears ago, a chamber was found containing human bones. It is supposedthat this mound was the burying-place of a race which dwelt on Cotswoldat least three thousand years ago. From the nature of the stoneimplements found, it is conjectured that the people who raised it wereunacquainted with the use of metal. 

Now we will have a look at another barrow a few fields away. This is amound of a somewhat later age; for it was raised over the ashes of abody or bodies that had been cremated. It was probably the Celts whoraised this barrow. The other day it was opened for a distinguishedsociety of antiquaries to inspect; they found that in the centre werestones carefully laid, encircling a small chamber, whilst the outerportions were of ordinary rubble. Nothing but lime-dust and dirt wasfound in the chamber; but in the course of thousands of years most ofthese barrows have probably been opened a good many times by Cotswoldnatives in search of "golden coffins" and other treasures. 

There is a small, round underground chamber within a short distance ofthese barrows, which the natives consider to be a shepherd's hut, put upabout two centuries back, and before the country was enclosed, as aretreat to shelter the men who looked after the flocks. It has beendeclared, however, by those who have studied the question of burialmounds, that it was built in very early times, and contained bodies thathad not been cremated. The antiquaries who came a short time back toview these remains describe it as "an underground chamber, circular inshape, and an excellent sample of dry walling. The roof is dome-shaped, and gradually projects inwards. " I narrowly escaped taking this"society" for a band of poachers; for when out shooting the other day, somebody remarked, "Look at all those fellows climbing over the wall ofthe fox-covert. "

Now the fox-covert is a very sacred institution in these parts; for itis a place of only four acres, standing isolated in the midst of a fine, open country--so that no human being is allowed to enter therein save to"stop the earth" the night before hunting. We rushed up in great haste, fully prepared for mortal combat with this gang of ruffians, until, whenwithin a hundred yards, the thought crossed us that we had given leaveto the Cotswold Naturalist Society to make a tour of inspection, andthat one of the barrows was in our fox-covert. 

Labouring friends of mine often bring me relics of the stone age whichthey have picked up whilst at work in the fields. Quite recently ashepherd brought me a knife blade and two flint arrow-heads. He alsotells me they have lately found a "himmige" up in old Mr. Peregrine's"barn-ground. " Tom Peregrine possesses a bag of old coins of all datesand sizes, which he tells you with great pride have been an heirloom inhis family for generations. 

When we once more resume our pilgrimage along the track which leads toChedworth we find ourselves in a country which is never explored by thetourist. Far removed from railways and the "busy haunts of men, " it isnot even mentioned in the guide-books. Our way lies along the edge ofthe hill for the next few miles, and we look down upon the picturesquevalley of the Coln. Four villages, all very like those we havedescribed, are passed in rapid succession. Winson, Coln Rogers, Coln-St. -Dennis, and Fossbridge all lie below us as we wend our waywestwards. But although the architecture is of the same massive yetgraceful style, and the old Norman churches still tower their grand oldheads and cast their shadows over the cottages and farm buildings, thereare no manor houses of note in any of these four villages, and nowell-timbered demesnes; so that they are not so interesting as some ofthose we have passed through. In all, however, there dwell the good oldhonest labouring folk, toiling hard day by day at "the trivial round, the common task, " just earning enough to scrape up a livelihood, butenjoying few of the amenities of life. The village parsons--good, piousmen--share in the quiet, uneventful life of their flock. And who shallcontemn their lot? As Horace tells us:

 "Vivitur parvo bene, cui paternum Splendet in mensa tenui salinum Nec leves somnos timor aut cupido Sordidus aufert. "

These four villages were all built two centuries or more ago, when theCotswolds were the centre of much life and activity and the days ofagricultural depression were not known. When we look down on their old, grey houses nestling among the great trees which thrive by the banks ofthe fertilising stream, we cannot but speculate on their future fate. Gradually the population diminishes, as work gets scarcer and scarcer. Unless there is an unexpected revival in prices through some measure of"protection" being granted by law, or the medium of a great Europeanwar, or some such far-reaching dispensation of Providence, terrible tothink of for those who live to see it, but with all its possibilities of"good arising out of evil" for future generations, these old villageswill contain scarcely a single inhabitant in a hundred year's time. Thispart of the Cotswold country will once more become a huge open plain, retaining only long rows of tumbled-down stone walls as evidences of itsformer enclosed state; no longer on Sundays will the notes of thebeautiful bells call the toilers to prayer and thanksgiving, and allwill be desolation. If only the capitalist or wealthy man of businesswould take up his abode in these places, all might be well. But, alas!the peace and quiet of such out-of-the-way spots, with all theirfascinating contrast to the smoke and din of a manufacturing town, havelittle attraction for those who are unused to them. And yet there ismuch happiness and content in these rural villages. The lot of those whoare able to get work is a thousand times more supportable than that ofthe toiling millions in our great cities. There is less drinking andless vice among these villagers than there is in any part of this worldthat we are acquainted with; consequently you find them cheerful, good-humoured, and, if they only knew it, happy. Grumble they must, orthey would not be mortal. Ah! if they could but realise the blessings ofthe elixir of life--pure air, and fresh, clear, spring water, andsunshine--three inestimable privileges that they enjoy all the yearround, and which are denied to so many of the inhabitants of thisglobe--there would be little grumbling in the Cotswolds. 

 "From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich from the very want of wealth In heaven's best treasures, peace and health. "

 GRAY. 

"But these villages are so _dull_, and life is so monotonous there, " isthe constant complaint. But what part of this earth is there, may I ask, that is not dull to those who live there, unless we drive out dull careand _ennui_ by that glorious antidote to gloom and despondency, a fullyoccupied mind? There are two chapters in Carlyle's "Past and Present"that ought to be printed in letters of gold, set in an ivory frame, andhung up in the sleeping apartment of every man, woman, and child on theface of this earth. They are called "Labour" and "Reward. " In those fewshort pages is embodied the whole secret of content and happiness forthe dwellers in quiet country villages and smoky towns alike. Theycontain the philosopher's stone, which makes men cheerful under allcircumstances, but especially those who are poor and down-trodden. Thesecret is a very simple one; but if the educated classes are continuallylosing sight of it, how much easier is it for those who have only thebare necessaries of life and few of the comforts to become deadened toits influence! It lies first of all in the realisation of the fact thatthe object of life is not to get, still less to enjoy, riches andpleasure. It teaches for the thousandth time that the humblest and thehighest of us alike are immortal souls imprisoned for threescore yearsand ten in a tenement of clay, preparing for a better and higherexistence. It reverses the position of things on earth--placing thecrown of kings on the head of the toiling labourer, and making "the lastfirst and the first last. " Its very essence lies in the dictum of theold monks, "_Laborare est orare_" ("Work is worship"). 

It was one of the chief characteristics of the Roman people in the timeof their greatness that their most successful generals were content toreturn to the plough after their wars were over. Thus Pliny in his"Natural History" remarks as follows: "Then were the fields cultivatedby the hands of the generals themselves, and the earth rejoiced, tilledas it was by a ploughshare crowned with laurels, he who guided the wheelbeing himself fresh from glorious victories. " And no sooner did honesthand labour become despised than effeminacy crept in, and this oncehaughty nation was practically blotted out from the face of the earth. 

Let the Cotswold labourer realise that to work on the land, ploughingand reaping, summer and winter, seedtime and harvest, come weal, comewoe, is no mean destiny for an honest man; there is scope for thedisplay of a noble and generous spirit in the beautiful green fields aswell as in the smoky atmosphere of the east end of London, in aBirmingham factory, or a Warrington forge. 

"What is the meaning of nobleness?" asks Carlyle. "In a valiantsuffering for others did nobleness ever lie. Every noble crown is, andon earth will for ever be, a crown of thorns. All true work is sacred. In all true work, were it but true hand labour, there is something ofdivineness. Sweat of the brow; and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart; up to that 'agony of bloody sweat' which all menhave called divine. Oh, brother, if this is not worship, then, I say, the more pity for worship: for this is the noblest thing yet discoveredunder God's sky. Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil?Complain not. Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow workmen therein God's eternity surviving those, they alone surviving; peopling, theyalone, the unmeasured solitudes of Time. To thee Heaven, though severe, is not unkind. Heaven is kind, as a noble mother; as that Spartanmother, saying, while she gave her son his shield, 'With it, my son, orupon it, thou, too, shalt return home in honour--to thy far distant homein honour--doubt it not--if in the battle thou keep thy shield!' Thou inthe eternities and deepest death kingdoms art not an alien; thoueverywhere art a denizen. Complain not; the very Spartans did notcomplain. "

Would that the toiling labourer in the Cotswolds and in our great smokycities might keep these words continually before him, so that he mightgrasp, not merely the secret of content and happiness in this life, butthe golden key to the immeasurable blessings of "the sure and certainhope" of that life which is to come! Then shall he hear the words:

 "King, thou wast called Conqueror; In every battle thou bearest the prize. "

Conqueror will he be in life's battle if he follow in the footsteps ofthe Spartan of old or of Wordsworth's "Happy Warrior":

 "Who, doomed to go in company with pain, And fear, and bloodshed--miserable train!-- Turns his necessity to glorious gain. "

Finally, the countryman who feels discontented with his lot--and thereare few indeed who do not occasionally pine for a change ofemployment--should go on a railway journey through "the black country"at night, and mark the fierce light that reddens the murky skies as thefactory fires send forth their livid flames and clouds of sooty smoke. He should watch the swarms of long-suffering human beings going to andfro and in and out like busy bees around their hive, toiling, evertoiling, round about the blazing fires. He should spend an hour in thestreets of Birmingham, where, as I passed through one fine Septembermorning recently on my way to Ireland, the atmosphere was darkened andthe human lungs stifled by a thick yellow fog. Or he should go down tothe engine-room of a mighty liner, when it is doing its twenty knotsacross the seas, and then think of his own life in the happy hamlets andthe fresh, green fields of our English country. 

 * * * * *

Coming once more down the hill into the valley of the Coln, we mustcross the old Roman road known as the Fossway, follow the course of thestream, and, about a mile beyond the snug little village of Fossbridge, we reach the great woods of Chedworth. 

These coverts form part of the property of Lord Eldon. His house ofStowell stands well up on the hill. It is a grey, square building ofsome size, placed so as to catch all the sun and the breezes too, --verymuch more healthy and bright than most of the old houses we have passed, which were built much too low down in the valley, where the wintersunbeams seldom penetrate and the river mists rise damp and cold atnight. As we walk along the drive which leads through the woods to theRoman villa, any amount of rabbits and pheasants are to be seen. Andhere take place annually some of those big shoots which ignorant peopleare so fond of condemning as unsportsmanlike, simply because they havenot the remotest idea what they are talking about. Why it should becruel to kill a thousand head in a day instead of two hundred on fiveseparate days, one fails to understand. As a matter of fact, the biggerthe "shoot" the less cruelty takes place, because bad shots are notlikely to be present on these occasions, whilst in small "shoots" theyare the rule rather than the exception. Instead of birds and ground gamebeing wounded time after time, at big _battues_ they are killed stonedead by some well-known and acknowledged good shot. To see a realworkman knocking down rocketer after rocketer at a height which would beconsidered impossible by half the men who go but shooting is to witnessan exhibition of skill and correct timing which can only be attained bythe most assiduous practice and the quickest of eyes. No, it is thepottering hedgerow shooter, generally on his neighbour's boundary, whois often unsportsmanlike. We know one or two who would have nohesitation in shooting at a covey of partridges on the ground, when theywere within shot of the boundary hedge; and if they wounded three orfour and picked them up, they would carry them home fluttering andgasping, because they are too heartless to think of putting the wretchedcreatures out of their sufferings. 

The extensive Roman remains discovered some years ago in the heart ofthis forest doubtless formed the country house of some Roman squire. They are well away from the river bank, and about three parts of the wayup the sloping hillside. The house faced as nearly as possiblesouth-east. In this point, as in many others, the Romans showed theirsuperiority of intellect over our ancestors of Elizabethan and otherdays. Nowadays we begin to realise that houses should be built on highground, and that the aspect that gives most sun in winter is south-east. The old Romans realised this fifteen hundred years ago. In other words, our ancestors in the dark ages were infinitely behind the Romans inintellect, and we are just reaching their standard of common sense. Thecharacteristics of the interior of these old dwellings are simplicitycombined with refinement and good taste. And it is worthy of remark thatthe men who are ahead of the thought and feeling of the present day arecrying out for more simplicity in our homes and furniture, as well asfor more refinement and real architectural merit. No useless luxuriesand nick-nacks, but plenty of public baths, and mosaic pavementslaboriously put together by hard hand labour, --these are the points thatRuskin and the Romans liked in common. 

With this grandly timbered valley spread beneath them, no more suitablespot on which to build a house could anywhere be found. And though theRomans who inhabited this villa could not from its windows see the sungo down in the purple west, emblematic of that which was shortly to setover Rome, they could see the glorious dawn of a new day--boding forththe dawn that was already brightening over England, even as "The oldorder changeth, yielding place to new";--and they could see thesplendours of the moon rising in the eastern sky. 

The principal apartment in this Roman country house measures aboutthirty feet by twenty; it was probably divided into two parts, formingthe dining-room and drawing-room as well. The tessellated pavements arewonderfully preserved, though not quite so perfect as a few others thathave been found in England. With all their beautiful colouring they aremerely formed of different shades of local stone, together with a littleterra-cotta. Perhaps these pavements, with their rich mellow tints ofred sandstone, and their shades of white, yellow, brown, and grey, afforded by different varieties of limestone, are examples of the mostperfect kind of work which the labours of mankind, combined with thesoftening influences of time, are able to produce. In one corner thedesign is that of a man with a rabbit in his hand; and no doubt therewere lots of rabbits in these woods in those days, as well as deer andother wild animals long since extinct. 

In these woods of Chedworth the rose bay willow herbs grow taller andfiner than is their wont elsewhere. In every direction they spring up inhundreds, painting the woodlands with a wondrously rich purple glow. Here, too, the bracken thrives, and many a fine old oak tree spreads itsbranches, revelling in the clay soil. On the limestone of the Cotswoldsoaks are seldom seen; but wherever a vein of clay is found, there willbe the oaks and the bracken. Every forest tree thrives hereabouts; andin the open spaces that occur at intervals in the forest there grow suchmasses of wild flowers as are nowhere else to be seen in the Cotswolddistrict. White spiraea, or meadow-sweet, crowds into every nook andcorner of open ground, raising its graceful stems in almost tropicalluxuriance by the brook-side. Campanula and the blue geranium or meadowcrane's-bill, with flowers of perfect blue, grow everywhere amid thewhite blossoms of the spiraea. St John's wort, with its star-shapedgolden flowers, white and red campion, and a host of others, are largerand more beautiful on the rich loam than they are on the stony hills. Even the lily-of-the-valley thrives here. 

In the bathroom may be seen an excellent example of the hypocaust--aningenious contrivance, by means of which the rooms were heated with hotair, which passed along beneath the floors. 

In the museum are portions of the skulls of men and of oxen, theantlers of red deer, oyster shells, knives, spear-heads, arrow-heads, bits of locks with keys, and excellent horseshoes, not to speak of suchthings as bronze spurs, spoons, part of a Roman weighing-machine, and asplendid pair of compasses. There are pieces of earthenware withpotter's marks on them, and red tiles bearing unmistakable marks offingering, as well as footprints of dogs and goats; these impressionsmust have been made when the tiles were in a soft state. But the mostinteresting relics are three freestone slabs, on which are inscribed theGreek letters [Greek: chi] and [Greek: rho]. It was Mr. Lysons who firstnoticed this evidence of ancient faith, and he is naturally of theopinion that the sacred inscription proves that the builder was aChristian. Another stone in this collection has the word "PRASIATA"roughly chiselled on it. 

There was a British king, by name Prasutagus, said to have been aChristian, and possibly it was this man who built the old house in themidst of the Chedworth woods. A mile beyond this interesting relic ofRoman times is the manor house of Cassey Compton, built by Sir RichardHowe about the middle of the seventeenth century. It stands on the banksof the Coln, and in olden times was approached by a drawbridge andsurrounded by a moat. The farmer by whom it is inhabited tells me that, judging by the fish-ponds situated close by, he imagines it was once amonastery. This was undoubtedly the case, for we find in Fozbrooke thatthe Archbishop of York had license to "embattle his house" here in thereign of Edward I. 

A mosaic pavement, discovered here about 1811, was placed in theBritish Museum. 

It is very sad to come upon these remote manor houses in all parts ofthe Cotswold district, and to find that their ancient glory is departed, even though their walls are as good as they were two hundred years ago, when the old squires lived their jovial lives, and those halls echoedthe mirth and merriment which characterised the life of "the good oldEnglish gentleman, all of the olden time. "

Other fine old houses in this immediate district which have not beenmentioned are Ampney Park, a Jacobean house containing an oak-panelledapartment, with magnificently carved ceiling and fine stone fireplace;Barnsley and Sherborne, partly built by Inigo Jones; Missarden, Duntisborne Abbots, Kemble, and Barrington. Rendcombe is a modern houseof some size, built rather with a view to internal comfort than externalgrace and symmetry. 

[Illustration: Village cricketers 242. Png]

CHAPTER XI. 

COTSWOLD PASTIMES. 

It is not surprising that in those countries which abound in sunshineand fresh, health-giving air, the inhabitants will invariably be foundto be not only keen sportsmen, but also accomplished experts in all thegames and pastimes for which England has long been famous. Given goodhealth and plenty of work mankind cannot help being cheerful andsociably inclined; for this reason we have christened the district ofwhich we write the "Merrie Cotswolds. " From time immemorial the countrypeople have delighted in sports and manly exercises. On the north wallof the nave in Cirencester Church is a representation of the ancientcustom of Whitsun ale. The Whitsuntide sports were always a greatspeciality on Cotswold, and continue to the present day, though in asomewhat modified form. 

The custom portrayed in the church of Cirencester was as follows:--

The villagers would assemble together in one of the beautiful old barnswhich are so plentiful in every hamlet. Two of them, a boy and a girl, were then chosen out and appointed Lord and Lady of the Yule. These aredepicted on the church wall; and round about them, dressed in theirproper garb, are pages and jesters, standard-bearer, purse-bearer, mace-bearer, and a numerous company of dancers. 

The reason that a representation of this very secular custom is seen inthe church probably arises from the fact that the Church ales werefeasts instituted for the purpose of raising money for the repair of thechurch. The churchwardens would receive presents of malt from thefarmers and squires around; they sold the beer they brewed from it tothe villagers, who were obliged to attend or else pay a fine. 

The church house--a building still to be seen in many villages--wasusually the scene of the festivities. 

The "Diary of Master William Silence" tells us that the quiet littlehamlets presented an unusually gay appearance on these memorableoccasions. "The village green was covered with booths. There wereattractions of various kinds. The churchwardens had taken advantage ofthe unusual concourse of strangers as the occasion of a Church ale. Great barrels of ale, the product of malt contributed by theparishioners according to their several abilities, were set abroach inthe north aisle of the church, and their contents sold to the public. This was an ordinary way of providing for church expenses, against whichearnest reformers inveighed, but as yet in vain so far as Shallow wasconcerned. The church stood conveniently near the village green, and thebrisk trade which was carried on all day was not interrupted by theprogress of divine service. " The parson's discourse, however, appears tohave suffered some interruption by reason of the numbers who crowdedinto the aisles to patronise the churchwardens' excellent ale. 

In the reign of James I. One, Robert Dover, revived the old Olympicgames on Cotswold. Dover's Hill, near Weston-under-Edge, was calledafter him. 

These sports included horse-racing, coursing, cock-fighting, and suchgames as quoits, football, skittles, wrestling, dancing, jumping insacks, and all the athletic exercises. 

The "Annalia Dubrensia" contain many verses about these sports by thehand of Michael Drayton, Ben Jonson, and others. 

 "On Cotteswold Hills there meets A greater troop of gallants than Rome's streets E'er saw in Pompey's triumphs: beauties, too, More than Diana's beavie of nymphs could show On their great hunting days. "

That hunting was practised here in these days is evident, for ThomasRandall, of Cambridge, writes in the same volume:

 "Such royal pastimes Cotteswold mountains fill, When gentle swains visit Anglonicus hill, When with such packs of hounds they hunting go As Cyrus never woon'd his bugle to. "

Fozbrooke tells us that the Whitsuntide sports are the _floralia_ of theRomans. They are still a great institution in all parts of theCotswolds, though Church ales, like cock-fighting and other barbaricamusements, have happily long since died out. 

Golf and archery are popular pastimes in the merry Cotswolds. It issomewhat remarkable that this district has produced in recent years theamateur lady champions of England in each of these fascinating pastimes, Lady Margaret Scott, of Stowell, being _facile princeps_ among ladygolfers, whilst Mrs. Christopher Bowly, of Siddington, even now holdsthe same position in relation to the ancient practice of archery. 

The ancient art of falconry is still practised in these parts. Thirtyyears ago, when Duleep Singh lived at Hatherop, hawking on the downs wasone of his chief amusements. But the only hawking club hereabouts thatwe know of is at Swindon, in Wiltshire. 

Coursing is as popular as ever among the Cotswold farmers. These hillshave always been noted for the sport. Drayton tells us that the prize atthe coursing meetings held on the Cotswolds in his day was asilver-studded collar. Shakespeare, in his _Merry Wives of Windsor_alludes to the coursing on "Cotsall. " There is an excellent club atCirencester. The hares in this district are remarkably big andstrong-running. The whole district lends itself particularly to thissport, owing to the large fields and fine stretches of open downs. 

CRICKET. 

In an agricultural district such as the Cotswolds it is inevitable thatthe game of cricket should be somewhat neglected. Men who work day afterday in the open air, and to whom a half-holiday is a very rareexperience, naturally seek their recreations in less energetic fashionthan the noble game of cricket demands of its votaries. The class whoderive most benefit from this game spring as a rule from towns andmanufacturing centres and those whose work and interests confine themindoors the greater part of their time. Among the Cotswold farmers, however, a great deal of interest is shown; the scores of county matchesare eagerly pursued in the daily papers; and if there is a big match onat Cheltenham or any other neighbouring town, a large number invariablygo to see it. There is some difficulty in finding suitable sites foryour ground in these parts, for the hill turf is very stony and shallow;it is not always easy to find a flat piece of ground handy to thevillages. A cricket ground is useless to the villagers if it is perchedup on the hill half a mile away. It must be at their doors; and eventhen, though they may occasionally play, they will never by any chancetrouble to roll it. We made a ground in the valley of the Coln someyears ago, and went to some expense in the way of levelling, filling upgravel pits, and removing obstructions like cowsheds; but unless we hadlooked after it ourselves and made preparations for a match, it wouldhave soon gone back to its original rough state again. And yet two ofthe young Peregrines in the village are wonderfully good cricketers, andas "keen as mustard" about it; though when it comes to rolling andmowing the ground they are not quite as keen. They will throw you overfor a match in the most unceremonious way if, when the day comes, theydon't feel inclined to play. We have often tried to persuade these twoyoung fellows to become professional cricketers, there being such a poorprospect in the farming line; but they have not the slightest ambitionto play for the county, though they are quite good enough; so they"waste their sweetness on the desert air. "

Old Mr. Peregrine, a man of nearly eighty years of age, is splendid funwhen he is watching his boys play cricket. He goes mad with excitement;and if you take them off bowling, however much the batsmen appear torelish their attack, he won't forgive you for the rest of the day. 

His eldest son, Tom--our old friend the keeper--generally stands umpire;he is not so useful to his side as village umpires usually are, becausehe hasn't got the moral courage to give his side "in" when he knowsperfectly well they are "out. " The other day, however, he made a slighterror; for, on being appealed to for the most palpable piece of"stumping" ever seen in the cricket field, the ball bouncing back on tothe wicket from the wicket-keeper's pads while the batsman was two yardsout of his ground, he said, "Not out; it hit the wicket-keeper's pads. "He imagined he was being asked whether the batsman had been bowled, andit never occurred to him that you could be "stumped out" in this way. Altogether, Cotswold cricket is great fun. 

The district is full of memories of the prehistoric age, and in certainparts of the country _prehistoric_ cricket is still indulged in. Nevershall I forget going over to Edgeworth with the Winson Cricket XI. Toplay a _grand_ match at that seat of Roman antiquities. The carrierdrove us over in his pair-horse brake--a rickety old machine, with apony of fourteen hands and a lanky, ragged-hipped old mare over sixteenhands high in the shafts together. A most useful man in the field wasthe honest carrier, whether at point or at any other place where theball comes sharp and quick; for, to quote Shakespeare, "he was a man Of an unbounded stomach. "

The rest of our team included the jovial miller; two of the villagecarpenter's sons--excellent folk; the village curate, who captained theside, and stood six feet five inches without his cricket shoes; one ortwo farmers; a footman, and a somewhat fat and apoplectic butler. 

The colours mostly worn by the Winson cricketers are black, red, andgold--a Zingaric band inverted (black on top); their motto I believe tobe "Tired, though united. "

As the ground stands about eight hundred feet above sea level, all ofus, but especially the fat butler, found considerable difficulty ingetting to the top of the hill, after the brake had set us down at thevillage public. But once arrived, a magnificent view was to be had, extending thirty miles and more across the wolds to the White Horse Hillin Berkshire. However, we had not come to admire the view so much as toplay the game of cricket. We therefore proceeded to look for the pitch. It was known to be in the field in which we stood, because a large redflag floated at one end and proclaimed that somewhere hereabouts was thescene of combat. It was the fat butler, I think, who, after sailingabout in a sea of waving buttercups like a veritable ChristopherColumbus, first discovered the stumps among the mowing grass. 

Evident preparations had been made either that morning or the previousnight for a grand match; a large number of sods of turf had been takenup and hastily replaced on that portion of the wicket where the ball issupposed to pitch when it leaves the bowler's hand. There had been norain for a month, but just where the stumps were stuck a bucket or twoof water had been dashed hastily on to the arid soil; while, to crownall, a chain or rib roller--a ghastly instrument used by agriculturistsfor scrunching up the lumps and bumps on the ploughed fields, andpulverising the soil--had been used with such effect that the surface ofthe pitch to the depth of about an inch had been reduced to dust. 

In spite of this we all enjoyed ourselves immensely. Delightfulold-fashioned people, both farmers and labourers, were playing againstus; quaint (I use the word in its true sense) and simple folk, wholooked as if they had been dug up with the other Saxon and Romanantiquities for which Edgeworth is so famous. 

I was quite certain that the man who bowled me out was a directdescendant of Julius Caesar. He delivered the ball underhand at a rapidrate. It came twisting along, now to the right, now to the left; seemedto disappear beneath the surface of the soil, then suddenly came insight again, shooting past the block. Eventually they told me it removedthe left bail, and struck the wicket-keeper a fearful blow on the chest. It was generally agreed that such a ball had never been bowled before. "'Twas a _pretty_ ball!" as Tom Peregrine pronounced it, standing umpirein an enormous wideawake hat and a white coat reaching down to hisknees, and smoking a bad cigar. "A very pretty ball, " said my fellowbatsman at the other wicket "A d--d pretty ball, " I reiterated _sottovoce_, as I beat a retreat towards the flag in the corner of the field, which served as a pavilion. 

When I went on to bowl left-handed "donkey-drops, " Tom Peregrine (my ownservant, if you please) was very nearly no-balling me. "For, " said he, "I 'ate that drabby-handed business; it looks so awkid. Muddling work, Icalls it. " But I am anticipating. 

As I prepared myself for the fray, and carefully donned a pair ofwell-stuffed pads and an enormously thick woollen jersey for protection, not so much against the cold as against the "flying ball, " it flashedacross me that I was about to personify the immortal Dumkins of Pickwickfame; whilst in my companion, the stout butler, it was impossible notto detect the complacent features and rounded form of Mr. Podder. Up toa certain point the analogy was complete. Let the Winson Invinciblesequal the All Muggleton C. C. , while the Edgeworth Daisy Cutters shall berepresented by Dingley Dell; then sing us, thou divine author ofPickwick, the glories of that never-to-be-forgotten day. 

"All Muggleton had the first innings, and the interest became intensewhen Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder--two of the most renowned members ofthat distinguished club--walked bat in hand to their respective wickets. Mr. Luffy, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowlagainst the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to dothe same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Podder. .. The umpireswere stationed behind the wickets [Tom Peregrine had been suborned forWinson, and proved the most useful man on the side], the scorers wereprepared to notch the runs. A breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffyretired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive Podder, and appliedthe ball to his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins [the author]confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on the motions of Mr. Luffy. 'Play!' suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his handstraight and swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The waryDumkins was on the alert; it fell upon the tip of his bat. .. . "

Here, with deep sorrow, let it be stated that the writer failed toevince the admirable skill displayed by his worthy prototype; theDumkins of grim reality was unable to compete with the Dumkins offiction. Instead of "sending the ball far away over the heads of thescouts; who just stooped low enough to let it fly over them, " I caughtit just as it pitched on a rabbit-hole, and sent it straight up into theair like a soaring rocket. "Right, right, I have it!" yelled bowler andwicket-keeper simultaneously. "Run two, Podder; they'll never catch it!"shouted Dumkins with all his might. "Catch it in your 'at, Bill!"screamed the Edgeworth eleven. Never was such confusion! I was alreadystarting for the second run, whilst my stout fellow batsman was halfwaythrough the first, when the ball came down like a meteor, and, narrowlyshaving the luckless "Podder's" head, hit the ground with a loud thudabout five yards distant from the outstretched hands of the anxiousbowler, who collided with his ally, the wicket-keeper, in the middle ofthe pitch. Half stunned by the shock, and disappointed at his want ofsuccess in his attempt to "judge" the catch, the bowler had yet presenceof mind enough to seize the ball and hurl it madly at the stumps. Butthe wicket-keeper being still _hors de combat_, it flew away towards thespectators, and buried itself among the mowing grass. "Come six, Podder!" I shouted, amid cries of "Keep on running!" "Run it out!" etc. , from spectators and scouts alike. And run we did, for the umpire forgotto call "lost ball, " and we should have been running still but for theingenuity of one of our opponents; for, whilst all were busily engagedin searching among the grass, a red-faced yokel stole up unawares, withan innocent expression on his face, raced poor "Podder" down the pitch, produced the ball from his trouser pocket, and knocked off the bails inthe nick of time. "Out, " says Peregrine, amid a roar of laughter fromthe whole field; and Mr. "Podder" had to go. 

Now came the question how many runs should be scored, for I had passedmy fellow batsman in the race, having completed seven runs to his five. Eventually it was decided to split the difference and call it a sixer;the suggestion of a member of our side that seven should be scored to meand five to Mr. "Podder" (making twelve in all) being rejected aftercareful consideration. 

Thus, from the first ball bowled in this historic match there arose thewhole of the remarkable events recorded above. Therein is shown thecomplete performances with the bat of two renowned cricketers; for, alasI in once more trying to play up to the form of Dumkins, I was bowled"slick" the very next ball, "as hath been said or sung. "

There was much good-natured chaff flying about during the match, but nofighting and squabbling, save when a boundary hit was made, when thebatsman always shouted "Three runs, " and the bowler "No, only one. " Thescores were not high; but I remember that we won by three runs, that thecarpenter's son got a black eye, that we had tea in an old manor houseturned into an inn, and drove home in the glow of a glorious sunset, notentirely displeased with our first experience of "prehistoric" cricket. 

Some of the pleasantest matches we have ever taken part in have beenthose at Bourton-on-the-Water. Owing to the very soft wicket which hefound on arriving, this place was once christened by a well-knowncricketer _Bourton-on-the-Bog_. Indeed, it is often a case ofBourton-_under_-the-Water; but, in spite of a soft pitch, there is greatkeenness and plenty of good-tempered rivalry about these matches. Bourton is a truly delightful village. The Windrush, like the Coln atBibury, runs for some distance alongside of the village street. 

The M. C. C. , or "premier club"--as the sporting press delight to call thefamous institution at Lord's--generally get thoroughly well beaten bythe local club. For so small a place they certainly put a wonderfullystrong team into the field; on their own native "bog" they are fairlyinvincible, though we fancy on the hard-baked clay at Lord's theirbowlers would lose a little of their cunning. 

In the luncheon tent at Bourton there are usually more wasps than areever seen gathered together in one place; they come in thousands fromtheir nests in the banks of the Windrush. 

If you are playing a match there, it is advisable to tuck your trousersinto your socks when you sit down to luncheon. This, together with thefact that the tent has been known to blow down in the middle ofluncheon, makes these matches very lively and amusing. What more livelyscene could be imagined than a large tent with twenty-two cricketers anda few hundred wasps hard at work eating and drinking; then, on the tentsuddenly collapsing, the said cricketers and the said wasps, mixed upwith chairs, tables, ham, beef, salad-dressing, and apple tart, and thevarious ingredients of a cricket lunch, all struggling on the floor, andstriving in vain to find their way out as best they can? Fortunately, onthe only occasion that the tent blew down when we were present, it wasnot a good wasp year. 

Besides the matches at Bourton, there is plenty of cricket atCirencester, Northleach, and other centres in the Cotswolds. The "hunt"matches are great institutions, even though hunting people as a rule donot care for cricket, and invariably drop a catch. A good sportsman andexcellent fellow has lately presented a cup to be competed for by thevillage clubs of this district. This, no doubt, will give a greatimpetus to the game amongst all classes; our village club has alreadybeen revived in order to compete. Our only fear with regard to the cupcompetition is that when you get two elevens on to a ground, and twoumpires, none of whom know the rules (for cricket laws are the most"misunderstandable" things in creation), the final tie will degenerateinto a free fight. 

Be this as it may, anything that can make the greatest pastime of thiscountry popular in the "merrie Cotswolds" is a step in the rightdirection. It is pleasing to watch boys and men hard at work practisingon summer evenings. The rougher the ground the more they like it. Scorning pads and gloves, they "go in" to bat, and make Herculeanefforts to hit the ball. And this, with fast bowling and the bumpynature of the pitch, is a very difficult thing to do. They play on, longafter sunset, --the darker it gets, and the more dangerous to life andlimb the game becomes, the happier they are. We are bound to admit thatwhen we play with them, a good pitch is generally prepared. It would bebad policy to endeavour to compete in the game they play, as we shouldmerely expose ourselves to ridicule, and one's reputation as the man whohas been known "to play in the papers, " as they are accustomed to callbig county matches, would very soon be entirely lost. 

I was much amused a few years ago, on arriving home after playing forSomersetshire in some cricket matches, when Tom Peregrine made up to mewith "a face like a benediction, " and asked if I was the gentleman whohad been playing "in the papers. "

While on the subject of cricket, for some time past we have madeexperiments of all sorts of cricket grounds, and have come to theconclusion that the following is the best recipe to prepare a pitch on adry and bumpy ground. A week before your match get a wheelbarrow full ofclay, and put it into a water-cart, or any receptacle for holding water. Having mixed your clay with water, keep pouring the mixture on to yourpitch, taking care that the stones and gravel which sink to the bottomdo not fall out. When you have emptied your water-cart, get some moreclay and water, and continue pouring it on to the ground until you havecovered a patch about twenty-two yards long and three yards wide, alwaysremembering not to empty out the sediment at the bottom of thewater-cart, for this will spoil all. Then, setting to work with yourroller, roll the clay and water into the ground. Never mind if it picksup on to the roller: a little more water will soon put that to rights. After an hour's rolling you will have a level and true cricket pitch, requiring but two or three days' sun to make it hard and true asasphalt. You may think you have killed the grass; but if you water yourpitch in the absence of rain the day after you have played on it, thegrass will not die. It is chiefly in Australia that cricket grounds aretreated in this way; they are dressed with mud off the harbours, androlled simultaneously. Such grounds are wonderfully true and durable. 

If the pitch is naturally a clay one, it might be sufficient to usewater only, and roll at the same time; but for renovating a worn claypitch, a little strong loamy soil, washed in with water and rolled downwill fill up all the "chinks" and holes. It will make an old pitch asgood as new. 

The reason that nine out of ten village grounds are bad and bumpy isthat they are not rolled soon enough after rain or after being watered. Roll and water them simultaneously, and they will be much improved. 

Another excellent plan is to soak the ground with clay and water, andleave it alone for a week or ten days before rolling. Permanent benefitwill be done to the soil by this method. For golf greens and lawn-tenniscourts situated on light soil, loam is an indispensable dressing. Anyloamy substance will vastly improve the texture of a light soil and thequality of the herbage. Yet it is most difficult to convince people ofthis fact. We have known cases in which hundreds of pounds have beenexpended on cricket grounds and golf greens when an application of claytop-dressing would have put the whole thing to rights at the cost of afew shillings. One committee had artificial wells made on every "puttinggreen" of their golf course, in order to have water handy for keepingthe turf cool and green. What better receptacle for water could theyhave found than a top-dressing of half an inch of loam or clay, retaining as it does every drop of moisture that falls in the shape ofdew or rain, instead of allowing it to percolate through like a sieve, as is the case with an ordinary sandy soil? Yet this clay dressing, while retaining water, becomes hard, firm, and as level as a billiardtable on the timely application of the roller. 

Those who look after cricket grounds and the like have seldom anyacquaintance with the constitution of soils; they are apt to treat all, whether sand, light loam, strong loam, heavy clay, or even peat, inexactly the same way, instead of recollecting that, as in agriculture, ajudicious combination will alone give us that _ideal loam_ whichproduces the best turf, and the best soil for every purpose. I am quiteconvinced that our farmers do not realise how much worthless light landmay be improved by a dressing of clay or loam. Such dressings areexpensive without a doubt, but the amelioration of the soil is so markedthat in favourable localities the process ought to pay in the long run. 

Turning to cricket in general, perhaps the modern game, as played on agood wicket, is in every respect, save one, perfection. If onlysomething could be done to curtail the length of matches, and rid us ofthat awful nuisance the poking, time-wasting batsman, there would belittle improvement possible. 

"All the world's a stage, " and even at cricket the analogy holds good. Thus Shakespeare:

 "As in a theatre the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious. "

So also one may say of some dull and lifeless cricketer who, after thefamous Gloucestershire hitter has made things merry for spectators andscouts alike, "enters next":

 "As in a cricket field the eyes of men, After a well-_Graced_ player leaves the _sticks_, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his _batting_ to be tedious. "

On the other hand, if we sow the wild oats of cricket--in other words, if we risk everything for the fleeting satisfaction of a blind"slog"--we shall be bowled, stumped, or caught out for a moralcertainty. It is only a matter of time. 

Perhaps the addition of another stump might help towards the verydesirable end of shortening the length of matches, and thus enable moreamateurs to take part in them. I cannot agree with those who lament theimproved state of our best English cricket grounds; if only the batsmenplay a free game and do not waste time, the game is far moreentertaining for players and spectators alike, when a true wicket isprovided. The heroes of old, "When Bird and Beldham, Budd, and such as they, -- Lord Frederick, too, once England's chief and flower, -- Astonished all who came to see them play, "

those "scorners of the ground" and of pads and gloves doubtlessdisplayed more _pluck_ on their rough, bumpy grounds than is now calledforth in facing the attack of Kortright, Mold, or Richardson. But on theother hand, on rough grounds much is left to chance and _luck_; cricket, as played on a billiard-table wicket certainly favours the batsman, butit admits of a brilliancy and finish in the matter of style that areimpossible on the old-fashioned wicket. Whilst the modern bowler haslearnt extraordinary accuracy of pitch, the batsman has perfected theart of "timing" the ball. And what a subtle, delicate art is correct"timing"!--the skilful embodiment of thought in action, depending forsuccess on that absolute sympathy of hand and eye which only assiduouspractice, confidence, and a good digestion can give. And on uncertain, treacherous ground confident play is never seen. A ball cannot be "cut"or driven with any real brilliancy of style when there is a likelihoodof its abruptly "shooting" or bumping. No; if we would leave as littleas possible to chance, our grounds cannot be too good. Even from apurely selfish point of view, apart from the welfare of our side, thepleasure derived from a good "innings" on a first-rate cricket groundis as great as that bestowed by any other physical amusement. 

Perhaps one ought not to think of comparing the sport of fox-hunting, with its extraordinary variety of incident and surroundings, the studyof a lifetime, to the game of cricket. At the same time, for actualall-round enjoyment, and for economy, the game holds its own against allamusements. 

Bromley-Davenport has said that given a _good_ country and a _good_ fox, _and_ a burning scent, the man on a _good_ horse with a good _start_, for twenty or thirty minutes absorbs as much happiness into his mentaland physical organisation as human nature is capable of containing atone time. This is very true. But how seldom the five necessaryconditions are forthcoming simultaneously the keen hunting man haslearnt from bitter experience. You will be lucky if the real good thingcomes off once for every ten days you hunt. In cricket a man isdependent on his own quickness of hand and eye; in hunting there is thatvital contingency of the well-filled purse. "'Tis money that makes themare to go. "

Then what a grand school is cricket for some of the most useful lessonsof life! Its extraordinary fluctuations are bound to teach us sooneror later

 "Rebus angustis animosus atque Fortis appare. "

The _rebus angustis_ are often painfully impressed on the memory by along sequence of "duck's eggs"; and how difficult is the _animosus atquefortis appare_ when we return to the pavilion with a "pair ofspectacles" to our credit!

Then, again, cricketers are taught to preserve a mind

 "Ab insolenti temperatam Laetitiâ. "

We must not permit the _laetitiâ insolenti_ to creep in when we havemade a big score. How often do we see young cricketers over-elated underthese circumstances, and suffering afterwards from temporaryover-confidence and consequent carelessness!

But we must have no more Horace, lest our readers exclaim, with JackCade, "Away with him! away with him! he speaks _Latin_!"

Hope, energy, perseverance, and courage, --all these qualities are learntin our grand English game. There is always hope for the strugglingcricketer. In no other pursuit are energy and perseverance so absolutelysure of bearing fruit, if we only stick to it long enough. 

The fact is that cricket, like many other things, is but the image andprototype of life in general. And the same qualities that, earnestlycultivated in spite of repeated failure and disappointment, make goodcricketers lead ultimately to success in all the walks of life. In spiteof the improvement in grounds, cricket is still an excellent school forteaching physical courage. Many grounds are somewhat rough and bumpy tofield on, beautifully smooth though they look from the pavilion. We haveonly to stand "mid-off" or "point" on a cold day at the beginning ofMay whilst a hard-hitting batsman, well set on a true wicket, isdriving or cutting ball after ball against our hands and shins, torealise what a capital school for courage the game is!

How exacting is the critic in this matter of fielding! and howdelightfully simple the bowling looks from that admirably safevantage-ground, the pavilion! Just as to a man comfortably stationed inthe grand-stand at Aintree nothing looks easier than the way in whichthe best horses in the world flit over the five-foot fences, leavingthem behind with scarcely an effort, their riders sitting quietly in thesaddle all the while, so does the pavilion critic pride himself on theway he would have "cut" that short one instead of merely stopping it, orblocked that simple ball that went straight on and bowled the wicket. Everything that is well and gracefully performed appears easy to thelooker-on. But that ease and grace, whether in the racehorse or in theman, has only been acquired by months and years of trainingand practice. 

It is seldom that the spectator is able to form a true and unbiassedopinion as to the varied contingencies which lead to victory or defeatin cricket. The actual players and the umpires are perhaps alonequalified to judge to what extent the fluctuations of the game areaffected by the vagaries of weather and ground. For this reason it iswell to take newspaper criticism _cum grano salis_. 

What is the cause of the extraordinary fluctuations of form which allcricketers, from the greatest to the least, are more or less subject to?It cannot be set down altogether to luck, for a run of bad luck, suchas all men have at times experienced, is often compatible with being inthe very best form. A man who is playing very well at the net often getsout directly he goes in to bat in a match, whilst many a good player, who tells you "he has not had a bat in his hand this season, " in hisvery first innings for the year makes a big score. In subsequentinnings's, oddly enough, he feels the want of net practice. _Confidence_would seem to be the _sine quâ non_ for the successful batsman. Nothingsucceeds like success; and once fairly started on a sequence of bigscores, the cricketer goes on day by day piling up runs and _viresacquirit eundo_. 

Perhaps "being in form" does not depend so much on the state of thedigestion as on the state of the _mind_. Anxiety or excitement, fosteredby over-keenness, usually results in a blank score-sheet. Some men, likehorses, are totally unable to do themselves credit on great occasions. They go off their feed, and are utterly out of sorts in consequence. Onthe other hand, sheer force of will has often enabled men to make a bigscore. Many a good batsman can recall occasions on which he made amental resolve on the morning of a match to make a century, and did it. 

How curious it is that really good players, from staleness or someunknown cause, occasionally become absolutely useless for a time! Everyfresh failure seems to bring more and more nervousness, until, fromsheer lack of confidence, their case becomes hopeless, and a child couldbowl them out. Ah well! we must not grumble at the ups and downs of thefinest game in creation: "every dog will have his day" sooner or later;of that we may be sure. 

And not the least of the advantages of cricket is the large number offriends made on the tented field. For this reason the jolliest cricketis undoubtedly that which is played by the various wandering clubs. Whether you are fighting under the banner of the brotherhood whose mottois "United though untied, " [6] or under the flag of the "Red, Black, andGold, " [7] or with any other of the many excellent clubs that aboundnowadays, you will have an enjoyable game, whether you make fifty runsor a duck's egg. 

[Footnote 6: The Free Foresters. ]

[Footnote 7: The I Zingari. ]

County cricket is nowadays a little over done. Two three-day matches aweek throughout the summer don't leave much time for other pursuits. Aliberal education at a good public school and university seems to bethrown away if it is to be followed by five or six days a week atcricket all through the summer year after year. Most of our bestamateurs realise this, and, knowing that if they go in for countycricket at all they must play regularly, they give it up, and arecontent to take a back seat. They do wisely, for let us always rememberthat cricket is a game and not a business. 

On the other hand, much good results from the presence in county cricketof a leavening of gentle; for they prevent the further development ofprofessionalism. It is doubtless owing to the "piping times of peace"England has enjoyed during the past fifty years that cricket hasdeveloped to such an abnormal extent. The British public areessentially hero worshippers, and especially do they worship men whoshow manliness and pluck; and those feelings of respect and admirationthat it is to be hoped in more stirring times would be reserved for aNelson or a Wellington have been recently lavished on our Graces, ourStoddarts, our Ranjitsinhjis, and our Steels. 

As long as war is absent, and we "live at home at ease, " so long willour sports and pastimes flourish and increase. And long may theyflourish, more especially those in which the quality of courage isessential for success! It will be a bad day for England when success inour sports and pastimes no longer depends on the exercise of pluck andmanliness; when hunting gives place to bicycling, and cricket to golf;when, in fact, the wholesome element of _danger_ is removed from ourrecreation and pursuits. Should, in the near future, the long-talked-ofinvasion of this country by a combination of European powers become anaccomplished fact, Englishmen may perchance be glad, as the cannon ballsand musket shots are whizzing round their heads, that on the mimicbattlefields of cricket, football, polo, and fox-hunting they learnt twoof the most useful lessons of life--coolness and courage. 

[Illustration: Hawking 267. Png]

CHAPTER XII. 

THE COTSWOLDS THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 

Nowadays, thanks in a great measure to Mr. Madden's book, the "Diary ofMaster William Silence, " it is beginning to dawn on us that theCotswolds are more or less connected with the great poet ofStratford-on-Avon. 

Mr. Blunt, in his "Cotswold Dialect, " gives no less than fifty-eightpassages from the works of Shakespeare, in which words and phrasespeculiar to the district are made use of. Up to the reign of Queen Annethis vast open tract of downland formed a happy hunting ground for theinhabitants of all the surrounding counties. Warwickshire, Oxfordshire, and Wiltshire, as well as Gloucestershire folk repaired to the wolds forhunting, coursing, hawking, and other amusements; and in olden times, even more than to-day, Cotswold was, as Burton described it, "a type ofwhat is most commodious for hawking, hunting, wood, waters, and allmanner of pleasures. " There never was a district so well adapted forstag-hunting. Nowadays the Cotswold district falls short in onedesideratum, and that a most essential one, of being a first-ratehunting country. The large extent of ploughed land and the extremedryness and poverty of the soil cause it on four days out of five tocarry a most indifferent scent. But to-day we pursue the fox; inShakespeare's time the stag was the quarry. And, as hunting men are wellaware, the scent given off by a stag is not only ravishing to hounds, but it actually increases as the quarry tires, whilst that from a fox"grows small by degrees and beautifully less. "

As with hunting, so also with coursing and hawking; the Cotswolds werethe grand centre of Elizabethan sport. Here it was that Shakespearemarked the falcon "waiting on and towering in her pride of place. " Herehe saw the fallow greyhounds competing for the silver-studded collar. 

What an interest and a dignity does a district such as this draw fromeven the slenderest association with the splendid name of WilliamShakespeare! For my part I freely confess that scenery, however grandand sublime, appeals but little to the imagination unless it be hallowedby association or blended in the thoughts with the recollection of thosewe have either loved or admired. Thus in India, in Natal and CapeColony, in glorious Ceylon, I could admire those wonderful purplemountains and that tropical luxuriance of fertility and verdure; but Icould not _feel_ them. The boundless wolds of Africa, reminding one somuch of Gloucestershire, yet far grander and far finer than anything ofthe kind in England, were to me a dreary wilderness. Passing through thefine broken hill country of Natal was like visiting chaos, a waste, inhospitable land, "Where no one comes Or hath come since the making of the world. "

How well I remember the first sight of the wolds of South Africa! It wasthe hour of uncertain light that comes before the dawn; and as ourrailway train wound its tortuous course like a snake up the awfulheights that would ultimately end in Majuba Hill--to which ill-fatedspot I was bound--the billowy waves of rolling down seemed gradually tochange to an immensely rough ocean running mountains high, and themimosa trees dotting the plain for hundreds of miles appeared likearmies of the souls of all the black men that ever lived on earth sincethe world began. There were passes and chasms like the portals offar-off, inaccessible Paradise, "With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. "

And then the scene changed. The hills rose like graves of white men andbarrows to the long-forgotten dead. Great oblong barrows, round Celticbarrows, and stately sarcophagi. Monumental effigies in alabaster, granite and porphyry; grim Gothic castles dating back to the foundationof the world, and grim Gothic cathedrals with long-drawn aisles, wherethe "great organ of Eternity" kept thundering ceaselessly. For thelightning and the thunder are powers to be reckoned with in those awfulrealms of chaos. And then the scene changed again. There suddenly uproseweird shapes of giants and leviathans, huge mammoths and whole regimentsof fantastic monsters that looked like clouds and yet were mountains;and there were fortresses and towers of silence, with vultures hoveringover them, and cliffs and crags and jutting promontories that lookedlike mountains, but were really clouds: for the black clouds and thefrowning hills were so much alike that, save when the lightning shone, you could not say where the sky ended and the land began. But there wasone gleam of hope in this weird and dismal scene, for on the farthestverge of the horizon there appeared, as it were, a lake--such a lake assaw the passing of Arthur, vanishing in mystery and silently floatingaway upon a barge towards the east. It was a lake of beryl, whosefar-off golden shores were set with rubies and sardonyx, and beyondthese, again, were the more distant waters of the silver sea; and aswhen Sir Bedivere

 ". .. Saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, Down that long water opening on the deep Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less and vanish into light. And the new sun rose bringing the new year, --"

so over the plains of Africa rose the mighty Alchemist and greatrevealer of truth, the scatterer of dreary darkness and secret night, turning those shadowy hills to purple and those mystic waters in theeastern sky to gold. 

How different are our feelings when we traverse, either in reality or infancy, such parts of the earth as are deeply blended in our hearts andminds with old familiar associations! Whilst wandering through the LakeDistrict of England, how are we reminded of Wordsworth and the"Excursion"! How can we visit Devonshire and the West Country withoutsummoning up pleasant thoughts of Charles Kingsley and Amyas Leigh; ofthe men of Bideford, Sir Richard Grenville, Kt. , and "The littleRevenge"? How vividly do the Trossachs recall "The Lady of the Lake" andWalter Scott! How with Edinburgh do we connect the sad story of Mary, the ill-fated queen! At Killarney, or standing amid the Gothic traceryof Tintern, how do we think on Alfred Tennyson and "the days that are nomore"! These are only a few of the places in the British Isles that byuniversal consent are hallowed by tender associations. Of those spots inEngland which are dear to our hearts for personal reasons, there are ofcourse hundreds. Every man has his own peculiar prejudices in thisrespect. To some London is the most sacred spot on earth. And who shalldeny that with all her faults London is not a vastly interesting place?Is not every street hallowed by its associations with some great name orsome great event in English history? Which of us can stand amid theGothic tracery and the crumbling cloisters of Westminster, or under theshadow of the old grey towers of Whitehall, without recallingheart-stirring scenes and "paths of glory that lead but to the grave"?Who can stand unmoved on any of the famous bridges that span the silentriver? Dr. Johnson, who acted up to Pope's well-known motto, "The proper study of mankind is man, "

thought Fleet Street the most interesting place on the face of theearth; and perhaps he was right. Let us hear what he has to say aboutthis halo of old association: "To abstract the mind from all localemotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured; and would be foolishif it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses;whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over thepresent, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me andfrom my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferentand unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. "

This, then, is the difference between the plains of Africa and the hillsand valleys of England. The one is at present a vast inhospitable chaos, the other a land in which there is scarcely an acre that has not beendignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. Such are the signs by which weare to distinguish Cosmos from Chaos. 

How far into the Cotswold Hills the halo of Stratford-on-Avon's glorymay be said to extend it is not easy to determine. Let us allow at allevents that the _reflection_ from the arc reaches across the wholeextent of the wolds as far as Dursley. For here on the western edge ofthe Cotswolds it is probable that Shakespeare spent that portion of hislife which has always been involved in obscurity--the interval betweenhis removal from Warwickshire and his arrival in London. 

On a fine autumnal evening in the year 1592 a horseman, mounted on alittle ambling nag, neared the Cotswold village of Bibury. Both man andsteed showed unmistakable signs of weariness. The horse especially, though of that wiry kind known as the Irish hobby, hard as iron, andaccustomed to long journeys, evinced by that sober and even dejectedexpression of countenance so well known to hunting men, that he had beenridden both far and fast. The saddle too, as well as the legs, chest, and flanks of the nag, appeared wet and mud-stained, as if some brookhad been swum or some deep and muddy river forded, whilst the leftshoulder and knee of the rider bore marks which told tales of a fall. The personal appearance of the man was not such as to excite theinterest of the casual passer-by; for his dress, though extremly neat, was that worn by clerks and other townsfolk of the day; yet a keenobserver might have noticed that the features were those of a man ofuncommon character, in whom, as Carlyle would have said, a germ ofirrepressible force had been implanted. 

It had indeed been a glorious day. The hounds, after meeting close toMoreton-in-the-Marsh, in Warwickshire, had found a great hart in theforest near Seizincote, and had hunted him "at force" over the deepundrained vale up on to the Cotswold Hills, away past Stow-on-the-Woldand Bourton-on-the-Water, towards the great woods of Chedworth. But thestag, after crossing the Windrush close to Mr. Dutton's house atSherborne, had failed to make his point, and had "taken soil" in a deeppool of the river Coln, near the little village of Coln-St-Dennis, whereeventually the mort had sounded. Such a run had not been seen for many along day; for it measured no less than fourteen miles "as the crowflies, " and about five-and-twenty as the hounds ran. The time occupiedhad been close on seven hours. There had of course been several checks;but so strong had been the scent of this hart that, in spite of two"lets" of some twenty minutes' duration, the pack had been able to hunttheir quarry to the bitter end. Only two men had seen the end. The prideand chivalry of Warwickshire, mounted on their high-priced Flandersmares, their Galway nags, and their splendid Barbaries, had beenhopelessly thrown out of the chase; and besides the huntsman, on hisplain-bred little English horse, the only remnant of the field was ourfriend with his tough and wiry Irish hobby. 

It is five o'clock, and the sun as it disappears beyond a high ridge ofthe wolds, is tinging the grey walls of an ancient Gothic fane with arosy glow. This our sportsman does not fail to notice; but in spite ofhis keen appreciation of the beauties of nature, the question uppermostin his mind, as he jogs along the rough, uneven road or track whichleads to Bibury, is where to spend the night. The thought of returninghome at that late hour does not enter his head; for the stag havinggone away in exactly the opposite direction to that from which theWarwickshire man had set out early in the morning, there are no lessthan three-and-thirty long and weary miles between the hunter and hishome. In the days of good Queen Bess, however, hospitality wasproverbially free, and any decently set up Englishman was tolerably sureof a welcome at any of the country houses which were then, as now, scattered at long intervals over this wild, uncultivated district. Andas he rides round a bend in the valley, a fair manor house comes intoview, pleasantly placed in a sheltered spot hard by the River Coln. Itwas built in the style which had just come into vogue--the Elizabethanform of architecture; and in honour of the reigning monarch its frontpresented the appearance of the letter E. The windows, instead of beingmade of horn, were of glass; and tall stone chimneys (a modern luxurybut lately invented) carried away the smoke from the chambers within. 

It so happened that at the moment the stranger was passing, the owner ofthe house--a squire of some sixty years of age, but hale and hearty--wasstanding in front of his porch taking the evening air. This fact thehorseman did not fail to notice, and with a ready eye to the mainchance, which showed its possessor to be a man of no ordinaryapprehension, he glanced approvingly at the groined porch, the richlycarved pinnacles above it, and at the quaint belfry beyond, exclaimingwith great enthusiasm:

"'Fore God, you have a goodly dwelling and a rich here. I do envy theethine house, sir. "

"Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, " [8] was the reply, to which, after a pause, the squire added, "Marry, good air. "

[Footnote 8: _2 Henry IV_, V. Iii. ]

"Ah, 'tis a good air up on these wolds, " replied the sportsman. "But Iam a stranger here in Gloucestershire; these high wild hills and rough, uneven ways draw out our miles and make them wearisome. [9] How far is itto Stratford?"

[Footnote 9: _King Richard II. _, II. Iii. ]

"Marry, 'tis nigh on forty mile, I warrant. Thou'll not see Stratfordto-night, sir; thy horse is wappered[10] out, and that I plainly see. "

[Footnote 10: _Wappered_ = tired. A Cotswold word. ]

To him replied the stranger wearily:

 Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed. [11]

[Footnote 11: _Merchant of Venice_, II. Vi. ]

"Hast been with the hounds to-day?" enquired the honest squire. 

"Ah, sir, and that I have, " was the reply; "and never have I seen suchsport before. For seven long hours they made the welkin ring, and ranlike swallows o'er the plain. " [12]

[Footnote 12: _Titus Andronicus_, II. Ii. ]

"Please to step in; we be just a-settin' down to supper--a cold caponand a venison pasty. I'll tell my serving man to take thy nag to yonderyard, and make him comfortable for the night. "

"Thanks, sir, I'll take him round myself, and give the honest beast adrench of barley broth, [13] and afterwards, to cheer him up a bit, ahandful or two of dried peas. " [14]

[Footnote 13: _Henry V_. , III. V. ]

[Footnote 14: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, IV. I. ]

Whilst the hunter was seeing to his nag, the squire thus addressed hisserving man:

"Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty tiny kickshaws, tell William cook. " [15]

[Footnote 15: 2 _Henry IV_. , V. I. ]

DAVY: "Doth the hunter stay all night, sir?"

SQUIRE: "Yes, Davy. I will use him well; good sportsmen are ever welcomeon Cotswold. "

The wants of the Irish hobby having been thoroughly attended to, and thegame little fellow having recovered in some measure his natural gaietyof spirits, the squire ushered the stranger into a long low hall, hungwith pikes and guns and bows, and relics of the chase as well as of thewars. The stone floor was strewed with clean rushes, and lying about ontables were trashes, collars, and whips for hounds, as well as hoods, perches, jesses, and bells for hawks; whilst a variety of odds and ends, such as crossbows and jumping-poles, were scattered about the apartment. An enormous wood fire blazed at one end of the hall, and in theinglenook sat a girl of some twenty summers. 

"My daughter, sir, " exclaimed the squire; "as good a girl as ever livedto make a cheese, brew good beer, preserve all sorts of wines, and cooka capon with a chaudron! Marry! I forgot to ask thee thy name?"

"Oh, my name is Shakespeare--William Shakespeare, sir. I come fromStratford-on-the-Avon, up to'rds Warwick. "

"Shakespy, Shakespy; a' don't know that name. Dost bear arms, sir?"

"I am entitled to them--a spear on a bend sable, and a falcon for mycrest; but we have not yet applied to the heralds for the confirmation. And you, sir?"

"He writes himself _armigero_ in any bill, warrant, quittance, orobligation, " here put in Davy the serving man. 

"Ah, that I do! and have done any time these three hundred years. "

"All his successors gone before him hath done it; and all his ancestorsthat come after him may, " added Davy, with pride. 

"To be sure, to be sure, " said the squire. "Well, welcome to Cotswold, Master Shakespeare; good sportsmen are ever welcome on Cotswold. Buttell me, how didst thou get thy downfall?"

"The first was at the mound into the tyning by Master Blackett's houseat Iccomb; old Dobbin breasted it, and the stones did rattle round mineears like a house a-coming down. We made a shard[16] that let the restof 'em through. It was the only wall that came in the way of the chaseto-day. The second downfall was at the brook by Bourton-Windrush, Ithink they call it. Dobbin being a bit short of wind, and quiltingsadly, stuck fast in the mire, and tumbled on to his nose in scramblingout. Marry, sir, but 'twas a famous chase; the like of it I never sawbefore. 'Twas grand at first to see the hart unharboured--a stag withall his rights, 'brow, bay, and trey. '"

[Footnote 16: A Cotswold word = breach. ]

"Thou shouldst know, our hounds at Warwick are a noted pack, So flew'd, so sanded, and their beads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knee'd, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn. '" [17]

[Footnote 17: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, IV. I. ]

Then he told how, after leaving behind the deep undrained grass countryround Moreton-in-the-Marsh, they rose the hills by Stow and came acrossthe moor. How the riders who spurred their horses up the steep uprisingascent were soon left behind. For

 "To climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first; anger is like A full hot horse, who, being allowed his way, Self mettle tires him. "

He told how, after an hour's steady running over the wolds, a "let" [18]occurred, and "the hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt";[19]how Mountain, Fury, Tyrant, and Ringwood, who had been leading the restof the pack, strove in vain for a considerable time to pick out the coldscent, until suddenly the cheery sound of the old huntsman's voice washeard crying:

[Footnote 18: _Two Noble Kinsmen_, III. V. ]

[Footnote 19: _Venus and Adonis_, 692. ]

"Fury! Fury! There, Tyrant, there! Hark! Hark!" [20]

and the whole pack went "yoppeting" off as happy as the hunt was long. He told how Belman fairly surpassed himself, and "twice to-day pickedout the dullest scent";[21] and how little Dobbin, the Irish hobby, wentcantering on "as true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. " [22]He told how, after running from scent to view, they came down into thewoodlands of the valley of the Coln, and awoke the echoes with their"gallant chiding. "

[Footnote 20: _Tempest_, IV, i. ]

[Footnote 21: _Taming of the Shrew_, Introduction. ]

[Footnote 22: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, III. I. ]

 ". .. Besides the groves, The skies, the fountains, every region near Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. " [23]

[Footnote 23: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, IV. ]

And how the noble animal took soil in the Coln, "Under an oak whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood: To the which place our poor sequester'd stag Did come to languish; and indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heaved forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting, and the big round tears Coursed one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase. 

 Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends, ''Tis right, ' quoth he: 'thus misery doth part The flux of company': anon a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, And never stays to greet him. 'Ah, ' quoth Jaques, 'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; 'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'" [24]

[Footnote 24: _As You Like It_, II. I. ]

And finally he told how the gallant beast died a soldier's death, fighting to the bitter end. 

"Marry, 'twas a right good chase, and bravely must thy steed have bornethee. But thou wast too venturesome, Master Shakespeare, " exclaimed thesquire, "a-trying to jump that mound into the tyning by MasterBlackett's house. "

"Tell me, I prithee, " answered Shakespeare, anxious to turn theconversation from his own share in the day's proceedings, "whose dog wonthe silver-studded collar this year in the coursing matches onCotswold?" [25]

[Footnote 25: _Merry Wives of Windsor_, ]

"Our Bill Peregrine, here, at the farm, carried it off. A prettier bitof coursing I never did see!"

"Ah! that was the country fellow that turned up when we sounded the mortby Col-Dene. He seemed to spring up out of the ground. He is a snapperup of unconsidered trifles, I'll be bound. The fellow claimed the hide:he said the skin was the keeper's fee. " [26]

[Footnote 26: 3 _Henry VI_, III. I. ]

"That 'ould be he. I warrant he lent a hand in taking assay andbreaking up the deer. Tis just what he enjoys. "

"Ah! I marked him disembowelling the poor dead beast in right good will, with hands besmeared with blood. " [27]

[Footnote 27: _Henry IV. _, V. Iv. ]

Then they fell to talking of other things; and the honest old squirebegan to brag about his London days, and how he was once ofClement's Inn. 

"There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black GeorgeBarnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you hadnot four such swinge-bucklers in all the Inns o' Court again. " [28]

[Footnote 28: _Henry IV. _, III. Ii. ]

But the old man was far too interested in his own doings to ask if hisguest had ever been in London. It is the prerogative of age to take forgranted that all younger men are of no account, and even as children, "to be seen and not heard. "

"To-morrow, " said the squire, "at break of day, we be a-going a-birding, to try some young falcons Bill Peregrine has lately trained. Wilt joinus, Master Shakespeare?"

"Ah, that I will, sir! I know a hawk from a handsaw, or my name's notWilliam Shakespeare. "

By this time the cold capon and the venison pasty, as well as the"little tiny kickshaws, " together with a gallon of "good sherris-sack, "had been considerably reduced by the united efforts of the squire, thefamished hunter, and those below the salt. During the meal such scrapsof conversation as this might have been heard:

"Will you please to take a bit of bacon, Master Shakespeare?"

"Not any, I thank you, " replied the poet. 

"What, no bacon!" put in the serving man from behind, in a voice ofsurprise bordering on disappointment. 

"No bacon for me, I thank you; _I never take bacon_, " repeatedShakespeare, with some emphasis. 

Then the master of the house would occasionally address a remark to hisserving man about the farm, such as, "How a good yoke of bullocks atCiren Fair?" or, "How a score of ewes now?" meaning how much are theyworth. Once the serving man took the initiative, asking, "Shall we sowthe headlands with wheat?" receiving the reply, "With red wheat, Davy. " [29]

[Footnote 29: 2 _Henry IV_, V. I. ]

Then there was some discussion concerning the stopping of William's(Peregrine's?) wages, "About the sack he lost the other day atHinckley Fair. "

SHAKESPEARE: "This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your serving manand your husbandman. "

SQUIRE: "A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet. .. . By themass, I have drunk too much sack at supper! A good varlet. " [30]

[Footnote 30: 2 _Henry IV_, V. Iii. ]

These were the squire's last words that night. He soon slept peacefully, as was his wont after his evening meal; whereupon the poet, with hisaccustomed gallantry, commenced making love in right good earnest to thefair daughter of the house. 

The Cotswold girls, like the Irish, have always been famous for theirbeauty. Even amongst the peasants you may nowadays see the mostbeautiful and graceful women in the world, though their attire isusually of a plain and unbecoming character, and but ill adapted to setoff the features and form of the wearer. The squire's daughter, whom wewill call Jessica, was no exception to the rule. She was a handsomebrunette--indeed, the squire called her a "black ousel. " Shakespearefell in love with her at once, and, forgetting all about the family atStratford, he plunged into the most desperate flirtation. The girl, withthat natural perception of the divine in man common to her sex, couldnot help feeling a strange admiration for this unexpected, though notunwelcome, guest. There was something about his countenance whichexercised a peculiar charm and fascination. The thoughtful brow, thekeen hazel eye, and the gentle bearing of the man were what at firstattracted attention. But it was his manner and speech, half serious andhalf mirthful, which made such an impression on her mind; and perhapsshe felt that, "to the face whose beauty is the harmony between thatwhich speaks from within and the form through which it speaks, power isadded by all that causes the outer man to bear more deeply the impressof the inner. "

The surroundings, too, were as romantic as they possibly could be. Apair of rush candles were shedding their dim light through the long lowoak-panelled apartment; they were the only lights that were burning, andeven these flickered ominously at times, as if threatening to go out andleave the place in total darkness. A full moon, however, was casting hersilvery beams through the great lattice casement, and in one of theupper panes of this window were richly emblazoned the arms of which thesquire was so proud. 

It was a glorious evening. Opening the window, William Shakespearelooked out upon the peaceful garden. The moon was shedding a pale lightupon the woods and the stream, "decking with liquid pearl the bladedgrass. " A hundred yards away the silent Coln was gliding slowly onwardstowards the sea. Owls were breathing heavily in the hanging wood, and apair of otters were hunting in the pool. 

As the two sat by the open window, the poet's own life and its prospectsformed the principal topic of conversation. After years of toil inLondon his fortunes were beginning at length to improve. He was managerof a theatre, and was at length earning a moderate competency. He hadalready saved a little money, and hoped soon to buy a house atStratford. He looked forward some day to returning to his native placeand living a country life. At present he was enjoying a short holiday, the first for over a year. 

As they sat and talked over these matters, a minstrel began to play inone of the cottages of the village; the sound of the harp added anothercharm to the peaceful surroundings, and filled the poet's mind with astrange delight. 

"I am never merry when I hear sweet music, " said Jessica. 

Whereupon her companion replied:

 "' . .. Soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. '" [31]

[Footnote 31: _Merchant of Venice_, V. I. ]

Sweet is the sound of soft melodious music on a moonlight night; sweetthe faint sigh of the breeze among the elms, and the light upon thesilent stream; but sweeter far is music on a moonlight night, sweeterthe faint sigh of the breeze, and the light upon the silent stream, whenhope, renewed after years of sorrow and sadness, flatters once again theaims and objects of youth, gilding the landscape of life with wondrousalchemy, shedding rays of happy sunshine on the vague, mysteriousyearnings of the soul of man towards the hidden destinies of theboundless future. 

It was not long, however, before Shakespeare bade the fair Jessicagood-night and retired to his sleeping apartment; for a run of suchuncommon excellence as he had enjoyed that day was calculated to producethe tired, though not unpleasant, sensation which even now sends thehunting man sleepy, though happy, to bed. 

So, lulled by the strains of the minstrel's harp did William Shakespeareseek his couch and sleep the sleep of the just But even while the bodywas wrapped in slumber, the highly wrought, powerful mind, though yetunconscious of its awful destiny, was hard at work, "moving about inworlds not realised. " Yonder on the turret of that grey Gothic castle, whose pinnacles point ever upwards to the skies, they stand and wait, aglorious throng; and as they stand they wave him onwards. Dante, Homer, Virgil, Chaucer, Plutarch, Montaigne, and many another hero of old iswaiting there. See the sharp-pointed features of the Italian bard, andHomer no longer blind! The two are holding animated converse, and everbeckoning him on. And a voice seemed to speak out loud and clear amidthe solemn silence of eternity:

 "Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd But to fine issues. " [32]

[Footnote 32: _Measure for Measure_, I. I. ]

Can he linger? Away with blank misgivings, fears, and doubts! He willclimb the rugged, steep ascent, and follow even unto the end. 

The following morning a little before sunrise saw a party of fiveassembled for a hawking expedition on the downs. Besides the squire andWilliam Shakespeare, the parson had turned up, whilst Bill Peregrine(ancestor of all the Peregrines, including, no doubt, the famousPeregrine Pickle) brought one of his brothers from the farm to "help himout" with the hawks. It was somewhat of a peculiar dawn--one of thosedull grey mornings which often bodes a fine day. The bard was muchinterested in the glowing eastern sky, and as the sun began to appear heturned to William Peregrine and enthusiastically exclaimed:

 "'. .. . What envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. '" [33]

[Footnote 33: _Romeo and Juliet_, III. V. ]

"To be sure, to be sure, it do look a bit comical, don't it?" answeredthe yeoman, with a cackle; and then, turning to his brother, he said, "Ain't 'e ever seen the sun rise before?"

"Please, squire, who be the gent from Warwickshire?" says Peregrine, _sotto voce_; "I cannot tell what the dickens his name is!"

"Oh! 'is name's Shakespy, William Shakespy. A good un at his books, I'llbe bound. Get the hawks, Bill; the sun be up. A' must be off toStratford shortly, " answered the squire, glancing at the poet. 

Whereupon the yeoman opened the door of a long covered shed commonlycalled the "mews, " and shortly appeared again with four hoodedhawks--two falcons, and two males or tiercel-gentles--placed on a woodenframe or cadge. These he handed to a stout yokel to carry, and the wholeparty sallied forth towards the downs. The squire and the parson weremounted on their palfreys, the rest of the party being on foot. 

It was not long before William Peregrine started an interestingconversation with the stranger somewhat after this manner:

"Did you 'ave a pretty good day's spart yesterday, Master Quakespear?"

"Ah, that we had! I never saw such a day's sport in all my life!"

"I thought ye did. I could see the 'art was tired smartish. I qeum alongby the bruk, and give un the meeting. When I sees un I says, 'I can seeyou've 'ad a smartish doing, old boy. ' Then the 'ounds qeum yoppetingalong as nice as could be. Then I sees you and the 'untsman lollopingalong arter the dogs, and soon arter I 'urd the trumpets goin'; and sosays I, 'It's a _case_, ' and I qeums up and skins un. 'E did skinbeautiful to be sure! I never see a better job in all my life--never!"

"'Twas a fine hart, " replied Shakespeare, "and no dull and muddy-mettledrascal!" [34]

[Footnote 34: _Hamlet_, II. Ii. ]

"I be fond of a bit of spart like that, " continued Peregrine; "but Inever could away with books and larning. Muddling work, I calls it, messing over books. Do you care for that kind of stuff, MasterQuakespear?"

"I dabble in it when I am away from the country, " was the reply. 

Then the Warwickshire man began soliloquising again, somewhat after thismanner:

 "'In his brain He hath strange places crammed with observation, The which he vents in mangled forms. '" [35]

[Footnote 35: _As you Like It_ vii. ]

"Drat the fellow!" whispered Peregrine, turning to the parson, whohappened to be riding alongside "I don't like un, 'e's so unkit. "

PARSON: "What makes him talk so, William?"

PEREGRINE (_touching his forehead_): "It's a case; I'll be bound it's acase. 'E's unkit. "

"Would you mind saying that again, sir, " said the bard, producing anotebook. 

Peregrine goes into a fit of giggling, so Shakespeare writes down frommemory; whereupon the yeoman makes up to the squire, and says, "Hist, squire, we must 'ave a care; 'e's takin' notes 'o anything we says. 'Tismy belief 'e's got to do with that 'ere case of Tom Barton's they'remakin' such a fuss and do about at Coln. We shall all be 'ung for a seto' sheep-stealing ruffians. "

"Thee be quite right, William, " put in the parson "I thought a' looked abit suspicious. If I was you, squire, I'd clap the baggage intoNorthleach gaol, and exercise the justice of the peace agin un for anidle varmint. "

"Yet a milder mannered man I never saw, " said the squire. 

PARSON: "Mild-mannered fiddlestick!" Then, raising his voice so that thestranger should get the full benefit, he added, "He's as mild a manneredman as ever scuttled ship or cut a throat!"

Shakespeare hurriedly draws out notebook, and smilingly writes down theparson's words; then, in perfect good humour, he says:

"You must excuse me, gentlemen, but I have somewhat of a passion forwriting down such sayings as suit my humour, lest I forget what goodcompany I keep. "

SQUIRE (_excitedly_): "Let go the hawk, Tom; there's a great lankyheron risin' at the withybed yonder. "

And here it is necessary to say something about the methods and languageof falconry as practised by our forefathers. 

Shakespeare tells us to choose "a falcon or tercel for flying at thebrook, and a hawk for the bush. " In other words, we are to select thenobler species, the long-winged peregrine falcon, the male of which wascalled a tiercel-gentle, for flying at the heron or the mallard; and ashort-winged hawk, such as the goshawk or sparrow-hawk, for blackbirdsand other hedgerow birds. For as Mr. Madden explains, not only does thetrue falcon, be she peregrine, gerfalcon, merlin, or hobby, differ insize and structure of wing and beak from the short-winged hawks, but shealso differs in her method of hunting and seizing her prey. 

The falcons are "hawks of the tower and lure. " They tower aloft andswoop down on partridge, rabbit, or heron, finally returning to thelure; and be it noted that the lure is a sham bird, with a "train" offood to entice the falcons back to their master. 

The short-winged hawks, on the other hand, are birds of the fist or thebush. Instead of "towering" and "stooping, " they lurch after their preyin wandering flight, finally returning to their master's fist. 

In _Macbeth_ we find allusion to the "falcon towering in her pride ofplace"; and indeed there is no prettier sport on a still day than aflight at the partridge or the heron with the noble peregrine falcon orher mate the tiercel-gentle. 

At the honest squire's word of command, a male peregrine is forthwithdespatched, and, soaring upwards into the air, he is almost lost tosight in the clouds, though the faint tinkling of the bells attached tohis feet may yet be heard; then, stooping from the skies, thetiercel-gentle descends from the heavens and strikes his long-beakedadversary. Down, down they come, fighting and struggling in the air, until, exhausted by the unequal combat, the heron gradually falls to theground, and receives from the falconer his final _coup de grâce_. Sometimes a pair of hawks are thrown off against a heron. 

Now comes a flight at the partridge. First of all the spaniel isdespatched to search the fields for a covey of birds. The desired quarrybeing found, he "points" to them, and this time the female peregrine ortrue falcon is sent on her way. Away she soars upwards, "waiting on andtowering in her pride of place. " Then the birds, lying like stonesbeneath her savage ken, are flushed by the dog, and the cruel peregrine, after selecting her bird, with her characteristic "swoop" brings it tothe ground. If she is unsuccessful in her first attempt, she will toweragain, and renew the attack. The riders have to gallop as fast as theirnags can go, if they would keep in with the sport, for as often as not amile or more of ground has to be covered in a long flight, ere thefalcon "souses" [36] her prey. After the flight, a well-trained falconwill invariably return to the lure with its "train" of food. 

[Footnote 36: _King John_. V. Ii. ]

As Mr. Madden has proved, the whole of Shakespeare's works teem withallusions to the art of falconry. 

 "HENRY: But what a point, my lord, your falcon made, And what a pitch she flew above the rest! To see how God in all His creatures works! Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. 

 SUFFOLK: No marvel, an it like your majesty, My lord protector's hawks do tower so well; They know their master loves to be aloft And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch. 

 GLOUCESTER: My lord, 'tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. " [37]

[Footnote 37: 2 _Henry VI_. , II. I. ]

But it was not the death of the poor partridge that appealed to thepoet's mind so much as the pride and cunning of the mighty peregrine, and the beauty and stillness of the autumnal morning. He loved to hearthe faint tinkling of the falcon's bells, the homely cry of the plover, and the sweet carol of the lark; but more than all he felt the mysteryof the downs, wondering by what power and when those old seas wereconverted into a sea of grass. 

But whilst the hawking party was moving slowly across the wolds to tryfresh ground an event occurred which had the effect of bringing themorning's sport, as far as hawks were concerned, to an abruptconclusion. This was nothing more nor less than the sight of a greatCotswold fox of the greyhound breed making his way towards a copse onthe squire's demesne. The quick eye of the Peregrine family was thefirst to view him, and forthwith both Bill and his brother screamed inunison: "What's that sneaking across Smoke Acre yonder? 'Tis a fox--agreat, lanky, thieving, villainous fox, darned if it ain't!"

"Where?" said parson and squire excitedly. 

"There, " said Peregrine, "over agin Smoke Acre. "

"By jabbers, so it be!" said the parson. "Now look thee here, JoePeregrine, go thee to the sexton and tell 'un to ring the church bellsfor the folks to come for a fox; and be sure and tell thechurchwardens. "

"Ah!" said the poet, almost as excited as the rest of the party, "'And do not stand on quillets how to slay him: Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety, Sleeping or waking, 'tis no matter how, So he be dead. '" [38]

[Footnote 38: _2 Henry VI. _, III. I. ]

Thus abruptly ended this hawking expedition on the Cotswolds; for thewhole party made off to the manor house to fetch guns, spades, pickaxes, and dogs, as was the custom in those days, when a "lanky, villainousfox" was viewed. 

As for Shakespeare, after bidding adieu to the old squire, and thankinghim for his hospitality, he mounted his game little Irish hobby andsteered his course due northward for Stow-on-the-Wold. His track layalong the old Fossway, a road infested in those days by murderoushighwaymen; yet, unarmed and unattended, unknown and unappreciated, didthat mighty man of genius set cheerfully out on his long andsolitary way. 

[Illustration: The Abbey Gateway, Cirencester 295. Png]

CHAPTER XIII. 

CIRENCESTER. 

The ancient town of Cirencester--the Caerceri of the early Britons, theCorinium of the Romans, and the Saxon Cyrencerne--has been a place ofimportance on the Cotswolds from time immemorial. The abbreviationsCisetre and Cysseter were in use as long ago as the fifteenth century, though some of the natives are now in the habit of calling it Ciren. Thecorrect modern abbreviation is Ciceter. 

The place is so rich in Roman antiquities that we must perforce devote afew lines to their consideration. A whole book would not be sufficientto do full justice to them. 

No less than four important Roman roads meet within a short distance ofCirencester; and very fine and broad ones they are, generally running asstraight as the proverbial arrow. 

1. The Irmin Way, between Cricklade and Gloucester, _viâ_ Cirencester. 

2. Acman Street connects Cirencester with Bath. 

3. Icknield Street, running to Oxford. 

4. The Fossway, extending far into the north of England. Thismagnificent road may be said to connect Exeter in the south with Lincolnin the north. It is raised several feet above the natural level of thecountry, and in many places there still remain traces of the ancientditch which was dug on either side of its course. 

In the year 1849 two very fine tessellated pavements were unearthed inDyer Street, and removed to a museum which Lord Bathurst built purposelyfor their reception and preservation. Another fine specimen of this kindof work may be seen in its original position at a house called the"Barton" in the park. It is a representation of Orpheus and his lute;and the various animals which he is said to have charmed are wonderfullyworked in the coloured pavements. Even as far back as three hundredyears ago these beautiful relics were being discovered in this town; forLeland in his "Itinerary, " mentions the finding of some tesserae;unfortunately but few have been preserved. 

There are two inscribed stones in this collection which deserve specialmention, as they are marvellously well preserved, considering the factthat they are probably eighteen hundred years old. They are about sixfeet in height and about half that breadth; on each is carved the figureof a mounted soldier, spear in hand. On the ground lies his prostratefoe, pierced by his adversary's spear. Underneath one of these carvingsare inscribed the following words:--

 DANNICVS. EQES. AIAE. INDIAN. TVR. ALBANI. STIP. XVI. CIVES. RAVR. CVR. FVLVIVS. NATALIS. IT. FVLIVS. BITVCVS. EX. TESTAME. H S E. 

The meaning of the above words is as follows:--

"Dannicus, a horseman of Indus's Cavalry, of the squadron of Albanus. Hehad seen sixteen years' service. A citizen of Rauricum. Fulvius Natalisand Fulvius Bitucus have caused this monument to be made in accordancewith his will. He is buried here. "

The other stone has a somewhat similar inscription. 

The Romans, who did not use wallpapers, were in the habit of colouringtheir plaster with various pigments. Some very interesting specimens ofwall-painting are preserved at Cirencester, and may be seen in themuseum. The most remarkable example of the kind is a piece of colouredplaster, with the following square scratched on its surface:--

 ROTAS OPERA TENET AREPO SATOR

It will be noticed that these five words, the meaning of which is, "Arepo, the sower, guides the wheels at work, " form a kind of puzzle;they may be read in eight different directions. 

A large variety of sepulchral urns have been found at Cirencester. Whendug up they usually contain little besides the ashes of the dead, thougha few coins are sometimes included. There is a very perfect specimen ofa glass urn--a large green bottle, square, wide-mouthed, and absolutelyintact--in this collection. It was found, wrapped in lead and enclosedin a hollow stone, somewhere near the town about the year 1758. 

A fine specimen of a stone coffin is likewise to be seen. Whendiscovered at Latton it was found to contain an iron axe, a dish ofblack ware of the kind frequently discovered at Upchurch in Kent, ajuglike-handled vase of a light red colour, and some human bones. 

The various kinds of pottery in the Corinium Museum are interesting onaccount of the potters' marks found on them. There must be considerablyover a hundred different marks in this collection, chiefly of thefollowing kind:--

_Putri M_. (Manû Putri), by the hand of Putrus. 

_Mara. F_. (Formâ Marci), from the mould of Marcus. 

_Olini Off_. (Officinâ Olini), from the workshop of Olinus. 

The museum contains many good specimens of iron and bronze implements, as well as coins and stonework, and is well worthy of the attentionbestowed on it, not only by antiquaries, but by the public at large. 

At a place called the Querns, a short distance from the town, is a veryinteresting old amphitheatre called the Bull-ring. This is an ellipse ofabout sixty yards long by forty-five wide; it is surrounded by moundstwenty feet high. Originally the scene of the combats of Romangladiators, in mediaeval times it was probably used for the pastime ofbull-baiting, a barbarous amusement which has happily long sincedied out. 

Amphitheatres of the same type are to be seen at Dorchester, Old Sarum, Silchester, and other Roman stations. 

Mr. Wilfred Cripps, C. B. , the head of a family that has been seated atCirencester for many hundreds of years, has an interesting privatecollection of Roman antiquities which have been found in theneighbourhood from time to time. He has quite recently discovered theremnants of the Basilica or Roman law-courts. 

Turning to the place as it now stands, one is struck on entering thetown by the breadth and clean appearance of the main street, known asthe market-place. The shops are almost as good as those to be found inthe principal thoroughfares of London. 

I have spoken before of the magnificent old church. There is, perhaps, no sacred building, except St. Mary Redcliffe at Bristol and BeverleyMinster, that we know of in England which for perfect proportion andsymmetry can vie with the imposing grandeur of this pile, as seen fromthe Cricklade-street end of Cirencester market-place. 

The south porch is a very beautiful and ornamental piece ofarchitecture. The work is of fifteenth-century design, the interior ofthe porch consisting of delicately wrought fan-tracery groining. Thecarving outside is most picturesque, there being many handsome nichesand six fine oriel windows. The whole of the _façade_ is crowned withvery large pierced battlements and crocketed pinnacles. Over this porchis one of those grand old sixteenth-century halls such as were built informer times in front of the churches. It is called the "Parvise, " aword derived from the same source as Paradise, which in the language ofarchitecture means a cloistered court adjoining a church. Many of thesebeautiful old apartments existed at one time in England, but were pulleddown by religious enthusiasts because they were considered to be out ofplace when attached to the church and used for secular purposes. This isnow known as the town hall, and contrasts very favourably with thehideous erections built in modern times in some of our English towns forthis purpose. 

The church of Cirencester contains a large amount of beautifulPerpendicular work. 

In the grand old tower are twelve bells of excellent tone. The EarlyEnglish stonework in the chancel and chapels is very curious, a finearch opening from the nave to the tower. There is, in fact, a great dealto be seen on all sides which would delight the lover of architecture. 

Some ancient brasses of great interest and beautiful design in variousparts of this church claim attention; the earliest of them is as old as1360; a pulpit cloth of blue velvet, made from the cape of one RalphParsons in 1478 and presented by him, is still preserved. 

Cirencester House stands but a stone's throw from the railway station, but is hidden from sight by a high wall and a gigantic yew hedge. Behindit and on all sides, save one, the park--one of the largest inEngland--stretches away for miles. So beautiful and rural are thesurroundings that the visitor to the house can hardly realise that theplace is not far removed from the busy haunts of men. 

The Cirencester estate was purchased by Sir Benjamin Bathurst rathermore than two hundred years ago. This family has done good service totheir king and country for many centuries. We read the other day that noless than _six_ of Sir Benjamin's brothers died fighting for the king inthe Civil Wars. Nor have they been less conspicuous in serving theircountry in times of peace. 

The park, which was designed to a great extent by the first earl, withthe assistance of Pope, has been entirely thrown open to the people ofCirencester; and "the future and as yet visionary beauties of the noblescenes, openings, and avenues" which that great poet used to delight indwelling upon have become accomplished facts. The "ten rides"--lengthyavenues of fine trees radiating in all directions from a central pointin the middle of the park--are a picturesque feature of the landscape. 

The lover of horses and riding finds here a paradise of grassy glades, where he can gallop for miles on end, and tire the most obstinate of"pullers. "

Picnic parties, horse shows, cricket matches, and the chase of the foxall find a place in this romantic demesne in their proper seasons. Theenthusiast for woodland hunting, or the man who hates the sight of afence of any description, may hunt the fox here day after day and neverleave the recesses of the park. 

The antiquary will find much to delight him. Here is the ancient highcross, erected in the fourteenth century, which once stood in front ofthe old Ram Inn. The pedestal is hewn from a single block of stone, andbeautifully wrought with Gothic arcades and panelled quatrefoils; thisand the shaft are the sole relics of the old cross. We may go intoraptures over the ivy-covered ruin known as Alfred's Hall, fitted up asit is with black oak and rusty armour and all the pompous simplicity ofthe old baronial halls of England. Antiquaries of a certain order areeasily deceived; and this delightful old ruin, though but two hundredyears old, has been so skilfully put together as to represent an ancientBritish castle. That celebrated, though indelicate divine, Dean Swift, was, like Alexander Pope, deeply interested in the designing ofthis park. 

As long ago as 1733 Alfred's Hall was a snare and delusion toantiquaries. In that year Swift received a letter stating that "My LordBathurst has greatly improved the Wood-House, which you may remember wasa cottage, not a bit better than an Irish cabin. It is now a venerablecastle, and has been taken by an antiquary for one of King Arthur's. "

The kennels of the V. W. H. Hounds are in the park. Here the lover ofhounds can spend hours discussing the merits of "Songster" and"Rosebud, " or the latest and most promising additions to the families of"Brocklesby Acrobat" or "Cotteswold Flier. "

In this house are some very interesting portraits. Full-length picturesof the members of the Cabal Ministry adorn the dining-room--all fineexamples of Lely's brush; then there is a very large representation ofthe Duke of Wellington at Waterloo mounted on his favourite charger"Copenhagen" by Lawrence; two "Romneys, " one "Sir Joshua, " and several"Knellers. "

Turning to the Abbey, the seat for the last three hundred and thirtyyears of the Master family, we find another instance of a large countryhouse standing practically in a town. The house is situated immediatelybehind the church and within a stone's throw of the market-place. But onthe side away from the town the view from this house extends over alarge extent of rural scenery. The site of the mitred Abbey of SaintMary is somewhere hereabouts, but in the time of the suppression of themonasteries every stone of the old abbey was pulled down and carriedaway; so that the twelfth-century gateway and some remnants of pillarsare the sole traces that remain. This gateway, which is a very fine one, is still used as a lodge entrance. Queen Elizabeth granted this estateto Richard Master in 1564. When King Charles was at Cirencester in thetime of the Rebellion he twice stayed at this house. In 1642 thetownspeople of Cirencester rose in a body, and tried to prevent the lordlieutenant of the county, Lord Chandos, from carrying out the King'sCommission of Array. For a time they gained their ends, but in thefollowing year there was a sharp encounter between Prince Rupert's forceand the people of Cirencester, resulting in the total defeat of thelatter. Three hundred of them were killed, and over a thousand takenprisoners. They were confined in the church, and eventually taken toOxford, where, upon their submitting humbly to the king, he pardonedthem, and they were released. This is one account. It is only fair tostate that another account is less complimentary to Charles. 

When Charles II. Escaped from Worcester he put up at an old hostelry inCirencester called the Sun. King James and, still later, Queen Anne paidvisits to this town. 

Altogether the town of Cirencester is a very fascinating old place. Thelot of its inhabitants is indeed cast in pleasant places. The grandbracing air of the Cotswold Hills is a tonic which drives dull care awayfrom these Gloucestershire people; and when it is remembered that theyenjoy the freedom of Lord Bathurst's beautiful park, that theneighbourhood is, in spite of agricultural depression, well off in thisworld's goods, it is not surprising that the pallid cheeks and droopingfigures to be met with in most of our towns are conspicuous by theirabsence here. The Cotswold farmers may be making no profit in these daysof low prices and competition, but against this must be set the factthat their fathers and grandfathers made considerable fortunes infarming three decades ago, and for this we must be thankful. 

The merry capital of the Cotswolds abounds in good cheer and goodfellowship all the year round; and one has only to pay a visit to themarket-place on a Monday to meet the best of fellows and the most genialsportsmen anywhere to be found amongst the farming community of England. 

One of the old institutions which still remain in the Cotswolds is theannual "mop, " or hiring fair. At Cirencester these take place twice inOctober. Every labouring man in the district hurries into the town, where all sorts of entertainments are held in the market-place, including "whirly-go-rounds, " discordant music, and the usual "shows"which go to make up a country fair. "Hiring" used to be the greatfeature of these fairs. In the days before local newspapers wereinvented every sort of servant, from a farm bailiff to amaid-of-all-work, was hired for the year at the annual mop. The word"mop" is derived from an old custom which ordained that themaid-servants who came to find situations should bring their badge ofoffice with them to the fair. They came with their brooms and mops, justas a carter would tie a piece of whipcord to his coat, and a shepherd'shat would be decorated with a tuft of wool. Time was when the labouringman was never happy unless he changed his abode from year to year. Hewould get tired of one master and one village, and be off to Cirencestermop, where he was pretty sure to get a fresh job. But nowadays theCotswold men are beginning to realise that "Two removes are as bad as afire. " The best of them stay for years in the same village. This is verymuch more satisfactory for all concerned. Deeply rooted though the loveof change appears to be in the hearts of nine-tenths of the human race, the restless spirit seldom enjoys real peace and quiet; and thediscontent and poverty of the labouring class in times gone by maysafely be attributed to their never-ceasing changes and removal of theirbelongings to other parts of the country. 

Now that these old fairs no longer answer the purpose for which theyexisted for hundreds of years, they will doubtless gradually die out. And they have their drawbacks. An occasion of this kind is alwaysassociated with a good deal of drunkenness; the old market-place ofCirencester for a few days in each autumn becomes a regular pandemonium. It is marvellous how quickly all traces of the great show are swept awayand the place once more settles down to the normal condition of anold-fashioned though well-to-do country town. 

There are many old houses in Cirencester of more than average interest, but there is nothing as far as we know that needs special description. The Fleece Hotel is one of the largest and most beautiful of themediaeval buildings. It should be noted that some of the new buildingsin this town, such as that which contains the post office, have beenerected in the best possible taste. With the exception of some of thework which Mr. Bodley has done at Oxford in recent years, notably thenew buildings at Magdalen College, we have never seen modernarchitecture of greater excellence than these Cirencester houses. Theyare as picturesque as houses containing shops possibly can be. 

HUNTING FROM CICETER. 

But it is as a hunting centre that Ciceter is best known to the world atlarge, and in this respect it is almost unique. The "Melton of thewest, " it contains a large number of hunting residents who are not mere"birds of passage, " but men who live the best part of the year in ornear the town. The country round about, from a hunting point of view, isgood enough for most people. Five days a week can be enjoyed, over avariety of hill and vale, all of which is "rideable"; nor can there beany question but that the sport obtainable compares favourably with thatenjoyed in the more grassy Midlands. Not that there is much plough roundabout Cirencester nowadays; agricultural depression has diminished theamount of arable in recent years. The best grass country round about, however, with the exception of the Crudwell and Oaksey district, ridesdecidedly deep. The enclosures are small and the fences rough andstraggling. 

A clever, bold horse, with plenty of jumping power in his quarters andhocks, is essential. It may safely be said that a man who can commandhounds in the Braydon and Swindon district will find the "shires"comparatively plain sailing. The wall country of the Cotswold tablelandis exactly the reverse of the vale. The pace there is often tremendous, but the obstacles are not formidable enough to those accustomed towalls to keep the eager field from pressing the pack, save on those rareoccasions when, on a burning scent, the hounds manage to get a start ofhorses; and then they will never be caught. Well-bred horses are almostinvariably ridden in this wall country; if in hard condition, and thereare no steep hills to be crossed, they can go as fast and stay almost aslong as hounds, for the going is good, and they are always galloping onthe top of the ground. 

At the time of writing, there are over two hundred hunters stabled inthe little town of Cirencester, to say nothing of those kept at thenumerous hunting boxes around. More than this need not be said to showthe undoubted popularity of the place as a hunting centre. And a verysporting lot the people are. Brought up to the sport from the cradle, the Gloucestershire natives, squires, farmers, all sorts and conditionsof men, ride as straight as a die. 

From what has been said it will be readily gathered that the attractionof the place as a hunting centre lies in the variety of country itcommands. Not only is a different stamp of country to be met with eachday of the week, but on one and the same day you may be riding overbanks, small flying fences, and sound grass, or deep ploughs and pasturedivided by hairy bullfinches, or, again, over light plough and stonewalls; and to this fact may be attributed the exceptional number of goodperformers over a country that this district turns out. Both men andhorses have always appeared to us to reach a very high standard ofcleverness. 

To Leicestershire, Northants, Warwick, and the Vale of Aylesburybelongs by undisputed right the credit of the finest grass country inhunting England. But for Ireland and the rougher shires I claim thehonour of showing not only the straightest foxes, but also the bestsportsmen and the boldest riders. The reason seems to me to be this: inLeicestershire you find the field composed largely of smart London men;and after a certain age a man "goes to hounds" in inverse ratio to thepace at which he travels as a man about town. The latter (with a fewbrilliant exceptions to prove the rule) is not so quick and determinedwhen he sees a nasty piece of timber or an awkward hairy fence as hisreputation at the clubs would lead you to expect; whilst the roughercountryman, be he yeoman or squire, farmer or peer, endowed with nervesof iron, is able to cross a country with a confidence and a dash thatare denied to the average dandy, with his big stud, immaculate"leathers, " and expensive cigars. In Gloucestershire many an honestyeoman goes out twice a week and endeavours to drown for a while allthoughts of hard times and low prices, content for the day if the fateshave left him a sound horse and the consolation of a gallop over thegrass. Let it here be said that there are no grooms in the world whobetter understand conditioning hunters than those of Leicestershire. Nowhere can you see horses better bred or fitter to go; and he who ridesa-hunting on _fat_ horses must himself be _fat_. 

The V. W. H. Hounds, on Mr. Hoare's retirement in 1886, were divided intotwo packs. Mr. T. Butt Miller hunts three days a week on the easternside, with Cricklade as his centre; whilst Lord Bathurst has sufficientground for two days on the west, where the country flanks with the Dukeof Beaufort's domain on the south and the Cotswold hounds on the north. Mr. Miller retains the original pack, and a very fine one it is. LordBathurst likewise, by dint of sparing no pains, and by bringing in thebest blood obtainable from Belvoir, Brocklesby, and other kennels, hasgradually brought his pack to a high state of excellence. 

Turning to the week's programme for a man hunting five or six days aweek from Cirencester, Monday is the day for the duke's hounds. Here youmay be riding over some of the best of the grass, where light flyingfences grow on the top of low banks, or else it will be a stone-wallcountry of mixed grass and light plough. In either case the country isvery rideable, and sport usually excellent. The Badminton hounds andLord Worcester's skill as a huntsman are too well known to require anydescription here. 

On Tuesday Lord Bathurst's hounds are always within seven miles of thetown, and the country is a very open one, but one that requires plentyof wet to carry scent. Though on certain days there is but little scent, in favourable seasons during recent years wonderful sport has been shownin this country. In the season of 1895-6 especially, a fine gallop cameoff regularly every Tuesday from October to the end of February. In '97, on the other hand, little was done. There is far more grass than thereused to be, owing to so much of the land having gone out of cultivation. The plough rides lighter than grass does in nine counties out of ten, the coverts are small, and the pace often tremendous. Every country hasits drawback, and in this case it lies partly in bad scent and partly inthe fences being too easy. Men who know the walls with which theCotswold tableland is almost entirely enclosed, ride far too close tohounds: thus, the pack and the huntsman not being allowed a chance, sport is often spoiled. Occasionally, when a real scent is forthcoming, the hounds can run right away from the field; but as a rule they areshamefully over-ridden. The fact is that in the hunting field, aselsewhere, John Wolcot's epigram, written a hundred years ago, exactlyhits the nail on the head:

 "What rage for fame attends both great and small! Better be d--d than mentioned not at all. "

We all want to ride in the front rank, and are, or ought to be, d--daccordingly by the long-suffering M. F. H. 

On Wednesdays the Cotswold hounds are always within easy reach ofCirencester. There are few better packs than the Cotswold. Started fortyyears ago with part of the V. W. H. Pack which Lord Gifford was giving up, the Cotswold hounds have received strains of the best blood of theBrocklesby, Badminton, Belvoir, and Berkeley kennels. They havetherefore both speed and stamina as well as good noses. Their huntsman, Charles Travess, has no superior as far as we know; the result is thatfor dash and drive these hounds are unequalled. Notwithstanding thesevere pace at which they are able to run, owing to the absence of highhedges and other impediments--for most of the country is enclosed withstone walls--they hunt marvellously well together and do not tail; theyare wonderfully musical, too, --more so than any other pack. 

Here it is worth our while to analyse briefly the qualities whichcombine to make this huntsman so deservedly popular with all who followthe Cotswold hounds. We venture to say that he pleases all and sundry, "thrusters, " hound-men, and _liver-men_ alike, because he invariably hasa double object in view--he hunts his fox and he humours his field. Andfirstly he hunts his fox in the best possible method, having regard tothe scenting capabilities of the Cotswold Hills. 

He is quick as lightning, yet he is never in a hurry--that is to say, ina "_bad_ hurry. " When the hounds "throw up" or "check, " like all othergood huntsmen he gives them plenty of time. He stands still and he_makes his field stand still_; then may be seen that magnificent proofof canine brain-power, the fan-shaped forward movement of awell-drafted, old-established pack of foxhounds, making good by twodistinct casts--right-and left-handed--the ground that lies in front ofthem and on each side. Should they fail to hit off the line, theadvantage of a brilliant huntsman immediately asserts itself. Partly bycertain set rules and partly by a knowledge of the country and the runof foxes, but more than all by that _daring_ genius which was themaking of Shakespeare and the great men of all time, he takes his houndsadmirably in hand, aided by two quiet, unassuming whippers-in, and infour cases out of five brings them either at the first or second cast tothe very hedgerow where five minutes before Reynard took his sneaking, solitary way. It may be "forward, " or it may be down wind, right orleft-handed, but it is at all events the _right_ way; thus, owing tothis happy knack of making the proper cast at a large percentage ofchecks this man establishes his reputation as a first-class huntsman. 

Should the day be propitious, a run is now assured, unless someunforeseen occurrence, such as the fox going to ground, necessitates adraw for a fresh one; but in any case, owing to this marvellous knack ofhitting off the line at the first check, our huntsman generallycontrives to show a run some time during the day. 

So much for the methods by which this William Shakespeare of the huntingfield is wont to pursue his fox. But we have not done with him yet. Whatdoes he do on those bad scenting days which on the dry and stonyCotswold Hills are the rule rather than the exception? On such days, aswell as hunting his fox, he humours his field. In the first place, unless he has distinct proof to the contrary, he invariably gives hisfox credit for being a straight-necked one. He keeps moving on at asteady pace in the direction in which his instinct and knowledge leadhim, even though there may be no scent, either on the ground or in theair, to guide the hounds. Every piece of good scenting ground--and heknows the capabilities of every field in this respect--is made the mostof; "carrying" or dusty ploughs are scrupulously avoided. If he "lifts, "it is done so quietly and cunningly that the majority of the riders areunaware of the fact; and the hounds never become wild and untractable. It is this free and generous method of hunting the fox that pleases hisfollowers. Travess's casts are not made in cramped and stingy fashion, but a wide extent of country is covered even on a bad day; there is norat-hunting. After a time all save a dozen sportsmen are left severalfields behind. "They won't run to-day, " is the general cry; "there is nohurry. " But meantime some large grass fields are met with, or thehuntsman brings the pack on to better terms with the fox, or maybe afresh one jumps up, and away go the hounds for seven or eight minutes ashard as they can pelt. Only a dozen men know exactly what has happened. Most of the thrusters and all the _liver-men_ have to gallop in earnestfor half an hour to come up with the hunt; indeed, on many days theynever see either huntsman or hounds again, and go tearing about thecountry cursing their luck in missing so fine a run! It is the old storyof the hare and the tortoise. But herein lies the "humour" of it: thehare is pleased and the tortoise is pleased. The former, as representedby the field, has enjoyed a fine scamper, and lots of air (bother thecurrant jelly!) and exercise; the tortoise, on the other hand, has had afine hunting run, and possibly by creeping slowly on for some hours ithas killed its fox; whilst several good sportsmen have enjoyed anold-fashioned hunt in a wild country with a kill in the open. 

_Verbum sap:_ If you want to humour your field, you must leave thembehind. It must not be done intentionally, however; the riders must beallowed, so to speak, to work out their own salvation in this respect. 

Major de Freville's country as a whole is more suited to the "houndman"than for him who hunts to ride. The hills, save in one district, are sosevere that hounds often beat horses; the result is, many are tempted tostation themselves on the top of a hill, whence a wide view isobtainable, and trust to the hounds coming back after running a ring. Given the right sort of horse, however--short-backed, thoroughbred ifpossible, and with good enough manners to descend a steep place withoutboring and tearing his rider's arms almost out of their sockets--many afine run may be seen in this wild district. Much of the arable land hasgone back to grass, so that it is quite a fair scenting country; and thefoxes are stronger and more straight-necked than in more civilisedparts. One of the best days the writer ever had in his life was withthese hounds. Meeting at Puesdown, they ran for an hour in the morningat a great pace, with an eight-mile point; whilst in the afternoon camea run of one-and-a-half hours, with a point of somewhere aboutten miles. 

With the exception of a small vale between Cheltenham and Tewkesbury, which is very good indeed, the Puesdown country is about the best, theundulations being less severe than in other parts. 

On Thursdays Cirencester commands Mr. Miller's Braydon country. Thiscountry is a very great contrast to that which is ridden over onTuesdays and Wednesdays, and requires a very stout horse. It ridestremendously deep at times; and the fences, which come very frequentlyin a run, owing to the small size of the enclosures, are both big andblind. It is practically all grass. But there are several largewoodlands, with deep clay rides, in which one is not unlikely to spend apart of Thursday; and these woods, owing in part to the shooting beinglet to Londoners, are none too plentifully provided with foxes. Wire, too, has sprung up in some parts of Mr. Miller's Braydon country. Fewpeople have large enough studs to stand the wear and tear of this fine, wild country; consequently the fields are generally small. Sport, thoughnot so good as it used to be, is still very fair, and to run down toGreat Wood in the duke's country is sufficient to tax the powers of thefinest weight-carrying hunter, whilst only the man with a quick eye to acountry can live with hounds. It is often stated that blood horses arethe best for galloping through deep ground. This is true in one way, though not on the whole. Thoroughbred horses are practically useless inthis sort of country; their feet are often so small that they stick inthe deep clay. A horse with small feet is no good at all in Braydon. Ashort-legged Irish hunter, about three parts bred, with tremendousstrength in hocks and quarters, and biggish feet, is the sort the writerwould choose. If up to quite two stone more than his rider's weight, and a safe and temperate fencer, he will carry you well up with houndsover any country. A fast horse is not required; for a racer that can dothe mile on the flat at Newmarket in something under two minutes isreduced in really deep ground to an eight-mile-an-hour canter, and yourshort-legged horse from the Emerald Isle will leave him standing stillin the Braydon Vale. 

Some countries never ride really deep. The shires, for instance, thoughoften said to be deep, will seldom let a horse in to any greatextent--the ridge and furrow drains the field so well; and in that sortof deep ground which is met with in Leicestershire a thoroughbred onewill gallop and "stay" all day. But a ride in Braydon or in the Bicester"Claydons" will convince us that a stouter stamp of horse is necessaryto combat a deep, undrained clay country. 

We must now leave the sporting Thursday country of the V. W. H. And turnto Friday. 

Eastcourt, Crudwell, Oaksey, Brinkworth, Lea Schools--such are some ofLord Bathurst's Friday meets; and the pen can hardly write fast enoughin singing the praises of this country. Strong, well-preserved coverts, sound grass fields, flying fences, sometimes set on a low bank, sometimes without a bank, varied by an occasional brook, with now andthen a fence big enough to choke off all but the "customers"--such isthe bill of fare for Fridays. To run from Stonehill Wood, _viâ_ Charltonand Garsdon, to Redborn in the duke's country, as the hounds did on thefirst day of 1897, is, as "Brooksby" would say, "a line fit for a king, be that king but well minded and well mounted. "

Stand on Garsdon Hill, and look down on the grassy vale mapped outbelow, and tell me, if you dare, that you ever saw a pleasanter stretchof country. How dear to the hunting man are green fields andsweet-scenting pastures, where the fences are fair and clean and theditches broad and deep, where there is room to gallop and room to jump, and where, as he sails along on a well-bred horse or reclines perchancein a muddy ditch (Professor Raleigh! what a watery bathos!), he mayoften say to himself, "It is good for me to be here!" For when thehounds cross this country there are always "wigs on the green" inabundance; and in spite of barbed wire we may still sing with Horace, "Nec fortuitum spernere caespitem Leges sinebant, "

which, at the risk of offending all classical scholars, I must heretranslate: "Nor do the laws allow us to despise a chance tumble onthe turf. "

Round Oaksey, too, is a rare galloping ground. Should you be luckyenough to get a start from "Flistridge" and come down to the brook at ajumpable place, in less than ten minutes you will be, if not _in_Paradise, at all events as near as you are ever likely to be on thisearth. This is literally true, for half way between "Flistridge" andKemble Wood, and in the midst of Elysian grass fields, is a narrow stripof covert happily christened "Paradise. "

Would that there was a larger extent of this sort of country, for it isnot every Friday that hounds cross it! The duke's hounds have a happyknack of crossing it occasionally on a Monday, however, and on ThursdaysMr. Miller's hounds may drive a fox that way. 

This district is not so easy for a stranger to ride his own line over asthe Midlands; it is not half so stiff, but it is often cramped andtrappy. But then you must "look before you leap" in most countriesnowadays. In this Friday country wire is comparatively scarce. Thefields run very large on this day, --quite two hundred horsemen are to beseen at favourite fixtures. About half this number would belong to thecountry, and the other half come from the duke's country and elsewhere. These Friday fields are as well mounted and well appointed as any inEngland. And to see a run one must have a good horse, --not necessarilyan expensive one, for "good" and "expensive" are by no means synonymousterms with regard to horseflesh. It is with regret that we must add thatfoxes were decidedly scarce here last season (1897-8). 

On Saturdays the Cirencester brigade will hunt with Mr. Miller. Fairford, Lechlade, Kempsford, and Water-Eaton are some of the meets. Here we have a totally different country from any yet considered. It isa wonderfully sporting one; and last season these hounds never had a badSaturday, and often a 'clinker' resulted. Here again one can neveranticipate what sort of ground will be traversed; but the best of itconsists of a fine open country of grass and plough intermingled, thefields being intersected by small flying fences and exceptionally wideand deep ditches. "Snowstorm"--a small gorse half way between Fairfordand Lechlade stations on the Great Western Railway--is a favourite draw. If a fox goes away you see men sitting down in their saddles andcramming at the fences as hard as their horses can gallop. There appearsto be nothing to jump until you are close up to the fence; butnevertheless pace is required to clear them, for there is hardly a ditchanywhere round "Snowstorm" that is not ten feet wide and eight feet ormore deep, and if you are unlucky your horse may have to clear fourteenfeet. On the other hand, there is absolutely nothing that a horse goingfast cannot clear almost without an effort if he jumps at all. So youmay ride in confidence at every fence, and take it where you please. Thedepth of the ditch is what frightens a timid horse and, I may add, atimid rider; and if your horse stops dead, and then tries to jump itstanding, you are very apt to tumble in. 

A rare sporting country is this district; and as the horses and theirriders know it, there are comparatively few falls. Round Kempsford andLechlade the Thames and the canal are apt to get in the way, but onceclear of these impediments a very open country is entered, either ofgrass and flying fences or light plough and stone walls. Another styleof country is that round Hannington and Crouch. In old days, before wirewas known, this used to be the best grass country in the V. W. H. , butnowadays you must "look before you leap. " With a good fox, however, hounds may take you into the best of the old Berkshire vale, andperhaps right up to the Swindon Hills. Round Water-Eaton is a fine grasscountry, good enough for anybody; but the increase of wire is becomingmore and more difficult to combat in this as in other grazing districtsof England. 

The very varied bill of fare we have briefly sketched for a man huntingfrom Cirencester may include an occasional Wednesday with the Heythropat "Bradwell Grove. " It is not possible to reach the choicest part ofthis pleasant country by road from Cirencester, but some of the best ofthe stone-wall country of the Cotswold tableland is included in theHeythrop domain. Everybody who has been brought up to hunting has heardof "Jem Hills and Bradwell Grove": rare gallops this celebrated huntsmanused to show over the wolds in days gone by; and on a good scenting dayit requires a quick horse to live with these hounds. A fast andwell-bred pack, established more than sixty years ago, they have beenadmirably presided over by Mr. Albert Brassey for close on a quarter ofa century. Several pleasant vales intersect this country, notably theBourton and the Gawcombe Vale; and there is excellent grass roundMoreton-in-the-Marsh. As, however, the grass country of the Heythrop istoo far from Cirencester to be reached by road, it hardly comes withinour scope. 

If hunting is doomed to extinction in the Midlands, owing to the growthof barbed wire, it is exceedingly unlikely ever to die out in theneighbourhood of Cirencester; for there is so much poor, unprofitableland on the Cotswold tableland and in the Braydon district that barbedwire and other evils of civilisation are not likely to interfere todeprive us of our national sport; Hunting men have but to be true tothemselves, and avoid doing unnecessary damage, to see the sport carriedon in the twentieth century as it has been in the past. If we conform tothe unwritten laws of the chase, and pay for the damage we do, therewill be no fear of fox-hunting dying out. England will be "MerrieEngland" still, even in the twentieth century; the glorious pastime, sole relic of the days of chivalry, will continue among us, cheering thelife in our quiet country villages through the gloomy winter months;--ifonly we be true to ourselves, and do our uttermost to further theinterests of the grandest sport on earth. 

As I have given an account of a run over the walls, and as the Ciceterpeople set most store on a gallop over the stiff fences and grassenclosures of their vale, here follows a brief description in verse ofthe glories of fifty minutes on the grass. I have called it "TheThruster's Song, " because on the whole I thoroughly agree withShakespeare that

 "Valour is the chietest virtue, and Most dignifies the haver. "

Hard riding and all sports which involve an element of danger are thebest antidotes to that luxury and effeminacy which long periods of peaceare apt to foster. What would become of the young men of the presentday--those, I mean, who are in the habit of following the hounds--ifhard riding were to become unfashionable? I cannot conceive anythingmore ridiculous than the sight of a couple of hundred well-mounted menriding day after day in a slow procession through gates, "craning" atthe smallest obstacles, or dismounting and "leading over. " No; hardriding is the best antidote in the world for the luxurious tendency ofthese days. A hundred years ago, when the sport of fox-hunting was inits infancy and modern conditions of pace were unknown, there was lessneed for this kind of recreation, "the image of war without its guilt, and only twenty-five per cent of its danger. " For there was realfighting enough to be done in olden times; and amongst hunting folk, though there was much drinking, there was little luxury. Therefore ourfox-hunting ancestors were content to enjoy slow hunting runs, and smallblame to them! But those who are fond of lamenting the modern spirit ofthe age, which prefers the forty minutes' burst over a severe country toa three hours' hunting run, are apt to lose sight of the fact that inthese piping times of peace, without the risks of sport mankind isliable to degenerate towards effeminacy. For this reason in thefollowing poem I have purposely taken up the cudgels for that somewhatunpopular class of sportsmen, the "thrusters" of the hunting field. Theyare unpopular with masters of hounds because they ride too close to thepack; but as a general rule they are the only people who ever see areally fast run. In Shakespeare's time hounds that went too fast for therest of the pack were "trashed for over-topping, " that is to say, theywere handicapped by a strap attached to their necks. In the same way inevery hunt nowadays there are half a dozen individuals who have reducedriding to hounds to such an art that no pack can get away from them in amoderately easy country. These "bruisers" of the hunting field ought tobe made to carry three stone dead weight; they should be "trashed forovertopping. " However, as Brooksby has tersely put it, "Some men hunt toride and some ride to hunt; others, thank Heaven! double their fun bydoing both. " There are many, many fine riders in England who will not bedenied in crossing a stiff country, and who at the same time areinterested in the hounds and in the poetry of sport: men to whom themysteries of scent and of woodcraft, as well as the breeding andmanagement of hounds, are something more than a mere name: men who inafter days recall with pleasure "how in glancing over the pack they havebeen gratified by the shining coat, the sparkling eye--sure symptoms offitness for the fight;--how when thrown in to covert every hound hasbeen hidden; how every sprig of gorse has bristled with motion; how whenviewed away by the sharp-eyed whipper-in, the fox stole under the hedge;how the huntsman clapped round, and with a few toots of his horn broughtthem out in a body; how, without tying on the line, they 'flew to head';how, when they got hold of it, they drove it, and with their heads upfelt the scent on both sides of the fence; how with hardly a whimperthey turned with him, till at the end of fifty minutes they threw up;how the patient huntsman stood still; how they made their own cast: andhow when they came back on his line, their tongues doubled and theymarked him for their own. " To such good men and true I dedicate thefollowing lines:--

A DAY IN THE VALE; OR, THE THRUSTER'S SONG. 

You who've known the sweet enjoyment of a gallop in the vale, Comrades of the chase, I know you will not deem my subject stale. Stand with me once more beside the blackthorn or the golden gorse, --Don't forget to thank your stars you're mounted on a favourite horse;For the hounds dashed into covert with a zest that bodes a scent, And the glass is high and rising, clouded is the firmament. When the ground is soaked with moisture, when the wind is in the eastScent lies best, --the south wind doesn't suit the "thruster" in the least. Some there are who love to watch them with their noses on the ground;We prefer to see them flitting o'er the grass without a sound. We prefer the keen north-easter; ten to one the scent's "breast high";With a south wind hounds can sometimes hunt a fox, but seldom fly. Hark! the whip has viewed him yonder; he's away, upon my word!If you want to steal a start, then fly the bullfinch like a bird;Gallop now your very hardest; turn him sharp, and jump the stile, Trot him at it--never mind the bough, --it's only smashed your tile!Now we're with them. See, they're tailing, from the fierceness of the pace, Up the hedgerow, o'er the meadow, 'cross the stubble see them race:Governor--by Belvoir Gambler, --he's the hound to "run to head, "Tracing back to Rallywood, that fifty years ago was bred;Close behind comes Arrogant, by Acrobat; and Artful too;Rosy, bred by Pytchley Rockwood; Crusty, likewise staunch and true. Down a muddy lane, in mad excitement, but, alas! too late, Thunders half the field towards the portals of a friendly gate;Sees a dozen red-coats bobbing in the vale a mile ahead;Hears the huntsman's horn, and longs to catch those distant bits of red;--But in vain, for blind the fences, here a fall and there a "peck. "Some one cries, "An awful place, sir; don't go there, you'll break your neck. "Not the stiff, unbroken fences, but the treacherous gaps we fear;"Though in front the post of honour, that of danger's in the rear. "Forrard on, then forrard onwards, o'er the pasture, o'er the lea, Tossed about by ridge and furrow, rolling like a ship at sea;Stake and binder, timber, oxers, all are taken in our stride, --Better fifty minutes' racing than a dawdling five hours' ride. I am not ashamed to own, with him who loves a steeplechase, That to me the charm in hunting is the ecstasy of _pace_, --This is what best schools the soldier, teaches us that we are menBorn to bear the rough and tumble, wield the sword and not the pen. Some there are who dub hard riders worthless and a draghunt crew--Tailors who do all the damage, mounted on a spavined screw. Well, I grant you, hunting men are sometimes narrow-minded fools;Ignorant of all worth knowing, save what's learnt in riding-schools;Careless of the rights of others, scampering over growing crops, Smashing gates and making gaps and scattering wide the turnip tops;--But I hold that out of all the hunting fields throughout the landI could choose for active service a large-hearted, gallant band;I could choose six hundred red-coats, trained by riding in the van, Fit to go to Balaclava under brave Lord Cardigan. 'Tis the finest school, the chase, to teach contempt of cannon balls, If a man ride bravely onward, spite of endless rattling falls. And to be a first-rate sportsman, not a man who merely "rides, "Is to be a perfect gentleman, and something more besides;Fearing neither man nor devil, kind, unselfish he must be, Born to lead when danger threatens--type of ancient chivalry. When you hear a "houndman" jeering at the "customers" in front, Saying they come out to ride a steeplechase and not to hunt, You may bet the "grapes are sour, " the fellow's smoked his nerve away;Once he went as well as they do: "every dog will have his day. "Though to ride about the roads in state may do your liver good, You see precious little "houndwork" either there or in the wood. He who loves to mark the work of hounds must ride beside the pack, Choosing his own line, or following others, if he's lost the knack. Lookers-on, I grant you, often see the best part of the game, --Still, to ride the roads and live with hounds are things not quite the same. Now a word to all those gallant chaps who love a hunting day:In bad times you know that farming is a trade that doesn't pay, Barbed wire's the cheapest kind of fence; the farmer can't affordTempting post-and-rails and timber--for he's getting rather bored. Therefore, if we want to ride with our old devilry and dash, We must put our hands in pockets deep and shovel out the cash. When you want to hire a shooting you will gladly pay a "pony, "Yet when asked to give it to the hounds you're apt to say you're "stony. "Pay the piper, and the sport you love so well will flourish yet, Flourish in the dim hereafter; and its sun will never set. Help the noble cause of freedom; rich and poor together blendHands and hearts for ever working for a great and glorious end. 

[Illustration: An old barn 329. Png]

CHAPTER XIV. 

SPRING IN THE COTSWOLDS. 

Whilst walking by the river one day in May I noticed a brood of wildducks about a week old. The old ones are wonderfully tame at this timeof year. The mother evidently disliked my intrusion, for she started offup stream, followed by her offspring, making towards a withybed ahundred yards or so higher up, where a secluded spring gives capitalshelter for duck and other shy birds. What was my surprise a couple ofhours later to see the same lot emerge from some rushes three-quartersof a mile up stream! They had circumvented a small waterfall, and thecurrent is very strong in places. Part of the journey must have beendone on dry land. 

At the same moment that I startled this brood out of the rushes amoorhen swam slowly out, accompanied by her mate. It was evident, fromher cries and her anxious behaviour, that she too had some young ones inthe rushes; and soon two tiny little black balls of fur crawled out fromthe bank and made for the opposite shore. Either from blindness orfright they did not join their parents in mid stream, but hurried acrossto the opposite bank and scrambled on to the mud, followed by the oldcouple remonstrating with them on their foolishness. The mother thensucceeded in persuading one of them to follow her to a place of safetyunderneath some overhanging boughs, but the other was left clinging tothe bank, crying piteously. I went round by a bridge in the hope ofbeing able to place the helpless little thing on the water; but, alas!by the time I got to the spot it was dead. The exertion of crossing thestream had been too much for it, for it was probably not twelvehours old. 

When there are young ones about, moorhens will not dive to get out ofyour sight unless their children dive too. It is pretty to see themswimming on the down-stream side of their progeny, buoying them up incase the current should prove too strong and carry them down. If thereare eggs still unhatched, the father, when disturbed, takes the littleones away to a safer spot, whilst the mother sticks to the nest. Butthey are rather stupid, for even the day after the eggs are hatched, onbeing disturbed by a casual passer-by, the old cock swims out into midstream. He then calls to his tiny progeny to follow him, though they areutterly incapable of doing so, and generally come to hopeless grief inthe attempt. Then the old ones are not very clever at finding childrenthat have been frightened away from the nest. I marked one down on theopposite bank, and could see it crawling beneath some sticks; but theold bird kept swimming past the spot, and appeared to neither hear norsee the little ball of fur. Perhaps he was playing cunning; he may haveimagined that the bird was invisible to me, and was trying to divert myattention from the spot. 

Moorhens are always interesting to watch. With a pair of field-glassesan amusing and instructive half hour may often be spent by the stream inthe breeding season. 

I was much amused, while feeding some swans and a couple of wild ducksthe other day, to notice that the mallard would attack the swans if theytook any food that he fancied. One would have thought that such powerfulbirds as swans--one stroke of whose wings is supposed to be capable ofbreaking a man's leg--would not have stood any nonsense from anunusually diminutive mallard. But not a bit of it: the mallard ruled theroost; all the other birds, even the great swans, ran away from him whenhe attacked them from behind with his beak. This state of thingscontinued for some days. But after a time the male swan got tired of thegame; his patience was exhausted. Watching his opportunity he seized thepugnacious little mallard by the neck and gave him a thundering goodshaking! It was most laughable to watch them. It is characteristic ofswans that they are unable to look you in the face; and beautiful beyondall description as they appear to be in their proper element, meet themon dry land and they become hideous and uninteresting, scowling at youwith an evil eye. 

Sometimes as you are walking under the trees on the banks of the Colnyou come across a little heap of chipped wood lying on the ground. Thenyou hear "tap, tap, " in the branches above. It is the little nuthatchhard at work scooping out his home in the bark. He sways his body withevery stroke of his beak, and is so busy he takes no notice of you. Thenuthatch is very fond of filberts, as his name implies. You may see himin the autumn with a nut firmly fixed in a crevice in the bark of ahazel branch, and he taps away until he pierces the shell and gets atthe kernel. Nuthatches, which are very plentiful hereabouts, aresometimes to be found in the forsaken homes of woodpeckers, which theyplaster round with mud. The entrance to the hole in the tree is thusmade small enough to suit them. Sometimes when I have disturbed anuthatch at work at a hole in a tree, the little fellow would pop intothe hole and peep out at me, never moving until I had departed. 

Woodpeckers are somewhat uncommon here: I have not heard one in ourgarden by the river for a very long time, though a foolish farmer toldme the other day that he had recently shot one. A mile or so away, atBarnsley Park, where the oaks thrive on a vein of clay soil, greenwoodpeckers may often be seen and heard. What more beautiful bird isthere, even in the tropics, than the merry yaffel, with his emerald backand the red tuft on his head? The other two varieties of woodpeckers, the greater and lesser spotted, are occasionally met with on theCotswolds. I do not know why we have so few green woodpeckers by theriver, as there are plenty of old trees there; but these birds, whichfeed chiefly on the ground among the anthills, have a marked preferencefor such woods in the neighbourhood as contain an abundance of oaktrees. The local name for these birds is "hic-wall, " which Tom Peregrinepronounces "heckle. " There is no more pleasing sound than the long, chattering note of the green woodpecker; it breaks so suddenly on thegeneral silence of the woods, contrasting as it does in its loud, bell-like tones with the soft cooing of the doves and the songs of theother birds. 

In various places along its course the river has long poles set acrossit; on these poles Tom Peregrine has placed traps for stoats, weasels, and other vermin. Recently, when we were fishing, he pointed out a greatstoat caught in one of these traps with a water-rat in its mouth--a verystrange occurrence, for the trap was only a small one, of the usualrabbit size, and the rat was almost as big as the stoat. There is solittle room for the bodies of a stoat and a rat in one of these smalliron traps that the betting must be at least a thousand to one againstsuch an event happening. Unless we had seen it with our eyes we couldnot have believed it possible. The stoat, in chasing the rat along thepole, must have seized his prey at the very instant that the jaws of thetrap snapped upon them both. They were quite dead when we found them. 

Every one acquainted with gamekeepers' duties is well aware that theiron traps armed with teeth which are in general use throughout thecountry are a disgrace to nineteenth-century civilisation. It is aterrible experience to take a rabbit or any other animal out of one ofthese relics of barbarism. Sir Herbert Maxwell recently called theattention of game preservers and keepers to a patent trap which ColonelCoulson, of Newburgh, has just invented. Instead of teeth, the jaws ofthe new trap have pads of corrugated rubber, which grip as tightly andeffectively as the old contrivance without breaking the bones orpiercing the skin. I trust these traps will shortly supersede the oldones, so that a portion of the inevitable suffering of the furreddenizens of our woods may be dispensed with. 

In a hunting country where foxes occasionally find their way into vermintraps, Colonel Coulson's invention should be invaluable. Instead ofhaving to be destroyed, or being killed by the hounds in covert, owingto a broken leg, it is ten to one that Master Reynard would be releasedvery little the worse for his temporary confinement. Moreover, as SirHerbert Maxwell points out, dog owners will be grateful to the inventorwhen their favourites accidentally find their way into one of thesetraps and are released without smashed bones and bleeding feet. Any kindof trap is but a diabolical contrivance at best, but these "humanepatents" are a vast improvement, and do the work better than the old, asI can testify, having used them from the time Sir Herbert Maxwell firstcalled attention to them, and being quite satisfied with them. 

Badgers are almost as mysterious in their ways and habits as the otter. Nobody believes there are badgers about except those who look for theircharacteristic tracks about the fox-earths. Every now and then, however, a badger is dug out or discovered in some way in places where they wereunheard of before. We have one here now. 

A few years ago I saw a pack of foxhounds find a badger in ChearsleySpinneys in Oxfordshire. They hunted him round and round for about tenminutes. I saw him just in front of the hounds; a great, fine specimenhe was too. As far as I remember, the hounds killed him in covert, andthen went away on the line of a fox. 

A year or two ago three fine young badgers were captured nearBourton-on-the-Water, on the Cotswolds. When I was shown them I was toldthey would not feed in confinement. Finding a large lobworm, I picked itup and gave it to one of them. He ate it with the utmost relish. Hisbrown and grey little body shook with emotion when I spoke to himkindly--just as a dog trembles when you pet him. I am not certain, however, whether the badger trembled out of gratitude for the lobworm orout of rage and disgust at being confined in a cage. 

Badgers would make delightful pets if they had a little less _scent_:nature, as everybody knows, has endowed them with this quality to aremarkable degree; they have the power of emitting or retaining it attheir own discretion. 

Badger-baiting with terriers is not an amusement which commends itselfto humane sportsmen. It is hard luck on the terriers, even more than onthe badger. The dogs have a very bad time if they go anywhere near him. 

Talking of terriers, how endless are the instances of superhumansagacity in dogs of all kinds! I once drove twenty-five miles from aplace near Guildford in Surrey to Windsor. In the cart I took with me alittle liver-coloured spaniel. When I had completed about half thejourney I put the spaniel down for a run of a few miles: this was allshe saw of the country. In Windsor, through some cause or other, I losther; but when I arrived home a day or two afterwards, she had arrivedthere before me. It should be mentioned that the journey was not along ahigh-road, but by cross-country lanes. How on earth she got home first, unless she came back on my scent, then, finding herself near home, tooka short cut across country, so as to be there before me, it isimpossible to imagine. 

How curious it is that all animals seem to know when Sunday comes round!

Fish and fowl are certainly much tamer on the seventh day of the weekthan on any other. We had a terrier that would never attempt to followyou when you were going to church so long as you had your Sunday clotheson; whilst even when he was following you on a week day, if you turnedround and said "Church" in a decisive tone, he would trot straight backto the house. As far as we know he had no special training in thisrespect. This terrier, who was a rare one to tackle a fox, has onseveral occasions spent the best part of a week down a rabbit burrow. When dug out he seemed very little the worse for his escapade, thoughdecidedly emaciated in appearance. Poor little fellow! he died apainless death not long ago from sheer old age. I was with him at thetime, and did not even know he was ill until five minutes before heexpired. The most obedient and faithful, as well as the bravest, littledog in the world, he could do anything but speak. How much we can learnfrom these little emblems of simplicity, gladness, and love. Implicitobedience and boundless faith in those set over us, to forgive andforget unto seventy times seven, to give gold for silver, nay, tosacrifice all and receive back nothing in return, --these are some of thelessons we may learn from creatures we call dumb. Perhaps they will havetheir reward. There is room in eternity for the souls of animals as wellas of men; there is room for the London cab-horse after his life ofhardship and cruel sacrifice; there is room for the innocent lamb thatgoes to the slaughter; there is room in those realms of infinity forevery bird of the air and every beast of the field that either thenecessity (that tyrant's plea) or the ignorance of man has condemned totorture, injustice, or neglect!

The most delightful of all dogs are those rough-haired Scotch deerhoundsthe author of "Waverley" loved so well. How timid and subdued are thesetrusty hounds on ordinary occasions! yet how fierce and relentless topursue and slay their natural quarry, the antlered monarch of the glen!Once, in Savernake Forest, where the yaffels laugh all day amid thegreat oak trees, and the beech avenues, with their Gothic foliations andlichened trunks, are the finest in the world, a young, untried deerhoundof ours slipped away unobserved and killed a hind "off his own bat. "Though he had probably never seen a deer before, hereditary instinct wastoo strong, and he succumbed to temptation. Yet he would not harm a fox, for on another occasion, when I was out walking, accompanied by thishound and a fox-terrier, the latter bolted a large dog fox out of adrain. When the fox appeared the deerhound made after him, and, in hisattempt to dodge, reynard was bowled over on to his back. But directlyhe was called, the deerhound came back to our heels, apparently notconsidering the vulpine race fair game. I will not vouch for theaccuracy of the story, but our coachman asserts that he saw thisdeerhound at play with a fox in our kitchen garden, --not a tame fox, buta wild one. I believe, myself, that this actually did happen, as the manwho witnessed the occurrence is thoroughly reliable. 

There is no dog more knowing and sagacious in his own particular waythan a well-trained retriever. What an immense addition to the pleasureof a day's partridge-shooting in September is the working of one ofthese delightful dogs! Only the other day, when I was sitting on thelawn, a retriever puppy came running up with something in his mouth, with which he seemed very pleased. He laid it at my feet with great careand tenderness, and I saw that it was a young pheasant about afortnight old. It ran into the house, and was rescued unharmed a fewhours afterwards by the keeper, who restored it to the hencoop fromwhence it came. One could not be angry with a dog that was unable toresist the temptation to retrieve, but yet would not harm the bird inthe smallest degree. 

One does not often see teams of oxen ploughing in the fields nowadays. Within a radius of a hundred miles of London town this is becoming arare spectacle. They are still used sometimes in the Cotswolds, however, though the practice of using them must soon die out. Great, slow, lumbering animals they are, but very handsome and delightful beasts tolook upon. A team of brown oxen adds a pleasing feature to thelandscape. 

As we come down the steep ascent which leads to our little hamlet, weoften wonder why some of the cottage front doors are painted bright redand some a lovely deep blue. These different colours add a great deal ofpicturesqueness to the cottages; but is it possible that the owners havepainted their doors red and blue for the sake of the charming distanteffect it gives? These people have wonderfully good taste as a rule. Theother day we noticed that some of the dreadful iron sheeting which iscreeping into use in country places had been painted by a farmer abeautiful rich brown. It gave quite a pretty effect to the barn itadjoined. Every bit of colour is an improvement in the rathercold-looking upland scenery of the Cotswolds. 

Cray-fishing is a very popular amusement among the villagers. Thesefresh-water lobsters abound in the gravelly reaches of the Coln. Theyare caught at night in small round nets, which are baited and let downto the bottom of the pools. The crayfish crawl into the nets to feed, and are hauled up by the dozen. Two men can take a couple of bucketfulsof them on any evening in September. Though much esteemed in Paris, where they fetch a high price as _écrevisse_, we must confess they arerather disappointing when served up. The village people, however, arevery fond of them; and Tom Peregrine, the keeper, in his quaint waydescribes them as "very good pickings for dessert. " As they eat a largenumber of very small trout, as well as ova, on the gravel spawning-beds, crayfish should not be allowed to become too numerous in a trout stream. 

It is difficult to understand in what the great attraction ofrook-shooting consists. Up to yesterday I had never shot a rook in mylife. The accuracy with which some people can kill rooks with a rifle isvery remarkable. I have seen my brother knock down five or six dozenwithout missing more than one or two birds the whole time. One would bethankful to die such an instantaneous death as these young rooks. Theyseem to drop to the shot without a flutter; down they come, as straightas a big stone dropped from a high wall. Like a lump of lead they fallinto the nettles. They hardly ever move again. It is difficult workfinding them in the thick undergrowth. 

About eleven o'clock the evening after shooting the young rooks I wasreturning home from a neighbouring farmhouse when I heard the mostlamentable sounds coming from the rookery. There seemed to be a funeralservice going on in the big ash trees. Muffled cawings and piteous criestold me that the poor old rooks were mourning for their children. Icannot remember ever hearing rooks cawing at that time of night before. Saving the lark, "that scorner of the ground, " which rises and sings inthe skies an hour before sunrise, the rooks are the first birds tostrike up at early dawn. One often notices this fact on sleeplessnights. About 2. 30 o'clock on a May morning a rook begins the grandconcert with a solo in G flat; then a cock pheasant crows, or an owlhoots; moorhens begin to stir, and gradually the woodland orchestraworks up to a tremendous burst of song, such as is never heard at anyhour but that of sunrise. 

 "Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales. "

How often one has heard this grand thanksgiving chorus of the birds atearly dawn!

I wonder if the poor rooks caw all night long after the "slaughter ofthe innocents?" They were still at it when I went to bed at 12. 30, andthis was within two hours of their time of getting up. 

 "Some say that e'en against that season cornea In which our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long. "

Thus wrote Shakespeare of bold chanticleer; and perhaps the rooks whenthey are grieving for their lost ones, hold solemn requiem until themorning light and the cheering rays of the sun make them forgettheir woes. 

It is difficult to understand what pleasure the farmers find in shootingyoung rooks with twelve-bore guns. Ours are always allowed a grand_battue_ in the garden every year. They ask their friends out fromCirencester to assist. For an hour or so the shots have been rattlingall round the house and on the sheds in the stable-yard. The horses arefrightened out of their wits. Grown-up men ought to know better than tokeep firing continually towards a house not two hundred yards away. Astray pellet might easily blind a man or a horse. 

Farmers are sometimes very careless with their guns. Outpartridge-shooting one is in mortal terror of the man on one's right, who invariably carries his gun at such a level that if it went off itwould "rake" the whole line. If you tell one of these gentry that he isholding his gun in a dangerous way, he will only laugh, remarkingpossibly that you are getting very nervous. The best plan is not to askthese well-meaning, but highly dangerous fellows to shoot with you. Unfortunately it is probably the eldest son of the principal tenant onthe manor who is the culprit. The best plan in such cases is to speak tothe old man firmly, but courteously, asking him to try to dissuade hisson from his dangerous practices. 

It is amusing to watch the jackdaws when they come from the ivy-mantledfir trees to steal the food we throw every morning on to the lawn infront of the house for the pheasants, the pigeons, and other birds. They are the funniest rascals and the biggest thieves in Christendom. Alighting suddenly behind a cock pheasant, they snatch the food from himjust as he imagines he has got it safely; and terribly astonished healways looks. Then these greedy daws will chase the smaller birds asthey fly away with any dainty morsel, and compel them to give it up. Acuriously mixed group assembles on the lawn each morning at eighto'clock in the winter. First of all there are the pheasants crowingloudly for their breakfast, then come the stately swans, severalpinioned wild ducks, tame pigeons and wild and timid stock doves, fouror five moorhens, any number of daws, as well as thrushes, blackbirds, starlings, house-sparrows, and finches. One day, having forgotten tofeed them, I was astonished at hearing loud quacks proceeding from thedining-room, and was horrified to find that the ducks had come into thehouse to look for me and demand their grub. 

Foxes give one a good deal of anxiety in May and June, when the cubs areabout half grown. On arriving home to-day the first news I hear is thattwo dead cubs have been picked up: "one looks as if his head had beenbattered in, and the other appears to have been worried by a dog. " Thisis the only information I can get from the keeper. It is really aserious blow; for if two have been found dead, how many others may nothave died in their earth or in the woods?

Two seasons ago six dead cubs were picked up here; they had died fromeating rooks which had been poisoned by some farmers. It took us a longtime to get to the bottom of this affair, for no information is to begot out of Gloucestershire folk; you must ferret such mattersout yourself. 

There are still live cubs in the breeding-earth, for I heard them therethis afternoon; so there is yet hope. But twenty acres of covert willnot stand this sort of thing, considering that the hounds are "through"them once in three weeks, on an average, throughout the winter. Only onevixen survived at the end of last season, though another one has turnedup since. We have two litters, fortunately. Where you have coverts handyto a stream of any kind, there will foxes congregate. They lovewater-rats and moorhens more than any other food. 

A strange prejudice exists among hunting men against cleaning outartificial earths. There was never a greater fallacy. Fox-earths wantlooking to from time to time, say every ten years, for rabbits willrender them practically useless by burrowing out in different places. Ablock is often formed in the drain by this burrowing, and the earth willhave to be opened and the channel freed. 

The best possible preventive measure against mange is to clear out yourartificial earths every ten years. As for driving the foxes away by thispractice, we cannot believe it. You cannot keep foxes from using a goodartificial drain so long as it lies dry and secluded and the entrance isnot too large. They prefer a small entrance, as they imagine dogs cannotfollow them into a small hole. 

A farmer made an earth in a hedgerow last year right away from anycoverts, and, one would have thought, out of the beaten track ofreynard's nightly prowls; yet the foxes took to this earth at thebeginning of the hunting season, and they were soon quiteestablished there. 

There is no mystery about building a fox-drain. Reynard will take to anydry underground place that lies in a secluded spot. If it facessouth--that is to say, if your earth runs in a half circle, with bothentrances facing towards the south or south-west--so much the better. The entrance should not be more than about six inches square. Such ahole looks uncommonly small, no doubt, but a fox prefers it to a largerone. About half way through the passage a little chamber should be made, to tempt a vixen to lay up her cubs there. When there are lots of foxesand not too many earths, they will very soon begin to work a new drain, so long as it lies in a secluded spot and within easy distance of MasterReynard's skirmishing grounds. 

We have lately made such an earth in a small covert, because theoriginal earth is the wrong side of the River Coln. All the good countryis on the opposite side of the river to that on which the old earth issituated. Foxes will seldom cross the stream when they are first found. It is hoped, therefore, that when they take to the new earth they willlie in the wood on the right side of the stream. We shall then close theold earth, and thus endeavour to get the foxes to run the good country. Much may be done to show sport by using a little strategy of this kind. Many a good stretch of grass country is lost to the hunt because theearths are badly distributed. It must be remembered that a fox whenfirst found will usually go straight to his earth; finding that closed, he will make for the next earths he is in the habit of using. 

The other day, while ferreting in the coverts previous torabbit-shooting, the keeper bolted a huge fox out of one burrow and acat out of the other. He also tells me that he once found a hare and afox lying in their forms, within three yards of one another, in a smalldisused quarry. There is no doubt that, like jack among fish, the fox isfriendly enough on some days, when his belly is full. He then "makes upto" rabbits and other animals, with the intent of "turning on them" whenthey least expect it. Without this treacherous sort of cunning, reynardwould often have to go supperless to bed. 

In those drains and earths where foxes are known to lie you will oftensee traces of rabbits. These little conies are wonderfully confiding inthe way they use a fox-earth. It is difficult to believe that they livein the drain with the foxes, but they are exceedingly fond of makingburrows with an entrance to an earth. They are a great nuisance inspoiling earths by this practice. Rabbits invariably establishthemselves in fox-drains which have been temporarily deserted. 

Foxes become very "cute" towards the end of the hunting season. They canhear hounds running at a distance of four or five miles on windy days. Knowing that the earths are stopped, they leave the bigger woods andhide themselves in out-of-the-way fields and hedgerows. Last season afox was seen to leave our coverts, trot along the high-road, andensconce himself among some laurels near the manor house. He was soeasily seen where he lay in the shrubbery that a crowd of villagersstood watching him from the road. He knew the hounds would not draw thisplace, as it is quite small and bare, so here he stayed until dusk;then, having assured himself that the hounds had gone home, he jumped upand trotted back to the woods again. 

A flock of sheep are not always frightened at a fox. The other day anold dog fox, the hero of many a good run in recent years from thesecoverts (an "old customer, " in fact), was observed by the keeper and twoother men trying to cross the river by means of a footbridge. A flock ofsheep, doubtless taking him for a dog, were frustrating his endeavoursto get across; directly he set foot on dry land they would bowl him overon to his back in the most unceremonious way. This game of romps went onfor about ten minutes. Finally the fox, getting tired of trying to passthe sheep, trotted back over the footbridge. Fifty yards up stream anarrow fir pole is set across the water. The cunning old rascal made forthis, and attempted to get to the other side; but the fates were againsthim. There was a strong wind blowing at the time, so that when he washalf way across the pool, he was actually blown off sideways into thewater. And a rare ducking he got! He gave the job up after this, andtrotted back into the wood. This is a very curious occurrence, becausethe fox was perfectly healthy and strong. He is well known throughoutthe country, not only for his tremendous cheek, but also for thewonderful runs he has given from time to time. He will climb over asix-foot wire fence to gain entrance to a fowl-run belonging to anexcellent sportsman, who, though not a hunting man, would never allow afox to be killed. He is reported to have had fifty, fowls out of thisplace during the last few months. When caught in the act in broaddaylight, the fox had to be hunted round and round the enclosure beforehe would leave, finally climbing up the wire fencing like a cat, insteadof departing by the open door. 

It is very rare that a mischievous fox, given to the destruction ofpoultry, is also a straight-necked one. Too often these gentry know noextent of country; they take refuge in the nearest farmyard when pressedby the hounds. At the end of a run we have seen them on the roof ofhouses and outbuildings time after time. On one occasion last season ahunted fox was discovered among the rafters in the roof of a very highbarn. The "whipper-in" was sent up by means of a long ladder, eventuallypulling him out of his hiding-place by his brush. Poor brute! perhaps hemight have been spared after showing such marvellous strategy. 

It speaks wonders for the good-nature and unselfishness of the farmerwho owns the fowl-run above alluded to that he never would send in thevestige of a claim to the hunt secretary for the poultry he has lostfrom time to time. But he is one of the old-fashioned yeomen ofGloucestershire--a gentleman, if ever there was one--a type of the bestsort of Englishman. Alas! that hard times have thinned the ranks of theold yeoman farmers of the Cotswolds! They are the very backbone of thecountry; we can ill afford to lose them, with their cheery, bluffmanners and good-hearted natures. 

Some of the people round about are not so scrupulous in the way ofpoultry claims. We have had to investigate a large number in, recentyears. It is a difficult matter to distinguish _bonâ-fide_ from "bogus"claims; they vary in amount from one to twenty pounds. Once only have webeen foolish enough to rear a litter of cubs by hand, having obtainedthem from the big woods at Cirencester. Before the hunting season hadcommenced we had received claims of nineteen and fourteen pounds fromneighbouring farmers for poultry and turkeys destroyed. One bailiffdeclared that the foxes were so bold they had fetched a young heiferthat had died from the "bowssen" into the fox-covert. Whether thebailiff put it there or the foxes "fetched" it I know not, but thewhite, bleached skull may be seen hard by the earth to this day. 

One of the claimants above named farms three hundred acres on strictlyeconomical principles. He has allowed the land to go back to grass, andthe only labour he employs on it is a one-legged boy, whom he pays "inkind. " This boy arrived the other day with another poultry claim, whenthe following dialogue occurred:--

"I see you have got down sixteen young ducklings on the list?"

"Yaas, the jackdars fetched they. "

"How do you know the jackdaws took them?" "'Cos maister said so. "

"Do you shut up your fowls at night?"

"Yaas, we shuts the daar, but the farxes gets in. It be all weared out. There be great holes in the bowssen where they gets through andfetches them. "

How can one pay poultry claims of this kind? It being absolutelyimpossible to verify these accounts properly, the only way is to takethe general character of the claimant, paying according as you think himstraightforward or the reverse. It is an insult to an honest man tooffer him anything less than the amount he asks for; therefore claimswhich have every appearance of being _bonâ fide_ should be settled infull. But the hunt can't afford it, one is told. In that case peopleought to subscribe more. If men paid ten pounds for every hunter theyowned, the income of most establishments would be more than doubled. 

The farmers are wonderfully long-suffering on the whole, but they cannotbe expected to welcome a whole multitude of strangers; nor can theyallow large fields to ride over their land in these bad times withoutcompensation of some sort. Slowly, but surely, a change is coming overour ideas of hunting rights and hunting courtesy; and the sooner werealise that we ought to pay for our hunting on the same scale as we dofor shooting and fishing, the better will it be for all concerned. 

Talking of hunting and foxes reminds me that a short time ago I went toinvestigate an earth to see if a vixen was laid down there. Finding nosigns of any cubs, I was just going away when I saw a feather stickingout of the ground a few yards from the fox-earth. I pulled four youngthrushes, a tiny rabbit, and two young water-rats out of this hole, andre-buried them. The cubs, it afterwards appeared, were laid up in arabbit burrow some distance away. But the old vixen kept her larder nearher old quarters, instead of burying her supplies for a rainy day closeto the hole where she had her cubs. Perhaps she was meditating movingthe litter to this earth on some future occasion. 

I shall never forget discovering this litter. When looking down arabbit-hole I heard a scuffle. A young cub came up to the mouth of thehole, saw me, and dashed back again into the earth. This was thesmallest place I ever saw cubs laid up in. The vixen happened to be avery little one. 

It is amusing to watch the cubs playing in the corn on a summer'sevening. If you go up wind you can approach within ten yards of them. Round and round they gambol, tumbling each other over for all the worldlike young puppies. They take little notice of you at first; but after atime they suddenly stop playing, stare hard at you for half a minute, then bolt off helter-skelter into the forest of waving green wheat. 

One word more about the scent of foxes. Not long ago a man wrote to the_Field_ saying that he had proved by experiment that on the saturationor relative humidity of the air the hunter's hopes depend: in fact, heannounced that he had solved the riddle of scent. It so happened thatfor some years the present writer had also been amusing himself withexperiments of the same nature, and at one time entertained the hopethat by means of the hygrometer he would arrive at a solution of themystery. But alas! it was not to be. On several occasions when the airwas well-nigh saturated, scent proved abominable. That the relativehumidity of the air is not the all-important factor was often proved bythe bad scent experienced just before rain and storms, when thehygrometer showed a saturation of considerably over ninety per cent. Butthere are undoubtedly other complications besides the evaporations fromthe soil and the relative humidity of the air to be considered in makingan enquiry into the causes of good and bad scent. The amount of moisturein the ground, the state of the soil in reference to the all-importantquestion of whether it carries or not, the temperature of the air, andlast, but not by any means least, the condition of the quarry, be itfox, stag, or hare, are all questions of vital importance, complicatingmatters and preventing a solution of the mysteries of scent. 

As the atmosphere is variable, so also must scent be variable. The twothings are inseparably bound up with one another. For this reason, ifafter a period of rainy weather we have an anti-cyclone in the winterwithout severe frost, and an absence of bright sunny days, we canusually depend on a scent. Instead of the air rising, there is during ananti-cyclone, as we all know, a tendency towards a gentle down-flow ofair or at all events a steady pressure, and this causes smoke, whetherfrom a railway engine or a tobacco pipe, to hang in the air and scent tolie breast high. 

Unfortunately the normal state of the atmospheric fluid is a rushing inof cold air and a rushing out or upwards of warmer air, causingunsettled variable equilibrium and unsettled variable scent. Thebarometer would be an absolutely reliable guide for the hunting man wereit not for the complications already named above, complications whichprevent either barometer or hygrometer from offering infallibleindications of good or bad scenting days. However, scent often improvesat night when the dew begins to form; and it may also suddenly improveat any time of day should the dew point be reached, owing to thetemperature cooling to the point of saturation. This is always liable tooccur at some time, on days on which the hygrometer shows us that thereis over ninety per cent of moisture in the air. But here again radiationcomes in to complicate matters; for clouds may check the formation ofdew. It may safely be said, however, that other conditions beingfavourable, a fast run is likely to occur at any time of day should thedew point be reached. Thus the hygrometer is worthy to be studied on ahunting morning. 

In May there is a good deal of weed-cutting to be done on a troutstream. Our plan is to have a couple of big field days about May 12th. The weeds on over two miles of water are all cut during that time. Asthey are not allowed to be sent down the stream, we get them out inseveral different places; they are then piled in heaps, and left to rot. The operation is repeated at the end of the fishing season. About adozen scythes tied together are used. Two men hold the ends and walk upthe stream, one on each side of the river, mowing as they go. 

There is a certain amount of management required in weed-cutting. Ifmuch weed is left uncut, the millers grumble; if you cut them bare, there are no homes left for the fish. The last is the worse evil of thetwo. The millers are usually kind-hearted men, whilst poachers cancommit fearful depredations in a small stream that has been cuttoo bare. 

The way these limestone streams are netted is as follows: About two inthe morning, when there is enough light to commence operations, a net islaid across the stream and pegged down at each end; the water is thenbeaten with long sticks both above and below the net. Nor is itdifficult to drive the trout into the trap; they rush downhelter-skelter, and, failing to see any net, they soon become hopelesslyentangled in its meshes. The bobbing corks intimate to the poachers thatthere are some good trout in the net; one end is then unpegged, and thehaul is made. 

About ten trout would be a good catch. The operation is repeated four orfive times, until some fifty fish have been bagged. The poachers thendepart, taking care to remove all signs of their night's work, such asscales of fish, stray weeds, and bits of stick. 

In weed-cutting by hand, instead of with the long knives, it iswonderful how many trout get cut by the scythes. There used to beseveral good fish killed this way at each annual cutting, when the menused to walk up the stream mowing as they went. One would have thoughttrout would have been able to avoid the scythes, being such quick, slippery animals. 

Until the present season otters have seldom visited our parts of theColn. Unfortunately, however, they have turned up, and are committingsad havoc among the fish. It is such a terribly easy stream for them towork. The water is very shallow, and the current is a slow one. 

We are not well up in otter-hunting in these parts, there being nohounds within fifty miles. I have never seen an otter on the Coln. Butone day, at a spot near which we have noticed the billet of an otter andsome fishes' heads, I heard a noise in the water, and a huge wave seemedto indicate that something bigger than a Coln trout was proceeding upstream close to the bank all the way. On running up, of course I sawnothing. But half an hour afterwards I saw another big wave of the samekind. It was so close to me that if it had been a fish or a rat I musthave seen him. I had a terrier with me, but of course he was unable tofind an otter. A dog unbroken to the scent is worse than useless. 

On another occasion I saw a water-vole running away from some largeranimal under the opposite bank of the river. Some bushes prevented myseeing very well, but I am almost certain it was an otter. "A Son of theMarshes" mentions in one of his charming books that otters do killwater-rats. I was not aware of this fact until I read it in the bookcalled "From Spring to Fall. "

The broad shallow reach of the Coln in front of the manor house seemsto be a favourite hunting-ground of the otter during his nocturnalrambles; for sometimes one is awakened at night by a tremendous tumultamong the wild duck and moorhens that haunt the pool. They rush up anddown, screaming and flapping their wings as if they were "daft. "

A few weeks after writing the above we caught a beautiful female otterin a trap, weighing some seventeen pounds. I have regretted its captureever since. Great as the number of trout they eat undoubtedly is, I donot intend to allow another otter to be trapped, unless they become toonumerous. Such lovely, mysterious creatures are becoming far too scarcenowadays, and ought to be rigidly preserved. Last October we wereshooting a withybed of two acres on the river bank, when the beaterssuddenly began shouting, "An otter! An otter!" And sure enough a largedog otter ran straight down the line. This small withybed also containedthree fine foxes and a good sprinkling of pheasants. 

The number of water-voles in the banks of this stream seems to increaseyear by year. The damage they do is not great; but the millers and thefarmers do not like them, because with their numerous holes theyundermine the banks of the millpound, and the water finds its waythrough them on to the meadows. Country folk are very fond of anoccasional rat hunt: they do lay themselves out to be hunted sotremendously. A rat will bolt out of his hole, dive half way across thestream, then, taking advantage of the tiniest bit of weed, he will comeup to the surface, poke his nose out of the water and watch youintently. An inexperienced eye would never detect him. But if a stone isthrown at him, finding his subterfuge detected, he is apt to lose hishead--either coming back towards you, and being obliged to come up forair before he reaches his hole, or else swimming boldly across to theopposite bank. In the latter case he is safe. 

Tom Peregrine is a great hand at catching water-voles in a landing-net. He holds the net over the hole which leads to the water, and pokes hisstick into the bank above. The rat bolts out into the net and isimmediately landed. House-rats--great black brutes--live in the banks ofthe stream as well as water-voles. They are very much larger and lessfascinating than the voles. To see one of the latter species crossingthe stream with a long piece of grass in his mouth is a very prettysight They are rodents, and somewhat resemble squirrels. 

[Illustration: In Bibury Village 358. Png]

CHAPTER XV. 

THE PROMISE OF MAY. 

 "Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus Tam cari capitis?"

 HORACE. 

About the middle of May the lovely, sweet-scenting lilac comes intobloom. It brightens up the old, time-worn barns, and relieves themonotony of grey stone walls and mossy roofs in the Cotswold village. 

The prevailing colour of the Cotswold landscape may be said to be thatof gold. The richest gold is that of the flaming marsh-marigolds in thewater meadows during May; goldilocks and buttercups of all kinds aregolden too, but of a slightly different and paler hue. Yellow charlock, beautiful to look upon, but hated by the farmers, takes possession ofthe wheat "grounds" in May, and holds the fields against all comersthroughout the summer. In some parts it clothes the whole landscape likea sheet of saffron. Primroses and cowslips are of course paler still. The ubiquitous dandelion is likewise golden; then we have birdsfoottrefoil, ragwort, agrimony, silver-weed, celandine, tormentil, yellowiris, St. John's wort, and a host of other flowers of the same hue. Inautumn comes the golden corn; and later on in mid winter we have palejessamine and lichen thriving on the cottage walls. So throughout theyear the Cotswolds are never without this colour of saffron or gold. Only the pockets of the natives lack it, I regret to say. 

Every cottager takes a pride in his garden, for the flower shows whichare held every year result in keen competition. A prize is always givenfor the prettiest garden among all the cottagers. This is an excellentplan; it brightens and beautifies the village street for eight months inthe year. In May the rich brown and gold of the gillyflower is seen onevery side, and their fragrance is wafted far and wide by every breezethat blows. 

Then there is a very pretty plant that covers some of the cottage wallsat this time of year. It is the wistaria; in the distance you might takeit for lilac, for the colours are almost identical. 

Then come the roses--the beautiful June roses--the _nimium brevesflores_ of Horace. But the roses of the Cotswolds are not so short livedfor all that Horace has sung: you may see them in the cottage gardensfrom the end of May until Christmas. 

How cool an old house is in summer! The thick walls and the stone floorsgive them an almost icy feeling in the early morning. Even as I write mythermometer stands at 58° within, whilst the one out of doors registers65° in the shade. This is the ideal temperature, neither too hot nor toocold. But it is not summer yet, only the fickle month of May. 

Tom Peregrine is getting very anxious. He meets me every evening withthe same story of trout rising all the way up the stream and nobodytrying to catch them. I can see by his manner that he disapproves of my"muddling" over books and papers instead of trying to catch trout. Hecannot understand it all. Meanwhile one sometimes asks oneself thequestion which Peregrine would also like to propound, only he dare not, Why and wherefore do we tread the perilous paths of literature insteadof those pleasant paths by the river and through the wood? The onlyanswer is this: The _daemon_ prompts us to do these things, even as itprompted the men of old time. 

 "There is a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough hew them how we will. "

If there is such a thing as a "call" to any profession, there is a callto that of letters. So with an enthusiasm born of inexperience anddelusive hope we embark as in a leaky and untrustworthy sailing ship, built, for ought we know, "in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, "and at the mercy of every chance breeze are wafted by the winds ofheaven through chaos and darkness into the boundless ocean of words andof books. When the waves run high they resemble nothing so much as lionswith arched crests and flowing manes going to and fro seeking whom theymay devour, or savage dogs rushing hither and thither foaming at themouth; and when old Father Neptune lets loose his hungry sea-dogs ofcriticism, then look out for squalls!

But again the _daemon_, that still small voice echoing from the far-offshores of the ocean of time, whispers in our ear, "In the morning sowthy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand; for thou knowestnot whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they bothshall be alike good. "

So we sow in weakness and in fear and trembling, "line upon line, lineupon line; here a little and there a little, " sometimes in mirth andlaughter, sometimes in tears. Let us not ask to be raised in power. Letus resign all glory and honour and power to the Ancient of Days, primesource of the strength of wavering, weak mankind. Rather let us bethankful that by turning aside from "the clamour of the passing day" totread the narrow paths of literature, however humble, however obscureour lot may have been, we gained an insight into the nobler destinies ofthe human soul, and learnt a lesson which might otherwise have beenpostponed until we were hovering on the threshold of Eternity. 

In spite of complaints of east winds and night frosts, May is the nicestmonth in the year take it all in all. In London this is the case evenmore than in the country. The trees in the parks have then the realvivid green foliage of the country. There is a freshness abouteverything in London which only lasts through May. By June the smoke anddirt are beginning to spoil the tender, fresh greenery of the youngleaves. In the early morning of May 12th, 1897, more than an inch ofsnow fell in the Cotswolds, but it was all gone by eight o'clock. Inspite of the weather, May is "the brightest, merriest month of all theglad New Year. " Everything is at its best. Man cannot be morose andill-tempered in May. The "happy hills and pleasing shade" must needs "amomentary bliss bestow" on the saddest of us all. Look at yonderthoroughbred colt grazing peacefully in the paddock: if you had turnedhim out a month ago he would have galloped and fretted himself to death;but now that the grass is sweet and health-giving, he is content tonibble the young shoots all day long. What a lovely, satin-like coat hehas, now that his winter garments are put off! There is a picture ofhealth and symmetry! He has just reached the interesting age of fouryears, is dark chestnut in colour, and sixteen hands two and a halfinches in height; grazing out there, he does not look anything like thatsize. Well-bred horses always look so much smaller than they really are, especially if they are of good shape and well proportioned. Alas! howfew of them, even thoroughbreds, have the real make and shape necessaryto carry weight across country, or to win races! You do not see manyhorses in a lifetime in whose shape the critical eye cannot detect afault. We know the good points as well as the bad of this colt, for wehave had him two years. Deep, sloping shoulders are his speciality; andthey cover a multitude of sins. Legs of iron, with large, broad knees;plenty of flat bone below the knee, and pasterns neither too long nortoo upright. Well ribbed up, he is at the same time rather"ragged-hipped, " indicative of strength and weight-carrying power. Howbroad are his gaskins! how "well let down" he is! What great hocks hehas! But, alas I as you view him from behind, you cannot help noticingthat his hindlegs incline a little outwards, even as a cow's do--theyare not absolutely straight, as they should be. Then as to his golden, un-docked tail: he carries it well--a fact which adds twenty pounds tohis value; but, strange to say, it is not "well set on, " as athoroughbred's ought to be. He does not show the quality he ought in hishindquarters. Still his head, neck and crest are good, though his eye isnot a large one. How much is he worth--twenty, fifty, a hundred, or twohundred pounds? Who can tell? Will he be a charger, a fourteen-stonehunter, or a London carriage horse? All depends how he takes to jumping. His height is against him, --sixteen hands two and a half inches is atleast two inches too big for a hunter. Nevertheless, there are alwaysthe brilliant exceptions. Let us hope he will be the trump card inthe pack. 

Talking of horses, how admirable was that answer of Dr. Johnson's, whena lady asked him how on earth he allowed himself to describe the word_pastern_ in his dictionary as the _knee_ of a horse. "Ignorance, madam, pure ignorance, " was his laconic reply. So great a man could wellafford to confess utter ignorance of matters outside his own sphere. Buthow few of mankind are ever willing to own themselves mistaken about anysubject under the sun, unless it be bimetallism or some equallyunfashionable and abstruse (though not unimportant) problem of the day!

What beautiful shades of colour are noticeable in the trees in the earlypart of May! The ash, being so much later than the other trees, remainsa pale light green, and shows up against the dark green chestnuts andthe still darker firs. But what shall I say of the great spreadingwalnut whose branches hang right across the stream in our garden in theCotswold Valley?

About the middle of May the walnut leaves resemble nothing so much as amass of Virginia creeper when it is at its best in September. Beautiful, transparent leaves of gold, intermingled with red, glisten in the warmMay sunshine, --the russet beauties of autumn combined with the fresh, bright loveliness of early spring!

Not till the very end of May will this walnut tree be in full leaf. Heis the latest of all the trees. The young, tender leaves scent almost assweetly as the verbena in the greenhouse. It is curious that ash trees, when they are close to a river, hang their branches down towards thewater like the "weeping willows. " Is this connected, I wonder, with thestrange attraction water has for certain kinds of wood, by which thewater-finder, armed with a hazel wand, is able to divine the presenceof _aqua pura_ hundreds of feet below the surface of the earth? Whatthis strange art of rhabdomancy is I know not, but the "weeping" ash inour garden by the Coln is one of the most beautiful and shapely trees Iever saw. It will be an evil day when some cruel hurricane hurls it tothe ground. We have lost many a fine tree in recent years, some throughgales, but others, alas I by the hand of man. 

A few years ago I discovered a spot about a quarter of a mile from myhome which reminded me of the beautiful Eton playing-fields, "Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain. "

It consisted of a few grass fields shut off by high hedges, andcompletely encircled by a number of fine elm trees of great age andlovely foliage. At one end a broad and shallow reach of the Colncompleted the scene. 

Having obtained a long lease of the place, I grubbed up the hedges, turned three small fields into one, and made a cricket ground in themidst. My object was to imitate as far as possible the "Upper Club" ofthe Eton playing-fields. 

I had barely accomplished the work, the cricket ground had just beenlevelled, when the landlord's agent--or more probably his"mortgagee"--arrived on the scene, accompanied by a hard-headed, blustering timber merchant from Cheltenham. To my horror and dismay Iwas informed that, money being very scarce, they contemplated making aclean sweep of these grand old elms. On my expostulating, they merelysuggested that cutting down the trees would be a great improvement, asthe place would be opened up thereby and made healthier. 

In the hope of warding off the evil day we offered to pay the price ofsome of the finest trees, although they could only legally be bought forthe present proprietor's lifetime. 

The contractor, however, rather than leave his work of destructionincomplete, put a ridiculous price on them. He refused to accept alarger sum than he could ever have cleared by cutting them down. This iswhat Cowper would have stigmatised as

 "disclaiming all regard For mercy and the common rights of man, "

and "conducting trade at the sword's point. "

We then resolved to buy the farm. But the stars in their courses foughtagainst us; we were unsuccessful in our attempt to purchasethe freehold. 

And so the contractor's men came with axes and saws and horses andcarts. For days and weeks I was haunted by that hideous nightmare, thecrash of groaning trees as they fell all around, soon to be stripped ofall their glorious beauty. The cruel, blasphemous shouts of the men, asthey made their long-suffering horses drag the huge, dismembered trunksacross the beautifully levelled greensward of the cricket ground, werepositively heart-rending. Ninety great elms did they strike down. A fewwere left, but of these the two finest came down in the great gale ofMarch 1896. 

 "Sic transit gloria mundi. "

Trees are like old familiar friends, we cannot bear to lose them; everyone that falls reminds us of "the days that are no more. " Struck down inall the pride and beauty of their days, they remind us that

 "Those who once gave promise Of fruit for manhood's prime Have passed from us for ever, Gone home before their time. "

They remind me that four of my greatest friends at school, ten shortyears ago, are long since dead. Like the trees felled by the woodman'saxe, they were struck down by the sickle of the silent Reaper, even asthe golden sheaves that are gathered into the beautiful barns. Othertrees will spring up and shade the naked earth in the woods with theirmantle of green: so, also, "Others will fill our places Dressed in the old light blue. "

And just as in the woods fresh young saplings are daily springing up, soalso the merry voices of happy, generous boys are ringing, as I write, in the old, old courts and cloisters by the silvery Thames; their merrylaughter is echoed by the bare grey walls, whereon the names of thosewho have long been dust are chiselled in rude handwriting on themouldering stone. 

Hundreds we knew have gone down. The fatal bullet, the ravaging fever, the roaring torrent, and the sad sea waves; the slow, sure grip ofconsumption, the fall at polo, and the iron hoofs of the favouritehunter;--all claimed their victims. 

Perhaps this is why we love to linger in the woods watching the rays ofgolden light reflected upon the warm, red earth, listening to theheavenly voices of the birds and the hopeful babbling of the brook. Those purple hills and distant bars of gold in the western sky at thesoft twilight hour are rendered ever so much more beautiful when wedimly view them through a mist of tears. 

And now your thoughts are taken back five short years; you are once morestaying with your old Eton friend and Oxford comrade in his beautifulhome in far-off Wales. All is joy and happiness in that lovely, romantichome, for in six weeks' time the young squire, the best and most popularfellow in the world, is to be married to the fair daughter of aneighbouring house. Is it possible that aught can happen in that shorttime to mar the heavenly happiness of those two twin souls? Alas for thegallant, chivalrous nature I Well might he have cried with his knightlyancestor of the "Round Table, " "Me forethinketh this shall betide, butGod may well foredoe destiny. " He had gone down to the lake in the mostbeautiful and romantic part of his lovely home, taking with him, as washis wont, his fishing-rod and his gun. One shot was heard, and one only, on that ill-fated afternoon, and then all, save for the songs of thebirds and the rippling of the deep waters of the lake, was wrapped insilence. Then followed the report--whispered through the party assembledto do honour to the future bride and bridegroom--that "Bill" wasmissing. Then came the agonising suspense and the eight hours' searchthroughout the long summer evening. 

Late that night the father found the fair young form of his boy in athick and tangled copse, --there it lay under the silent stars, the faceupturned in its last appeal to heaven; and close by lay the deadlytwelve-bore which had been the cause of all the misery and griefthat followed. 

 "Solemn before us Veiled the dark portal-- Goal of all mortal. Stars silent rest o'er us; Graves under us silent. "

He had evidently pursued game or vermin of some sort into the denseundergrowth of the wood, and in his haste had slipped and fallen overhis gun, for the shot had just grazed his heart

Who that knew him will ever forget Bill Llewelyn, prince of goodfellows, "truest of men in everything"? In all relations of life, as inthe hunting field, he went as straight as a die. 

The accidental discharge of a gun shortly after he came of age, andwithin a few weeks of his wedding day, has made the England of to-daythe poorer by one of her most promising sons. Infinite charity! Infinitecourage! Infinite truth! Infinite humility! Who could do justice inprose to those rare and godlike qualities? No: miserable, weak, andineffectual though my gift of poesy may be, yet I will not let thosequalities pass away from the minds of all, save the few that knew himwell, without following in the footsteps (though at an immeasurabledistance) of the divine author of "Lycidas, " by endeavouring to renderto his cherished memory "the meed of some melodious tear. " For as timegoes on, and the future unfolds to our view things we would have givenworlds to have known long before, when the events that influenced ourpast actions and shaped our future destinies are seen through the dimvista of the shadowy, half-forgotten past, we must all learn the hardlesson which experience alone can teach, exclaiming with the "Preacher"the old, old words, "I returned, and saw under the sun that the race isnot to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. .. . But time and chancehappeneth to them all"

 LINES IN MEMORY OF

 WILLIAM DILLWYN LLEWELYN. 

 It may be chance, --I hold it truth, -- That of the friends I loved on earth The ones who died in early youth Were those of best and truest worth. 

 The swift, alas! the race must lose; The battle goes against the strong, -- God wills it 'Tis for us to choose, Whilst life is given, 'twixt right and wrong

 'Tis not for us to count the cost Of losing those we most do love; He grudgeth not life's battle lost Who wins a golden crown above. 

 And oft beneath the shades of night, When tempests howl around these walls, A vision steals upon my sight, A footstep on the threshold falls. 

 I see once more that graceful form, Once more that honest hand grasps mine. Once more I hear above the storm The voice I know so well is thine. 

 I see again an Eton boy, A gentle boy, divinely taught, And call to mind bow full of joy In friendly rivalry we sought

 The "playing-fields. " Then, as I yield To fancy's dreams, I see once more The hero of the cricket field, The oft-tried, trusty friend of yore. 

 What tender yearnings, fond regret, These thoughts of early friendship bring! None but the heartless can forget 'Mid summer days the friends of spring. 

 Now thoughts of Oxford fill my mind: My Eton friend is with me still, But changed--from boy to man; yet kind And large of heart, and strong of will, And blythe and gay. I recognise The athletic form, the comely face, The mild expression of the eyes, The high-bred courtesy and grace. 

 Once more with patient skill we lure The mighty salmon from the deep; Once more we tread the boundless moor, And wander up the mountain steep. 

 With gun in hand we scour the plain, Together climb the rocky ways; Regardless he of wind and rain Who loved to "live laborious days. "

 * * * * *

 I see again fair Penllergare, Those woods and lakes you loved so well; It seems but yesterday that there I parted from you! Who can tell

 The reason thou art gone before? It is not given to us to know, But doubtless thou wert needed more Than we who mourn thee here below. 

 Life's noblest lesson day by day Thy fair example nobly taught-- Self-sacrifice--to point the way By which the hearts of men are brought

 Nearer to God. This was thy task, Humbly, unknowingly fulfilled; And it were vain for us to ask Why now thy voice is hushed and stilled. 

 O gallant spirit, generous heart! If thou had'st lived in days gone by, Thou would'st have loved to bear thy part In glorious deeds of chivalry. 

I make no apology for this digression, nor for unearthing from thebottom of my drawer lines that, written years ago, were never pennedwith any idea of publication. For was not the subject of those verseshimself half a Cotswold man?

But now to return once more to the trees, the loss of which caused meto digress some pages back; there are compensations in all things. Notevery one who becomes a sojourner among the Cotswold Hills is fated toundergo such a trial as the loss of these ninety elms. And, notwithstanding this severe lesson, I am still glad that I alighted onthe spot from which I am now writing. 

I have learnt to find pleasure in other directions now that my "Etonplaying-fields" have passed away for ever. I have become infected by thespirit of the downs. I love the pure, bracing air and the boundlesssense of space in the open hills as much as I ever loved the moreconcentrated charms of the valley. And even in the valley I havepossessions of which no living man is able to deprive me. From my windowI can see the silvery trout stream, which, after thousands of years ofrestless activity, is still slowly gliding down towards the sea; I canlisten on summer nights to the murmuring waterfall at the bottom of thegarden, the hooting of the owls, and the other sounds which break theawful silence of the night. 

Nor can the hand of man disturb the glorious timber round the house; forit is "ornamental, " and therefore safe from the hands of the despoiler. Storms are gradually levelling the ancient beech and ash trees in thewoods, but it will be many a long day before the hand of nature hasmarred the beauty of what has always seemed to me to be one of thefairest spots on earth. 

[Illustration: Bilbury Mill 374. Png]

CHAPTER XVI. 

SUMMER DAYS ON THE COTSWOLDS

 "What more felicitie can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with libertie, And to be lord of all the workes of Nature?"

 E. SPENSER. 

The finest days, when the trees are greenest, the sky bluest, and theclouds most snowy white are the days that come in the midst of badweather. And just as there is no rest without toil, no peace withoutwar, no true joy in life without grief, no enjoyment for the _blasé_, sothere can be no lovely summer days without previous storms and rain, nosunshine till the tearful mists have passed away. 

There had been a week's incessant rain; every wild flower and everyblade of green grass was soaked with moisture, until it could no longerbear its load, and drooped to earth in sheer dismay. But last nightthere came a change: the sun went down beyond the purple hills like aball of fire; eastwards the woods were painted with a reddish glow, andlife and colour returned to everything that grows on the face of thisbeautiful earth. 

 "It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out), One of those heavenly days which cannot die. " WORDSWORTH. 

So it is pleasant to-day to wander over the fields; across the crispstubbles, where the thistledown is crowding in the "stooks" of blackoats; past stretches of uncut corn looking red and ripe under a burningsun. White oxeye daisies in masses and groups, lilac-tinted thistles, and bright scarlet poppies grow in profusion among the tall wheatstalks. A covey of partridges, about three parts grown, rise almost atour feet; for it is early August, and the deadly twelve-bore has not yetwrought havoc among the birds. On the right is a field of green turnips, well grown after the recent rains, and promising plenty of "cover" forsportsmen in September. In the hedgerow the lovely harebells haverecovered from the soaking they endured, and their bell-shaped flowersof perfect blue peep out everywhere. The sweetest flower that grows upthe hedgeside is the blue geranium, or meadow crane's-bill. The humbleyarrow, purple knapweed, field scabious, thistles with bright purpleheads, and St. John's wort with its clean-cut stars of burnished goldand its pellucid veins, form a natural border along the hedge, wherewild clematis or traveller's joy entwines its rough leaf stalks roundthe young hazel branches and among the pink roses of the bramble. 

By the roadside, where the dust blew before the rain and covered everygreen leaf with a coating of rich lime, there grow small shrubs ofmallow with large flowers of pale purple or mauve; here, too, yellowbedstraw and bird's-foot lotus add their tinge of gold to the lush greengrass, and the smaller bindweed, the lovely convolvulus, springs up onthe barrenest spots, even creeping over the stone heaps that were leftover from last winter's road mending. 

Many another species of wild flower which, "born to blush unseen andwaste its sweetness on the desert air, " grows in the quiet Cotswoldlanes might here be named; but even though at times one may feel, withWordsworth, "To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. "

I will leave the humble wayside plants and descend into the vale. For itis along the back brook that the tallest and stateliest wild flowers maybest be seen. The scythes mowed them all down in May, and again in July, in the broad "millpound, " so that they do not grow so tall by the mainstream; but the back brook, the natural course of the river before themills were made, was left unmolested by the mowers, and is a mass oflife and colour. 

Here grows the graceful meadow-sweet, fair and tall, and white andfragrant; here the willow-herb, glorious with pink blossoms, rears itshead high above your shoulders among the sword-flags and the greenrushes and "segs"; the whole bank is a medley of white meadow-sweet, scorpion-grasses, forget-me-nots, pink willow-herbs, and lilac heads ofmint all jumbled up together. Never was such a delightful confusion ofcolour! Great dock leaves two feet wide clothe the path by thewater-side with all the splendour of malachite. 

The breeze blows up stream, and the trout are rising incessantly, takingsomething small. They will not look at any artificial fly, even in therippling breeze; there is nothing small enough in any fly-book to catchthem this afternoon. But when the sun gets low, and the great brownmoths come out and flutter over the water, the red palmer will catch adish of fish. Willow trees--"withies" they call them hereabouts--growalong the brook-side. So white are the backs of their oval leaves thatwhen the breeze turns them back, the woods by the river look bright andsilvery. To-morrow, when the breeze has almost died away, only the topsof the willows will be silvered; the next day, if all be calm and still, all will be green as emerald. Such infinite variety is there in thewoods! Not only do the tints change month by month, but day by day thecolour varies; so that there is always something new, some fresh effectof light and shade to delight the eye of man in the quiet Englishcountry. Dotted about in the midst of the stream are little islands offorget-me-nots. The lovely light blue is reflected everywhere in thewater. Very beautiful are the scorpion-grasses both on the banks amongthe rushes and scattered about in mid stream. 

The meadows are full of life. There are sounds sweet to the ear andsights pleasing to the eye. In the new-mown water-meadowgrasshoppers--such hosts of them that they could never be numbered formultitude--are chirping and dancing merrily. "They make the field ringwith their importunate chink, whilst the great cattle chew the cud andare silent. How like the great and little of mankind!" as Edmund Burkesaid years ago. By catching one of these "meagre, hopping insects of thehour, " you will see that their backs are green as emerald and theirbellies gold: some have a touch of purple over the eyes; their thighs, which are enormously developed for jumping purposes, have likewise adelicate tinge of purple. 

Contrary to the saying of Izaak Walton, the trout do not seem to caremuch for grasshoppers nowadays, although perhaps they may relish them instreams where food is less plentiful. Our trout even prefer the tinyyellow frogs that are to be found in scores by the brook-side in earlyAugust. We have often offered them both in the deep "pill" below thegarden; and though they would come with a dart and take the little frog, they merely looked at the grasshopper in astonishment, and seldomtook one. 

As we stand on the rustic bridge above the "pill" gazing down into thesmooth flowing water, dark trout glide out of sight into their homes inthe stonework under the hatch. These are the fish that rise not to thefly, but prey on their grandchildren, growing darker and lankier andbigger-headed every year. Wherever you find a deep hole and an ancienthatchway there you will also find these great black trout, always lyingin a spot more or less inaccessible to the angler, and living for yearsuntil they die a natural death. 

Was ever a place so full of fish as this "pill"? Looking down into thedeeper water, where the great iron hooks are set to catch the poachers'nets, I could see dozens of trout of all sizes, but mostly small. At thetail of the pool are lots of small ones, rising with a gentle dimple. Asthe days became hotter and the stream ran down lower and lower, thetrout left the long shallow reaches, and assembled here, where there isplenty of water and plenty of food. 

Standing on the bridge by the ancient spiked gate bristling with sharpbarbs of iron, like rusty spear and arrow-heads (our ancestors loved toprotect their privacy with these terrible barriers), I listened to thewaterfall three hundred yards higher up, with its ceaseless music; theafternoon sun was sparkling on the dimpling water, which runs swiftlyhere over a shallow reach of gravel--the favourite spawning-ground ofthe trout. There is no peep of river scenery I like so much as this. Thirty yards up stream a shapely ash tree hangs its branches, clothedwith narrow sprays, right across the brook, the fantastic foliagealmost touching the water. A little higher up some willows and an elmoverhang from the other side. 

There is something unspeakably striking about a country lane or ashallow, rippling brook overarched with a tracery of fretted foliagelike the roof of an old Gothic building. 

Who that has ever visited the village of Stoke Poges in Buckinghamshirewill forget the lane by which he approached the home and lastresting-place of the poet Gray? Perhaps you came from Eton, and afterpassing along a lane that is completely overhung with an avenue ofsplendid trees, where the thrushes sing among the branches as they singnowhere else in that neighbourhood, you turned in at a little rusticgate. Straight in front of your eyes were very legibly written on greystone three of the finest verses of the "Elegy. " The monument itself isplain, not to say hideous, but the simple words inscribed thereon areunspeakably grand when read amongst the surroundings of "wood" and"rugged elm" and "yew-tree's shade, " unchanged as they are after thelapse of a century and a half. The place, and more especially the lane, is a fitting abode for the spirit of the poet. One could almost hear thesong of him who, "being dead, yet speaketh":

 "And the birds in the sunshine above Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. "

 LONGFELLOW. 

Gray is a poet for whom, in common with most Englishmen, the presentwriter has a sincere respect. It has been said, however, of the "Elegy"by one critic that the subject of the poem gives it an unmeritedpopularity, and by another--and that quite recently--that it is the"high-water mark of mediocrity. " Although Gray's own modest dictum wasthe foundation of the first of these harsh criticisms, we are unable toallow the truth of the one and must strongly protest against the other. It has been reported that Wolfe, the celebrated general, after recitingthe "Elegy" on the eve of the assault on Quebec, declared that he wouldsooner have written such a poem than win a victory over the French. Thiswas nearly a century and a half ago. Yet after so long a lapse of timethe verses still retain their hold on the minds of all classes. In spiteof the fact that Matthew Arnold and other admirers have declared thatthe "Elegy" was not Gray's masterpiece, yet it was this poem thatbrought a man who accomplished but a small amount of work into suchlasting fame. From beginning to end, as Professor Raleigh says ofMilton's work, the "Elegy" "is crowded with examples of felicitous andexquisite meaning given to the infallible word. " Was ever a poem morefrequently quoted or so universally plagiarised? In writing or speakingabout the country and its inhabitants, if we would express ourselves asconcisely as we possibly can, we are bound to quote the "Elegy"; it isinvariably the shortest road to a terse expression of our meaning. Whocan improve on "Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, " or "Theshort and simple annals of the poor"? If Gray's "Elegy" is but "a mosaicof the felicities" of those who went before, let it be remembered thathad he not laboriously pieced together that mosaic, these "felicities"would have been a sealed book to the majority of Englishmen. Not one manin a hundred now reads some of the authors from which they were culled. And as Landor said of Shakespeare, "He is more original than hisoriginals. " Even that strange individual, Samuel Johnson, who wasaccustomed whenever Gray's poetry was mentioned either to "crab" itdirectly or "damn it with faint praise, " towards the end of his careeradmitted in his "Lives of the Poets" that "the churchyard abounds withimages which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to whichevery bosom returns an echo. " But the chief value of the work seemsreally to lie in this: it has dignified the rural scenes and the honestrustics of England. It has invested every hoary-headed swain, every busyhousewife, and every little churchyard in the country with a specialdignity and a lasting charm. The traveller cannot look upon these scenesand faces without unconsciously connecting them with the lines he knowsso well. Gray's "Elegy" will never be forgotten; for it has struck itsroots deep in the national language and far down into thenational heart. 

Very similar to the quiet and leafy lane at Stoke Poges is the brookbelow the waterfall at A---- in the Cotswolds. On your left as you lookup stream from the bridge of the "pill, " a moss-grown gravel path runsalongside the water under a hanging wood of leafy elms andsmooth-trunked beech trees, where the ringdoves coo all day. A tangledhedge filled with tall timber trees runs up the right-hand bank. Herethe great convolvulus, queen of wild flowers, twists her bines among thehedge; the bell-shaped flowers are conspicuous everywhere, large andlily-white as the arum, so luxuriant is the growth of wild flowers bythe brook-side. 

A silver stream is the Coln hereabouts, the abode of fairies and fawns, and nymphs and dryads. But when the afternoon sun shines upon it, itbecomes a stream of diamonds set in banks of emeralds, with an archedand groined roof of jasper, carved with foliations of graceful ash andwillow, and over all a sky of sapphire sprinkled with clouds of pearland opal. Later on towards evening there will be floods of golden lighton the grass and on the beech trees up the eastern slope of the valleyand on the bare red earth under the trees, red with fifty years' beechnuts. And later still, when the distant hills are dyed as if witharchil, the sapphire sky will be striped with bars of gold and dottedwith coals of fire; rubies and garnets, sardonyx and chrysolite will allbe there, and the bluish green of beryl, the western sky as varied asfelspar and changing colour as quickly as the chameleon. And as the daydeclines the last beams of the setting sun will find their way throughthe tracery of foliage that overhangs the brook, and the waters will betinged with a rosy glow, even as in some ancestral hall or Gothiccathedral the sun at eventide pours through the blazoned windows andfloods the interior with rays of soft, mysterious, coloured light. 

I have been trying to describe one of the loveliest bits of miniaturescenery on earth; yet how commonplace it all reads! Not a thousandthpart of the beauty of this spot at sunset is here set down, yet littlemore can be said. How bitter to think that the true beauty of the trees, the path by the brook, and the sunlight on the water cannot be passed onfor others to enjoy, cannot be stamped on paper, but must be seen to berealised! Truly, as Richard Jefferies says somewhere, there is a layerof thought in the human brain for which there are no words in anylanguage. We cannot express a thousandth part of the beauty of the woodsand the stream; we can but dimly feel it when we see it with our eyes. 

Below the "pill"--for we have been gazing up stream--some sheep arelying under a gnarled willow on the left bank; some are nibbling at thelichen and moss on the trunk, others are standing about in pretty groupsof three and four. One of them has just had a ducking. Trying to get adrink of water, he overbalanced himself and fell in. He walks aboutshaking himself, and doubtless feels very uncomfortable. Sheep do notcare much for bathing in cold water. You have only to see thesheep-washing in the spring to realise how they dislike it. There is aplace higher up the stream called the Washpool, where every day in Mayyou can watch the men bundling the poor old sheep into the water, oneafter the other, and dipping them well, to free the wool from insects ofall kinds. And how the trout enjoy the ticks that come from theirthickly matted coats! One poor sheep is hopping about on the cricketfield dead lame. Perhaps that leg he drags behind is broken! Why doesnot the farmer kill the poor brute? There is much misery of this kindcaused in country places by the thoughtlessness of farmers. How much hasyet to be learnt by the very men who love to describe the labourers as"them 'ere ignorant lower classes"! Alas! that these things can happenamong the green fields and spreading elms and the heavenly sunshine ofsummer days! We should have more moral courage, and do as Carlyle bidsus in his old solemn way: "But above all, where thou findest Ignorance, Stupidity, Brute-mindedness, attack it, I say; smite it, wisely, unwearily, and rest not while thou livest and it lives; but smite, smitein the name of God. The Highest God, as I understand it, does audibly socommand thee, still audibly if thou hast ears to hear. "

On the cricket pitch, a bare hundred yards away from the river bank, isa plentiful crop of dandelions, crow's-foot, clover, and, worst of all, enormous plantains. A gravel soil is very favourable to plantains, forstones work up and the grass dies. The dreadful plantain seems to thriveanywhere and everywhere, and on bare spots where grass cannot live heimmediately appears. Rabbits have been making holes all over the pitch, and red spikes of sorrel, wonderfully rich and varied in colour, riseeverywhere at the lower end of the field towards the river. The cricketground has been somewhat neglected of late. 

There is a great elm tree down close to the ground--the only tree thatthe winter gales had left to shade us on hot summer days. It came downsuddenly, without the slightest warning; and underneath it that mostcareless of all keepers, Tom Peregrine, had left the largemowing-machine and the roller. So careless are some of theseGloucestershire folk that sooner than do as I had ordered and put themowing-machine in the barn hard by, they must leave it in the open airand under this ill-fated tree. Down came my last beloved elm, smashingthe mowing-machine and putting an end to all thoughts of cricket herethis summer. It will be ages before the village carpenter will come withhis timber cart and draw the tree away. A Gloucestershire man cannot doa job like this in under two years; they are always so busy, you see, inGloucestershire--never a moment to spare to get anything done!

There was a time when the chief delight of summer lay in playingcricket. What ecstasy it was to be well set and scoring fast on thehard-baked ground (the harder the better), cutting to the boundary whenthe ball pitched short on the off, and driving her hard along the groundwhen they pitched one up! What could surpass the joy of scoring acentury in those long summer days? Now we would as soon spend theholidays in the woods and by the busy trout stream, reading and takingnote of the trees and the birds and the rippling of the waters as theyflow onwards, ever onwards, towards the sea. There comes a time to allmen, sooner or later, when we say to ourselves, _Cui bono?_ In a fewshort years I shall no longer be able to hit the ball so hard, and inthe "field" I am already becoming a trifle slow. Then do we take toourselves pursuits that we can follow until the limbs are stiffened withage and the hair is white as snow. 

Having spent the best years of life in the pursuit of pleasures that, however engrossing, nevertheless bore no real and lasting fruit, wefinally fall back on interests that will last a lifetime, perhaps aneternity--for who knows how much of knowledge we shall take with us toanother world? Aristotle was not far wrong when he described earthlyhappiness as a life of contemplation, with a moderate equipment ofexternal good fortune and prosperity. There is no book so well worthy tobe studied as the book of nature, no melodies like those of the fieldand fallow, wood and wold, and the still small voice of the busy streamslabouring patiently onwards day by day. 

In the fields beyond the river haymakers are busy with the second crop. Down to the ford comes a great yellow hay-cart, drawn by two stronghorses, tandem fashion. One small boy alone is leading the big horses. Arriving at the ford, he jumps on to the leader's back and rides himthrough. The horses strain and "scaut, " and the cart bumps over the deepruts, nearly upsetting. Luckily there is no accident. So much isentrusted to these little farm lads of scarce fifteen years of age it isa wonder they do the work so well. From the tops of the firs comes thesound of pigeons winging their way from the "grove" to the "conygers"(the latter word means the "place of rabbits"; there are lots of woodsso called in Gloucestershire). It is a curious piping sound thatwood-pigeons make, and, not seeing the birds, you might think it camefrom the throat instead of the wings. One day two of us were looking ata wood-pigeon flying over, when we observed something drop from theskies and fall into the stream. On going up we saw that it was an eggshe had dropped. There it lay at the bottom of the brook, apparentlyunbroken by the fall. Floating on the soft south wind, a heron fliesover so quietly that unless he had given one of his characteristiccroaks it was a hundred to one you did not see him pass. Many a heronand wild duck must pass over us unobserved on windy days. It is sodifficult to observe when you are thinking. A man absorbed in reveriecannot see half the things that many country folk with less activebrains never fail to observe. When we find people who live in thecountry unversed in the ways of birds, the knowledge of flowers andtrees, and the habits of the simple country folk, we need notnecessarily conclude that they are dull and empty-headed; the reverse isoften the case. A man absorbed in business or serious affairs may lovethe country and yet know little of its real life. A good deal of timemust be spent in acquiring this kind of knowledge, and it is noteverybody who has the time or the opportunity to do it. If we comeacross a man with plenty of leisure, yet knowing nothing of what isgoing on around him, we may then perhaps have cause to complain ofhis dulness. 

Mr. Aubrey De Vere relates an amusing story about Sir William RowanHamilton which exactly illustrates my meaning: "When he had soared intoa high region of speculative thought he took no note of objects closeby. A few days after our first meeting we walked together on a road, apart of which was overflowed by a river at its side. Our theme was thetranscendental philosophy, of which he was a great admirer. I felt surethat he would not observe the flood, and made no remark on it. We walkedstraight on till the water was half way up to our knees. At last heexclaimed, 'What's this? We seem to be walking through a river. Had wenot better return to the dry land?'"

There is a spot in the woods by the River Coln that is almost untroddenby man. It is the favourite resort of foxes. Nobody but myself and theearth-stopper has been there for years and years, save that when thehounds come the huntsman rides through and cheers the pack. It is in theconyger wood. No path leads through its quiet recesses, where ash andelm and larch and spruce, mostly self-sown, are mingled together, with athick growth of elder spread beneath them. It was here, in an ancient, disused quarry, that the keeper pointed out not long since the secretdwelling-house of the kingfishers. A small crevice in the limestonerock, from which a disagreeable smell of dried fish bones issued forth, formed the outer entrance to the nest. One could not see the delicatestructure itself, for it appeared to be several feet within the rock. Amass of powdered fish bones and the pungent odour from within were allthe outward signs of the inner nest. By standing on a jutting ledge ofthe soft cretaceous rock, and holding on by another ledge, whichappeared not unlikely to come down and crush you, one could peep intothe hole and comfort oneself with the thought that one was nearer akingfisher's nest than is usually vouchsafed to mortal man. It would beeasy to get ladder and pickaxe and break open the rock until the nestwas reached, but why disturb these lovely birds? They have built hereyear by year for centuries; even now some of this year's brood may beseen among the willows by the back brook. 

From this quarry was dug in the year 1590 the stone to build the oldmanor house yonder. A few miles away toward Burford is the quarry fromwhich men say Christopher Wren brought some of the stone to raise St. Paul's Cathedral. Yet the local people do not care a bit for thisbeautiful freestone of the Cotswold Hills. They want to bring granitefrom afar for their village crosses, and ugly blue slates for the roofsof the houses. At a parish council meeting the other day it wasseriously proposed to erect a "Jubilee Hall" of _red_ brick in ourvillage. Anything for a change, you see; these people would not bemortal if they did not love a change. The pure grey limestone iscommonplace hereabouts; I have actually heard it said that it will notlast. Yet in every village stand the old Norman churches, built entirelyof local stone, walls and roof; and many an old manor house as well liesin our midst, as good as it was three hundred years ago. To me, thislimestone of the hills is one of the most beautiful features of theCotswold country. I love to stand in a limestone quarry and mark thelayers and ponderous blocks of clean white virgin rock--a tiny cleft in"the great stone floor which stretches over the face of the earth andunder the limitless expanse of the sea. " That solid cretaceous mass isbut the remnants of the countless inhabitants of the old seas, --lifechanged into solid, hard rock; and even now, as the green grass and thesweet sainfoin spring up on the surface, feeding the flocks and herdsthat will soon in their turn feed mankind, earth is turning back againinto life. Thus onwards in an endless cycle, even as the earth goesround, and the waters return to the place from whence they came, doesnature's work go on; and when we consider these things, eternity andinfinity lose part of their strangeness. Does it seem strange when welook upon this glorious country?--in May a sea of golden buttercups, insummer a sea of waving grass, and in the autumn a sea of golden corn;once it was a sea of salt water. And these great rounded banks, thesehills and valleys, these billowy wolds, --could they but speak to usmight tell strange things of the passing of the waters and of theinhabitants of the old ocean ages and ages ago; the mystery of the seawould be sung in every vale and echoed back by every rolling down. 

A very wonderful matter it certainly is that the stone in which thewhole history of the country-side is writ, not only in rolling downs andlimestone streams, but even in church, tithe-barn, farm, and cottage, aswell as in the walls and the roads and the very dust that blows uponthem, should be nothing more nor less than a mass of dead animals thatlived generation after generation, thousands of years ago, at the bottomof the sea. 

There is silence in the woods--the drowsy silence of summer. Most ofthe birds have gone to the cornfields. An ash copse is never so full ofbirds as the denser woodlands, where the oaks grow stronger on a stiffclay soil. Here are no laughing yaffels, no cruel, murderous shrikes, and very few song-birds. Still, there are always the pigeons and thecushats, the wicked magpies and the screaming "jaypies, " as the localpeople call the jays. Then, too, there are the birds down among thewatercress and the brooklime in the clear pool below the spring, moorhens occasionally awakening the echoes by running down a weirdchromatic scale or calling with their loud and mellow note to theirfriends and relations over at the brook; here, too, the softer croak ofthe mallard and the wild duck is also heard. A hawk, chasing somesmaller bird, is darting and hovering over the tops of the firs, but, catching a glimpse of me, disappears from sight. Presently a littlebird, with an eye keener even than the cruel hawk's, comes out from thehazels and perches on a post some ten yards away. It is a fly-catcher. As he sits he turns his eyes in every direction, on the look-out fordainty insects. He seems to have eyes at the back of his head, forinstantly he sees a fly in the air right behind him, makes a dash, catches it, and flies on to the next post. He repeats the performancethere, then once more changes his ground. When he has made anothersuccessful raid, he returns to his first post, always hunting in achosen circuit, and always catching flies. He was here yesterday, andwill be here again to-morrow. When you try to approach him, however, heflies away and hides himself in the firs. 

If there are not many birds in the woods just now, still, there isalways the beauty of the trees. How marvellous is the symmetry of formand colouring in the trunk and branches of a big ash tree! If you putmercury into a solution of nitrate of silver, and leave them for a fewdays to combine, the result will be a precipitation of silver in alovely arborescent form, the _arbor Dianae_, beautiful beyonddescription. Such are my favourite ash trees when the summer sunshinesparkles on them. It is their bare, silvered trunks that give thespecial charm to these hanging woods. They stand out from dark recessesfilled with alder and beech and ivy-mantled firs, rising in bold butgraceful outline; columns of silver, touched here and there with the sadgold and green shades of lichen and moss. The moss that mingles withgolden lichens is of a soft, velvety hue, like a mantle of half draperyon a beautiful white statue. And, oddly enough, though ferns do not growon the limestone soil of the Cotswolds, yet on the first story so tospeak of every big ash tree by the river, as well as on the pollardwillows, there is a beautiful little fernery springing up out of themoss and lichen, which seems to thrive most when the lichen thrives--inthe winter rather than in the summer. Then, too, the foliage of allkinds of trees and shrubs is not only different in form, but theminutest serrations vary; so that the leaves of two kinds of trees areno more alike than any two human faces are alike. The elm leaves arerough to the touch, like sandpaper, and their edges are clearlyserrated; those of the beeches are smooth as parchment, and though theedges appear at first sight to be almost clean cut, they have veryslight serrations, as if nature had rounded them with a blunt knife. Thelobed ivy leaves are likewise highly polished, and they have sharp, pointed tips. The leaves of the common stinging-nettle ("'ettles" thelabourers call them) have deep indents all round them. A great dockleaf, in which the chives have a strange resemblance to the arteries inthe human frame, has small shallow indents all round it. Hazels arerough and almost round in form, save for a pointed tip at the end; theyhave ragged edges and ill-defined serrations. Everybody knows thesycamore from its five lobed leaves; and the chestnuts and oaks are, again, as different as possible. These are only a few instances; onemight go on for a long time showing the endless variations of formin foliage. 

Then there is the remarkable difference in colour and shade; not onlyare there a dozen different greens in one wood, but in one and the samebeech you may see a marked contrast in the tone of its leaves. For aboutmidsummer some trees put forth a second growth of foliage, so that thereis the vivid yellow tint of the fresh shoots and the dark olive of theolder leaves on one and the same branch. Of the rich autumnal shades Iam not speaking; they would require a chapter to themselves. 

There are other things to be noted in the woods besides the trees andthe birds: lots of rabbits and squirrels, not to mention an occasionalhedgehog. Squirrels are the most delightful of all the furred denizensof the woods. Running up the trees, with their long brushes straight outbehind, they are not unlike miniature foxes. The slenderness of thetwigs on which they manage to find support is one of the greatestwonders of the woods. The harmless hedgehog, as everybody is aware, rolls himself up into a lifeless ball of bristles on being disturbed. Bystaying quietly by him and addressing him in an encouraging tone, Ilately induced a very large hedgehog to unroll himself and creep slowlyalong close to my feet. 

It is very extraordinary how all wild animals, especially when young, can be won by kindness. I once came across a young hedgehog aboutthree-parts grown; he was running about on the grass in front of thehouse in broad daylight, and kept poking his little nose into the earthsearching for emmets and grubs. I made friends with him, dug him up someworms, and in less than half an hour he became as tame as possible. TomPeregrine, the keeper, stood by and roared with laughter at his antics, saying he had never seen such a "comical job" in all his life. And itreally was a curious sight. The hedgehog, with the merriest twinkle inhis eyes, would take the worms out of my hand; and when I dangled themfive or six inches off the ground, he would rear up on his hindlegs andsnatch and grab until he secured them. Then he would sit up and scratchhimself like a dog. He would allow me to take him up in my hands andstroke him, and yet not retire into his bristly shell. He ate a dozenworms and a bumble-bee straight off the reel, and then with all thegluttony of the pig tribe he went searching about for more food. Inoticed that he ate the grass, in the same way as dogs do, for medicinalpurposes. We put him into a large box with some hay in it, and as hestill seemed hungry that evening, we gave him a couple of cockchafersfrom the kitchen, which he appeared to relish mightily. The littlefellow was as happy as a king, crying and squeaking whenever we went tolook at him, and hunting round the box for food. But, alas! we hadoverfed him. To our intense regret he died the next day from acuteindigestion. 

There are but few snakes or vipers in the district of which I amwriting. But quite recently a man found a large trout about eighteeninches in length lying dead in the Coln, and protruding from the mouthof the fish was a large snake, also dead. The snake must have beenswimming in the water (as they are known to do occasionally), and thetrout being in a backwater, where food was scarce, must have seized thesnake and choked himself in his efforts to bolt it This was a remarkableoccurrence, because a Coln trout is most particular as to his bill offare, and snakes are certainly not usually included in the list. Thereis such a plentiful supply of larvae, caddis, "stone-loach, " fresh-watershrimps, crayfish, and other crustaceans, to say nothing of flies, minnows, and small fry, that a trout would very seldom attack a snake. Alarge lobworm, however, as every one knows, is a very attractive baitfor any kind of fresh-water fish except pike. 

Stoats with reddish-brown backs and yellow bellies may often be seenhunting the rabbits, and the little weasels may sometimes be drawn outof their holes in the walls if one makes a squeaking noise with thelips. Stoats usually hunt singly, weasels in packs and pairs. 

But we must leave the woods, for the evening shadows are lengthening andthe "golden evening brightens in the west. " It is time to go up to thecornfields on the hill and see the sun set. I have said that there is nopath through this wood; it is sacred to foxes. They are not here now, however; they will not be back till all the corn is cut. The wheatfieldsare their summer quarters. 

It is no easy matter to get out of a tangled wood in August. Thestinging-nettles are seven feet high in places; we must hold our handshigh above our heads and plough our way through them. When we finallyemerge we are covered from head to foot with large prickly burrs fromthe seeding burdocks, as well as with the small round burrs of thegoose-grass. Then

 "On and up where nature's heart Beats strong amid the hills. "

As we pass onwards over the cornfields towards a piece of high groundfrom which it is our wont to watch the sun set, a silvery half-moonpeeps out between the clouds. In the north-west the range of limestonehills is already tinged with purple. In the highest heaven are bars ofdistant cloud, so motionless that they appear to be sailing slowlyagainst the wind. Lower down, dusky, smoke-like clouds, tinged here andthere with a rosy hue, are flying rapidly onwards, ever onwards, in thesky. Later on the higher clouds will turn deep red, whilst brighter andbrighter will glow the moon. 

Yonder, twenty-five miles away, the old White Horse is just visible uponthe distant chalk downs. Overhead the sky has the deep blue of mazarine, but westwards and south-west the colour is light olive green, graduallychanging to an intensely bright yellow. Heavy banks of clouds are slowlyrising in the south-west; the bleating of sheep at the ancient homesteadhalf a mile away is the only sound to be heard. As the sun goes downto-night it resembles a great ship on fire amidst the breakers on arockbound coast; for the western sky is dashed with fleecy clouds, likethe spray that beats against the chalk cliffs on the shore of the mightyAtlantic; and amid the last plunges of the doomed vessel the spray istinged redder and redder, ere with her human cargo she disappears amidthe surf. But no sooner has she sunk into the abyss than the foam andthe fierce breakers die away, and a wondrous calm broods over allthings. In twenty minutes' time nothing is left in the western sky but atiny bar of golden cloud that cannot yet quite die away, reminding me, as I still thought about the burning ship and her ill-fated crew, of

 "the golden key Which opes the palace of Eternity. "

But eastwards, above the old legendary White Horse, the "Empress of theNight, " serene and proudly pale, is driving her car across thedarkening skies. 

[Illustration: Ablington Manor 399. Png]

CHAPTER XVII. 

AUTUMN. 

I. 

It is in the autumn that life in an old manor house on the Cotswolds hasits greatest charm; for one of the chief characteristics of a house inthe depths of the country surrounded by a broad manor is the game. Thewhole atmosphere of such a place savours of rabbits and hares andpartridges. There may be no pheasant-rearing and comparatively littlegame of any kind, yet the place is, nevertheless, associated with sportwith the gun. Ten to one there are guns, old and new, hanging up in thehall or the smoking-room, and perhaps fishing-rods too. There is a bondbetween the house and the fields around, and the connecting link is thegame. Time was when the squire in these English villages lived on theproduce of the estate: game, fish, and fowl, and the stock at the farmsupplied his simple wants throughout the year. Huge game larders are yetto be seen in the lower regions of the manor house; you must passthrough them to reach the still more ample wine cellars. Nearer Londonthere is not much connection nowadays between the house and theland--you must walk on the roads; but away in the country it is over thebroad fields that you roam. Even on a small manor of two thousand acresyou may walk a dozen miles in an afternoon and not pass theboundary fence. 

It is very surprising that there is not more demand for country housesin England when one considers that an extensive demesne may be rented ata price which is paid for a small flat in unfashionable Kensington. Thelocal term in Gloucestershire for renting a manor is "holding theliberty"--the old Saxon word. The term is singularly expressive of thefreedom possessed by the man who exchanges the life of the town or thevilla for a manor in one of the remote counties. He who enjoys thesporting rights, with license (as the leases run) to hunt, fish, course, hawk, or sport without the labour and loss of farming the land, possesses all the pleasures of the squire's existence with few of itsdrawbacks and responsibilities. Yet many a fine old house in the countryremains unlet because the life is considered a dull one by those whohave not been brought up to it. With nature's book spread so amplybefore our eyes, the country is never dull. At no time of life is it toolate to commence the study of this book of nature. The faculty ofobservation is one that is easily acquired. It is not a case of_nascitur non fit_. With tolerably good eyesight and a determination tolearn, a man soon

 "Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. "

And the habit of observing once acquired, we can never lose it till wedie. 

Of course those who rent a place in preference to purchasing it miss oneof the greatest and most useful privileges the country can confer--thatof following in the footsteps of him who

 "Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his homelier brother man, Served the poor and built the cottage, rais'd the school and drained the fen. "

These are the true delights of a country existence; and it is, I think, incumbent on the really rich men of England, if they have the welfare ofthe nation at heart, to hold a stake, however small, in the land, evenat a sacrifice of income. I refer to men with incomes ranging from tento a hundred thousand pounds per annum, who would not feel the loss ofinterest that would possibly accrue on an exchange of investment from"the elegant simplicity of the three per cents. " to an agriculturalestate in the country. They may be giving gold for silver in thetransaction, but will be amply repaid in a thousand different ways. Howinfinitely preferable the existence of the poor countryman, even thoughtimes be hard, to that of the misguided being of whom it may be said:

 "Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends-- An incarnation of fat dividends "!

 C. SPRAGUE. 

It is probable that the bicycle will cause a larger demand for remotecountry houses. To the writer, who, previous to this summer, had neverexperienced the poetry of motion which a bicycle coasting downhill, witha smooth road and a favourable wind, undoubtedly constitutes, theinvention seems of the greatest utility. It brings places sixty milesapart within our immediate neighbourhood. Let the south wind blow, andwe can be at quaint old Tewkesbury, thirty miles away, in less thanthree hours. A northerly gale will land us at the "Blowing-stone" andthe old White House of Berkshire with less labour than it takes to walka mile. Yet in the old days these twenty miles were a great gulf fixedbetween the Gloucestershire natives and the "chaw-bacons" over theboundary. Their very language is as different as possible. To this daythe villagers who went to the last "scouring of the horse" and saw theold-fashioned backsword play, talk of the expedition with as much prideas if they had made a pilgrimage to the Antipodes. 

As September draws nigh and the days rapidly shorten, the merry hum ofthe thrashing machine is heard all day long. The sound comes from thehomestead across the road, and buzzes in my ears as I sit and write bythe open window. How wonderful the evolution of the thrashing machine!How rough-and-ready the primitive methods of our forefathers! First ofall there was the Eastern method of spreading the sheaves on a floor ofclay, and allowing horses and oxen to trample on the wheat and tread outthe corn. Not less ancient was the use of the old-fashioned flail--aninstrument only discarded within the memory of living man. Yet what awonderful difference there is between the work accomplished in a daywith the flails and the daily output of the modern thrashing machine!

In the porch of the manor house, amid an accumulation of old traps andother curious odds and ends there hangs an ancient and much-worn flail. Two stout sticks, the handstaff and the swingle, attached to each otherby a strong band of gut, constitute its simple mechanism. The wheathaving been strewn on the barn floor, the labourer held the handstaff inboth hands, swung it over his head, and brought the swingle downhorizontally on to the heads of ripe corn. Contrast this fearfullylaborious process with the bustling, hurrying machine of to-day. And yetwith all this improvement the corn can scarcely be thrashed out at aprofit. So out of joint are the times and seasons that the foreigner isallowed to cut out the home producer. Half the life of the country-sidehas gone, and no man dare whisper "Protection. "

Even in these bad times the man with a head on his shoulders above theaverage of his neighbours comes forth to show what can be done withenergy and pluck. Twenty years ago a labouring man, who "by crook or byhook" had saved a hundred pounds, bought a thrashing machine (probablysecond-hand) He took it round to the various farms, and did thethrashing at so much per day. By and by he had saved enough money totake a farm. A few years later he had two thrashing machines travellingthe country, and in this poor district is now esteemed a wealthy man. Ialways found him an excellent game-preserver and a most straightforwardfellow. Another farming neighbour of mine, however, was always talkingabout his ignorance and lack of caste. All classes, from the peer to thepeasant, seem to resent a man's pushing his way from what they arepleased to consider a lower station into their own. 

In the autumn gipsies are to be seen travelling the roads, or sittinground the camp fire, on their way to the various "feasts" or harvestfestivals. "Have you got the old gipsy blood in your veins?" I asked theother day of a gang I met on their way to Quenington feast "Alwaysgipsies, ever since we can remember, " was the reply. Fathers, grandfathers were just the same, --always living in the open air, winterand summer, and always moving about with the vans. In the winter hawkingis their occupation. "Oh no! they never felt the cold in winter; theycould light the fire in the van if they wanted it. "

Although many of the farmers here have given up treating their men to aspread after the harvest is gathered in, there is still a certain amountof rejoicing. The villagers have a little money over from extra payduring the harvest, so that the gipsies do not do badly by going theround of the villages at this time. The village churches are decoratedin a very delightful manner for these feasts: such huge apples, carrots, and turnips in the windows and strewn about in odd places; lots ofgolden barley all round the pulpit and the font; and perhaps there willbe bunches of grapes, such as grow wild on the cottage walls, hung roundthe pulpit. Then what could look prettier against the white carved stonethan the russet and gold leaves of the Virginia creeper? and these theyfreely use in the decorations. If one wants to see good taste displayedin these days, one must go to simple country places to find it. AtChristmas the old Gothic fane is hung with festoons of ivy and of yew inthe old fashion of our forefathers. 

I paid a visit to my old friend John Brown the other day, as I thoughthe would be able to tell me something about the harvest feasts of bygonedays. He is a dear old man of some seventy-eight summers, thoughsomewhat of the _laudator temporis acti_ school; but what good-natureand sense of humour there is in the good, honest face!

"Fifty year ago 'twere all mirth and jollity, " he replied to our enquiryas to the old times. "There was four feasts in the year for us folk. First of all there was the sower's feast, --that would be about the endof April; then came the sheep-shearer's feast, --there'd be about fifteenof us as would sit down after sheep-shearing, and we'd be singing bestpart of the night, and plenty to eat and drink; next came the feast forthe reapers, when the corn was cut about August; and, last of all, theharvest home in September. Ah! those were good times fifty years ago. Myfather and I have rented this cottage eighty-six years come Michaelmas;and my father's grandfather lived in that 'ere housen, up that 'tuer'there, nigh on a hundred years afore that. I planted them ash trees inthe grove, and I mind when those firs was put in, near seventy yearsago. Ah! there _was_ some foxes about in those days; trout, too, in the'bruk'--it were full of them. You'll have very few 'lets' for huntingthis season; 'twill be a mild time again. Last night were Hollandtideeve, and where the wind is at Hollandtide there it will stick best partof the winter. I've minded it every year, and never was wrong yet Thewind is south-west to-day, and you'll have no 'lets' for huntingthis time. "

"Lets" appear to be hindrances to hunting in the shape of frosts. It isan Anglo-Saxon word, seldom used nowadays, though it is found in thedictionary; and our English Prayer Book has the words "we are sore letand hindered in running the race, " etc. Shakespeare too employs it tosignify a "check" with the hounds. 

As I left, and thanked John Brown for his information, he handed me alittle bit of paper, whereon was written: "to John Brown 1 day mindingthe edge at the picked cloos 2s three days doto, " etc. I found that thiswas his little account for mending the hedge at the "picket close. "

A fine stamp of humanity is the Cotswold labourer; and may his shadownever grow less. 

 "Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed can never be supplied. "

Fresh and health-giving is the breeze on the wolds in autumn, like thedriest and oldest iced champagne. In the rough grass fields tough, wirybents, thistles with purple flowers, and the remnants of oxeye daisieson brittle stalks rise almost to the height of your knees. Lovely bluebell-flowers grow in patches; golden ragwort, two sorts of fieldscabious, yellow toad-flax, and occasionally some white campion remainalmost into winter. Where the grass is shorter masses of shrivelled wildthyme may be seen. The charlock brightens the landscape with its mass ofcolour among the turnips until the end of November, if the season befairly mild. But the hedges and trees are the glory of "the happy autumnfields. " The traveller's joy gleams in the September sunlight as thefeathery awns lengthen on its seed vessels. What could be morebeautiful! Later on it becomes the "old man's beard, " and the hedgeswill be white with the snowy down right up to Christmas, until thewinter frosts have once more scattered the seeds along the hedgerow. Ofa rich russet tint are the maple leaves in every copse and fence. On theblackthorn hang the purple sloeberries, like small damsons, luscious andcovered with bloom. Tart are they to the taste, like the crab-appleswhich abound in the hedges. These fruits are picked by the poor peopleand made into wine. Crab-apples may be seen on the trees as late asJanuary. Blackberries are found in extraordinary numbers on thislimestone soil, and the hedges are full of elder-berries, as well as thelittle black fruit of the privet. Add to these the red berries of thehawthorn or the may, the hips and haws, the brown nuts and the succulentberries of the yew, and we have an extraordinary variety of fruits andbird food. Woodbine or wild honeysuckle may often be picked duringOctober as well as in the spring. By the river the trout grow darker andmore lanky day by day as the nights lengthen. The water is very, veryclear. "You might as well throw your 'at in as try to catch them, " saysTom Peregrine. The willows are gold as well as silver now, for some ofthe leaves have turned; while others still show white downy backs whenthe breeze ruffles them. In the garden by the brook-side the tallwillow-herbs are seeding; the pods are bursting, and the gossamer-like, grey down--the "silver mist" of Tennyson--is conspicuous all along thebrook. The water-mint and scorpion-grasses remain far into November, andthe former scents more sweetly as the season wanes. But

 "Heavily hangs the broad sunflower, Over its grave in the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock; Heavily hangs the tiger lily. "

An old wild duck that left the garden last spring to rear her progeny ina more secluded spot half a mile up stream has returned to us. Everymorning her ten young ones pitch down into the water in front of thehouse, and remain until they are disturbed; then, with loud quacks andtumultuous flappings, they rise in a long string and fly right away forseveral miles, often returning at nightfall. Such wild birds are farmore interesting as occasional visitors to your garden than the fancyfowl of strange shape and colouring often to be seen on ornamentalwater. A teal came during the autumn of 1897 to the sanctuary in frontof the house, attracted by the decoys; she stayed six weeks with us, taking daily exercise in the skies at an immense height, and circlinground and round. Unfortunately, when the weeds were cut, she left us, never to return. 

By the end of October almost all our summer birds have left us. First ofall, in August, went the cuckoo, seeking a winter resort in the north ofAfrica. The swifts were the next to go. After a brief stay of scarcethree months they disappeared as suddenly in August as they came in May. The long-tailed swallows and the white-throated martins were with us forsix months, but about the middle of October they were no more seen. Allhave gone southwards towards the Afric shore, seeking warmth and days ofendless sunshine. Gone, too, the blackcap, the redstart, and the littlefly-catcher; vanishing in the dark night, they gathered in legions andsped across the seas. One night towards the end of September, whilstwalking in the road, I heard such a loud, rushing sound in front, beyonda turning of the lane, that I imagined a thrashing machine was cominground the corner among the big elm trees. But on approaching the spot, Ifound the noise was nothing more nor less than the chattering andclattering of an immense concourse of starlings. The roar of their wingswhen they were disturbed in the trees could be heard half a mile away. Although a few starlings remain round the eaves of the houses throughoutthe winter, vast flocks of them assemble at this time in the fields, andsome doubtless travel southwards and westwards in search of warmerquarters. The other evening a large flock of lapwings, or common plover, gave a very fine display--a sort of serpentine dance to the tune of thesetting sun, all for my edification. They could not quite make up theirminds to settle on a brown ploughed field. No sooner had they touchedthe ground than they would rise again with shrill cries, flash here andflash there, faster and faster, but all in perfect time and all inperfect order--now flying in long drawn out lines, now in battalions;bowing here, bowing there; now they would "right about turn" and curtseyto the sun. A thousand trained ballet dancer; could not have been inbetter time. It was as if all joined hands, dressed in green and white;for at every turn a thousand white breasts gleamed in the purple sunset. The restless call of the birds added a peculiar charm to the scene inthe darkening twilight. 

Of our winter visitants that come to take the place of the summermigrants the fieldfare is the commonest and most familiar. Ere the leafis off the ash and the beeches are tinged with russet and gold, flocksof these handsome birds leave their homes in the ice-bound north, andfly southwards to England and the sunny shores of France. Such a_rara avis_ as the grey phalarope--a wading bird like thesandpiper--occasionally finds its way to the Cotswolds. Wild geese, curlews, and wimbrels with sharp, snipe-like beaks, are shotoccasionally by the farmers. A few woodcocks, snipe, and wildfowl alsovisit us. In the winter the short-eared owls come; they are rarer thantheir long-eared relatives, who stay with us all the year. The commonbarn owl, of a white, creamy colour, is the screech owl that we hear onsummer nights. Brown owls are the ones that hoot; they do not screech. 

Curiously enough I missed the corncrake's well-known call in the meadowsby the river in the springtime of 1897; and not one was bagged inSeptember by the partridge-shooters. This is the first year they havebeen absent. I always looked for their pleasing croak in May by thetrout stream, and invariably shot several while partridge-shooting informer years. 

The earthquake of 1895 was very severely felt in the Cotswolds. Next toan earthquake a bad thunderstorm is the most awe inspiring of all thingsto mortals. During last autumn the Cotswold district was visited by athunderstorm of short duration, but great severity. A gale was blowingfrom the south; thunder and lightning came up from the same direction, and, travelling at an immense speed, passed rapidly over our house aboutten p. M. The shocks became louder and louder; and whilst five or six ofus were watching the lightning from a large window in the hall, therewas a deafening report as of a dozen canons exploding simultaneously atclose quarters. At the same time a flame of blue fire of intensebrilliancy seemed to fall like a meteor a few yards in front of oureyes. At first we were sure the house had been struck, so that the firstimpulse was to rush out of doors; but the succeeding report being muchless severe, confidence was restored. The general conclusion was that athunderbolt had fallen, and, missing the house by a few yards, haddisappeared in the earth. A search next morning on the lawn did notthrow any light on the matter. Probably, if there was a thunderbolt, itfell into the river; for it is well known that water is a greatconductor of the electric fluid, and thunderstorms often seem to followthe course of a stream. The summer lightning, which kept the sky in ablaze of light for two hours after the storm had passed away, was thefinest I remember. 

It is a pity mankind is so little addicted to being out of doors aftersunset. Some of the most beautiful drives and walks I have ever enjoyedhave been those taken at night. Driving out one evening fromCirencester, the road on either side was illuminated with the fairylights of countless glow-worms. It is the female insect that is usuallyresponsible for this wonderful green signal taper; the males seldom useit. Whereas the former is merely an apterous creeping grub, the latteris an insect provided with wings. Flying about at night, he is guided tohis mate by the light she puts forth; and it is a peculiarcharacteristic of the male glow-worm, that his eyes are so placed thathe is unable to view any object that is not immediately beneath him. 

It is early in summer that these wonderful lights are to be seen; Juneis the best month for observing them. During July and August glow-wormsseem to migrate to warmer quarters in sheltered banks and holes, nor istheir light visible to the eye after June is out, save on very warmevenings, and then only in a lesser degree. 

The glow-worms on this particular night were so numerous as to remindone of the fireflies in the tropics. At no place are these lovelyinsects more numerous and resplendent than at Kandy in Ceylon. Myriadsof them flit about in the cool evening atmosphere, giving the appearanceof countless meteors darting in different directions across the sky. 

In the clear Cotswold atmosphere very brilliant meteors are observableat certain seasons of the year. Never shall I forget the strange varietyof phenomena witnessed whilst driving homewards one evening in autumnfrom the railway station seven miles away. There had been a time ofstormy, unsettled weather for some weeks previously, and themeteorological conditions were in a very disturbed state. But as Istarted homewards the stars were shining brightly, whilst far away inthe western sky, beyond the rolling downs and bleak plains of theCotswold Hills, shone forth the strange, mysterious, zodiacal light, towering upwards into a point among the stars, and shaped in the form ofa cone. It was the first occasion this curious, unexplained phenomenonhad ever come under my notice, and it was awe inspiring enough initself. But before I had gone more than two miles of my solitaryjourney, great black clouds came up behind me from the south, and I knewI was racing with the storm. Then, as "the great organ of eternitybegan to play" and the ominous murmurs of distant thunder broke thesilence of the night, a stiff breeze from the south seemed to come frombehind and pass me, as if travelling quicker than my fast-trotting nag. Like a whisper from the grave it rustled in the brown, lifeless leavesthat still lingered on the trees, making me wish I was nearer the oldhouse that I knew was ready to welcome me five miles on in the littlevalley, nestling under the sheltering hill. And soon more clouds seemedto spring up suddenly, north, south, east, and west, where ten minutesbefore the sky had been clear and starry. And the sheet lightning beganto play over them with a continuous flow of silvery radiance, northanswering south, and east giving back to west the reflected glory of themighty electric fluid. But the centre of the heavens was still clear andfree from cloud, so that there yet remained a large open space infront of me, wherein the stars shone brighter than ever. And as Igazed forward and upward, and urged the willing horse into atwelve-mile-an-hour trot, the open space in the heavens revealed theglories of the finest display of fireworks I have ever seen. First ofall two or three smaller stars shot across the hemisphere anddisappeared into eternal space. But suddenly a brilliant light, like anenormous rocket, appeared in the western sky, far above the clouds. First it moved in a steady flight, hovering like a kestrel above us;then, with a flash which startled me out of my wits and brought my horseto a standstill, it rushed apparently towards us, and finallydisappeared behind the clouds. It was some time before either horse ordriver regained the nerve which had for a time forsaken them; and eventhen I was inclined to attribute this wonderful meteoric shower to adisplay of fireworks in a neighbouring village, so close to us had thislast rocket-like shooting star appeared to be. A meteor which issufficiently brilliant to frighten a horse and make him stop dead is ofrare occurrence. I was thankful when I reached home in safety that I hadnot only won my race against the storm, but that I had seen no moreatmospheric phenomena of so startling a nature. 

In addition to the wonders of the heaven there are many otherinteresting features connected with a drive or walk by the light of thestars or the moon. A Cotswold village seen by moonlight is even morepicturesque than it is by day. The old, gabled manor houses are adelightful picture on a cold, frosty night in winter; if most of therooms are lit up, they give one the idea of endless hospitality andcheerfulness when viewed from without. To walk by a stream such as theColn on such a night is for the time like being in fairyland. Every eddyand ripple is transformed into a crystal stream, sparkling with athousand diamonds. The sound of the waters as they gurgle and bubbleover the stones on the shallows seems for all the world like children'svoices plaintively repeating over and over again the old strain:

 "I chatter, chatter as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. "

Now is the time to discover the haunts of wild duck and other shy birdslike the teal and the heron. In frosty weather many of these visitorscome and go without our being any the wiser, unless we are out at night. Before sunrise they will be far, far away, and will probably neverreturn any more. Time after time we have been startled by a flight ofduck rising abruptly from the stream, in places where by day one wouldnever dream of looking for them. Foxes, too, may be seen within astone's throw of the house on a moonlight evening. They love to prowlaround on the chance of a dainty morsel, such as a fat duck or asemi-domestic moorhen. Nor will they take any notice of you at sucha time. 

I made a midnight expedition once last hunting season to see that the"earths" were properly stopped in some small coverts situated on a bleakand lonely spot on the Cotswold Hills. On the way I had to pass close toa large barrow. Weird indeed looked the old time-worn stone that hasstood for thousands of years at the end of this old burial mound. Asmall wood close by rejoices in the name of "Deadman's Acre. " The moonwas casting a ghastly light over the great moss-grown stone and thedeserted wolds. The words of Ossian rose to my lips as I wondered whatmanner of men lay buried here. "We shall pass away like a dream. Ourtombs will be lost on the heath. The hunter shall not know the place ofour rest. Give us the song of other years. Let the night pass away onthe sound, and morning return with joy. " Then, as the rustling windspoke in the lifeless leaves of the beeches, the plain seemed to bepeopled with strange phantasies--the ghosts of the heroes of old. And avoice came back to me on the whispering breeze:

 "Thou, too, must share our fate; for human life is short. Soon will thy tomb be hid, and the grass grow rank on thy grave. "

 MACPHERSON'S _Ossian_. 

And sometimes when I have been up on the hills by night, and, lookingaway over the broad vale stretched out below, have seen in the distancethe gliding lights of some Great Western express--a trustyweight-carrier bearing through the darkness its precious burden ofhumanity--I thought of the time when the old seas ran here. And thenthere seemed to come from the direction of the old White Horse andWayland Smith's cave the faint murmuring sound of the "Blowing-stone"("King Alfred's bugle-horn")--that summoner of men to arms a thousandyears ago, like the beacons of later days that "shone on Beachy Head";and I felt like a man standing at the prow of a mighty liner, "homewardbound, " on some fine though dark and starless evening, when no soundbreaks upon his ear but the monotonous beating of the screw and theceaseless flow of unfathomed waters, save that ever and anon in the fardistance the moaning foghorn sounds its note of warning; whilst as hestands "forward" and inhales the pure health-giving salt distilled frombalmy vapours that rise everlastingly from the surface of the deep, nothing is visible to the eye--straining westward for a glimpse ofwhite chalk cliffs, or eastward, perhaps, for the first peep ofdawn--save the intermittent flash from the lighthouse tower, and thesignals glowing weird and fiery that reveal in the misty darkness thosesoftly gliding phantasies, the ships that pass in the night. 

II. 

In nine years out of ten autumn lingers on until the death of the oldyear; then, with the advent of the new, our English winter beginsin earnest. 

It is Christmas Day, and so lovely is the weather that I am sitting onthe terrace watching the warm, grateful sun gradually disappearingthrough the grey ash trunks in the hanging wood beyond the river. Thebirds are singing with all the promise of an early spring. There isscarcely a breath of wind stirring, and one might almost imagine it tobe April. Tom Peregrine, clad in his best Sunday homespun, passes alonghis well-worn track through the rough grass beyond the water, intent onvisiting his vermin traps, or bent on some form of destruction, --for heis never happy unless he is killing. My old friend, the one-legged cockpheasant, who for the third year in succession has contrived to escapeour annual battue, comes up to my feet to take the bread I offer. Whenhe was flushed by the beaten there was no need to call "Spare him, " forwith all the cunning of a veteran he towered straight into the skiesand passed over the guns out of shot. Two fantail pigeons of purestwhite, sitting in a dark yew tree that overhangs the stream a hundredyards away, make the prettiest picture in the world against thedusky foliage. 

Splash!--a great brown trout rolls in the shallow water like a porpoisein the sea. A two-pounder in this little stream makes as much fuss as atwenty-pound salmon in the mighty Tweed. 

Hark! was that a lamb bleating down in old Mr. Peregrine's meadow? Itwas: the first lamb, herald of the spring that is to be. May its littlelife be as peaceful as this its first birthday: less stormy than thelife of that Lamb whose birth all people celebrate to-day. 

The rooks are cawing, and a faint cry of plover comes from the hill. 

Soft and grey is the winter sky, but behold! round the sun in the westthere arises a perfect solar halo, very similar to an ordinary rainbow, but smaller in its arc and fainter in its hues of yellow and rose--avery beautiful phenomenon, and one seldom to be seen in England. Halosof this nature are supposed to arise from the double refraction of therays from the sun as the light passes through thin clouds, or from thetransmission of light through particles of ice. It lingers a fullquarter of an hour, and then dies away. Does this bode rough weather?Surely the cruel Boreas and the frost will not come suddenly on us afterthis lovely, mild Christmas! Listen to the Christmas bells ringing twomiles away at Barnsley village I we can never tire of the sound here, for it is only on very still days that it reaches us across the wolds. 

 "Hark! In the air, around, above, The Angelic Music soars and swells, And, in the Garden that I love I hear the sound of Christmas Bells. 

 "From hamlet, hollow, village, height, The silvery Message seems to start, And far away its notes to-night Are surging through the city's heart. 

 "Assurance clear to those who fret O'er vanished Faith and feelings fled, That not in English homes is yet Tradition dumb, or Reverence dead. 

 "Now onward floats the sacred tale, Past leafless woodlands, freezing rills; It wakes from sleep the silent vale, It skims the mere, it scales the hills;

 "And rippling on up rings of space, Sounds faint and fainter as more high, Till mortal ear no more may trace The music homeward to the sky. 

 "To courtly roof and rustic cot Old comrades wend from far and wide; Now is the ancient feud forgot, The growing grudge is laid aside. 

 "Peace and goodwill 'twixt rich and poor! Goodwill and peace 'twixt class and class! Let old with new, let Prince with boor Send round the bowl, and drain the glass!"

 ALFRED AUSTIN. 

I have culled these lines from the poet laureate's charming "ChristmasCarol, " as they are both singularly beautiful and singularly appropriateto our Cotswold village. 

I take the liberty of saying that in our little hamlet there _is_ peaceand goodwill 'twixt rich and poor at Christmas-time. 

 "Now is the ancient feud forgot, The growing grudge is laid aside. "

Our humble rejoicings during this last Christmas were very similar tothose of a hundred years ago. They included a grand smoking concert atthe club, during which the mummers gave an admirable performance oftheir old play, of which more anon; then a big feed for every man, woman, and child of the hamlet (about a hundred souls) was held in themanor house; added to which we received visits from carol singers andmusicians of all kinds to the number of seventy-two, reckoning up thetotal aggregate of the different bands, all of whom were welcomed, forChristmas comes but once a year, after all, and "the more the merrier"should be our motto at this time. So from villages three and four milesaway came bands of children to sing the old, old songs. The brass band, including old grey-haired men who fifty years ago with strings andwood-wind led the psalmody at Chedworth Church, come too, and playinside the hall. We do not brew at home nowadays. Even suchold-fashioned Conservatives as old Mr. Peregrine, senior, have at lengthgiven up the custom, so we cannot, like Sir Roger, allow a greaterquantity of malt to our small beer at Christmas; but we take good careto order in some four or five eighteen-gallon casks at this time. Let itbe added that we never saw any man the worse for drink in consequenceof this apparent indiscretion. But then, we have a butler of theold school. 

When we held our Yuletide revels in the manor house, and the old wallsrang with the laughter and merriment of the whole hamlet (for farmers aswell as labourers honoured us), it occurred to me that the bigotphones, which had been lying by in a cupboard for about a twelvemonth, mightamuse the company. Bigotphones, I must explain to those readers who areuninitiated, are delightfully simple contrivances fitted with reedmouthpieces--exact representations in mockery of the various instrumentsthat make up a brass band--but composed of strong cardboard, anddependent solely on the judicious application of the human lips and theskilful modulation of the human voice for their effect. These beingproduced, an impromptu band was formed: young Peregrine seized thebassoon, the carter took the clarionet, the shepherd the French horn, the cowman the trombone, and, seated at the piano, I myself conductedthe orchestra. Never before have I been so astonished as I was by theunexpected musical ability displayed. No matter what tune I struck up, that heterogeneous orchestra played it as if they had been doing nothingelse all their lives. "The British Grenadiers, " "The Eton Boating Song, ""Two Lovely Black Eyes" (solo, young Peregrine on the bassoon), "A FineHunting Day, "--all and sundry were performed in perfect time and withouta false note. Singularly enough, it is very difficult for the voice to"go flat" on the bigotphone. Then, not content with these popular songswe inaugurated a dance. Now could be seen the beautiful andaccomplished Miss Peregrine doing the light fantastic round the stonefloor of the hall to the tune of "See me dance the polka"; then, too, the stately Mrs. Peregrine insisted on our playing "Sir Roger deCoverley, " and it was danced with that pomp and ceremony which suchoccasions alone are wont to show. None of your "kitchen lancers" for ushamlet folk; we leave that kind of thing to the swells and nobs. TomPeregrine alone was baffled. Whilst his family in general were bowingthere, curtseying here, clapping hands and "passing under to the right"in the usual "Sir Roger" style, he stood in grey homespun of the bestmaterial (I never yet saw a Cotswold man in a vulgar chessboard suit), and as he stood he marvelled greatly, exclaiming now and then, "Well, Inever; this is something new to be sure!" "I never saw such things inall my life, never!" He would not dance; but, seizing one of thebigotphones, he blew into it until I was in some anxiety lest he shouldhave an apoplectic fit I need scarcely say he failed to produce asingle note. 

Thus our Yuletide festivities passed away, all enjoying themselvesimmensely, and thus was sealed the bond of fellowship and of goodwill'twixt class and class for the coming year. 

Whilst the younger folks danced, the fathers of the hamlet walked ontiptoe with fearful tread around the house, looking at the faded familyportraits. I was pleased to find that what they liked best was theancient armour; for said they, "Doubtless squire wore that in the oldbattles hereabouts, when Oliver Cromwell was round these parts. " On mypointing out the picture of the man who built the house three hundredyears ago, they surrounded it, and gazed at the features for a greatlength of time; indeed, I feared that they would never come away, sofascinated were they by this relic of antiquity, illustrating theancient though simple annals of their village. 

I persuaded the head of our mummer troop to write out their play as itwas handed down to him by his predecessors. This he did in a fine boldhand on four sides of foolscap. Unfortunately the literary quality ofthe lines is so poor that they are hardly worth reproducing, except as aspecimen of the poetry of very early times handed down by oraltradition. Suffice it to say that the _dramatis personae_ are five innumber--viz. , Father Christmas, Saint George, a Turkish Knight, theDoctor, and an Old Woman. All are dressed in paper flimsies of variousshapes and colours. First of all enters Father Christmas. 

 "In comes I old Father Christmas, Welcome in or welcome not, Sometimes cold and sometimes hot. I hope Father Christmas will never be forgot, " etc. 

Then Saint George comes in, and after a great deal of bragging he fightsthe "most dreadful battle that ever was known, " his adversary being theknight "just come from Turkey-land, " with the inevitable result that theTurkish knight falls. This brings in the Doctor, who suggests thefollowing remedies:--

 "Give him a bucket of dry hot ashes to eat, Groom him down with a bezom stick, And give him a yard and a half of pump water to drink. "

For these offices he mentions that his fee is fifty guineas, but hewill take ten pounds, adding:

 "I can cure the itchy pitchy, Palsy, and the gout; Pains within or pains without; A broken leg or a broken arm, Or a broken limb of any sort. I cured old Mother Roundabout, " etc. 

He declares that he is not one of those "quack doctors who go about fromhouse to house telling you more lies in one half-hour than what you canfind true in seven years. "

So the knight just come from Turkey-land is resuscitated and sent backto his own country. 

Last of all the old woman speaks:

 "In comes I old Betsy Bub; On my shoulder I carry my tub, And in my hand a dripping-pan. Don't you think I'm a jolly old man?

 Now last Christmas my father killed a fat hog, And my mother made black-puddings enough to choke a dog, And they hung them up with a pudden string Till the fat dropped out and the maggots crawled in, " etc. 

The mummers' play, of which the above is a very brief _résumé_, lastsabout half an hour, and includes many songs of a topical nature. 

Yes, Christmas is Christmas still in the heart of old England. We areapt to talk of the good old days that are no more, lamenting the customsand country sports that have passed away; but let us not forget that twohundred years hence, when we who are living now will have long passed"that bourne from which no traveller returns, " our descendants, as theysit round their hearths at Yuletide, may in the same way regret thegrand old times when good Victoria--the greatest monarch of allages--was Queen of England; those times when during the London seasonfair ladies and gallant men might be seen on Drawing-room days drivingdown St James's Street in grand carriages, drawn by magnificent horses, with servants in cocked hats and wigs and gold lace; when the ruralvillages of merrie England were cheered throughout the dreary wintermonths by the sound of horse and hound, and by the sight of beautifulladies and red-coated sportsmen, mounted on blood horses, careering overthe country, clearing hedges and ditches of fabulous height and width;when every man, woman, and child in the village turned out to see the"meet, " and the peer and the peasant were for the day on an equalfooting, bound together by an extraordinary devotion to the chase of"that little red rover" which men called the fox--now, alas! extinct, asthe mammoth or the bear, owing to barbed wire and the abolition of thehorse; when to such an extent were games and sports a part of ournational life that half London flocked to see two elevens of cricketers(including a champion "nine" feet high called Grace) fighting theirmimic battle arrayed in white flannels and curiously coloured caps, at aplace called Lords, the exact site of which is now, alas I lost in thesea of houses; when as an absolute fact the first news men turned to onopening their daily papers in the morning was the column devoted tocricket, football, or horse-racing; when in the good old days, beforeelectricity and the motor-car caused the finest specimen of the brutecreation to become virtually extinct (although a few may still be seenat the Zoological Gardens), horse-racing for a cup and a small fortunein gold was only second to cricket and football in the estimation of allmerrie Englanders--the only races now indulged in being those of flyingmachines to Mars and back twice a day. Two hundred years hence, I say, the Victorian era--time of blessed peace and unexampled prosperity--willbe pronounced by all unprejudiced judges as the true days of merrieEngland. Let us, then, though not unmindful of the past, pin our faithfirmly on the present and the future. _Carpe diem_ should be our mottoin these fleeting times, and, above all, progress, not retrogression. Let us, as the old, old sound of the village bells comes to us over therolling downs this New Year's eve, recall to mind

 ". .. . The primal sympathy Which having been must ever be. "

Let our hearts warm to the battle cry of advancing civilisation and theattainment of the ideal humanity, soaring upwards step by step, re-echoing the prayer contained in those lilting stanzas with whichTennyson greets the New Year:

 "Ring out the old, ring in the new; Ring happy bells across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

 "Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. 

 "Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right; Ring in the common love of good. 

 "Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

 "Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land. Ring in the Christ that is to be. "

[Illustration: Coln S' Aldwyns 429. Png]

CHAPTER XVIII. 

WHEN THE SUN GOES DOWN. 

 "I saw Eternity the other night Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright:-- And round beneath it, time in hours, days, years, Driven by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world And all her train were hurl'd. "

 HENRY VAUGHAN. 

It is the end of May; a bright, rainless, and at times bitterly coldmonth it has been. But now the chill east wind has almost died away. Summer has come at last. Once more I am making for the Downs. Veryseldom am I there at this period of the year; but before going away forseveral months, I bethought me that I would go and inspect theimprovements at the fox-covert, stopping on my way at the "Jubilee"gorse covert we lately planted, to see if there is a litter of cubsthere this year. Across the fields we go, ankle deep in buttercups andclover at one moment, then up the hedge to avoid treading the half-grownbarley. We are so accustomed to take a bee-line across these shootinggrounds of ours that we quite forget that the farmer would not thank usfor trampling down his crops at the end of May. But soon we are on theDowns, well out of harm's way and far removed from highroads andfootpaths. What a glorious panorama lies all around! Why do we not comehere oftener in summer?--the country is ten times more lovely then thanit is in the shooting season. A field of sainfoin in June, with itsglorious blossoms of pink, is one of the prettiest sights in allcreation. Seen in the distance, amid a setting of green wheatfields andverdant pastures, it ripples in the garish light of the summer sun likea lake of rubies. 

 "Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity; And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday. "

Ah! there will be lots of foxes when the hounds come to the fox-covertnext October. The unpleasant smell at the mouth of the earth tells usthat there are cubs there; and as we stand over it we can hear themplaying down below in the bowels of mother earth. Very distinct, too, are the tracks--_traffic_, the keeper calls them--leading by sundrywell-trodden paths to the dell below--a nice sunny dell, facingsouth-west, where in spring the violets and primroses grow among thespreading elder. These cubs were not born here. Their mother broughtthem from an old hollow stump of a tree by the river, half a mile away. When she found her lair discovered by an angler who happened to passthat way, she brought them across the river by the narrow footbridgeright up here on to the hill. The cubs from the tree have disappeared, so no doubt these are the ones. Well, there are lots of rabbits forthem; the little fellows are popping about all over the place. 

How tame all wild animals become in the summer!--all except the ones wewant to circumvent--magpies, jays, stoats, and such small deer. Lapwingsfly round us, crying restlessly, "Go away, go away!" Their shrill trebleaccents remind one of a baby's squall. Pigeons and ringdoves, partridgesand hares seem to be plentiful "as blackberries in September. " Agorgeous cock pheasant crows and jumps up close to us, followed by hismate. This is a pleasing sight up here, for they are wild birds. Therehas been no rearing done in these copses on the hills within thememory of man. 

Tom Peregrine suddenly appears out of a hedge, where he has beenwatching the antics of the cubs at the mouth of the fox-earth. He hasgrown very serious of late, and tells you repeatedly that there is goingto be another big European war shortly. Let us hope his gloomyforebodings are doomed to disappointment. Surely, surely at the end ofthis marvellous nineteenth century, when there are so many men in theworld who have learnt the difficult lessons of life in a way that theyhave never been learnt before, nations are no longer obliged to behavelike children, or worse still, with their petty jealousies andbickerings and growlings, "like dogs that delight to bark and bite. "

Tom Peregrine, having done but little work for many months, is nowmaking himself really useful, for a change, by copying out parts of thisgreat work; and, to do him justice, he writes a capital, clear hand. Heis very anxious to become secretary to "some great gentleman, " he says. If any of my readers require a sporting secretary, I can confidentlyrecommend him as a man of "plain sense rather than of much learning, ofa sociable temper, and one that understands a little of backgammon. "There is no fear of his "insulting you with Latin and Greek at your owntable. " He would have suited Sir Roger capitally for a chaplain, I oftentell him; and though he hasn't a notion who Sir Roger may be, hethoroughly enjoys the joke. 

The fox-covert presents a strange appearance. It is full of young sprucetrees, and the lower branches have been lopped down, but not cut throughor killed. Under each tree there is now a grand hiding-place for foxesand rabbits--a sort of big umbrella turned topsy-turvy. The rabbitsappreciate the pains we have been at; but I fear the foxes, for whom itwas intended, at present look on the shelter with suspicion. Theydislike the gum which oozes continually from the gashes in the bark; itsticks to their coats, and gives an unpleasant sensation when theyroll. They cannot keep their beautiful coats sleek and glossy, as istheir invariable rule, as long as their is any gum sticking to them. 

How clearly we can see the Swindon Hills in the bright eveningatmosphere! They must be more than twenty miles away. The grand oldWhite Horse, making the spot where long, long ago the Danes werevanquished in fight, is not visible; but he is scarcely to be seen atall now, as the lazy Berkshire people have neglected their duty. Hereally must be scoured again this summer; he is a national institution. Londoners take a much greater interest in him than do the honest folkwho live bang under his nose. 

We must continue our excavations at Ladbarrow copse yonder. Men say itis the largest barrow in the county, full of "golden coffins" and allsorts of priceless antiquities! At present all we have discovered aresome bones, with which we stuffed our pockets. When we arrived home, however, they were found to have belonged to a poor old sheep-dog thatwas buried there. But see! the setting sun is tinging the tops of theslender, shapely ash trees in yonder emerald copse. The whole plain ischanging from a vast arena of golden splendour to a mysterious shadowyland of dreams. A fierce light still reveals every object on the hilltowards the east; but westwards beneath yon purple ridge all is wrappedin dim, ambiguous shade. 

It is sad to think that I alone of mortal men should be here to see thisglorious panorama. It seems such a waste of nature's bounteous storethat night after night this wondrous spectacle should be solemnlydisplayed, with no better gallery than a stray shepherd, who, as he"homeward plods his weary way, " cares little for the grand drama that isbeing performed entirely for his benefit. Nature is indeed prodigal ofher charms in out-of-the-way country places. 

Sometimes whilst walking over these remote fields on summer evenings, Ihave stopped to ask myself this question: Is it possible that theseexquisite wild flowers, these groves and dells of verdant tracery, thesebirds with their priceless music, and these wondrous, ineffable effectsof light and shade which form part of the everyday pageant of Englishrural scenery are doomed "to waste their sweetness on the desert air"?Is it possible (to go further afield) that those lovely scenes inWales--the fairy glens near Bettws-y-Coed, or the luxuriant valleys ofCarmarthen, further south, where silvery Towey flows below the statelyruins of Dynevor Castle; those romantic reaches on the Wye, fromChepstow to the frowning hills of Brecon; those solitary, butunspeakably grand, mountains and passes of the Highlands, such asGlencoe, Ben Nevis, or those of the scarcely explored Hebrides; thosesmiling waters of the lovely Trossachs; those countless spots in the"Emerald Isle" that the tourist has never seen, whether in fertileWicklow or among the whispering woods and weird waters of the west;those gorgeous forests of Ceylon; those interminable jungles of thebeautiful East, with their unknown depths of tropical splendour;--is itpossible that these scenes of wondrous beauty are inhabited and enjoyedby nothing more than is visible to our limited mortal gaze?

I believed, as a boy, and with a romance still unsubdued by time I wouldyet fain believe, that when the soul of man escapes from the poortenement of clay in which it has been pent up for some threescore yearsand ten, it has not far to go. I would fain believe that heaven is notonly above us, but, in some form or other entirely beyond our mortalken, all around us, in every beautiful thing we see; that these hillsand vales, these woods of delicately wrought fan-tracery groining, thesemazes of golden light when the sun goes down, are peopled not alone byhuman flesh and blood. "There are also terrestrial bodies, and bodiescelestial. But the glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of theterrestrial is another. "

Who can imagine the shape or form of the immortal soul? As I walked overthose golden fields to-night it seemed as if there were spirits allaround me--glorious, bright spirits of the dead--invisible, intangible, like rays of pure light, in the clear atmosphere of those Elysianfields. I cannot but believe that there arise from the secret parts ofthis beautiful earth, at dawn of day and at eventide, other voicesbesides the ineffable songs of birds, the rustling murmurs that whisperin the woods, and the plaintive babbling of the brooks--hymns of unknowndepths of harmony, impossible to describe, because impossible toimagine--crying night and day: "Blessing, and honour, and glory, andpower be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne and unto the Lamb forever and ever. "

Yes, dear reader, "Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither. "

When the sun goes down, if you will turn for a little while from thenoise and clamour of the busy world, you shall list to those voicesringing, ringing in your ears. Words of comfort shall you hear ateventide, "and sorrow and sadness shall be no more, "--even though, asthe years roll on, perforce you cry, with Wordsworth:

 "What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower, We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. "

THE END. 

APPENDIX. 

GEORGE RIDLER'S OVEN. 

(_Note from the papers of the Gloucestershire Society_)

It is now generally understood that the words of this song have a hiddenmeaning which was only known to the members of the GloucestershireSociety, whose foundation dates from the year 1657. This was three yearsbefore the restoration of Charles II. And when the people were growingweary of the rule of Oliver Cromwell. The Society consisted ofLoyalists, whose object in combining was to be prepared to aid in therestoration of the ancient constitution of the kingdom whenever afavourable opportunity should present itself. The Cavalier or Royalistparty were supported by the Roman Catholics of the old and influentialfamilies of the kingdom; and some of the Dissenters, who were disgustedwith the treatment they received from Cromwell, occasionally lent them akind of passive aid. Taking these considerations as the keynote to thesong, attempts have been made to discover the meaning which wasoriginally attached to its leading words. It is difficult at the presenttime to give a clear explanation of all its points. The following, however, is consistent throughout, and is, we believe, correct:--

 "The stwuns that built Gaarge Ridler's oven, And thauy qeum from the Bleakeney's Quaar; And Gaarge he wur a jolly ould mon, And his yead it graw'd above his yare. "

By "George Ridler" was meant King Charles I. The "oven" was the Cavalierparty. The "stwuns" which built the oven, and which "came out of theBlakeney Quaar, " were the immediate followers of the Marquis ofWorcester, who held out to the last steadfastly for the royal cause atRaglan Castle, which was not surrendered till 1646, and was, in fact, the last stronghold retained for the king. "His head did grow above hishair" was an allusion to the crown, the head of the State, and which theking wore "above his hair. "

 "One thing of Gaarge Ridler's I must commend, And that wur vor a notable theng; He mead his braags avoore he died, Wi' any dree brothers his zons zshou'd zeng. "

This meant that the king, "before he died, " boasted that notwithstandinghis present adversity, the ancient constitution of the kingdom was sogood and its vitality so great that it would surpass and outlive anyother form of government, whether republican, despotic, or protective. 

 "There's Dick the treble and John the mean (Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace); And Gaarge he wur the elder brother, And therevoore he would zing the beass. "

"Dick the treble, Jack the mean, and George the bass" meant the threeparts of the British constitution--King, Lords, and Commons. Theinjunction to "let every man sing in his own place" was intended as awarning to each of the three estates of the realm to preserve its properposition and not to attempt to encroach on each other's prerogative. 

 "Mine hostess's moid (and her neaum 'twur Nell), A pretty wench, and I lov'd her well; I lov'd her well--good reauzon why, Because zshe lov'd my dog and I. "

"Mine hostess's moid" was an allusion to the queen, who was a RomanCatholic; and her maid, the Church. The singer, we must suppose, was oneof the leaders of the party, and his "dog" a companion or faithfulofficial of the Society; and the song was sung on occasions when themembers met together socially: and thus, as the Roman Catholics wereRoyalists, the allusion to the mutual attachment between the "maid" and"my dog and I" is plain and consistent. 

 "My dog has gotten zitch a trick To visit moids when thauy be zick; When thauy be zick and like to die, Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I. "

The "dog"--that is, the official or devoted member of the Society--had"a trick of visiting maids when they were sick. " The meaning here wasthat when any of the members were in distress, or desponding, or likelyto give up the royal cause in despair, the officials or active membersvisited, consoled, and assisted them. 

 "My dog is good to catch a hen, -- A duck and goose is vood vor men; And where good company I spy, Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I. "

The "dog, " the official or agent of the Society, was "good to catch ahen, " a "duck, " or a "goose"--that is, any who were well affected to theroyal cause of whatever party; wherever "good company I spy, Oh, thithergo my dog and I"--to enlist members into the Society. 

 "My mwother told I when I wur young, If I did vollow the strong beer pwoot, That drenk would pruv my auverdrow, And meauk me wear a thzreadbare cwoat. "

"The good ale-tap" was an allusion, under cover of a similarity in thesound of the words "ale" and "aisle, " to the Church, of which it wasdangerous at that time to be an avowed follower, and so the members werecautioned that indiscretion would lead to their discovery and"overthrow. "

 "When I hev dree zixpences under my thumb, Oh, then I be welcome wherever I qeum But when I have none, oh, then I pass by, -- 'Tis poverty pearts good company. "

The allusion here is to those unfaithful supporters of the royal causewho "welcomed" the members of the Society when it appeared to beprospering, but "parted" from them in adversity, probably referringironically to those lukewarm and changeable Dissenters who veered about, for and against, as Cromwell favoured or contemned them. Such couldalways be had wherever there were "three sixpence-under the thumb"; but"poverty" easily parted such "good company. "

 "When I gwoes dead, as it may hap, My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap; In vouled earmes there wool us lie, Cheek by jowl, my dog and I. "

"If I should die, " etc. --an expression of the singer's wish that if heshould die he may be buried with his faithful companion (as representingthe principles of the Society) under the good aisles of the church, thusevincing his loyalty and attachment to the good old constitution and toChurch and king even in death. 

INDEX

Abbey, EdwinAblington ManorAcman StreetAethelhum, the SaxonAgricultureAlder treeAldsworth and Oliver CromwellAlfred, KingAmphitheatre, RomanAmpney ParkAngelus, theAntiquity, charm of_Arbor Diana_Architecture, ElizabethanAristotleArlington RowArtificial fox-earthsAustin, Alfred

BadgersBampton-in-the-BushBarnby, JosephBarns, titheBarometerBarrows, ancientBathurst familyBathurst, LordBattuesBazley, Sir ThomasBettws-y-CoedBibury RacesBibury villageBigotphonesBlowing-stone, theBourton-on-the-WaterBowly, Mrs. ChristopherBrassey, Albert, M. F. H. Braydon ForestBromley-Davenport, W. Buckland, FrankBull-ring, RomanBurfordBurton on the Cotswolds

Cadge for hawksCaesar, JuliusCamps, ancient BritishCarlyle, ThomasCassey-Compton Manor HouseCaves, prehistoricCharacters, villageCharles I. Charles II. CharlockChaucerChavenageChedworthChepstow, the Wye atChiltern HillsChivalry, ancientChoirs, village"Christmas Carol, " Austin'sChristmas festivitiesChurch alesChurchwardensCirencesterCivil WarsClarendon on FalklandClimate of the CotswoldsCoats-of-armsCoffins, old stoneColn, RiverColn-St. -AldwynsColn-St. -DennisConyger woodCorinium MuseumCorncrakes, disappearance ofCoulson, Colonel, his trapCounty cricketCoursing on the CotswoldsCray-fishCreswell familyCricket pitch, how to improveCricket, prehistoricCricket, the game ofCripps, Wilfred, C. B. Crosses, waysideCub-huntingCubs, foxCudgel-playing, old-fashionedCurlewsCushats

Deadman's AcreDeerhounds, ScotchDe QuinceyDerby Day on the ColnDe Vere, AubreyDewDew-pointDialect, CotswoldDickens, Charles, on cricketDogsDowns, the mystery of theDream, Shakespeare'sDress, simplicity inDrayton, MichaelDry-fly fishingDucks, wildDuleep Singh at HatheropDun, oliveDürer, Albert

Earthquake of 1895Earths for foxes_Écrevisse_Eel, curious capture ofElder treeEldon, Lord"Elegy, " Gray'sElizabeth, Queen, at BurfordElms"England, Merrie"EscutcheonsEvening fishingExcursion, Roger Plowman's

FairwoodFalconry, the art ofFalkland, Lord, at BurfordFarmers, CotswoldFeasts, ancientFerns growing on ash treeFieldfare, return of theField namesFirr, TomFlails, old-fashionedFlanders maresFlies, artificialFlocks of lapwingsFlowers, wildFly-catcher, the"Flying Dutchman"Forest, BraydonForest, SavernakeFossbridgeFossewayFox-earthsFoxesFozbrookeFree Foresters' Cricket Club

Galway nagsGamekeeper, theGannetGarden, an oldGarne of AldsworthGeese, wild"George Ridler's Oven"Gilbert WhiteGilpin, JohnGipsiesGloucestershire dialectGlow-wormsGoethe (quoted)Golf greens, treatment ofGothic architectureGrace, W. G. Grasshoppers, Burke onGray's "Elegy"Green-drakeGreyhound foxGrounds, treatment of cricketGwynne, Nell, at Bibury Races

Hall, King Alfred'sHallam, ArthurHalo, solarHamilton, Sir William RowanHangman's Stone, origin ofHard ridersHaresHarvest homeHawking describedHawksHedgehogsHenry VIII. HeraldryHerbsHeronsHicks-Beach, Right Hon. Sir MichaelHic-wall or heckleHill, White HorseHills, JemHobbs of MaiseyhamptonHorse, description ofHorse for the CotswoldsHounds, BadmintonHounds, BombayHounds, HeythropHounds, Lord Bathurst'sHounds, Mr. T. B. Miller'sHounds, Shakespeare onHunting, fox-Hunting poemHunting, stag-, in olden timesHuntsman, a goodHygrometerHymnsHypocaust, Roman

Icknield StreetImplements, old stoneInscribed stones (Roman)Inscription on porch of manor houseIrmin WayIrving, Washington (quoted)Isaac Walton

Jansen, Cornelius, painterJefferies, RichardJohnson, Dr. Joyce on Fairford windows

Keble, John, at FairfordKelmscottKembleKestrelKingfishersKingmaker, theKipling, RudyardKite, artificialKnights Templar

Labourers, CotswoldLapwingsLarder, vixen'sLelandLenthall, SpeakerLeslie, G. Limestone quarries, Llewelyn, W. DillwynLoam, use of clay or

Macomber FallsMacpherson and OssianMadden, Right Hon. D. H. MagpiesMallard, a pugnaciousManor parchmentsManuscript, an ancientMarsh-harrierMarsh-marigoldMaster, Chester, family ofMaxwell, Sir HerbertMay fliesMay-fly season"Merrie England"Meteor, a largeMiller, T. B. , M. F. H. Miller, the villageMonk, W. J. , on BurfordMoorhens, habits ofMop, CirencesterMoreton-in-the-MarshMorris, WilliamMounds, ancient burialMummers' playMuseums, RomanMusicians, old village

Natal, scenery ofNest, kingfisher'sNetting troutNewton, IsaacNightjar or goatsuckerNight on the hillsNimrod on Bibury Races_Noblesse oblige_Northleach

Oak, oldOliver CromwellOman's discoveryOssian"Oven, George Ridler's"OwlsOxen, ploughing with

Partridges"Parvise, " thePavements, RomanPenance at BurfordPeregrine falconsPeregrine, Thomas, keeperPheasantsPigeon-shootingPlaying-fields, EtonPliny"Plestor, " thePloughing with oxenPlover, commonPlover, goldenPlowman, Roger, goes to LondonPoachers, scarcity ofPoges, StokePolitical meetingsPoliticians, villagePope at CirencesterPottery, RomanPrehistoric cricketPrehistoric relicsPrescription, an excellentProverbs, GloucestershirePuffin

Quack, the villageQuailsQuarries, limestoneQueningtonQuerns, the

Races, BiburyRamparts, ancientReady TokenRetrieversRiders, goodRiding, hardRoads, limestoneRoger de Coverley, SirRoman remainsRookery, theRupert, PrinceRuskin, John

SainfoinSargent, J. SavernakeScent of foxesScotch deerhoundScott, Lady MargaretScouring the White HorseShakespeare on the CotswoldsSheep, CotswoldSheep-washingSherborne HouseSherborne, LordShooting, covert-Sly, IsaacSnake eaten by troutSnipeSolan gooseSolar haloSongs, GloucestershireSouth Africa, wolds ofSparrow-clubSpawn-beds of trout_Spectator_, theSportsman, definition of a goodSpring flowersSprings, CotswoldSquirrelsStag-hunting, wildStage-coachStoatsStone age, relics ofStowellStow-on-the-WoldSunsets describedSwans

Tame, JohnTanfield familyTealTennysonTerrier, fox-Tesselated pavementsThamesThrashingThrush, song ofTiercel-gentleTitheTithe barns"Tolsey, " theTraps, verminTravess, CharlesTrees, beauty of ashTrossachs, theTrout eating snakeTrout, habits of"Tuer, " aTurnip hower, the

Umpires, villageUncertainty, charm ofUrns, sepulchral

Vale, BerkshireVale of White Horse HoundsValley, ColnValley, ThamesVictorian EraVoles, water

Waller's picturesWalnut tree in springWarwick, the kingmakerWasps, a plague ofWatercressWayside crossesWeaselsWestbury White HorseWharfe, RiverWhite Horse HillWhitsun aleWhitsuntide sportsWhyte-MelvilleWildfowlWilliamstripWimbrels, Windrush, RiverWines, home-madeWinson villageWoodpeckersWood-pigeonsWordsworthWren, Christopher

YaffelYuletide

Zingari Cricket ClubZodiacal light