[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 author
passed away, from sudden failure of the heart, at the early age of
thirty-one. Two or three biographical notices, written by those who
highly appreciated him and who deeply mourn his loss, have already
appeared in the newspapers; and I therefore wish to add only a few words
about one whose kind smile of welcome will greet us no more in
this life.
Joseph Arthur Gibbs was one of those rare natures who combine a love of
outdoor life, cricket and sport of every kind, with a refined and
scholarly taste for literature. He had, like his father, a keen
observation for every detail in nature; and from a habit of patient
watchfulness he acquired great knowledge of natural history. From his
grandfather, the late Sir Arthur Hallam Elton, he inherited his taste
for literary work and the deep poetical feeling which are revealed so
clearly in his book. On leaving Eton, he wrote a _Vale_, of which his
tutor, Mr. Luxmoore, expressed his high appreciation; and later on,
when, after leaving Oxford, he was living a quiet country life, he
devoted 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, and
ever ready to give what is of greater value than money, personal trouble
and time in finding out their wants and in relieving them. His unvarying
kindness and sympathy will never be forgotten at Ablington; for, as one
of the villagers wrote in a letter of condolence on hearing of his
death, "he went in and out as a friend among them." With all his
tenderness of heart, he had a strict sense of justice and a clear
judgment, and weighed carefully both sides of any question before he
gave his verdict.
Arthur Gibbs went abroad at the end of March 1899 for a month's trip to
Italy, and in his Journal he wrote many good descriptions of scenery and
of the old towns; and the way in which he describes his last glimpse of
Florence during a glorious sunset shows how greatly he appreciated its
beauty. In his Journal in April he dwells on the shortness of life, and
in the following solemn words he sounds a warning note:--
"Do not neglect the creeping hours of time: 'the night cometh when no
man can work.' All time is wasted unless spent in work for God. The best
secular way of spending the precious thing that men call time is by
making always for some grand end--a great book, to show forth the
wonders of creation and the infinite goodness of the Creator. You must
influence for _good_ if you write, and write nothing that you will
regret 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 the
adoration he felt for that God whom he so faithfully served. There are
many different kinds of work in this world, and diversities of gifts; to
him 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 remarkable
influence for good at Oxford, and the letters from his numerous friends
and from his former tutor at Christ Church show that this influence has
never been forgotten, but has left its mark not only on his college, but
on 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 were
not of this world, at an earlier age than is given to many men; and so
in 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 an
ancient house or time-honoured college, there will always be a peculiar
charm in silvery waters sparkling beneath the summer sun. To you the
Gothic building, with its carved pinnacles, its warped gables, its
mullioned casements and dormer windows, the old oak within, the very
inglenook by the great fireplace where the old folks used to sit at
home, the ivy trailing round the grey walls, the jessamine, roses, and
clematis that in their proper seasons clustered round the porch,--to you
all 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 that
is wanting, but the ability of the writer.
It is not claimed for my Cotswold village that it is one whit prettier
or pleasanter or better in any way than hundreds of other villages in
England; I seek only to record the simple annals of a quiet,
old-fashioned Gloucestershire hamlet and the country within walking
distance of it. Nor do I doubt that there are manor houses far more
beautiful and far richer in history even within a twenty-mile radius of
my own home. For instance, the ancient house of Chavenage by Tetbury, or
in the opposite direction, where the northern escarpments of the
Cotswolds rise out of the beautiful Evesham Vale, those historic
mediaeval houses of Southam and Postlip.
It is often said that in books like these we paint arcadias that never
did and never could exist on earth. To this I would answer that there
are many such abodes in country places, if only our minds are such as to
realise them. And, above all, let us be optimists in literature even
though we may be pessimists in life. Let us have all that is joyous and
bright in our books, and leave the trials and failures for the realities
of life. Let us in our literature avoid as much as possible the painful
side of human nature and the pains and penalties of human weakness; let
us endeavour to depict a state of existence as far as possible
approaching the Utopian ideal, though not necessarily the Nirvana of the
Buddhists nor the paradise of fools; let us look not downwards into the
depths of black despair, but upwards into the starry heavens; let us
gaze at the golden evening brightening in the west. Richard Jefferies
has taught us that such a literature is possible; and if we read his
best books, we may some day be granted that fuller soul he prayed for
and at length obtained. Would that we could all hear, as he heard, the
still small voice that whispers in the woods and among the wild flowers
and the spreading foliage by the brook!
To any one who might be thinking of becoming for the time being "a
tourist," and in that capacity visiting the Cotswolds, my advice is,
"Don't." There is really nothing to see. There is nothing, that is to
say, which may not be seen much nearer London. And I freely confess that
most of the subjects included in this book are usually deemed unworthy
of consideration even in the district itself. Still, there are a few who
realise 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 gone
deeply into any single subject; my endeavour has been to touch on every
branch of country life with as light a hand as possible--to amuse rather
than to instruct. For, as Washington Irving delightfully sums up the
matter: "It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct, to play
the companion rather than the preceptor. What, after all, is the mite of
wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge? or how am I sure
that 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 own
disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance rub out one
wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment
of sorrow; if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of
misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my
reader 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 Mall
Magazine_. Portions of Chapters VII. and VIII., and "The Thruster's
Song," have also been published in _Baily's Magazine_. My thanks are due
to the editors for permission to reproduce them. Chapter XII. owes its
inspiration to Mr. Madden's excellent work on Shakespeare's connection
with sport and the Cotswolds, the "Diary of Master William Silence." We
have no local tradition of any kind about Shakespeare.
I am indebted to Miss E.F. Brickdale for the pen-and-ink sketches, and
to Colonel Mordaunt for his beautiful photographs. Three of the
photographs, however, are by H. Taunt, of Oxford, and a similar number
are 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--The
Manor House--Inscription on Porch--Interior of the House--The Garden--A
Fairy Spring--The Village Club--Labouring Folk--Village Politics--The
Trout Stream--Flowing Seawards--Village Architecture--The Charm of
Antiquity--The Spirit of Sacrifice--Wayside Crosses--Tithe Barns.
CHAPTER III.
VILLAGE CHARACTERS
Quaint Hamlet Folk--The Village Impostor--Rural Economy--Stories of the
People--A Curious Analogy--Tom Peregrine, the Keeper--A Standing
Dish--A Great Character--Peregrine's Accomplishments and
Proclivities--Farmers and Foxes--Concerning Churchwardens--The Village
Quack--An Excellent Prescription--His Lecture--How the Old Fox was
Found--A Good Sort--Heroes of the Hamlet--Political Meetings--Humours of
the Poll--Gloucestershire Farmers.
CHAPTER IV.
THE LANGUAGE OF THE COTSWOLDS, WITH SOME ANCIENT SONGS AND LEGENDS
Strange Travellers--Smoking Concerts--The Carter's Song--Village
Choirs--The Chedworth Band--Sense of Humour of the Natives--Their
Geography "a Bit Mixed"--A Large Family--_Noblesse Oblige_--Rustic
Legends--Names of Fields--The Cotswold Dialect--How to Talk It--An
Ancient Ballad--Tom Peregrine Recites--Roger Plowman's Excursion--An
Expensive Luncheon--Oxtail Soup--"The Turmut Hower."
CHAPTER V.
ON THE WOLDS
Varied Amusements--Nature on the Hills--The Mysteries of
Scent--Partridge-Shooting--A Mixed Bag--Plover--Pigeon-Shooting with
Decoys--Bird Life--Sunset on the Downs--A Wild, Deserted Country--An
Old Dog Fox.
CHAPTER VI.
A GALLOP OVER THE WALLS
An October Meet--Cub-Hunting--The Old Fox Again! A Fast Gallop over the
Walls--The Charm of Uncertainty--Fliers of the Hunt--A Narrow Escape--A
Check--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 a
Red-Herring--Macomber Falls--A Sad Episode--South Country
Streams--Course of the Coln--Charles Kingsley on Fishing--A May-Fly
Stream--Evening Fishing--Dry-Fly Dogmas--Flies for the Coln--Scarcity of
Poachers--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 the
Country--Peregrine's Quaint Expressions--Sport with the Olive Dun--A
Fine Trout--Effects of Sheep-Washing--A Good Basket--Life by the
Brook--A Summer's Night--In the Heart of England.
CHAPTER IX.
BURFORD, A COTSWOLD TOWN
Curious Names--The Windrush--Burford Priory--An Empty Shell--The
Kingmaker--Lord Falkland--Speaker Lenthall--Bibury Races--An Old
Tradition--Valued Relics--Burford Church--Mr. Oman's Discovery--Burford
during the Civil Wars.
CHAPTER X.
STROLL THROUGH THE COTSWOLDS
The Old Coaching Days--Fairford--Anglo-Saxon
Relics--Hatherop--Coln-St.-Aldwyns--The "Knights Templar" of
Quenington--A Haunt of Ancient Peace--Bibury Village--Ancient
Barrows--The Prehistoric Age--Deserted Villages--The Philosopher's
Stone--True Nobleness--On Battues--Roman Remains--Chedworth Woods--An
Old Manor House.
CHAPTER XI.
COTSWOLD PASTIMES
Whitsun Ale--Sports of Various Kinds--The Peregrine Family at
Cricket--_Prehistoric_ Cricket--A Bad Ground--A "Pretty" Ball--Charles
Dickens on Cricket--Dumkins and Podder, Limited--How Dumkins Hit a
"Sixer"--Downfall of "Podder"--Bourton-on-the-Water C.C.--A
Plague of Wasps--The Treatment of Cricket Grounds--The Author's
Recipe--Reflections on Modern Cricket.
CHAPTER XII.
THE COTSWOLDS THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
The Centre of Elizabethan Sport--A Digression on South Africa--The Halo
of Association--A Day's Stag-Hunting in 1592--A Benighted Sportsman--"A
Goodly Dwelling and a Rich"--An Old English Gentleman--Shakespeare on
Hounds--He Describes the Run--The Death of the Stag--The Ancestral
Peregrine--Bacon not Wanted--A "Black Ousel"--The Charm of
Music--Shakespeare's Dream--A Hawking Expedition--Peregrine, the Parson,
and the Poet--Methods and Language of Falconry--A Flight at a
Heron--Peregrine Views a Fox.
CHAPTER XIII.
CIRENCESTER
Roman Remains--The Corinium Museum--The Church--Cirencester House--The
Park--The Abbey--The "Mop" or Hiring Fair--A Great Hunting Centre--A
Varied Country--The Badminton Hounds--Lord Bathurst's Hounds--The
Cotswold Hounds--Charles Travess--A Born Genius--The Cricklade
Hounds--The Right Sort of Horse--The Oaksey District--The Heythrop
Hounds--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--Humane
Traps--Badgers--Fox-terriers--Scotch
Deerhounds--Retrievers--Cray-fish--The
Rookery--Jackdaws--Foxes--Artificial Earths--Fox among Sheep--Foxes and
Fowls--Poultry Claims--Observations on Scent--The Hygrometer--How Trout
are Netted--Scarcity of Otters--Water-Voles.
CHAPTER XV.
THE PROMISE OF MAY
Wild Flowers--Cottage Gardens--The Paths of Literature--Description of a
Horse--Beauty of Trees--Their Loss Irreparable as the Loss of Friends--A
Fine 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 "the
Pill"--Remarks on Gray--A Fine Piece of Miniature Scenery--The Cricket
Ground--The Book of Nature--At the Ford--Habits of Observation--In the
Conyger Wood--The Home of the Kingfisher--A Limestone Quarry--The Great
Stone Floor of the Earth--Nature's Endless Cycle--Beauty of the
Ash--Hedgehogs--Trout and Snake--Sunset on the Hills.
CHAPTER XVII.
AUTUMN
Remarks on Country Life--Thrashing--The Flail--Gipsies--Harvest
Feasts--Fifty Years Ago--The Wolds in Autumn--By the
Stream--Wildfowl--Migration of Birds--Lapwings--Winter
Visitants--Thunderstorms--Glow-Worms--A Brilliant Meteor--Night on the
Hills--The "Blowing-Stone"--Christmas Day on the Cotswolds--A Solar
Halo--Hamlet Festivities--Tom Peregrine Baffled--The Mummers Play--The
Victorian 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 Setting
Suns--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 away
is rushing off, north, south, east, and west, some to the seaside,
others to pleasant country houses. Who will fly with me westwards to the
land of golden sunshine and silvery trout streams, the land of breezy
uplands and valleys nestling under limestone hills, where the scream of
the railway whistle is seldom heard and the smoke of the factory
darkens not the long summer days? Away, in the smooth "Flying Dutchman";
past Windsor's glorious towers and Eton's playing-fields; past the
little village and churchyard where a century and a half ago the famous
"Elegy" was written, and where, hard by "those rugged elms, that
yew-tree's shade," yet rests the body of the mighty poet, Gray. How
those lines run in one's head this bright summer evening, as from our
railway carriage we note the great white dome of Stoke House peeping out
amid the elms! whilst every field reminds us of him who wrote those
lilting 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 gardens
are bright with scarlet and gold, and blue and white; every flower that
can be made to grow in our climate grows there, we may be sure. But
there is no need of garden flowers now, when the fields and hedges, even
the railway banks, are painted with the lovely blue of wild geraniums
and harebells, the gold of birdsfoot trefoil and Saint John's wort, and
the white and pink of convolvulus or bindweed. We are passing through
some of the richest scenery in the Thames valley. There, on the right,
is Mapledurham, a grand mediaeval building, surrounded by such a wealth
of stately trees as you will see nowhere else. The Thames runs
practically through the grounds. What a glorious carpet of gold is
spread over these meadows when the buttercups are in full bloom! Now
comes Pangbourne, with its lovely weir, where the big Thames trout love
to lie. Pangbourne used to be one of the prettiest villages on the
river; but its popularity has spoilt it.
As we pass onwards, many other country houses--Purley, Basildon, and
Hardwick--with their parks and clustering cottages, add their charm to
the view. There are the beautiful woods of Streatley: hanging copses
clothe the sides of the hills, and pretty villages nestle amid the
trees. But soon the scene changes: the glorious valley Father Thames has
scooped out for himself is left behind; we are crossing the chalk
uplands. On all sides are vast stretches of unfenced arable land, though
here and there a tiny village with its square-towered Norman church
peeps out from an oasis of green fields and stately elm trees. On the
right the Chiltern Hills are seen in the background, and Wittenham Clump
stands forth--a conspicuous object for miles. The country round Didcot
reminds one very much of the north of France: between Calais and Paris
one notices the same chalk soil, the same flat arable fields, and the
same old-fashioned farmhouses and gabled cottages.
But now we have entered the grand old Berkshire vale. "Fields and
hedges, hedges and fields; peace and plenty, plenty and peace. I should
like 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 Kingsley
forty years ago, when times were better for Berkshire farmers. But the
same old fields and the same old hedges still remain--only we do not
appreciate them as much as did the author of "Westward Ho!"
Steventon, that lovely village with its gables and thatched roofs, its
white cottage walls set with beams of blackest oak, its Norman church in
the midst of spreading chestnuts and leafy elms, appears from the
railway to be one of the most old-fashioned spots on earth. This vale is
full of fine old trees; but in many places the farmers have spoilt their
beauty by lopping off the lower branches because the grass will not grow
under their wide-spreading foliage. It is only in the parks and
woodlands that the real glory of the timber remains.
And now we may notice what a splendid hunting country is this Berkshire
vale. The fields are large and entirely grass; the fences, though
strong, are all "flying" ones--posts and rails, too, are frequent in the
hedges. Many a fine scamper have the old Berkshire hounds enjoyed over
these grassy pastures, where the Rosy Brook winds its sluggish course;
and we trust they will continue to do so for many years to come. Long
may that day be in coming when the sound of the horn is no longer heard
in this delightful country!
High up on the hill the old White Horse soon appears in view, cut in the
velvety turf of the rolling chalk downs. But, in the words of the
old ballad,
"The ould White Horse wants zettin' to rights."
He wants "scouring" badly. A stranger, if shown this old relic, the
centre of a hundred legends, famous the whole world over, would find it
difficult to recognise any likeness to a fiery steed in those uncertain
lines of chalk. Nevertheless, this is the monument King Alfred made to
commemorate his victory over the Danes at Ashdown. So the tradition of
the country-side has had it for a thousand years, and shall a
thousand more.
The horse is drawn as galloping. Frank Buckland took the following
measurements of him: The total length is one hundred and seventy yards;
his eye is four feet across; his ear fifteen yards in length; his
hindleg is forty-three yards long. Doubtless the full proportions of the
White Horse are not kept scoured nowadays; for a few weeks ago I was up
on the hill and took some of the measurements myself. I could not make
mine agree with Frank Buckland's: for instance, the ear appeared to be
seven yards only in length, and not fifteen; so that it would seem that
the figure is gradually growing smaller. It is the head and forelegs
that want scouring worst of all. There is little sign of the trench, two
feet deep, which in Buckland's time formed the outline of the horse; the
depth 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 from
Bath almost to Reading the whole length of the Cotswold Hills, as well
as the Chilterns, stretching away eastwards towards Aylesbury, and far
into Buckinghamshire. Beneath your feet lie many hundred thousand acres
of green pastures, varied in colour during summer and autumn by golden
wheatfields bright with yellow charlock and crimson poppies. It has
been said that eleven counties are visible on clear days.
The White Horse at Westbury, further down the line, represents a horse
in a standing position. He reflects the utmost credit on his grooms; for
not only are his shapely limbs "beautifully and wonderfully made," but
the greatest care is taken of him. The Westbury horse is not in reality
nearly so large as this one at Uffington, but he is a very beautiful
feature of the country. I paid him a visit the other day, and was
surprised to find he was very much smaller than he appears from the
railway. Glancing over a recent edition of Tom Hughes' book, "The
Scouring 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 Act
of Parliament as an ancient monument which will be maintained in time to
come as a piece of prosaic business, at the cost of other than Berkshire
men 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 since
the last pastime, with its backsword play and "climmin a greasy pole for
a 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's
accession, sixty-one years ago. It would be enough to make poor Tom
Hughes turn in his grave if he knew that the old White Horse had been
turned out to grass, and left to look after himself for the rest of
his days!
Those were grand old times when the Berkshire; Gloucestershire, and
Somersetshire men amused themselves by cracking each other's heads and
cudgel-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 not
least, John Morse, of Uffington, "grinned agin another chap droo hos
[horse] collars, a fine bit of spwoart, to be sure, and made the folks
laaf." I here quote from Tom Hughes' book, "The Scouring of the White
Horse," to which I must refer my readers for further interesting
particulars.
There are some days during summer when the sunlight is so beautiful that
every object is invested with a glamour and a charm not usually
associated with it. Such a day was that of which we write. As we were
gliding out of Swindon the sun was beginning to descend. From a Great
Western express, running at the rate of sixty miles an hour through
picturesque country, you may watch the sun setting amidst every variety
of scenery. Now some hoary grey tower stands out against the intense
brightness of the western sky; now a tracery of fine trees shades for a
time the dazzling light; then suddenly the fiery furnace is revealed
again, reflected perhaps in the waters of some stream or amid the reeds
and sedges of a mere, where a punt is moored containing anglers in broad
wideawake hats. Gradually a dark purple shade steals over the long range
of chalk hills; white, clean-looking roads stand out clearly defined
miles away on the horizon; the smoke that rises straight up from some
ivy-covered homestead half a mile away is bluer than the evening sky--a
deep azure blue. The horizon is clear in the south, but in the
north-west dark, but not forbidding clouds are rising; fantastic
cloudlets float high up in the firmament; rooks coming home to roost are
plainly visible several miles away against the brilliant western sky.
This Great Western Railway runs through some of the finest bits of old
England. Not long ago, in travelling from Chepstow to Gloucester, we
were fairly amazed at the surpassing beauty of the views. It was
May-day, and the weather was in keeping with the occasion. The sight of
the old town of Chepstow and the silvery Wye, as we left them behind us,
was fine enough; but who can describe the magnificent panorama presented
by the wide Severn at low tide? Yellow sands, glittering like gold in
the dazzling sunshine, stretched away for miles; beyond these a vista of
green meadows, with the distant Cotswold Hills rising out of dreamy
haze; waters of chrysolite, with fields of malachite beyond; the azure
sky overhead flecked with clouds of pearl and opal, and all around the
pear orchards in full bloom.
While on the subject of scenery, may I enter a protest against the
change the Great Western Railway has lately made in the photographs
which adorn their carriages? They used to be as beautiful as one could
wish; lately, however, the colouring has been lavished on them with no
sparing 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 say
good-bye to the Vale of White Horse; for we have entered the Cotswolds.
Stretching from Broadway to Bath, and from Birdlip to Burford, and
containing about three hundred square miles, is a vast tract of hill
country, intersected by numerous narrow valleys. Probably at one period
this district was a rough, uncultivated moor. It is now cultivated for
the most part, and grows excellent barley. The highest point of this
extensive range is eleven hundred and thirty-four feet, but the average
altitude would not exceed half that height. Almost every valley has its
little brook. The district is essentially a "stone country;" for all the
houses and most of their roofs are built of the local limestone, which
lies everywhere on these hills within a few inches of the surface. There
is no difficulty in obtaining plenty of stone hereabouts. The chief
characteristics of the buildings are their antiquity and Gothic
quaintness. The air is sharp and bracing, and the climate, as is
inevitable on the shallow, porous soil of the oolite hills, wonderfully
dry and invigorating. "Lands of gold have been found, and lands of
spices and precious merchandise; but this is the land of _health_" Thus
wrote Richard Jefferies of the downs, and thus say we of the Cotswolds.
And now our Great Western express is gliding into Cirencester, the
ancient capital of the Cotswold country. How fair the old place seems
after the dirt and smoke of London! Here town and country are blended
into one, and everything is clean and fresh and picturesque. The garish
church, as you view it from the top of the market-place, has a charm
unsurpassed by any other sacred building in the land. In what that charm
lies I have often wondered. Is it the marvellous symmetry of the whole
graceful pile, as the eye, glancing down the massive square tower and
along the pierced battlements and elaborate pinnacles, finally rests on
the empty niches and traceried oriel windows of the magnificent south
porch? I cannot say in what the charm exactly consists, but this stately
Gothic fane has a grandeur as impressive as it is unexpected, recalling
those 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 the
narrowness of dust the mighty spirits by whom its haughty walls had been
raised and its burning legends written, than in lifting the rock of
granite higher than the clouds of heaven, and veiling them with their
various mantle of purple flower and shadowy pine."
[Illustration: The Old Manor House. 029.png]