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 the
Cotswold country, because, as a rule, the roads run over the bleak
tableland for miles and miles, and the landscape generally consists of
ploughed fields divided by grey stone walls; the downs I have referred
to at different times are only to be met with in certain districts. Once
upon a time the whole of Cotswold was one vast sheep walk from beginning
to end. It was about a hundred and fifty years ago that the idea of
enclosing the land was started by the first Lord Bathurst. Early in the
eighteenth century he converted a large tract of downland round
Cirencester into arable fields; his example was soon followed by others,
so that by the middle of last century the transformation of three
hundred square miles of downs into wheat-growing ploughed fields had
been accomplished. It is chiefly owing to the depression in agricultural
produce that there are any downs now, for they merely exist because the
tenants have found during the last twenty years that it does not pay to
cultivate their farms, hence they let a large proportion go back
to grass.
But there is one very pleasant walk in that part of the Cotswolds we
know best, and this takes you up the valley of the Coln to the Roman
villa at Chedworth.
The distance by road from Fairford to the Chedworth woods is about
twelve miles; and at any time of the year, but more especially in the
spring and autumn, it is a truly delightful pilgrimage.
And here it is worth our while to consider for a moment how tremendously
the abolition of the stage coach has affected places like Fairford,
Burford, and other Cotswold towns and villages. It was through these
old-world places, past these very walls and gables, that the mail
coaches rattled day after day when they "went down with victory"
conveying the news of Waterloo and Trafalgar into the heart of merry
England. In his immortal essay on "The English Mail Coach," De Quincey
has told us how between the years 1805 and 1815 it was worth paying
down five years of life for an outside place on a coach "going down with
victory." "On any night the spectacle was beautiful. The absolute
perfection of all the appointments about the carriages and the harness,
their strength, their brilliant cleanliness, their beautiful
simplicity--but more than all, the royal magnificence of the
horses--were what might first have fixed the attention. But the night
before us is a night of victory: and behold! to the ordinary display
what a heart-shaking addition! horses, men, carriages, all are dressed
in laurels and flowers, oak leaves and ribbons." The brilliancy of the
royal liveries, the thundering of the wheels, the tramp of those
generous horses, the sounding of the coach horn in the calm evening air,
and last, but not least, the intense enthusiasm of travellers and
spectators alike, as amid such cries as "Salamanca for ever!" "Hurrah
for Waterloo!" they cheered and cheered again, letting slip the dogs of
victory throughout those old English villages,--all these things must
have united the hearts of the classes and masses in one common bond,
rendering such occasions memorable for ever in the hearts of the simple
country folk. In small towns like Burford and Northleach, situated five
or six miles from any railway station, the prosperity and happiness of
the natives has suffered enormously by the decay of the stage coach; and
even in smaller villages the cheering sound of the horn must have been
very welcome, forming as it did a connecting link between these remote
hamlets of Gloucestershire and the great metropolis a hundred
miles away.
Fairford Church is known far and wide as containing the most beautiful
painted glass of the early part of the sixteenth century to be found
anywhere in England. The windows, twenty-eight in number, are usually
attributed to Albert Dürer; but Mr. J.G. Joyce, who published a treatise
on them some twenty years ago, together with certain other high
authorities, considered them to be of English design and workmanship.
They would doubtless have been destroyed in the time of the Civil Wars
by the Puritans had they not been taken down and hidden away by a member
of the Oldysworth family, whose tomb is in the middle chancel.
John Tame, having purchased the manor of Fairford in 1498, immediately
set about building the church. He died two years later, and his son
completed the building, and also erected two other very fine churches in
the neighbourhood--those at Rendcombe and Barnsley. He was a great
benefactor to the Cotswold country. Leland tells us that the town of
Fairford never flourished "before the cumming of the Tames into it."
You may see John Tame's effigy on his tomb, together with that of his
wife, 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 still
hang on the church wall. Leland describes Fairford as a "praty
uplandish towne," meaning, I suppose, that it is situated on high
ground. It is certainly a delightful old-fashioned place--a very good
type of what the Cotswold towns are like. Chipping-Campden and Burford
are, however, the two most typical Cotswold towns I know.
In the year 1850 a remarkable discovery was made in a field close to
Fairford. No less than a hundred and fifty skeletons were unearthed, and
with them a large number of very interesting Anglo-Saxon relics, some of
them in good preservation. In many of the graves an iron knife was found
lying by the skeleton; in others the bodies were decorated with bronze
fibulae, richly gilt, and ornamented in front. Mr. W. Wylie, in his
interesting account of these Anglo-Saxon graves, tells us that some of
the bodies were as large as six feet six inches; whilst one or two
warriors of seven feet were unearthed. All the skeletons were very
perfect, even though no signs of any coffins were to be seen. Bronze
bowls and various kinds of pottery, spearheads of several shapes, a
large number of coloured beads, bosses of shields, knives, shears, and
two remarkably fine swords were some of the relics found with the
bodies. A glass vessel, coloured yellow by means of a chemical process
in which iron was utilised, is considered by Mr. Wylie to be of Saxon
manufacture, and not Venetian or Roman, as other authorities hold.
Whether this is merely an Anglo-Saxon burial-place, or whether the
bodies are those of the warriors who fell in a great battle such as that
fought in A.D. 577, when the Saxons overthrew the Britons and took from
them the cities of Gloucester, Cirencester, and Bath, it is impossible
to determine. The natives are firmly convinced that the skeletons
represent the slain in a great battle fought near this spot; but this is
only tradition. At all events, the words of prophecy attributed to the
old Scotch bard Ossian have a very literal application with reference to
this interesting relic of bygone times: "The stranger shall come and
build there and remove the heaped-up earth. An half-worn sword shall
rise before him. Bending above it, he will say, 'These are the arms of
the 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 be
seen. Cottages stand where the old burial mounds doubtless once existed,
and all monumental evidences of those mighty men--the last, perhaps, of
an ancient race--have long since been destroyed by the ruthless hand
of time.
The manor of Fairford now belongs to the Barker family, to whom it came
through the female line about a century ago.
We must now leave Fairford, and start on our pilgrimage to the Roman
villa of Chedworth. At present we have not got very far, having lingered
at our starting-point longer than we had intended. The first two miles
are the least interesting of the whole journey; the Coln, broadened out
for some distance to the size of a lake, is hidden from our view by the
tall trees of Fairford Park. It was along this road that John Keble, the
poet used to walk day by day to his cure at Coln-St.-Aldwyns. His home
was at Fairford. Two eminent American artists have made their home in
Fairford during recent years--Mr. Edwin Abbey and Mr. J. Sargent, both
R.A's. Close by, too, at Kelmscott, dwelt William Morris, the poet.
On reaching Quenington we catch a glimpse of the river, whilst high up
on the hill to our right stands the great pile of Hatherop Castle. This
place, the present owner of which is Sir Thomas Bazley, formerly
belonged to the nunnery of Lacock. After the suppression of the
monasteries it passed through various heiresses to the family of Ashley.
It was practically rebuilt by William Spencer Ponsonby, first Lord de
Mauley; his son, Mr. Ashley Ponsonby, sold it to Prince Duleep Singh,
from whom it passed to the present owner. Sir Thomas Bazley has done
much for the village which is fortunate enough to claim him as a
resident; 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 and
Coln-St.-Aldwyns we cannot help noticing the delightful character of the
houses from a picturesque point of view; in both these hamlets there are
the same clean-looking stone cottages and stone-tiled roofs. Here and
there the newer cottages are roofed with ordinary slate; and this seems
a pity. Nevertheless, there still remains much that is picturesque to be
seen on all sides. Roses grow in every garden, clematis relieves with
its rich purple shade the walls of many a cosy little dwelling-house,
and the old white mills, with their latticed windows and pointed
gables, are a feature of every tiny hamlet through which the
river 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 of
Coln-St.-Aldwyns is the old original manor house. Inside it is an old
oak staircase, besides other interesting relics of the Elizabethan age.
For many years this has been a farmhouse, but it has recently been
restored by its owner, Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, the present Chancellor
of the Exchequer, who intends to make it his country abode. A piece of
carved stone with four heads was discovered by the workmen engaged in
the restoration, and is to be placed over the front door. It is
doubtless 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 the
village of "Coln" behind you. This place also belongs to Sir Michael
Hicks-Beach; it has always seemed to us the _beau-ideal_ of an English
home. 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 couple
of miles or so of excellent trout-fishing, very fair shooting, and good
hunting would seem to be a combination of sporting advantages that few
country places enjoy. Williamstrip came into the family of the present
owner in 1784. The three parishes of Hatherop, Quenington, and
Coln-St.-Aldwyns practically adjoin each other. Each has its beautiful
church, the Norman doorways in that of Quenington being well worth a
visit. Close to the church of Quenington are the remnants of an ancient
monastery.
The "Knights Templar" of Quenington were famous in times gone by. There
is a fine entrance gate and porch on the roadside, which no doubt led to
the abbey.
There is little else left to remind us of these Knights Templar. Here
and there are an old lancet window or a little piece of Gothic tracery
on an ancient wall, an old worm-eaten roof of oak or a heap of ruined
stones on a moat-surrounded close,--these are all the remnants to be
found of the days of chivalry and the monks of old.
We have now two rather uneventful miles to traverse between
Coln-St.-Aldwyns and Bibury, for we must once more leave the valley and
set out across the bleak uplands. On the high ground we have the
advantage of splendid bracing air at all events. The hills have a charm
of their own on a fine day, more especially when the fields are full of
golden corn and the old-fashioned Cotswold men are busy among
the sheaves.
And very soon we get a view which we would gladly have walked twenty
miles to see. Down below us and not more than half a mile away is the
fine old Elizabethan house of Bibury, standing out from a background of
magnificent trees. Close to the house is the grey Norman tower of the
village church, which has stood there for mote than six centuries.
Nestling round about are the old stone-roofed cottages, like those we
have seen in the other villages we have passed through. A broad reach of
the Coln and a grand waterfall enhance the quiet and peaceful beauty of
the scene. But this description falls very short of conveying any
adequate idea of the truly delightful effect which the old grey
buildings set in a framework of wood and water present on a fine
autumnal afternoon.
Never shall I forget seeing this old place from the hill above during
one September sunset. There was a marvellous glow suffused over the
western sky, infinitely beautiful while it lasted; and immediately below
a silvery mist had risen from the surface of the broad trout stream, and
was hanging over the old Norman tower of the church. Amid the rush of
the waterfall could be heard the distant voices of children in the
village street. Then on a sudden the church clock struck the hour of
six, in deep, solemn tones. Against the russet-tinted woods in the
background the old court house stood out grey and silent under the
shadow of the church tower, preaching as good a sermon as any I
ever 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 to
Henry VIII.'s time. The most remarkable characteristic of its interior
is a very fine carved oak staircase. The greater part of this house was
built in the year 1623 by Sir Thomas Sackville. It was long the seat of
the Creswell family, before passing by purchase to the family of the
present owner--Lord Sherborne. The fine old church has some Saxon work
in it, whilst the doorways and many other portions are Norman. Its
delightful simplicity and brightness is what pleases one most. On coming
down into the village, one notices a little square on the left, not at
all like those one sees in London, but very picturesque and clean
looking. In the olden times were to be seen in many villages little
courts of this kind; in the centre of them was usually a great tree,
round which the old people would sit on summer evenings, while the
children danced and played around. Gilbert White speaks of one at
Selborne, which he calls the "Plestor." The original name was
"Pleystow," which means a play place. We have noticed them in many parts
of the Cotswold country. Here, too, children are playing about under the
shade of some delightful trees in the centre of the miniature square,
whilst the variegated foliage sets off the gabled cottages which form
three sides of it.
I have often wondered, as I stood by these chestnut trees, whether there
is any architecture more perfect in its simplicity and grace than that
which lies around me here. Not a cottage is in sight that is not worthy
of the painter's brush; not a gable or a chimney that would not be
worthy of a place in the Royal Academy. The little square is bordered
for six months of the year with the prettiest of flowers. Even as late
as December you may see roses in bloom on the walls, and chrysanthemums
of 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 pretty
village. As you walk along the main street which runs parallel with the
river, 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 the
speckled fario which abound; so be careful to step down off the path
which 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 seen
a line of gabled cottages called "Arlington Row," a picture of which by
G. Leslie was hung at the Royal Academy this year (1898).
A few hundred yards on you stop to inspect the spring which rises in the
garden of the Swan Hotel. It has been said that two million gallons a
day is the minimum amount of water poured out by this spring. It
consists of the rain, which, falling on a large area of the hill
country, gradually finds its way through the limestone rocks and
eventually comes out here. It would be interesting to trace the course
of some of these underground rivers; for a torrent of water such as this
cannot flow down through the soft rock without in the course of
thousands of years, producing caves and grottoes and underground
galleries and all the wonders of the Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, with its
stalactite pillars and fairy avenues and domes--though the Cotswold
caves are naturally on a much smaller scale. At Torquay and on the
Mendip 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 beautiful
hidden caves, such as those funny little "palaeolithic" men lived in a
few thousand years ago; but why there have not been more discoveries of
this nature in this part of the Cotswolds it is difficult to say. There
is a cave hereabouts, men say, but the entrance to it cannot now be
found. There is likewise a Roman villa on the hill here which has not
yet been dug out of its earthy bed. A hundred years ago a large number
of Roman antiquities were discovered near this village.
We now leave Bibury behind us, and a mile on we pass through the hamlet
of Ablington, which is very like Bibury on a smaller scale, with its
ancient cottages, tithe barns and manor house; its springs of
transparent water, its brook, and wealth of fine old trees. We have no
time to linger in this hamlet to-day, though we would fain pause to
admire 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 way
along an old, disused road, probably an ancient British track, in
preference to keeping to the highway--in the first place because it is
by far the shortest, and secondly because we intend to go somewhat out
of our way to inspect two ancient barrows, the resting-place of the
chiefs of old, of whom Ossian (or was it Macpherson?)[5] sang: "If fall
I must in the field, raise high my grave. Grey stones and heaped-up
earth shall mark me to future times. When the hunter shall sit by the
mound and produce his food at noon, 'Some warrior rests here,' he will
say; and my fame shall live in his praise."
[Footnote 5: In spite of Dr. Johnson and other eminent critics, one
cannot help believing in the genuineness of some of the poems attributed
to Ossian. "The proof of the pudding is in the eating"; and those
wonderful old songs are too wild and lifelike to have had their origin
in the eighteenth century. Macpherson doubtless enlarged upon the
originals, 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 right
hand; as it is somewhat different from the other barrows in the
neighbourhood, we will briefly describe it. It is a "long barrow," with
the two horns at one end that are usually associated with "long"
barrows. In the middle of the curve between these ends stands a great
stone about five feet square, not very unlike our own gravestones,
though worn by the rains of thousands of years. The mound is surrounded
by a double wall of masonry. At the north end, when it was opened forty
years ago, a chamber was found containing human bones. It is supposed
that this mound was the burying-place of a race which dwelt on Cotswold
at least three thousand years ago. From the nature of the stone
implements found, it is conjectured that the people who raised it were
unacquainted with the use of metal.
Now we will have a look at another barrow a few fields away. This is a
mound of a somewhat later age; for it was raised over the ashes of a
body or bodies that had been cremated. It was probably the Celts who
raised this barrow. The other day it was opened for a distinguished
society of antiquaries to inspect; they found that in the centre were
stones carefully laid, encircling a small chamber, whilst the outer
portions were of ordinary rubble. Nothing but lime-dust and dirt was
found in the chamber; but in the course of thousands of years most of
these barrows have probably been opened a good many times by Cotswold
natives in search of "golden coffins" and other treasures.
There is a small, round underground chamber within a short distance of
these barrows, which the natives consider to be a shepherd's hut, put up
about two centuries back, and before the country was enclosed, as a
retreat to shelter the men who looked after the flocks. It has been
declared, however, by those who have studied the question of burial
mounds, that it was built in very early times, and contained bodies that
had not been cremated. The antiquaries who came a short time back to
view these remains describe it as "an underground chamber, circular in
shape, 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 of
the fox-covert."
Now the fox-covert is a very sacred institution in these parts; for it
is 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, when
within a hundred yards, the thought crossed us that we had given leave
to the Cotswold Naturalist Society to make a tour of inspection, and
that one of the barrows was in our fox-covert.
Labouring friends of mine often bring me relics of the stone age which
they have picked up whilst at work in the fields. Quite recently a
shepherd brought me a knife blade and two flint arrow-heads. He also
tells 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 dates
and sizes, which he tells you with great pride have been an heirloom in
his family for generations.
When we once more resume our pilgrimage along the track which leads to
Chedworth we find ourselves in a country which is never explored by the
tourist. Far removed from railways and the "busy haunts of men," it is
not even mentioned in the guide-books. Our way lies along the edge of
the hill for the next few miles, and we look down upon the picturesque
valley of the Coln. Four villages, all very like those we have
described, are passed in rapid succession. Winson, Coln Rogers,
Coln-St.-Dennis, and Fossbridge all lie below us as we wend our way
westwards. But although the architecture is of the same massive yet
graceful style, and the old Norman churches still tower their grand old
heads and cast their shadows over the cottages and farm buildings, there
are no manor houses of note in any of these four villages, and no
well-timbered demesnes; so that they are not so interesting as some of
those we have passed through. In all, however, there dwell the good old
honest labouring folk, toiling hard day by day at "the trivial round,
the common task," just earning enough to scrape up a livelihood, but
enjoying few of the amenities of life. The village parsons--good, pious
men--share in the quiet, uneventful life of their flock. And who shall
contemn 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 the
Cotswolds were the centre of much life and activity and the days of
agricultural depression were not known. When we look down on their old,
grey houses nestling among the great trees which thrive by the banks of
the 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 European
war, or some such far-reaching dispensation of Providence, terrible to
think of for those who live to see it, but with all its possibilities of
"good arising out of evil" for future generations, these old villages
will contain scarcely a single inhabitant in a hundred year's time. This
part of the Cotswold country will once more become a huge open plain,
retaining only long rows of tumbled-down stone walls as evidences of its
former enclosed state; no longer on Sundays will the notes of the
beautiful bells call the toilers to prayer and thanksgiving, and all
will be desolation. If only the capitalist or wealthy man of business
would 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 their
fascinating contrast to the smoke and din of a manufacturing town, have
little attraction for those who are unused to them. And yet there is
much happiness and content in these rural villages. The lot of those who
are able to get work is a thousand times more supportable than that of
the toiling millions in our great cities. There is less drinking and
less vice among these villagers than there is in any part of this world
that we are acquainted with; consequently you find them cheerful,
good-humoured, and, if they only knew it, happy. Grumble they must, or
they would not be mortal. Ah! if they could but realise the blessings of
the elixir of life--pure air, and fresh, clear, spring water, and
sunshine--three inestimable privileges that they enjoy all the year
round, and which are denied to so many of the inhabitants of this
globe--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," is
the 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 care
and _ennui_ by that glorious antidote to gloom and despondency, a fully
occupied 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, and
hung up in the sleeping apartment of every man, woman, and child on the
face of this earth. They are called "Labour" and "Reward." In those few
short pages is embodied the whole secret of content and happiness for
the dwellers in quiet country villages and smoky towns alike. They
contain the philosopher's stone, which makes men cheerful under all
circumstances, but especially those who are poor and down-trodden. The
secret is a very simple one; but if the educated classes are continually
losing sight of it, how much easier is it for those who have only the
bare necessaries of life and few of the comforts to become deadened to
its influence! It lies first of all in the realisation of the fact that
the object of life is not to get, still less to enjoy, riches and
pleasure. It teaches for the thousandth time that the humblest and the
highest of us alike are immortal souls imprisoned for threescore years
and ten in a tenement of clay, preparing for a better and higher
existence. It reverses the position of things on earth--placing the
crown of kings on the head of the toiling labourer, and making "the last
first and the first last." Its very essence lies in the dictum of the
old monks, "_Laborare est orare_" ("Work is worship").
It was one of the chief characteristics of the Roman people in the time
of their greatness that their most successful generals were content to
return to the plough after their wars were over. Thus Pliny in his
"Natural History" remarks as follows: "Then were the fields cultivated
by the hands of the generals themselves, and the earth rejoiced, tilled
as it was by a ploughshare crowned with laurels, he who guided the wheel
being himself fresh from glorious victories." And no sooner did honest
hand labour become despised than effeminacy crept in, and this once
haughty nation was practically blotted out from the face of the earth.
Let the Cotswold labourer realise that to work on the land, ploughing
and reaping, summer and winter, seedtime and harvest, come weal, come
woe, is no mean destiny for an honest man; there is scope for the
display of a noble and generous spirit in the beautiful green fields as
well as in the smoky atmosphere of the east end of London, in a
Birmingham factory, or a Warrington forge.
"What is the meaning of nobleness?" asks Carlyle. "In a valiant
suffering for others did nobleness ever lie. Every noble crown is, and
on 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 of
divineness. 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 men
have called divine. Oh, brother, if this is not worship, then, I say,
the more pity for worship: for this is the noblest thing yet discovered
under God's sky. Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil?
Complain not. Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow workmen there
in God's eternity surviving those, they alone surviving; peopling, they
alone, the unmeasured solitudes of Time. To thee Heaven, though severe,
is not unkind. Heaven is kind, as a noble mother; as that Spartan
mother, saying, while she gave her son his shield, 'With it, my son, or
upon it, thou, too, shalt return home in honour--to thy far distant home
in honour--doubt it not--if in the battle thou keep thy shield!' Thou in
the eternities and deepest death kingdoms art not an alien; thou
everywhere art a denizen. Complain not; the very Spartans did not
complain."
Would that the toiling labourer in the Cotswolds and in our great smoky
cities might keep these words continually before him, so that he might
grasp, not merely the secret of content and happiness in this life, but
the golden key to the immeasurable blessings of "the sure and certain
hope" 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 of
the 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 there
are few indeed who do not occasionally pine for a change of
employment--should go on a railway journey through "the black country"
at night, and mark the fierce light that reddens the murky skies as the
factory fires send forth their livid flames and clouds of sooty smoke.
He should watch the swarms of long-suffering human beings going to and
fro and in and out like busy bees around their hive, toiling, ever
toiling, round about the blazing fires. He should spend an hour in the
streets of Birmingham, where, as I passed through one fine September
morning recently on my way to Ireland, the atmosphere was darkened and
the human lungs stifled by a thick yellow fog. Or he should go down to
the engine-room of a mighty liner, when it is doing its twenty knots
across the seas, and then think of his own life in the happy hamlets and
the fresh, green fields of our English country.
* * * * *
Coming once more down the hill into the valley of the Coln, we must
cross the old Roman road known as the Fossway, follow the course of the
stream, 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 of
Stowell stands well up on the hill. It is a grey, square building of
some size, placed so as to catch all the sun and the breezes too,--very
much 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 winter
sunbeams seldom penetrate and the river mists rise damp and cold at
night. As we walk along the drive which leads through the woods to the
Roman villa, any amount of rabbits and pheasants are to be seen. And
here take place annually some of those big shoots which ignorant people
are so fond of condemning as unsportsmanlike, simply because they have
not the remotest idea what they are talking about. Why it should be
cruel to kill a thousand head in a day instead of two hundred on five
separate days, one fails to understand. As a matter of fact, the bigger
the "shoot" the less cruelty takes place, because bad shots are not
likely to be present on these occasions, whilst in small "shoots" they
are the rule rather than the exception. Instead of birds and ground game
being wounded time after time, at big _battues_ they are killed stone
dead by some well-known and acknowledged good shot. To see a real
workman knocking down rocketer after rocketer at a height which would be
considered impossible by half the men who go but shooting is to witness
an exhibition of skill and correct timing which can only be attained by
the most assiduous practice and the quickest of eyes. No, it is the
pottering hedgerow shooter, generally on his neighbour's boundary, who
is often unsportsmanlike. We know one or two who would have no
hesitation in shooting at a covey of partridges on the ground, when they
were within shot of the boundary hedge; and if they wounded three or
four and picked them up, they would carry them home fluttering and
gasping, because they are too heartless to think of putting the wretched
creatures out of their sufferings.
The extensive Roman remains discovered some years ago in the heart of
this forest doubtless formed the country house of some Roman squire.
They are well away from the river bank, and about three parts of the way
up the sloping hillside. The house faced as nearly as possible
south-east. In this point, as in many others, the Romans showed their
superiority of intellect over our ancestors of Elizabethan and other
days. Nowadays we begin to realise that houses should be built on high
ground, 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 in
intellect, and we are just reaching their standard of common sense. The
characteristics of the interior of these old dwellings are simplicity
combined with refinement and good taste. And it is worthy of remark that
the men who are ahead of the thought and feeling of the present day are
crying out for more simplicity in our homes and furniture, as well as
for more refinement and real architectural merit. No useless luxuries
and nick-nacks, but plenty of public baths, and mosaic pavements
laboriously put together by hard hand labour,--these are the points that
Ruskin and the Romans liked in common.
With this grandly timbered valley spread beneath them, no more suitable
spot on which to build a house could anywhere be found. And though the
Romans who inhabited this villa could not from its windows see the sun
go down in the purple west, emblematic of that which was shortly to set
over Rome, they could see the glorious dawn of a new day--boding forth
the dawn that was already brightening over England, even as "The old
order changeth, yielding place to new";--and they could see the
splendours of the moon rising in the eastern sky.
The principal apartment in this Roman country house measures about
thirty feet by twenty; it was probably divided into two parts, forming
the dining-room and drawing-room as well. The tessellated pavements are
wonderfully preserved, though not quite so perfect as a few others that
have been found in England. With all their beautiful colouring they are
merely formed of different shades of local stone, together with a little
terra-cotta. Perhaps these pavements, with their rich mellow tints of
red sandstone, and their shades of white, yellow, brown, and grey,
afforded by different varieties of limestone, are examples of the most
perfect kind of work which the labours of mankind, combined with the
softening influences of time, are able to produce. In one corner the
design is that of a man with a rabbit in his hand; and no doubt there
were lots of rabbits in these woods in those days, as well as deer and
other wild animals long since extinct.
In these woods of Chedworth the rose bay willow herbs grow taller and
finer than is their wont elsewhere. In every direction they spring up in
hundreds, painting the woodlands with a wondrously rich purple glow.
Here, too, the bracken thrives, and many a fine old oak tree spreads its
branches, revelling in the clay soil. On the limestone of the Cotswolds
oaks are seldom seen; but wherever a vein of clay is found, there will
be the oaks and the bracken. Every forest tree thrives hereabouts; and
in the open spaces that occur at intervals in the forest there grow such
masses of wild flowers as are nowhere else to be seen in the Cotswold
district. White spiraea, or meadow-sweet, crowds into every nook and
corner of open ground, raising its graceful stems in almost tropical
luxuriance by the brook-side. Campanula and the blue geranium or meadow
crane's-bill, with flowers of perfect blue, grow everywhere amid the
white blossoms of the spiraea. St John's wort, with its star-shaped
golden flowers, white and red campion, and a host of others, are larger
and 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--an
ingenious contrivance, by means of which the rooms were heated with hot
air, which passed along beneath the floors.
In the museum are portions of the skulls of men and of oxen, the
antlers of red deer, oyster shells, knives, spear-heads, arrow-heads,
bits of locks with keys, and excellent horseshoes, not to speak of such
things as bronze spurs, spoons, part of a Roman weighing-machine, and a
splendid pair of compasses. There are pieces of earthenware with
potter's marks on them, and red tiles bearing unmistakable marks of
fingering, as well as footprints of dogs and goats; these impressions
must have been made when the tiles were in a soft state. But the most
interesting relics are three freestone slabs, on which are inscribed the
Greek letters [Greek: chi] and [Greek: rho]. It was Mr. Lysons who first
noticed this evidence of ancient faith, and he is naturally of the
opinion that the sacred inscription proves that the builder was a
Christian. 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 a
Christian, and possibly it was this man who built the old house in the
midst of the Chedworth woods. A mile beyond this interesting relic of
Roman times is the manor house of Cassey Compton, built by Sir Richard
Howe about the middle of the seventeenth century. It stands on the banks
of the Coln, and in olden times was approached by a drawbridge and
surrounded 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 a
monastery. This was undoubtedly the case, for we find in Fozbrooke that
the Archbishop of York had license to "embattle his house" here in the
reign of Edward I.
A mosaic pavement, discovered here about 1811, was placed in the
British Museum.
It is very sad to come upon these remote manor houses in all parts of
the 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 echoed
the mirth and merriment which characterised the life of "the good old
English gentleman, all of the olden time."
Other fine old houses in this immediate district which have not been
mentioned are Ampney Park, a Jacobean house containing an oak-panelled
apartment, 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 house
of some size, built rather with a view to internal comfort than external
grace and symmetry.
[Illustration: Village cricketers 242.png]