A Cotswold Village | Page 8

in winter, when lake and
fen are frostbound, by the river and its withybeds after snipe and
wildfowl--for the Cotswold stream has never been known to freeze!
In this small hamlet I noticed that there were no less than three huge
barns. At first I thought they were churches, so magnificent were their
proportions and so delicate and interesting their architecture. One of
these barns is four hundred years old.

Fifty years ago, what with the wool from his sheep and the grain that
was stored in these barns year by year, the Cotswold farmer was a rich
man. Alas! Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis! One can picture
the harvest home, annually held in the barn, in old days so cheery, but
now often nothing more than a form. Here, however, in this village, I
learnt that, in spite of bad times, some of the old customs have not been
allowed to pass away, and right merry is the harvest home. And
Christmastide is kept in real old English fashion; nor do the mummers
forget 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
"big house" of the village. Long and somewhat low, it stands close to
the road, and is of some size. Over the doorway of the porch is the
following 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 five
heads, elaborately carved in stone. In the centre is Queen Elizabeth; to
the 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 are
probably Philip of Spain and James I.
I was enchanted with the place. The quaint old Elizabethan gables and
sombre bell-tower, the old-fashioned entrance gates, the luxuriant
growth of ivy, combined together to give that air of peace, that charm
which belongs so exclusively to the buildings of the middle ages.
Knowing that the house was for the time being unoccupied, I walked
boldly into the outer porch, meaning to go no further. But another
inscription 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 was heavy
and cumbersome, and found myself in the hall. Although nothing
remarkable met my eye, I was delighted to find everything in keeping

with the place. The old-fashioned furniture, the old oak, the grim
portraits and quaint heraldry, all were there. I was much interested in
some carved beams of black oak, which I afterwards learnt originally
formed part of the magnificent roof of the village church. When the
roof was under repair a few years back, these beams were thrown aside
as rotten and useless, and thus found their way into the manor house.
Every atom of genuine old work of this kind is deeply interesting,
representing as it does the rude chiselling which hands that have long
been dust in the village churchyard wrought with infinite pains. That
oak roof, carved in rich tracery, resting for ages on arcades of dog-tooth
Norman and graceful Early English work, had echoed back the songs of
praise and prayer that rose Sunday after Sunday from the lips of
successive generations of simple country folk at matins and at
evensong, before the strains of the Angelus had been hushed for ever
by the Reformation. And who can tell how long before the Conquest,
and by what manner of men, were planted the trees destined to provide
these massive 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. Portraits of
various degrees of indifferent oil painting adorned the walls of the hall
and staircase. Somebody appeared to have been shooting with a
catapult at some of the pictures. One old gentleman had a shot through
his nose; and an old fellow with a hat on, over the window, had
received a pellet in the right eye![1]
[Footnote 1: The writer, in a fit of infantile insanity, being then aged
about nine, was discovered in the very act of committing this assault on
his ancestors some twenty years ago, in Hertfordshire.]
A copy of the Magna Charta, a suit of mediaeval armour, several rusty
helmets (Cromwellian and otherwise), antlers of several kinds of deer,
and a variety of old swords, pistols, and guns were the objects that
chiefly attracted my attention. The walls were likewise adorned with a
large number of heraldic shields.
I like to see coats-of-arms and escutcheons hanging up in churches