A Cotswold Village | Page 2

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