A Cotswold Village | Page 5

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