In the year 1590 there was a lull in those tempestuous times, and men were able to turn for a while from the strife of battle and the daily fear of death and cultivate the arts of peace.

Thus this stately little manor house was reared, and many like it throughout the kingdom; and there it still stands, and will stand long after the modern building has fallen to the ground.  For not without much hard toil and sweat of brow did our forefathers erect these monuments of “a day that is dead”; and they remain to testify to the solid masonry and laborious workmanship of ancient times.

The descendants of this John Coxwell live on another property of theirs some twelve miles away; it is nearly seventy years since they have inhabited this old house.  I was pleased to find, however, that the present occupiers look after the labouring classes; that what rabbits are killed on the manor are not sold, but distributed in the village.  There is an old ivy-clad building in the grounds, only a few paces from the manor house.  This is the village club.  Here squire, farmer, and labourer are accustomed to meet on equal terms.  I was somewhat surprised to see on the club table the Times, the Pall Mall Gazette, and other papers.  These wonderful specimens of nineteenth-century literature contrast strangely with a place that in many respects has remained unchanged for centuries.

There are few labourers in England, even in these days, who have the opportunity—­if they will take it—­of reading the Times’ report of every speech made in parliament.  Perhaps, some day, will come forth from this hamlet

     “Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
      The little tyrant of his fields withstood”;

one who from earliest youth has kept himself in touch with the politics of the day, and has fitted himself to sit in the House of Commons as the representative of his class.  There are still a few “little tyrants” in the fields in all parts of England, but they are very much scarcer than was the case fifty years ago.

I was much pleased with a conversation I had with an old-fashioned labouring man who, though not past middle age, appeared to be incapacitated from work owing to a “game leg,” and whom I found sitting under a walnut tree in the manor grounds hard by the brook.  He informed me that there was bagatelle at the club for those who liked it, and all sorts of games, and smoking concerts:  that it was a question who was the best bagatelle player in the club; but that it probably lay between the squire and his head gardener, though Tom, the carter, was likely to run them close!  I was glad to find so much good feeling existing among all classes of this little community, and was not surprised to learn that this was a contented and happy village.

In this description of “a Cotswold village” we have been looking on the bright side of things, and there is, thank Heaven! many a place, mutato nomine, that would answer to it.  Alas! that there should be another side to the picture, which we would fain leave untouched.