In the good times of farming there was doubtless much cause for discontent amongst the Cotswold labourers.  The profits derived from farming were then quite large.  The tendency of the age, however, was to treat the labouring man as a mere machine, instead of his being allowed to share in the general prosperity. ("Hinc illae lacrymae.”) Now things are changed.  Long-suffering farmers are in many cases paying wages out of their fast diminishing capital.  Many of them would rather lose money than cut down the wages.

Then again agricultural labourers who are unable to find work go off to the coal mines and big towns; some go into the army; others emigrate.  So that the distress is not so apparent in this district as the badness of the times would lead one to expect.

The Cotswold women obtain employment in the fields at certain seasons of the year; though poorly paid, they are usually more conscientious and hard-working than the men.

Most of the cottages are kept scrupulously clean; they have an air of homely comfort which calls forth the admiration of all strangers.  The children, too, when they go to church on Sundays, are dressed with a neatness and good taste that are simply astonishing when one recalls the income of a labourer on the Cotswolds—­seldom, alas! averaging more than fourteen shillings a week.  A boy of twelve years of age is able to keep himself, earning about five shillings per week.  Cheerful and manly little chaps they are.  To watch a boy of fourteen years managing a couple of great strong cart-horses, either at the plough or with the waggons, is a sight to gladden the heart of man.

It is unfortunate that there are not more orchards attached to the gardens on the Cotswolds.  The reader will doubtless remember Dr. Johnson’s advice to his friends, always to have a good orchard attached to their houses.  “For,” said he, “I once knew a clergyman of small income who brought up a family very reputably, which he chiefly fed on apple dumplings.”

Talking of clergymen, I am reminded of some stories a neighbour of ours—­an excellent fellow—­lately told me about his parishioners on the Cotswolds.  One old man being asked why he liked the vicar, made answer as follows:  “Why, ’cos he be so scratchy after souls.”  The same man lately said to the parson, “Sir, you be an hinstrument”; and being asked what he meant, he added, “An hinstrument of good in this place.”

This old-fashioned Cotswold man was very fond of reciting long passages out of the Psalms:  indeed, he knew half the Prayer-book by heart; and one day the hearer, being rather wearied, exclaimed, “I must go now, for it’s my dinner-time.”  To whom replied the old man, “Oh! be off with thee, then; thee thinks more of thee belly than thee God.”

An old bedridden woman was visited by the parson, and the following dialogue took place:—­

“Well, Annie, how are you to-day?”

“O sir, I be so bad!  My inside be that comical I don’t know what to do with he; he be all on the ebb and flow.”