According to the “Diary of Master William Silence,” in the olden times a pedlar would occasionally arrive at the church door during the sermon, and proceed to advertise his wares at the top of his voice.  Whereupon the parson, speedily deserted by the female portion of his congregation and by not a few of the other sex, was obliged to bring his discourse to a somewhat inglorious conclusion.

We learn from the same work that the churchwardens were in the habit of disbursing large sums for the destruction of foxes.  When a fox was marked to ground the church bell was rung as a signal, summoning every man who owned a pickaxe, a gun, or a terrier dog, to lend a hand in destroying him.  We are talking of two or three hundred years ago, when the stag was the animal usually hunted by hounds on the Cotswolds and in other parts of England.

Our village is a favourite meet of the V.W.H. foxhounds.  An amusing story is told of a former tenant of the court house—­a London gentleman, who rented the place for a time.  He is reported to have made a special request to the master of the hounds, that when the meet was held at “the Court,” “his lordship” would make the fox pass in front of the drawing-room windows, “For,” said he, “I have several friends coming from London to see the hunt.”

In a hunting district such as this the owners and occupiers of the various country houses are usually enthusiastic devotees of the chase.  The present holder of the “liberty” adjoining us is a fox-hunter of the old school.  An excellent sportsman and a wonderful judge of a horse, he dines in pink the best part of the year, drives his four-in-hand with some skill, and wears the old-fashioned low-crowned beaver hat.

We have many other interesting characters in our village; human nature varies so delightfully that just as with faces so each individual character has something to distinguish it from the rest of the world.  The old-fashioned autocratic farmer of the old school is there of course, and a rare good specimen he is of a race that has almost disappeared.  Then we have the village lunatic, whose mania is “religious enthusiasm.”  If you go to call on him, he will ask you “if you are saved,” and explain to you how his own salvation was brought about.  Unfortunately one of his hobbies is to keep fowls and pigs in his house so that fleas are more or less numerous there, and your visits are consequently few and far between.

The village “quack,” who professes to cure every complaint under the sun, either in mankind, horses, dogs, or anything else by means of herbs, buttonholes you sometimes in the village street.  If once he starts talking, you know that you are “booked” for the day.  He is rather a “bore,” and is uncommonly fond of quoting the Scriptures in support of his theories.  But there is something about the man one cannot help liking.  His wonderful infallibility in curing disease is set down by himself to divine inspiration.  Many a vision has he seen.  Unfortunately his doctrines, though excellent in theory, are seldom successful in practice.  An excellent prescription which I am informed completely cured a man of indigestion is one of his mixtures “last thing at night” and the first chapter of St. John carefully perused and digested on top.