or to men of the so-called lowest strata of society, such as these honest Cotswold labourers; because there is scarcely one man in ten among the reading public who is not biassed and confused by the manifold contradictions and political claptrap of the daily papers, and led away by side issues from a clear understanding of the rights of every case.  Our free press is doubtless a grand institution.  As with individuals, however, so ought it to be with nations.  Let us, in our criticisms of the policy of those who watch over the destinies of other countries, whilst firmly upholding our rights, strictly adhere to the principle of noblesse oblige.  The press is every day becoming more and more powerful for good or evil; its influence on men’s minds has become so marked that it may with truth be said that the press rules public opinion rather than that public opinion rules the press.  But the writers of the day will only fulfil their destiny aright by approaching every question in a broad and tolerant spirit, and by a firm reliance, in spite of the prejudices of the moment, on the ancient faith of noblesse oblige.  However, the unanimity recently shown by the press in upholding our rights at Fashoda was absolutely splendid.

The origin of the names of the fields in this district is difficult to trace.  Many a farm has its “barrow ground,” called after some old burial mound situated there; and many names like Ladbarrow, Cocklebarrow, etc., have the same derivation.  “Buryclose,” too, is a name often to be found in the villages; and skeletons are sometimes dug up in meadows so called.  A copse, called Deadman’s Acre, is supposed to have received its name from the fact that a man died there, having sworn that he would reap an acre of corn with a sickle in a day or perish in the attempt.  It is more likely, however, to be connected with the barrows, which are plentiful thereabouts.

Oliver Cromwell’s memory is still very much respected among the labouring folk.  Every possible work is attributed to his hand, and even the names of places are set down to his inventive genius.  Thus they tell you that when he passed through Aldsworth he did not think very much of the village (it is certainly a very dull little place), so he snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “That’s all ’e’s worth!” On arriving at Ready Token, where was an ancient inn, he found it full of guests; he therefore exclaimed, “It’s already taken!” Was ever such nonsense heard?  Yet these good folk believe every tradition of this kind, and delight in telling you such stories.  Ready Token is a bleak spot, standing very high, and having a clump of trees on it; it is therefore conspicuous for miles; so that when this country was an open moor, Ready Token was very useful as a landmark to travellers.  Mr. Sawyer thinks the name is a corruption from the Celtic word “rhydd” and the Saxon “tacen,” meaning “the way to the ford,” the place being on the road to Fairford, where the Coln is crossed.