In nine years out of ten autumn lingers on until the death of the old year; then, with the advent of the new, our English winter begins in earnest.
It is Christmas Day, and so lovely is the weather that I am sitting on the terrace watching the warm, grateful sun gradually disappearing through the grey ash trunks in the hanging wood beyond the river. The birds are singing with all the promise of an early spring. There is scarcely a breath of wind stirring, and one might almost imagine it to be April. Tom Peregrine, clad in his best Sunday homespun, passes along his well-worn track through the rough grass beyond the water, intent on visiting his vermin traps, or bent on some form of destruction,--for he is never happy unless he is killing. My old friend, the one-legged cock pheasant, who for the third year in succession has contrived to escape our annual battue, comes up to my feet to take the bread I offer. When he was flushed by the beaten there was no need to call "Spare him," for with all the cunning of a veteran he towered straight into the skies and passed over the guns out of shot. Two fantail pigeons of purest white, sitting in a dark yew tree that overhangs the stream a hundred yards away, make the prettiest picture in the world against the dusky foliage.
Splash!--a great brown trout rolls in the shallow water like a porpoise in the sea. A two-pounder in this little stream makes as much fuss as a twenty-pound salmon in the mighty Tweed.
Hark! was that a lamb bleating down in old Mr. Peregrine's meadow? It was: the first lamb, herald of the spring that is to be. May its little life be as peaceful as this its first birthday: less stormy than the life of that Lamb whose birth all people celebrate to-day.
The rooks are cawing, and a faint cry of plover comes from the hill.
Soft and grey is the winter sky, but behold! round the sun in the west there arises a perfect solar halo, very similar to an ordinary rainbow, but smaller in its arc and fainter in its hues of yellow and rose--a very beautiful phenomenon, and one seldom to be seen in England. Halos of this nature are supposed to arise from the double refraction of the rays from the sun as the light passes through thin clouds, or from the transmission of light through particles of ice. It lingers a full quarter of an hour, and then dies away. Does this bode rough weather? Surely the cruel Boreas and the frost will not come suddenly on us after this lovely, mild Christmas! Listen to the Christmas bells ringing two miles away at Barnsley village I we can never tire of the sound here, for it is only on very still days that it reaches us across the wolds.
"Hark! In the air, around, above,The Angelic Music soars and swells,And, in the Garden that I loveI hear the sound of Christmas Bells."From hamlet, hollow, village, height,The silvery Message seems to start,And far away its notes to-nightAre surging through the city's heart."Assurance clear to those who fretO'er vanished Faith and feelings fled,That not in English homes is yetTradition dumb, or Reverence dead."Now onward floats the sacred tale,Past leafless woodlands, freezing rills;It wakes from sleep the silent vale,It skims the mere, it scales the hills;"And rippling on up rings of space,Sounds faint and fainter as more high,Till mortal ear no more may traceThe music homeward to the sky."To courtly roof and rustic cotOld comrades wend from far and wide;Now is the ancient feud forgot,The growing grudge is laid aside."Peace and goodwill 'twixt rich and poor!Goodwill and peace 'twixt class and class!Let old with new, let Prince with boorSend round the bowl, and drain the glass!"ALFRED AUSTIN.
I have culled these lines from the poet laureate's charming "Christmas Carol," as they are both singularly beautiful and singularly appropriate to our Cotswold village.
I take the liberty of saying that in our little hamlet thereispeace and goodwill 'twixt rich and poor at Christmas-time.
"Now is the ancient feud forgot,The growing grudge is laid aside."
Our humble rejoicings during this last Christmas were very similar to those of a hundred years ago. They included a grand smoking concert at the club, during which the mummers gave an admirable performance of their old play, of which more anon; then a big feed for every man, woman, and child of the hamlet (about a hundred souls) was held in the manor house; added to which we received visits from carol singers and musicians of all kinds to the number of seventy-two, reckoning up the total aggregate of the different bands, all of whom were welcomed, for Christmas comes but once a year, after all, and "the more the merrier" should be our motto at this time. So from villages three and four miles away came bands of children to sing the old, old songs. The brass band, including old grey-haired men who fifty years ago with strings and wood-wind led the psalmody at Chedworth Church, come too, and play inside the hall. We do not brew at home nowadays. Even such old-fashioned Conservatives as old Mr. Peregrine, senior, have at length given up the custom, so we cannot, like Sir Roger, allow a greater quantity of malt to our small beer at Christmas; but we take good care to order in some four or five eighteen-gallon casks at this time. Let it be added that we never saw any man the worse for drink in consequence of this apparent indiscretion. But then, we have a butler of the old school.
When we held our Yuletide revels in the manor house, and the old walls rang with the laughter and merriment of the whole hamlet (for farmers as well as labourers honoured us), it occurred to me that the bigotphones, which had been lying by in a cupboard for about a twelvemonth, might amuse the company. Bigotphones, I must explain to those readers who are uninitiated, are delightfully simple contrivances fitted with reed mouthpieces--exact representations in mockery of the various instruments that make up a brass band--but composed of strong cardboard, and dependent solely on the judicious application of the human lips and the skilful modulation of the human voice for their effect. These being produced, an impromptu band was formed: young Peregrine seized the bassoon, the carter took the clarionet, the shepherd the French horn, the cowman the trombone, and, seated at the piano, I myself conducted the orchestra. Never before have I been so astonished as I was by the unexpected musical ability displayed. No matter what tune I struck up, that heterogeneous orchestra played it as if they had been doing nothing else all their lives. "The British Grenadiers," "The Eton Boating Song," "Two Lovely Black Eyes" (solo, young Peregrine on the bassoon), "A Fine Hunting Day,"--all and sundry were performed in perfect time and without a false note. Singularly enough, it is very difficult for the voice to "go flat" on the bigotphone. Then, not content with these popular songs we inaugurated a dance. Now could be seen the beautiful and accomplished Miss Peregrine doing the light fantastic round the stone floor of the hall to the tune of "See me dance the polka"; then, too, the stately Mrs. Peregrine insisted on our playing "Sir Roger de Coverley," and it was danced with that pomp and ceremony which such occasions alone are wont to show. None of your "kitchen lancers" for us hamlet folk; we leave that kind of thing to the swells and nobs. Tom Peregrine alone was baffled. Whilst his family in general were bowing there, curtseying here, clapping hands and "passing under to the right" in the usual "Sir Roger" style, he stood in grey homespun of the best material (I never yet saw a Cotswold man in a vulgar chessboard suit), and as he stood he marvelled greatly, exclaiming now and then, "Well, I never; this is something new to be sure!" "I never saw such things in all my life, never!" He would not dance; but, seizing one of the bigotphones, he blew into it until I was in some anxiety lest he should have an apoplectic fit I need scarcely say he failed to produce a single note.
Thus our Yuletide festivities passed away, all enjoying themselves immensely, and thus was sealed the bond of fellowship and of goodwill 'twixt class and class for the coming year.
Whilst the younger folks danced, the fathers of the hamlet walked on tiptoe with fearful tread around the house, looking at the faded family portraits. I was pleased to find that what they liked best was the ancient armour; for said they, "Doubtless squire wore that in the old battles hereabouts, when Oliver Cromwell was round these parts." On my pointing out the picture of the man who built the house three hundred years ago, they surrounded it, and gazed at the features for a great length of time; indeed, I feared that they would never come away, so fascinated were they by this relic of antiquity, illustrating the ancient though simple annals of their village.
I persuaded the head of our mummer troop to write out their play as it was handed down to him by his predecessors. This he did in a fine bold hand on four sides of foolscap. Unfortunately the literary quality of the lines is so poor that they are hardly worth reproducing, except as a specimen of the poetry of very early times handed down by oral tradition. Suffice it to say that thedramatis personaeare five in number--viz., Father Christmas, Saint George, a Turkish Knight, the Doctor, and an Old Woman. All are dressed in paper flimsies of various shapes and colours. First of all enters Father Christmas.
"In comes I old Father Christmas,Welcome in or welcome not,Sometimes cold and sometimes hot.I hope Father Christmas will never be forgot," etc.
Then Saint George comes in, and after a great deal of bragging he fights the "most dreadful battle that ever was known," his adversary being the knight "just come from Turkey-land," with the inevitable result that the Turkish knight falls. This brings in the Doctor, who suggests the following remedies:--
"Give him a bucket of dry hot ashes to eat,Groom him down with a bezom stick,And give him a yard and a half of pump water to drink."
For these offices he mentions that his fee is fifty guineas, but he will take ten pounds, adding:
"I can cure the itchy pitchy,Palsy, and the gout;Pains within or pains without;A broken leg or a broken arm,Or a broken limb of any sort.I cured old Mother Roundabout," etc.
He declares that he is not one of those "quack doctors who go about from house to house telling you more lies in one half-hour than what you can find true in seven years."
So the knight just come from Turkey-land is resuscitated and sent back to his own country.
Last of all the old woman speaks:
"In comes I old Betsy Bub;On my shoulder I carry my tub,And in my hand a dripping-pan.Don't you think I'm a jolly old man?Now last Christmas my father killed a fat hog,And my mother made black-puddings enough to choke a dog,And they hung them up with a pudden stringTill the fat dropped out and the maggots crawled in," etc.
The mummers' play, of which the above is a very briefrésumé, lasts about half an hour, and includes many songs of a topical nature.
Yes, Christmas is Christmas still in the heart of old England. We are apt to talk of the good old days that are no more, lamenting the customs and country sports that have passed away; but let us not forget that two hundred years hence, when we who are living now will have long passed "that bourne from which no traveller returns," our descendants, as they sit round their hearths at Yuletide, may in the same way regret the grand old times when good Victoria--the greatest monarch of all ages--was Queen of England; those times when during the London season fair ladies and gallant men might be seen on Drawing-room days driving down St James's Street in grand carriages, drawn by magnificent horses, with servants in cocked hats and wigs and gold lace; when the rural villages of merrie England were cheered throughout the dreary winter months by the sound of horse and hound, and by the sight of beautiful ladies and red-coated sportsmen, mounted on blood horses, careering over the country, clearing hedges and ditches of fabulous height and width; when every man, woman, and child in the village turned out to see the "meet," and the peer and the peasant were for the day on an equal footing, bound together by an extraordinary devotion to the chase of "that little red rover" which men called the fox--now, alas! extinct, as the mammoth or the bear, owing to barbed wire and the abolition of the horse; when to such an extent were games and sports a part of our national life that half London flocked to see two elevens of cricketers (including a champion "nine" feet high called Grace) fighting their mimic battle arrayed in white flannels and curiously coloured caps, at a place called Lords, the exact site of which is now, alas I lost in the sea of houses; when as an absolute fact the first news men turned to on opening their daily papers in the morning was the column devoted to cricket, football, or horse-racing; when in the good old days, before electricity and the motor-car caused the finest specimen of the brute creation to become virtually extinct (although a few may still be seen at the Zoological Gardens), horse-racing for a cup and a small fortune in gold was only second to cricket and football in the estimation of all merrie Englanders--the only races now indulged in being those of flying machines to Mars and back twice a day. Two hundred years hence, I say, the Victorian era--time of blessed peace and unexampled prosperity--will be pronounced by all unprejudiced judges as the true days of merrie England. Let us, then, though not unmindful of the past, pin our faith firmly on the present and the future.Carpe diemshould be our motto in these fleeting times, and, above all, progress, not retrogression. Let us, as the old, old sound of the village bells comes to us over the rolling downs this New Year's eve, recall to mind
".... the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be."
Let our hearts warm to the battle cry of advancing civilisation and the attainment of the ideal humanity, soaring upwards step by step, re-echoing the prayer contained in those lilting stanzas with which Tennyson greets the New Year:
"Ring out the old, ring in the new;Ring happy bells across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true."Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no moreRing out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind."Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right;Ring in the common love of good."Ring out old shapes of foul disease;Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace."Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land.Ring in the Christ that is to be."
"I saw Eternity the other nightLike a great ring of pure and endless light,All calm, as it was bright:--And round beneath it, time in hours, days, years,Driven by the spheres,Like a vast shadow moved, in which the worldAnd all her train were hurl'd."HENRY VAUGHAN.
It is the end of May; a bright, rainless, and at times bitterly cold month it has been. But now the chill east wind has almost died away. Summer has come at last. Once more I am making for the Downs. Very seldom am I there at this period of the year; but before going away for several months, I bethought me that I would go and inspect the improvements at the fox-covert, stopping on my way at the "Jubilee" gorse covert we lately planted, to see if there is a litter of cubs there this year. Across the fields we go, ankle deep in buttercups and clover at one moment, then up the hedge to avoid treading the half-grown barley. We are so accustomed to take a bee-line across these shooting grounds of ours that we quite forget that the farmer would not thank us for trampling down his crops at the end of May. But soon we are on the Downs, well out of harm's way and far removed from highroads and footpaths. What a glorious panorama lies all around! Why do we not come here oftener in summer?--the country is ten times more lovely then than it is in the shooting season. A field of sainfoin in June, with its glorious blossoms of pink, is one of the prettiest sights in all creation. Seen in the distance, amid a setting of green wheatfields and verdant pastures, it ripples in the garish light of the summer sun like a lake of rubies.
"Land and seaGive themselves up to jollity;And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday."
Ah! there will be lots of foxes when the hounds come to the fox-covert next October. The unpleasant smell at the mouth of the earth tells us that there are cubs there; and as we stand over it we can hear them playing down below in the bowels of mother earth. Very distinct, too, are the tracks--traffic, the keeper calls them--leading by sundry well-trodden paths to the dell below--a nice sunny dell, facing south-west, where in spring the violets and primroses grow among the spreading elder. These cubs were not born here. Their mother brought them from an old hollow stump of a tree by the river, half a mile away. When she found her lair discovered by an angler who happened to pass that way, she brought them across the river by the narrow footbridge right up here on to the hill. The cubs from the tree have disappeared, so no doubt these are the ones. Well, there are lots of rabbits for them; the little fellows are popping about all over the place.
How tame all wild animals become in the summer!--all except the ones we want to circumvent--magpies, jays, stoats, and such small deer. Lapwings fly round us, crying restlessly, "Go away, go away!" Their shrill treble accents remind one of a baby's squall. Pigeons and ringdoves, partridges and hares seem to be plentiful "as blackberries in September." A gorgeous cock pheasant crows and jumps up close to us, followed by his mate. This is a pleasing sight up here, for they are wild birds. There has been no rearing done in these copses on the hills within the memory of man.
Tom Peregrine suddenly appears out of a hedge, where he has been watching the antics of the cubs at the mouth of the fox-earth. He has grown very serious of late, and tells you repeatedly that there is going to be another big European war shortly. Let us hope his gloomy forebodings are doomed to disappointment. Surely, surely at the end of this marvellous nineteenth century, when there are so many men in the world who have learnt the difficult lessons of life in a way that they have never been learnt before, nations are no longer obliged to behave like children, or worse still, with their petty jealousies and bickerings and growlings, "like dogs that delight to bark and bite."
Tom Peregrine, having done but little work for many months, is now making himself really useful, for a change, by copying out parts of this great work; and, to do him justice, he writes a capital, clear hand. He is very anxious to become secretary to "some great gentleman," he says. If any of my readers require a sporting secretary, I can confidently recommend him as a man of "plain sense rather than of much learning, of a sociable temper, and one that understands a little of backgammon." There is no fear of his "insulting you with Latin and Greek at your own table." He would have suited Sir Roger capitally for a chaplain, I often tell him; and though he hasn't a notion who Sir Roger may be, he thoroughly enjoys the joke.
The fox-covert presents a strange appearance. It is full of young spruce trees, and the lower branches have been lopped down, but not cut through or killed. Under each tree there is now a grand hiding-place for foxes and rabbits--a sort of big umbrella turned topsy-turvy. The rabbits appreciate the pains we have been at; but I fear the foxes, for whom it was intended, at present look on the shelter with suspicion. They dislike the gum which oozes continually from the gashes in the bark; it sticks to their coats, and gives an unpleasant sensation when they roll. They cannot keep their beautiful coats sleek and glossy, as is their invariable rule, as long as their is any gum sticking to them.
How clearly we can see the Swindon Hills in the bright evening atmosphere! They must be more than twenty miles away. The grand old White Horse, making the spot where long, long ago the Danes were vanquished in fight, is not visible; but he is scarcely to be seen at all now, as the lazy Berkshire people have neglected their duty. He really must be scoured again this summer; he is a national institution. Londoners take a much greater interest in him than do the honest folk who live bang under his nose.
We must continue our excavations at Ladbarrow copse yonder. Men say it is the largest barrow in the county, full of "golden coffins" and all sorts of priceless antiquities! At present all we have discovered are some bones, with which we stuffed our pockets. When we arrived home, however, they were found to have belonged to a poor old sheep-dog that was buried there. But see! the setting sun is tinging the tops of the slender, shapely ash trees in yonder emerald copse. The whole plain is changing from a vast arena of golden splendour to a mysterious shadowy land of dreams. A fierce light still reveals every object on the hill towards the east; but westwards beneath yon purple ridge all is wrapped in dim, ambiguous shade.
It is sad to think that I alone of mortal men should be here to see this glorious panorama. It seems such a waste of nature's bounteous store that night after night this wondrous spectacle should be solemnly displayed, with no better gallery than a stray shepherd, who, as he "homeward plods his weary way," cares little for the grand drama that is being performed entirely for his benefit. Nature is indeed prodigal of her charms in out-of-the-way country places.
Sometimes whilst walking over these remote fields on summer evenings, I have stopped to ask myself this question: Is it possible that these exquisite wild flowers, these groves and dells of verdant tracery, these birds with their priceless music, and these wondrous, ineffable effects of light and shade which form part of the everyday pageant of English rural scenery are doomed "to waste their sweetness on the desert air"? Is it possible (to go further afield) that those lovely scenes in Wales--the fairy glens near Bettws-y-Coed, or the luxuriant valleys of Carmarthen, further south, where silvery Towey flows below the stately ruins of Dynevor Castle; those romantic reaches on the Wye, from Chepstow to the frowning hills of Brecon; those solitary, but unspeakably grand, mountains and passes of the Highlands, such as Glencoe, Ben Nevis, or those of the scarcely explored Hebrides; those smiling waters of the lovely Trossachs; those countless spots in the "Emerald Isle" that the tourist has never seen, whether in fertile Wicklow or among the whispering woods and weird waters of the west; those gorgeous forests of Ceylon; those interminable jungles of the beautiful East, with their unknown depths of tropical splendour;--is it possible that these scenes of wondrous beauty are inhabited and enjoyed by nothing more than is visible to our limited mortal gaze?
I believed, as a boy, and with a romance still unsubdued by time I would yet fain believe, that when the soul of man escapes from the poor tenement of clay in which it has been pent up for some threescore years and ten, it has not far to go. I would fain believe that heaven is not only above us, but, in some form or other entirely beyond our mortal ken, all around us, in every beautiful thing we see; that these hills and vales, these woods of delicately wrought fan-tracery groining, these mazes of golden light when the sun goes down, are peopled not alone by human flesh and blood. "There are also terrestrial bodies, and bodies celestial. But the glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another."
Who can imagine the shape or form of the immortal soul? As I walked over those golden fields to-night it seemed as if there were spirits all around me--glorious, bright spirits of the dead--invisible, intangible, like rays of pure light, in the clear atmosphere of those Elysian fields. I cannot but believe that there arise from the secret parts of this beautiful earth, at dawn of day and at eventide, other voices besides the ineffable songs of birds, the rustling murmurs that whisper in the woods, and the plaintive babbling of the brooks--hymns of unknown depths of harmony, impossible to describe, because impossible to imagine--crying night and day: "Blessing, and honour, and glory, and power be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne and unto the Lamb for ever and ever."
Yes, dear reader,
"Though inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither."
When the sun goes down, if you will turn for a little while from the noise and clamour of the busy world, you shall list to those voices ringing, ringing in your ears. Words of comfort shall you hear at eventide, "and sorrow and sadness shall be no more,"--even though, as the years roll on, perforce you cry, with Wordsworth:
"What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever taken from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind;In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be;In the soothing thoughts that springOut of human suffering;In the faith that looks through death,In years that bring the philosophic mind."
THE END.
(Note from the papers of the Gloucestershire Society)
It is now generally understood that the words of this song have a hidden meaning which was only known to the members of the Gloucestershire Society, whose foundation dates from the year 1657. This was three years before the restoration of Charles II. and when the people were growing weary of the rule of Oliver Cromwell. The Society consisted of Loyalists, whose object in combining was to be prepared to aid in the restoration of the ancient constitution of the kingdom whenever a favourable opportunity should present itself. The Cavalier or Royalist party were supported by the Roman Catholics of the old and influential families of the kingdom; and some of the Dissenters, who were disgusted with the treatment they received from Cromwell, occasionally lent them a kind of passive aid. Taking these considerations as the keynote to the song, attempts have been made to discover the meaning which was originally attached to its leading words. It is difficult at the present time to give a clear explanation of all its points. The following, however, is consistent throughout, and is, we believe, correct:--
"The stwuns that built Gaarge Ridler's oven,And thauy qeum from the Bleakeney's Quaar;And Gaarge he wur a jolly ould mon,And his yead it graw'd above his yare."
By "George Ridler" was meant King Charles I. The "oven" was the Cavalier party. The "stwuns" which built the oven, and which "came out of the Blakeney Quaar," were the immediate followers of the Marquis of Worcester, who held out to the last steadfastly for the royal cause at Raglan Castle, which was not surrendered till 1646, and was, in fact, the last stronghold retained for the king. "His head did grow above his hair" was an allusion to the crown, the head of the State, and which the king wore "above his hair."
"One thing of Gaarge Ridler's I must commend,And that wur vor a notable theng;He mead his braags avoore he died,Wi' any dree brothers his zons zshou'd zeng."
This meant that the king, "before he died," boasted that notwithstanding his present adversity, the ancient constitution of the kingdom was so good and its vitality so great that it would surpass and outlive any other form of government, whether republican, despotic, or protective.
"There's Dick the treble and John the mean(Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace);And Gaarge he wur the elder brother,And therevoore he would zing the beass."
"Dick the treble, Jack the mean, and George the bass" meant the three parts of the British constitution--King, Lords, and Commons. The injunction to "let every man sing in his own place" was intended as a warning to each of the three estates of the realm to preserve its proper position and not to attempt to encroach on each other's prerogative.
"Mine hostess's moid (and her neaum 'twur Nell),A pretty wench, and I lov'd her well;I lov'd her well--good reauzon why,Because zshe lov'd my dog and I."
"Mine hostess's moid" was an allusion to the queen, who was a Roman Catholic; and her maid, the Church. The singer, we must suppose, was one of the leaders of the party, and his "dog" a companion or faithful official of the Society; and the song was sung on occasions when the members met together socially: and thus, as the Roman Catholics were Royalists, the allusion to the mutual attachment between the "maid" and "my dog and I" is plain and consistent.
"My dog has gotten zitch a trickTo visit moids when thauy be zick;When thauy be zick and like to die,Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I."
The "dog"--that is, the official or devoted member of the Society--had "a trick of visiting maids when they were sick." The meaning here was that when any of the members were in distress, or desponding, or likely to give up the royal cause in despair, the officials or active members visited, consoled, and assisted them.
"My dog is good to catch a hen,--A duck and goose is vood vor men;And where good company I spy,Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I."
The "dog," the official or agent of the Society, was "good to catch a hen," a "duck," or a "goose"--that is, any who were well affected to the royal cause of whatever party; wherever "good company I spy, Oh, thither go my dog and I"--to enlist members into the Society.
"My mwother told I when I wur young,If I did vollow the strong beer pwoot,That drenk would pruv my auverdrow,And meauk me wear a thzreadbare cwoat."
"The good ale-tap" was an allusion, under cover of a similarity in the sound of the words "ale" and "aisle," to the Church, of which it was dangerous at that time to be an avowed follower, and so the members were cautioned that indiscretion would lead to their discovery and "overthrow."
"When I hev dree zixpences under my thumb,Oh, then I be welcome wherever I qeumBut when I have none, oh, then I pass by,--'Tis poverty pearts good company."
The allusion here is to those unfaithful supporters of the royal cause who "welcomed" the members of the Society when it appeared to be prospering, but "parted" from them in adversity, probably referring ironically to those lukewarm and changeable Dissenters who veered about, for and against, as Cromwell favoured or contemned them. Such could always be had wherever there were "three sixpence-under the thumb"; but "poverty" easily parted such "good company."
"When I gwoes dead, as it may hap,My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap;In vouled earmes there wool us lie,Cheek by jowl, my dog and I."
"If I should die," etc.--an expression of the singer's wish that if he should die he may be buried with his faithful companion (as representing the principles of the Society) under the good aisles of the church, thus evincing his loyalty and attachment to the good old constitution and to Church and king even in death.
Abbey, EdwinAblington ManorAcman StreetAethelhum, the SaxonAgricultureAlder treeAldsworth and Oliver CromwellAlfred, KingAmphitheatre, RomanAmpney ParkAngelus, theAntiquity, charm ofArbor DianaArchitecture, ElizabethanAristotleArlington RowArtificial fox-earthsAustin, Alfred
BadgersBampton-in-the-BushBarnby, JosephBarns, titheBarometerBarrows, ancientBathurst familyBathurst, LordBattuesBazley, Sir ThomasBettws-y-CoedBibury RacesBibury villageBigotphonesBlowing-stone, theBourton-on-the-WaterBowly, Mrs. ChristopherBrassey, Albert, M.F.H.Braydon ForestBromley-Davenport, W.Buckland, FrankBull-ring, RomanBurfordBurton on the Cotswolds
Cadge for hawksCaesar, JuliusCamps, ancient BritishCarlyle, ThomasCassey-Compton Manor HouseCaves, prehistoricCharacters, villageCharles I.Charles II.CharlockChaucerChavenageChedworthChepstow, the Wye atChiltern HillsChivalry, ancientChoirs, village"Christmas Carol," Austin'sChristmas festivitiesChurch alesChurchwardensCirencesterCivil WarsClarendon on FalklandClimate of the CotswoldsCoats-of-armsCoffins, old stoneColn, RiverColn-St.-AldwynsColn-St.-DennisConyger woodCorinium MuseumCorncrakes, disappearance ofCoulson, Colonel, his trapCounty cricketCoursing on the CotswoldsCray-fishCreswell familyCricket pitch, how to improveCricket, prehistoricCricket, the game ofCripps, Wilfred, C.B.Crosses, waysideCub-huntingCubs, foxCudgel-playing, old-fashionedCurlewsCushats
Deadman's AcreDeerhounds, ScotchDe QuinceyDerby Day on the ColnDe Vere, AubreyDewDew-pointDialect, CotswoldDickens, Charles, on cricketDogsDowns, the mystery of theDream, Shakespeare'sDress, simplicity inDrayton, MichaelDry-fly fishingDucks, wildDuleep Singh at HatheropDun, oliveDürer, Albert
Earthquake of 1895Earths for foxesÉcrevisseEel, curious capture ofElder treeEldon, Lord"Elegy," Gray'sElizabeth, Queen, at BurfordElms"England, Merrie"EscutcheonsEvening fishingExcursion, Roger Plowman's
FairwoodFalconry, the art ofFalkland, Lord, at BurfordFarmers, CotswoldFeasts, ancientFerns growing on ash treeFieldfare, return of theField namesFirr, TomFlails, old-fashionedFlanders maresFlies, artificialFlocks of lapwingsFlowers, wildFly-catcher, the"Flying Dutchman"Forest, BraydonForest, SavernakeFossbridgeFossewayFox-earthsFoxesFozbrookeFree Foresters' Cricket Club
Galway nagsGamekeeper, theGannetGarden, an oldGarne of AldsworthGeese, wild"George Ridler's Oven"Gilbert WhiteGilpin, JohnGipsiesGloucestershire dialectGlow-wormsGoethe (quoted)Golf greens, treatment ofGothic architectureGrace, W.G.Grasshoppers, Burke onGray's "Elegy"Green-drakeGreyhound foxGrounds, treatment of cricketGwynne, Nell, at Bibury Races
Hall, King Alfred'sHallam, ArthurHalo, solarHamilton, Sir William RowanHangman's Stone, origin ofHard ridersHaresHarvest homeHawking describedHawksHedgehogsHenry VIII.HeraldryHerbsHeronsHicks-Beach, Right Hon. Sir MichaelHic-wall or heckleHill, White HorseHills, JemHobbs of MaiseyhamptonHorse, description ofHorse for the CotswoldsHounds, BadmintonHounds, BombayHounds, HeythropHounds, Lord Bathurst'sHounds, Mr. T.B. Miller'sHounds, Shakespeare onHunting, fox-Hunting poemHunting, stag-, in olden timesHuntsman, a goodHygrometerHymnsHypocaust, Roman
Icknield StreetImplements, old stoneInscribed stones (Roman)Inscription on porch of manor houseIrmin WayIrving, Washington (quoted)Isaac Walton
Jansen, Cornelius, painterJefferies, RichardJohnson, Dr.Joyce on Fairford windows
Keble, John, at FairfordKelmscottKembleKestrelKingfishersKingmaker, theKipling, RudyardKite, artificialKnights Templar
Labourers, CotswoldLapwingsLarder, vixen'sLelandLenthall, SpeakerLeslie, G.Limestone quarries,Llewelyn, W. DillwynLoam, use of clay or
Macomber FallsMacpherson and OssianMadden, Right Hon. D.H.MagpiesMallard, a pugnaciousManor parchmentsManuscript, an ancientMarsh-harrierMarsh-marigoldMaster, Chester, family ofMaxwell, Sir HerbertMay fliesMay-fly season"Merrie England"Meteor, a largeMiller, T.B., M.F.H.Miller, the villageMonk, W.J., on BurfordMoorhens, habits ofMop, CirencesterMoreton-in-the-MarshMorris, WilliamMounds, ancient burialMummers' playMuseums, RomanMusicians, old village
Natal, scenery ofNest, kingfisher'sNetting troutNewton, IsaacNightjar or goatsuckerNight on the hillsNimrod on Bibury RacesNoblesse obligeNorthleach
Oak, oldOliver CromwellOman's discoveryOssian"Oven, George Ridler's"OwlsOxen, ploughing with
Partridges"Parvise," thePavements, RomanPenance at BurfordPeregrine falconsPeregrine, Thomas, keeperPheasantsPigeon-shootingPlaying-fields, EtonPliny"Plestor," thePloughing with oxenPlover, commonPlover, goldenPlowman, Roger, goes to LondonPoachers, scarcity ofPoges, StokePolitical meetingsPoliticians, villagePope at CirencesterPottery, RomanPrehistoric cricketPrehistoric relicsPrescription, an excellentProverbs, GloucestershirePuffin
Quack, the villageQuailsQuarries, limestoneQueningtonQuerns, the
Races, BiburyRamparts, ancientReady TokenRetrieversRiders, goodRiding, hardRoads, limestoneRoger de Coverley, SirRoman remainsRookery, theRupert, PrinceRuskin, John
SainfoinSargent, J.SavernakeScent of foxesScotch deerhoundScott, Lady MargaretScouring the White HorseShakespeare on the CotswoldsSheep, CotswoldSheep-washingSherborne HouseSherborne, LordShooting, covert-Sly, IsaacSnake eaten by troutSnipeSolan gooseSolar haloSongs, GloucestershireSouth Africa, wolds ofSparrow-clubSpawn-beds of troutSpectator, theSportsman, definition of a goodSpring flowersSprings, CotswoldSquirrelsStag-hunting, wildStage-coachStoatsStone age, relics ofStowellStow-on-the-WoldSunsets describedSwans
Tame, JohnTanfield familyTealTennysonTerrier, fox-Tesselated pavementsThamesThrashingThrush, song ofTiercel-gentleTitheTithe barns"Tolsey," theTraps, verminTravess, CharlesTrees, beauty of ashTrossachs, theTrout eating snakeTrout, habits of"Tuer," aTurnip hower, the
Umpires, villageUncertainty, charm ofUrns, sepulchral
Vale, BerkshireVale of White Horse HoundsValley, ColnValley, ThamesVictorian EraVoles, water
Waller's picturesWalnut tree in springWarwick, the kingmakerWasps, a plague ofWatercressWayside crossesWeaselsWestbury White HorseWharfe, RiverWhite Horse HillWhitsun aleWhitsuntide sportsWhyte-MelvilleWildfowlWilliamstripWimbrelsWindrush, RiverWines, home-madeWinson villageWoodpeckersWood-pigeonsWordsworthWren, Christopher
YaffelYuletide
Zingari Cricket ClubZodiacal light