cottage and farm. The thronging of men, and the clacking of whips, and
the dull sound of wagon or dray, that parts the crowd as it passes, and
the lowing of herds and the bleating of sheep,--all are sounds of
movement and bustle, yet blend with the pastoral associations of the
primitive commerce, when the link between market and farm was visible and
direct.

Towards one large house in the centre of the brisk life ebbing on, you
might see stream after stream pour its way. The large doors swinging
light on their hinges, the gilt letters that shine above the threshold,
the windows, with their shutters outside cased in iron and studded with
nails, announce that that house is the bank of the town. Come in with
that yeoman whose broad face tells its tale, sheepish and down-eyed,--he
has come, not to invest, but to borrow. What matters? War is breaking
out anew, to bring the time of high prices and paper money and credit.
Honest yeoman, you will not be refused. He scratches his rough head,
pulls a leg, as he calls it, when the clerk leans over the counter, and
asks to see "Muster Mawnering hisself." The clerk points to the little
office-room of the new junior partner, who has brought 10,000 pounds and
a clear head to the firm. And the yeoman's great boots creak heavily in.
I told you so, honest yeoman; you come out with a smile on your brown
face, and your hand, that might fell an ox, buttons up your huge breeches
pocket. You will ride home with a light heart; go and dine, and be
merry.

The yeoman tramps to the ordinary; plates clatter, tongues wag, and the
borrower's full heart finds vent in a good word for that kind "Muster
Mawnering." For a wonder, all join in the praise. "He's an honour to
the town; he's a pride to the country. Thof he's such a friend at a
pinch, he's a rale mon of business. He'll make the baunk worth a