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 million! And
how well he spoke at the great county meeting about the war, and the
laund, and them bloodthirsty Mounseers! If their members were loike him,
Muster Fox would look small!"

The day declines; the town empties; whiskeys, horses, and carts are
giving life to the roads and the lanes; and the market is deserted, and
the bank is shut up, and William Mainwaring walks back to his home at
the skirts of the town. Not villa nor cottage, that plain English
house, with its cheerful face of red brick, and its solid squareness of
shape,--a symbol of substance in the fortunes of the owner! Yet as he
passes, he sees through the distant trees the hall of the member for the
town. He pauses a moment, and sighs unquietly. That pause and that sigh
betray the germ of ambition and discontent.