We have all heard of institutions called
"stores"; but still it is a pity to carp at a pretty picture drawn by
a literary artist. I know that rebellious tradesmen in many of the
shires use violent language as they describe the huge packing-cases
which are deposited at various mansions by the railway vans. I know
also that the regulation saddler who airs his apron at the door of his
shop on market-days will inform the stranger that the gentry get
saddles, harness, and everything else nowadays from the abominable
"stores"; but I must not leave my artist, and shall let the saddler
growl to himself for the present. The polished writer goes on to speak
of the ruddy farmer who strolls round in elephantine fashion and hooks
out sample-bags from his plethoric and prosperous pockets; the dealers
drive a brisk trade, the small shopkeepers are encouraged by their
neighbours from the country, and everything is extremely idyllic and
pure and pretty and representative of England at her best. The old
church rears its quaint height above the quainter houses that cluster
near. In the churchyard the generations of natives sleep sound; one
may trace some families back for hundreds of years, and thus perceive
how firmly the love of the true townsman clings to his native place.
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