You see not the stunted form and hollow eye of the mechanic,--poor slave of the capitalist, poor agent and victim of the arch disequalizer, Civilization.

There strides the burly form of the farmer; there waits the ruddy hind with his flock; there, patient, sits the miller with his samples of corn; there, in the booths, gleam the humble wares which form the luxuries of 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.