“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.  Perhaps a castle looms over the modest streets and squares—­it is converted into a prison in all probability; but the sight of it brings memories of haughty nobles, or of untitled personages whose pride of race would put monarchs to the blush.  The river flows sweetly past the sleepy lovely town, and sober citizens walk solemnly beside the rippling watery highway when the day’s toil is over.  On Sunday, when the bells chime their invitation, all sorts and conditions of men meet in the dim romantic precincts of the ancient church, and there is much pleasant gossiping when morning and evening worship are ended.  Good old solid England is put before us in miniature when we glance at such of the community as choose to show themselves before the artistic observer, and, as we drive away along the sound level roads, we say—­if we are very literary and enthusiastic—­“Happy little town!  Happy little nation!” Now that is all very pretty; and yet the conscientious philosopher is bound to admit that there is another side—­nay, several other sides—­to the charming picture.  I do not want any students of the modern French school to prove that rural life in small towns may be as base and horrible as the life of crowded cities—­I do not want any minute analysis of degradation; but I may prick a windbag of conceit and do some little service if I try to show that the state of things in some scores of these delightful old places is base and corrupt enough to warm the heart of the most exacting cynic that ever thought evil of his fellow-creatures.