Look at the smaller picture by Bonington, and you will see what I mean. The sands stretch beyond you inimitably, steeped in the rosy and golden colours of the sky.
In the year 1819, the practice of smuggling had reached a point of such craft and effrontery, that only by special methods did the authorities hope to check its course. They realised that in having local spies, in getting help from the village people themselves, lay the best chance of permanently quelling it.
So it happened that as one Daniel Maidment was digging in his garden, situated in the village that I have described, a spruce and very dapper gentleman on horseback reined up beside his gate.
“Good-morning to you. Am I addressing Mr. Daniel Maidment of the village of Stowe-i’-the-Knowe?”
Remington
ON THE SEA-SHORE
“That’s my name, and that’s my village,” answered Daniel, and he stood leaning on his spade.
“I have a little matter of business with you, my man,” continued the stranger in that particular voice in which some people talk to children, or use when they address such as they consider their inferiors.
“You may find it to your advantage to give me your attention for a little while. With your permission, I will walk into your house.”