They live well in Fleeceborough, as every fresh experience of the place will prove; they have plentiful food, and of the best quality; poultry abounds, for every resident having a great garden (many, too, have paddocks) keeps fowls; fresh eggs are common; as for vegetables and fruit, the abundance is not to be described.  A veritable cornucopia—­a horn of plenty—­seems to forever pour a shower of these good things into their houses.  And their ale!  To the first sight it is not tempting.  It is thick, dark, a deep wine colour; a slight aroma rises from it like that which dwells in bonded warehouses.  The first taste is not pleasing; but it induces a second, and a third.  By-and-by the flavour grows upon the palate; and now beware, for if a small quantity be thrown upon the fire it will blaze up with a blue flame like pure alcohol.  That dark vinous-looking ale is full of the strength of malt and hops; it is the brandy of the barley.  The unwary find their heads curiously queer before they have partaken, as it seems to them, of a couple of glasses.  The very spirit and character of Fleeceborough is embodied in the ale; rich, strong, genuine.  No one knows what English ale is till he has tried this.

After the market dinner the guests sit still—­they do not hurry away to counter and desk; they rest awhile, and dwell as it were on the flavour of their food.  There is a hum of pleasant talk, for each man is a right boon companion.  The burden of that talk has been the same for generations—­sheep and wool, wool and sheep.  Occasionally mysterious allusions are made to ‘he,’ what ‘he’ will do with a certain farm, whether ‘he’ will support such and such a movement, or subscribe to some particular fund, what view will ‘he’ take of the local question of the day?  Perhaps some one has had special information of the step ‘he’ is likely to take; then that favoured man is an object of the deepest interest, and is cross-questioned all round the table till his small item of authentic intelligence has been thoroughly assimilated.  ‘He’ is the resident within those vast and endless walls, with the metal gates and the gilded coronet above—­the prince of this kingdom and its capital city.  To rightly see the subjects loyally hastening hither, let any one ascend the church tower on market day.

It is remarkably high, and from thence the various roads converging on the town are visible.  The province lies stretched out beneath.  There is the gleam of water—­the little river, with its ancient mills—­that flows beside the town; there are the meadows, with their pleasant footpaths.  Yonder the ploughed fields and woods, and yet more distant the open hills.  Along every road, and there are many, the folk are hastening to their capital city, in gigs, on horseback, in dog-traps and four-wheels, or sturdily trudging afoot.  The breeze comes sweet and exhilarating from the hills and over the broad acres and green woods; it strikes the chest as you lean against the parapet, and the jackdaws suspend