themselves in mid-air with outstretched wings upheld by its force.  For how many years, how many centuries, has this little town and this district around it been distinct and separate?  In the days before the arrival of the Roman legions it was the country of a distinct tribe, or nation, of the original Britons.  But if we speak of history we shall never have done, for the town and its antique abbey (of which this tower is a mere remnant) have mingled more or less in every change that has occurred, down from the earthwork camp yonder on the hills to to-day—­down to the last puff of the locomotive there below, as its driver shuts off steam and runs in with passengers and dealers for the market, with the papers, and the latest novel from London.

Something of the old local patriotism survives, and is vigorous in the town here.  Men marry in the place, find their children employment in the place, and will not move, if they can help it.  Their families—­well-to-do and humble alike—­have been there for so many, many years.  The very carter, or the little tailor working in his shop-window, will tell you (and prove to you by records) that his ancestor stood to the barricade with pike or matchlock when the army of King or Parliament, as the case may be, besieged the sturdy town two hundred years ago.  He has a longer pedigree than many a titled dweller in Belgravia.  All these people believe in Fleeceborough.  When fate forces them to quit—­when the young man seeks his fortune in New Zealand or America—­he writes home the fullest information, and his letters published in the local print read curiously to an outsider, so full are they of local inquiries, and answers to friends who wished to know this or that.  In the end he comes back—­should he succeed in getting the gold which tempted him away—­to pass his latter days gossiping round with the dear old folk, and to marry amongst them.  Yet, with all their deep local patriotism, they are not bigoted or narrow-minded; there is too much literature abroad for that, and they have the cosiest reading-room wherein to learn all that passes in the world.  They have a town council held now and then in an ancient wainscoted hall, with painted panels and coats of arms, carved oaken seats black with age, and narrow windows from which men once looked down into the street, wearing trunk hose and rapier.

But they have at least two other councils that meet much more often, and that meet by night.  When his books are balanced, when his shop is shut, after he has strolled round his garden, and taken his supper, the tradesman or shopkeeper walks down to his inn, and there finds his circle assembled.  They are all there, the rich and the moderately well-to-do, the struggling, and the poor.  Each delivers his opinion over the social glass, or between the deliberate puffs of his cigar or pipe.  The drinking is extremely moderate, the smoking not quite so temperate; but neither the glass nor the cigar are the real attractions.  It is the common hall—­the informal place of meeting.