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.