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.