It is here that, the real government of the town is planned—­the mere formal resolutions voted in the ancient council-room are the outcome of the open talk, and the quiet whisper here.  No matter what subject is to the front, the question is always heard—­What will ‘he’ do?  What will ‘he’ say to it?  The Volunteers compete for prizes which ‘he’ offers.  The cottage hospital; the flower show; the cattle show, or agricultural exhibition; the new market buildings arose through his subscriptions and influence; the artesian well, sunk that the town might have the best of water, was bored at his expense; and so on through the whole list of town affairs.  When ‘he’ takes the lead all the lesser gentry—­many of whom, perhaps, live in his manor houses—­follow suit, and with such powerful support to back it a movement is sure to succeed, yet ‘he’ is rarely seen; his hand rarely felt; everything is done, but without obtrusiveness.  At these nightly councils at the chief hostelries the farmers of the district are almost as numerous as the townsmen.  They ride in to hear the news and exchange their own small coin of gossip.  They want to know what ‘he’ is going to do, and little by little of course it leaks out.

But the town is not all so loyal.  There is a section which is all the more vehemently rebellious because of the spectacle of its staid and comfortable neighbours.  This section is very small, but makes a considerable noise.  It holds meetings and utters treasonable speeches, and denounces the ‘despot’ in fiery language.  It protests against a free and open park; it abhors artesian wells; it detests the throwing open of nut woods that all may go forth a-nutting; it waxes righteously indignant at every gift, be it prizes for the flower show or a new market site.  It scorns those mean-spirited citizens that cheer these kindly deeds.  It asks why?  Why should we wait till the park gates are open?  Why stay till the nut woods are declared ready?  Why be thankful for pure water?  Why not take our own?  This one man has no right to these parks and woods and pleasure grounds and vast walls; these square miles of ploughed fields, meadows and hills.  By right they should all be split up into little plots to grow our potatoes.  Away with gilded coronet and watchman, batter down these walls, burn the ancient deeds and archives, put pick and lever to the tall church tower; let us have the rights of man!  These violent ebullitions make not the least different.  All the insults they can devise, all the petty obstructions they can set up, the mud they can fling, does not alter the calm course of the ‘despot’ one jot.  The artesian well is bored, and they can drink pure water or not, as pleases them.  The prizes are offered, and they can compete or stand aloof.  Fleeceborough smiles when it meets at night in its council-rooms, with its glass and pipe; Fleeceborough knows that the traditional policy of the Hall will continue, and that policy is acceptable to it.