The greatest of all English fairs was held in the little village of Stourbridge, near Cambridge, now almost absorbed by the University town. Hither flocked merchants and traders from all parts of Europe. Flemish merchants brought their fine linen and cloths from the great commercial cities of Belgium. Genoese and Venetian traders came with their stores of Eastern goods. Spaniards and Frenchmen brought their wines, and the merchants of the Hanse towns of Germany sold furs and flax, ornaments and spices, while in return for all these treasures our English farmers brought the rich fleeces of their sheep, their corn, horses, and cattle. The booths were planted in a cornfield, and the circuit of the fair, which was like a well-governed city, was over three miles. The shops were built in streets or rows, some named after the various nations that congregated there, and others after the kind of goods offered for sale. There were Garlick Row, Bookseller's Row, Cook Row; there were a cheese fair, a hop fair, a wool fair, and every trade was represented, together with taverns, eating-houses, and in later years playhouses of various descriptions. In the eighteenth century one hundred thousand pounds' worth of woollen manufactures was sold in a week in one row alone. A thousand pack-horses were used to convey the goods of the Lancashire merchants to this famous fair. Now railways have supplanted the pack-horses; fairs have had their day; the trade of the country can now be carried on without them; and their relics with their shows and shooting-galleries and steam roundabouts have become a nuisance. The peaceful life of the villagers was sometimes disturbed by the sounds and sights of conflict. The exciting tales of war are connected with the history of many an English village, and many "little Wilhelmines" and labouring "grandsires" have discovered "something large and round," traces of these ancient conflicts and "famous victories." "For often when they go to plough The ploughshare turns them out, 'And many thousand men,' quoth he, 'Were slain in that great victory.'" Many a lance and sword, and gilt spur, beautifully enamelled, which once decked the heel of a noble knight, have been found in our fields, and remind us of those battles which were fought so long ago. "The knights are dust, Their good swords rust, Their souls are with the saints, we trust." Sometimes the spectres of armed knights and warriors are supposed to haunt these scenes of ancient slaughter, and popular superstition has handed down the memory of the battles which were fought so long ago. It tells us of the mythical records of the fights of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table by the banks of the River Douglas, which ran with blood for three days, so terrible was the slaughter. It tells us how stubbornly the Britons resisted the Roman armies, so that on one occasion not one Briton was left to tell the tale of their defeat.