It was late in the afternoon of a lovely summer's day in the year of grace 1798, and all the world and his wife were abroad, taking advantage of the brilliant weather, for it had rained heavily for a week past, and the countryside had been flooded. But another cause had brought the people from their homes to the town of Winchester, for it was market day, the weekly day for sales, when farmers gathered at the square, having driven in their sheep or cattle from miles around, while the horse-breeders had come in with their droves of animals, many of them having spent the previous night on the road. And in consequence the pleasant town of Winchester wore a gay appearance. The market square was thronged to overflowing, while within the space of a few yards one could see such a medley of beings that the sight caused any stranger to pause and wonder. Standing there perhaps in some retired corner watching the crowd, he could tell at a glance that the rough fellow who had just passed, with tattered coat and breeches, odd-coloured hose and shock head of hair, was a cattle-drover, who had more than likely slept last night in some wayside ditch within hearing of his beasts. Then would come a burly farmer, stout and strong, a patron of good English beef and ale, red of face and round of limb, jolly and hearty as a sand-boy. And if his face failed to tell of his calling, his clothing was a sure criterion, for your farmer has had his own particular dress for many a century, and in the year of which we speak, providing prosperity had come to him, the man who rented or owned his farm, and employed his hands, turned out on market days in a manner which was distinctive. And very well and prosperous did they look in their grey beaver hats, their tailed jackets of broadcloth, with a cravat of ample dimensions about their necks. And down below perhaps a pair of silken hose, as this was market day, or, if they had ridden in, boots and spurs, the former well blacked and polished.