Portrait of Elmbury by John Moore Read Free Book Online

how they could best correct the unfortunate impression they had made upon their fellows. At last they removed themselves to the farther end of the street, where they again encountered the procession as it approached the steps of the Town Hall; and were in time to walk slowly past it, arm-in-arm, caps cocked at a jaunty angle, and singing in some attempt at unison a bawdy song, lest any one should be so foolish as to believe that they held the robed Aldermen and Councillors in any respect or reverence.
Oyez! Oyez!
    The Town Crier, boon-companion of the three warriors, was at that time a very frail-looking old man with a white beard and a thin quavery voice. Presumably he had been capable of shouting once upon a time; but old age had shrivelled him, throat, lungs and all. He was dried-up and perpetually parched; so that between cries he must needs hobble into the nearest pub to wet his desiccated larynx. He cried, in those days, about four times a week, announcing, say, a furniture sale, a bazaar in aid of the British and Foreign Bible Society, a whist drive and dance, or the fact that Mrs. Turner had lost her Persian cat. He was paid according to the number of words, and on the average he got about two shillings a time. But for two shillings he had to cry the event a score of times in different parts of the town; and after each cry he had to buy some beer to cool his burning throat; there was little profit in’t. His voice faded to a whisper, but the Council was reluctant to depose him; and at last it was by reason of his failing eyesight, rather than his vanishing voice, that he was compelled to retire. He could no longer see what was written on the slip of paper from which he read his cries; nor was he capable of memorising it. His long career ended in a toothless mumble.
    His successor was a great roaring bull of a man with lungs of brass who had been dustman until the Council promoted him. His voice was like a clap of thunder; when he cried at one end of the High Street we could hear him at the other, a rolling crashing sound as of a distant battle. But you could never hear what he said, though he made so much noise about it, for he accompanied his own voice by frantic ringing upon his loud-clappered bell. I have seen people with their hands pressed to their ears, standing a-tiptoe behind him as he cried and peering over his shoulder to read what was written on the sheet of paper.
Passing Acquaintances
    Through the window, we got to know, not only these dignitaries, but the more prosaic members of Elmbury’s little community; the grave-faced doctor going his rounds, the dentist who bore the bloodthirsty name of Mr. Gore, the coal-merchant, the draper, the ironmonger, the butcher, the baker, the landlords of the various pubs, the neighbouring squires and the farmers who came in from the country. We knew an astonishing amount about what went on in the town: who was “walking out” with whom, who drank at which pub, who had quarrelled with whom, and so on. I have a strong impression that in those days people were less ashamed of their emotions than they are now; they wore their hearts upon their sleeves and when they quarrelled they often quarrelled
coram populo
. They were not at all ashamed of making scenes in the street. At any rate there was a farmer who had an obscure and long-standing quarrel with the parson; and whenever by chance they met they always quarrelled in the street.
    The farmer, whose name was Mr. Jeffs, looked a bit like the pictures of old Cobbett, with his red face and white hair atop “like snow on a berry.” He was a huge and florid man who always wore a flower in his buttonhole even at midwinter, whose breeches were always spotless and whose turnout was the smartest in the county. As he drove along behind his shining chestnut cob,he beamed at acquaintances to right and left; but if he saw the Vicar he scowled and shook his whip. It seemed that his grand old headpiece contained