Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1634/Country Towns
COUNTRY TOWNS.
The remarkable likeness which exists between all country towns is perhaps due to the fact that in them there is none of the excitement and pressure which stimulates to change in cities. It may be urged by those whose love for one particular town of the class extends to all others, that there is really no more resemblance between them than there is between all members of the human race. It would probably, however, be nearer the truth to say that there is as much difference between country towns as there is between members of the same family. There are certain well-marked features which are common to all of them; there is, for instance, the market-place, paved with stones, whose roughness recalls memories of Alpine pine-wood paths, in the centre of which stands the town pump, with which in some cases an economical ingenuity has combined a lamp-post. Whether the object of this combination is that water should be in readiness at all times to put out the lamp, or that thirsty souls should never miss their way to the pump in the darkness of night, cannot be determined. On market days, or when some such extraordinary attraction as a cracked and incompetent German band offers itself, the market-place is filled by what is termed "a seething crowd," and on these occasions the vast superiority of the French or German over the English country town in point of picturesqueness is especially remarkable. The duller, or, as some would call it, the steadier, character of the English peasant finds expression in the monotony of his attire, of which the dingy whiteness or sombre mud colour is never relieved by a speck of brilliancy; and the crowd which the flat scarlet caps of some of the Swiss and German peasants, or the bright blouses of the French, would light up into liveliness, becomes a mere heavy mass. The market-place is generally overlooked by a church, which is to a cathedral what a hobbledehoy is to a grown man; and not far from this is the high street, upon which the whole building energy of the town seems to have expended itself, so that the word street applied to the other roadways of the place is a mere courtesy title. In the case of an assize town an abnormal importance is at the time of assizes assumed by the courts, which for the most part are stuffy narrow buildings, of which the ventilation and general arrangement rival in badness the law courts at Westminster. The coming round of her Majesty's judges of assize throws a halo of glory and responsibility not only upon the court-house but upon all the officials connected with it. These indeed have been known to become so filled with a stern sense of duty as to refuse admission to the bench to a judge's marshal, who, on proclaiming his title, was informed that, "marshal or general it made no difference; he couldn't go on the bench without his lordship's permission." It is perhaps hardly fair, however, to speak of assize towns under the general heading of country towns; for to most of these there comes no such frequent diversion with the revolving months as is brought by the advent of judges, barristers, and their following.
To some of those which are not dignified by the periodical visits of the gown, arms, in the shape of the militia, bring an annual excitement which can hardly be called wholesome, depending as it does in one class upon the amount of flirtation, in another upon the amount of beer got through. Where there is neither militia nor assizes, there is probably a fair, which for the two or three days that it lasts completely upsets and demoralizes the aspect of the place. All these things, however, only disturb and change the ordinary current of life in a country town, as a "bore" does that of a river which it passes over; and it is to the every-day aspect of affairs that one must look for the characteristics of the place and its inhabitants. As there is a considerable likeness in the buildings of most country towns, so is there in the kind of people that they contain. It might indeed be supposed that the outer resulted from the inner resemblance, and that, as the sameness of national characters produces national types of face, so does the sameness of the internal life collected in small towns mark itself in external objects. There will always be found a magnate or two, who are at the periods of their residence to the populace of a small town what royalty is to that of a city. Next to these come they who, upon the strength of being on visiting terms with them, assume the position of the resident aristocracy, and who, with a due regard for their station, are so particular in their choice of acquaintance that they incur an infinite amount of dislike and contempt from the people whom they wish to inspire with the same reverence which they themselves entertain for the magnates. It is remarkable that this class pride and jealousy seldom extend to the tradespeople of country towns, whose manners and education are frequently far better than those of their fellows in London. The explanation of this is probably to be found in the fact that the business of each has often been handed down to him through a long line of ancestors, and that their dealings are almost exclusively with ladies and gentlemen. Another class who are generally found at their best in towns remote from the stir of cities are the old maids, of whose simplicity and single-heartedness Mrs. Gaskell writes with such admirable skill in "Cranford." On account of their position, unless they possess either wealth or rank, the so-called society of the place where they dwell is not kind to them—a fact which they seldom resent, but, accepting it as the natural and proper order of things, concentrate their energies upon the poor people of their districts, to whom their kindly presence and attention is invaluable. That they should spend much of their spare time in gossip is only natural; the human mind has a taste for excitement, and when there is none at hand provided by circumstance, is driven to make it for itself. Thus it is not surprising that to these good creatures the arrangement of a neighbour's tea-party, the meaning of the curate's attentions to the rector's daugther, or why Miss So-and-So wore pink ribbons instead of her usual blue at the horticultural show, become questions of absorbing interest. The afternoon visits and tea-parties at which matters of this importance are discussed, when fresh visitors keep dropping in, each with a fresh bundle of news, remind one somehow, perhaps by the fatuous excitement of the persons concerned, of the constant and aimless journeys to and fro which may be observed going on in a rabbit-warren. For the most part such gossips as these are, if trivial, harmless enough, and usually no great mischief results from the employment of putting two and two together and making five of them, which is their chief resource. If, however, one of the members of the society happens to be of a malignant disposition, she may by assiduous collection of tittle-tattle manage to construct a formidable scandal, just as by heaping together enough odds and ends of wood one may in time make a faggot.
In former days the bookseller's shop was the centre from which all news, social and personal, radiated. Any one anxious to diffuse a piece of information had only to visit this shop at a certain time of the day in order to be sure of finding a small crowd, all of whom were as anxious as were the Athenians for some new thing, and each one of whom was desirous of being the first to give general currency to any novel statement. From the eagerness with which each picked up the story only to drop it elsewhere, it generally resulted that no one listened long enough to gain any accurate knowledge of the tale put forward; and thus, a variety of versions being spread, the original inventor's or adapter's object was thoroughly attained. In the bookseller's shop, also, the few men who were constituent parts of the population were accustomed to meet and interchange their ideas or what served them in their stead. But the facilities of obtaining books from London have greatly changed the position of the bookseller's shop in most country towns; where, from having served the purpose of a club, it has descended to occupying at best the position of a circulating library. In some cases the bookseller may also be the editor of the local paper, of which the principles sometimes illustrate strangely the boasted liberty of the English press. A visitor, for example, who was staying for some time in a small country town heard many complaints of a nuisance which a very little effort on the part of the authorities would have removed, and imagined that a paragraph in the local paper might be the best way of calling attention to this circumstance. On asking for the insertion of such a paragraph he was met with an awed and indignant refusal; the reason of which, elicited by severe cross-examination, was given in these words, spoken with a mixture of admiration for the daring of the suggestion and contempt for its ignorance: "Why! it would be censuring the police!"
The notion of the English emulating the Continental police by swooping upon the journal, suppressing it, and imprisoning its staff for sending forth such a paragraph, which would seem to be the origin of this reply, may have arisen from a laudable want of knowledge and consequent exaggeration of the powers and habits of the law's representatives. Where a policeman's province seldom extends beyond parading the streets in solemn dignity, he may well be invested with mystic and terrible attributes, as silent, stately Englishmen were wont to be by the Indian natives under their rule. And it is fair to observe that in the general run of small country towns the police have a remarkably easy time of it, and discharge their duties, which consist mainly in persuading drunken men to go home, and acting as peacemakers when a fight seems likely to set in, with excellent discretion. But it is also to be observed that the quietness which lends a charm to picturesque country towns on moonlit nights, when the outlines of buildings stand out clear against the far-off sky, is apt to be disturbed by sounds of revelry which would not be out of place in a London back slum. The country labourer's notion of enjoying himself does not often go far beyond beer, and when he has enjoyed himself for long, his temper is frequently fractious and his language invariably offensive. But for him, as for the powers of the press, the law has a mysterious terror; and, so long as there is a policeman within sight or reach, the disturbances of a small country town seldom go further than words.