_General Sir Jeremy Dummer in a sedan chair borne by two veterans of the
Militia. Beau Ripple in damson-coloured velvet coat and breeches, with
waistcoat of old rose sattin trimmed with silver and rose silk stockings
clocked with the same._
Mr. Ripple with admirable condescension occasionally arrested the
progress of the march in order to address a word of encouragement to Sir
Jeremy Dummer who was inclined to be querulous from want of food and the
action of the chalybeate.
_The Earl of Cinderton in smoke-grey silk with cuffs of clouded blue._
_The Honourable George Harthe-Brusshe, his son, in a lighter shade of
the same._
_The Earl of Vanity looking like a fly, in amber._
_Five baronets in various degrees of_ FEUILLE MORTE.
_Four Knights of the Shire trying to look like Baronets and horridly
bruised by the palings in their attempts._
_Seventeen exquisite young gentlemen all exactly alike and only to be
distinguished by the various shapes and sizes of their patches._
_Major Constantine Tarry who had devoted the sleep of the preceding
night to the preservation of his pigtail's rigour and appeared very pale
beside his red coat in consequence._
_Justice Gregory Moon looking much the same as usual save for a sprig of
yew in his buttonhole._
_Mr. Charles Lovely and Mr. Anthony Clare arm in arm. The former wearing
a cherry-coloured velvet coat with waistcoat and breeches of
trout-coloured silk, the latter in uniform cucumber green. Both laughed
very loudly and cheerfully from time to time._
_Five elegant young gentlemen including a Lieutenant of his Majesty's
Navy, a Cornet of the Grey Dragoons and an Ensign of the Foot._
_Twenty-three old men suffering from various diseases._
_Thirty-eight old men all firmly convinced that they were suffering from
gout but all perfectly healthy in truth._
_Forty-five old men equally firmly convinced that they were suffering
from other and various diseases, and all equally healthy in truth._
_Mr. Oboe the Physician watchful of his patients' demeanour and quick to
confirm the slightest suspicion of ill-health._
_Mr. Francis Vernon in a tawny suit of figured Manchester velvet._
_Fifteen or sixteen gentlemen of various ages, sizes, ranks, costumes,
complexions, and states of health._
_Chapter V (resumed)_
Beau Ripple mounted the steps that, in diminishing semi-circles, reached
the entrance of the Civick Hall and, turning his head, froze into
silence with a cold stare of surprize the concluding Crescendo of _The
Girl I left Behind Me_, as if the half-drawn breaths of the musicians
were suddenly changed to icicles.
The good-natured band was not at all put out by Mr. Ripple's lack of
appreciation. His objection to panting was universally known, so the
band bore him no malice, but continued to pant.
As the musick stopped, Mr. Mayor began to walk up the steps also. No
doubt his ascent would have been as active as the Beau's if he had not
been hampered by the civick robes on which he trod at every alternate
step. Possibly the freezing disdain of Mr. Ripple had made the steps
more glacial than their wont. At any rate, the Mayor whenever he avoided
the hem of his robes, always slipped and stumbled, but he achieved the
summit at last and greeted the Beau with such fervour that he effected a
perceptible thaw.
On these occasions of supreme civick importance, it was customary for
the latter to relax his rule of never taking snuff with any one below
the rank of Viscount in the Peerage of England, so he offered his box to
the Mayor. That functionary with a reverence he had acquired over the
counter, inserted two fleshy fingers into the dainty receptacle,
withdrew them smeared with Rappee, sniffed the powder with avidity,
sneezed four times, and said he saw Sir Jeremy alighting from his chair.
The Beau regarded the Mayor's invasion of the delicate touchstone of
quality with a smile of amused apprehension. He explained afterwards
that he felt as if he were carrying a sirloin of beef into a queen's
parlour. When the convulsions set up by the snuff had outworn their
first violence, he fixed his monocle upon the guest's chair. Sure
enough, Sir Jeremy was alighting. Mr. Ripple and the Mayor
simultaneously descended the steps, and while the former started back
with an affectation of surprise, the latter charged forward with eager
hospitality.
"Gadslife! Sir Jeremy! You are vastly welcome, Sir. This is a great
occasion. Twenty-one years. Tet-tet." Thus Mr. Ripple.
"How are you, Sir Jermy Dummer, Sir? Come along o' me, Sir Jermy, and I
hope yaul heat very hearty," said or rather shouted the Mayor.
"_Eheu fugaces!_" murmured Mr. Ripple.
"Heh?" asked the Mayor.
"_Postume, Postume._"
"Hoh!" said the Mayor. "I beg yaw pardon, Mr. Ripple. Will you take a
harm, Sir Jermy?"
The poor old knight clutched at the fur of the Mayor's robe as the two
of them stumbled up the steps behind Mr. Ripple.
In passing through the antechamber, the old man dropped his hat and
cane.
"I shouldn't leave my hat an' cane here if I was you, Sir Jermy," said
the Mayor. "While some's heating, some'll be thieving."
"I have not the slightest intention of doing anything so insane,"
quavered the ancient soldier, "can't you see that I dropped 'em by
accident?"
The good-natured Mayor stooped to recover the accessories. "I beg yaw
pardon, Sir Jermy. Follow me. The banquet's in here."
The huge folding doors were flung back, and the sight of so much food
kindled a gleam in Sir Jeremy's rheumy eyes and waked a cackle from his
lean throat.
"Glad to hear such a jovial laugh. Wittles is wittles when hall's said
an' done. Hain't that true, Mr. Ripple," said the Mayor turning to the
Beau for confirmation of this statement.
"Victuals are victuals, sir, as you very justly observe."
Upon these three celebrated figures broke the buzz of the excited crowd
from the centre of which Lord Cinderton and Lord Vanity withdrew
themselves.
"Let me present Sir Jeremy Dummer, the Earl of Cinderton. Sir Jeremy
Dummer, the Earl of Vanity." The latter offered his snuff-box to the old
votary of Health who declined it saying,
"No! thankee, my lord, not before I eat. D---- e if ever I took snuff
before I ate."
His worship the Mayor was then presented to the two noblemen and,
discoursing amicably of the outlook on European politicks, the five
great men threaded their way towards the principal table.
There was a tremendous shuffling among the innumerable waiters as Mr.
Daish urged them to unparalleled exertion. They ran hither and thither
like recently fertile hens. One half of them pulled out chairs from the
tables and the other half pushed them back again. Some fled bawling for
the soup. Others conversed in excited whispers. At last the assembled
company to the number of three hundred persons stood each member in the
place he had selected.
What caused a further delay? Why did Mr. Daish hurriedly wave back the
white-capped cook bearing the first tureen?
Through the doorway pattered little Mr. Archdeacon Conybeare. "I'm
late," he muttered, "I know it, I'm aware of it. I'm late. Maria, my
love, I'm late, I'm very late."
The Beau was looking at the large clock below the gallery at the far end
of the hall.
"Will you ask a grace, Mr. Archdeacon," he said.
The Mayor smote the table with a silver hammer as the parson slipped
into his place.
"For what we are going to receive ... my dear Mr. Ripple, 'tis no use to
tell me the contrary, I know I am very late."
The Publick Breakfast had begun.
I think it was the great Dr. Johnson whose forehead while he ate was
dabbled with perspiration and the veins of it red and swollen. At any
rate the Mayor had a similar appearance. He devoured his food as if he
feared the cherubs sporting in the gilded panels of the ceiling would
descend and snatch it from his plate.
Mr. Ripple ate very modishly. One would have said he had watched the
honied meals of many butterflies. For all his fork's fastidious action,
it managed to pick the best of a Fricassee. Rounds, ribs, and sirloins,
he deplored.
Sir Jeremy Dummer evidently felt that his sensibility to the honour
awarded to him deserved practical gratitude. He eat voraciously. The old
fighting spirit abode in him for a space and he handled his knife like
his hanger. He slashed at every course that came along, but, accuracy
being impaired by muscular fatigue, he was content to swallow much of
his food whole.
Sir Jeremy Dummer ate:
Two plates of turtle soup.
The better part of a codfish.
The wing of a capon.
The wing of a duck.
The breast of a pullet.
A hot buttered apple dumpling and two or three slices of ham which he
had not noticed before.
Sir Jeremy Dummer drank:
Two tankards of old ale.
One bottle of Madeira.
Two bottles of Port.
And on the following day, Sir Jeremy Dummer died. He had always been
famous for trencher-play until condemned by Oboe to milky sustenance to
which through twenty-one winter seasons he never willingly yielded. This
commemoration of his abstinence was his opportunity and his revenge.
Could he have made a worthier end? For my own part, I should not presume
to say so.
Meanwhile, unconscious of this premature obituary, Sir Jeremy Dummer
enjoyed the breakfast amazingly. At first he was inclined to peevishness
through not being seated upon a sufficiently high chair. Mr. Daish,
however, with ready tact secured one of the Civick cushions and so
enabled Sir Jeremy, comfortably ensconced in crimson velvet, to eat his
last breakfast at ease.
Mr. Lovely having made the acquaintance of the Honourable George
Harthe-Brusshe, by whom he had seated himself at the particular request
of Mr. Ripple, discussed with animation the food on his plate and the
last foppery of the town. Mr. Harthe-Brusshe, a lantern jawed young
gentleman with a sincere devotion to turtle-soup, observing that Mr.
Lovely was about to leave his portion, begged him to hand it over.
Charles who invariably encouraged every man's idiosyncrasy sent the word
down the table to pass up every neglected plateful. This request was
readily granted and presently Mr. Harthe-Brusshe found himself
surrounded by half-a-dozen portions. Thereupon he declined all other
dishes and was faithful to soup for the rest of the meal.
"I suppose you find the difference in temperature sufficient variety?"
asked Mr. Lovely in a tone of great interest.
"That's so, Sir," replied the other as he refused beef and veal for the
sake of a moderately warm fifth plate of soup.
"I doubt you keep a bottle of it always to hand," remarked Lovely.
"It would tire me too much. It tires me to keep things to hand."
Here the Honourable George Harthe-Brusshe sighed with exhaustion and
seemed to desire silence.
Charles turned to his other neighbour who happened to be Mr. Francis
Vernon.
"Are you making a sojourn here, Sir?"
Vernon noticed the richness of Mr. Lovely's attire, made a rough
calculation of the value of his buckles, brooches and solitaire, and
answered very politely he hoped so indeed.
"I've not yet seen you at the _Blue Boar_, Sir. We make up a pleasant
party in the old Coffee-Room every night. There's young Tom Chalkley of
the Foot, Tony Clare, Peter Wingfield, Jack Winnington, Harry Golightly
of Campbell's Grey Dragoons, Blewforth of the _Lively_, and as many more
of us pass the time very pleasantly over some tolerable Port and very
excellent Burgundy."
"I doubt the company is delightful."
"'I faith, that's very true for when the wine makes us loquacious, d----
e, we sing, and when it makes us mum, why, d----e, the dice-box talks
for us. You'll join us, Sir?" he added, turning to Mr. Harthe-Brusshe.
"Proud," murmured that gentleman pensively regarding the rich scum
slowly hardening over the plate of soup to be attacked next.
"Let me see," said Charles, "to-night we must positively keep quiet in
deference to the Beau. Monday night I've promised to go to the
Assembly."
"What's that?" said Mr. Anthony Clare, a florid young gentleman on the
opposite side of the table. "Blewforth!" he called out to a naval
officer farther along. "Charles has forsook letters and is going to try
life for a change."
"Good G----," said the Lieutenant solemnly. "Charles crowding all canvas
after a petticoat?"
Charles looked somewhat disconcerted by this immediate perception of his
motives.
"I 'faith, you're in the wrong, Blewforth," he protested, "'tis to
please Ripple and that's the whole truth of the matter."
A roar of laughter greeted this excuse, and every young gentleman in
hearing vowed to exchange dice for dancing on Monday night.
"I saw Charles leave a note at a house in the Western Colonnade,"
remarked Ensign Chalkley of the Foot.
"A Valentine for a hundred guineas," said Clare.
"Name the charmer," shouted Blewforth, "name her, and egad, she shall be
the toast of the afternoon."
Mr. Vernon felt relieved. Somehow he had half suspected Lovely was in
pursuit of Miss Courteen. If he had not decided to wear purple sattin on
the day before and buried himself in the closet to extricate the suit,
he would have been still more suspicious of Lovely. The latter ignored
the friendly jeers.
"Shall we say Wednesday night, Sir?"
"I shall be honoured."
"May I beg the favour of your name, Sir? 'Tis customary with us to elect
our associates.'
"My name is Vernon. Francis Vernon of the Crescent, Curtain Wells--and
London."
It was Charles' turn to display apprehension. Here was a man well
dressed, of genteel appearance, living in the Crescent.
"Ah! the Crescent! I once had a notion to lodge there myself."
"'Tis a quiet position," said Vernon.
"So much the better for my Muse."
"You are a poet, Sir?"
"I have a metrical fancy."
"Try the Colonnade, Charles," bellowed the Lieutenant, "and your Muse'll
speedily become the most famous Toast of the time."
"Blewforth owns a spy-glass," said some one.
"I wish he would own a mirrour," said Charles, "his wig is infamous."
"His head is swollen since the w-war," stammered little Peter Wingfield,
"or else he was w-wounded in the wig." Blewforth, impervious to
smoaking, gave a loud guffaw.
Lovely and Vernon agreed to meet on the following Wednesday and the
conversation moved on general lines till the silver hammer of the Mayor
summoned the company to attend to the toasts. The eyes of the room were
on him as away up at the high table, he rose burly and majestick.
"Mr. Alderman Jobbins," he proclaimed, "the King!" Mr. Jobbins, the
youngest of the city fathers, blessed his sovereign with unctuous pride,
and the toast was drunk amid acclamations whose echo was drowned in
broken glass. Curtain Wells knew when to borrow from military manners.
Then the assembly tilted on its chairs after filling new glasses, and
composed itself to listen to Beau Ripple who had risen, monocle in hand.
When the murmur of delighted anticipation had sighed itself out on the
wings of a loud 'Hush,' the Great little Man with indescribable suavity
begged the company's permission to say a few words.
"Mr. Mayor, my lords, and gentlemen, may I say citizens? (a voice, 'You
may') for I think I am giving utterance to the sentiments of this
salubrious town when I protest that upon an occasion of such unique
interest and such immense significance, we no longer recognize any
distinction between visitors and residents (loud applause). We are
assembled this morning in order to honour a man for whom no honour is
sufficient. We are celebrating the twenty-first consecutive winter at
Curtain Wells of Sir Jeremy Dummer (loud cheers). He has been faithful
to us, gentlemen. Each year towards the close of the equinoctial gales,
his coach has clattered over the cobbles of Curtain Wells. Each year he
has alighted at the door of Number Seventeen, the Crescent. Each year he
has torn himself away from the gaiety of London in order to set us an
example of perseverance. Each year his arrival has encouraged other
gentlemen of grave address to put their faith in the cleansing springs
of Chalybeate. To be sure, his gout is as virulent as ever, but has he
despaired? No (cheers). Has he tried other remedies? No (cheers). He has
only been the more firmly convinced of the profound malignity of his
disorder and the more resolutely determined to annoy it by any and every
means in his power (continued applause). Twenty-one years ago Curtain
Wells was a different place. We had, it is true, this Civick Hall. We
had Crescent and Colonnade, Curtain Garden and Curtain Rotunda, Curtain
Wells and Curtain Pump Room, Curtain Hill and Curtain Dale. But we had
not your respected Mayor. In those days he was a younger, shall I add, a
more foolish man? I myself was still overshadowed by the reputation of
my great predecessor Beau Melon whose alabaster bust consecrates the
Assembly Rooms.
"In those days, gentlemen, coaches very rarely exceeded the rate of four
miles an hour, and as you have heard, the new Machine proposes to travel
at an uniform speed of six. Twenty-one years! This valetudinarian
majority should make the youngest of us pause and reflect. Twenty-one
years of Chalybeate (a groan from the back of the room).
"Mr. Mayor, my lords and gentleman, I propose the health of Sir Jeremy
Dummer and venture to assert that the time-honoured toast was never
before fraught with such significance. The health of Sir Jeremy Dummer!
It is in order to commemorate his health that we are assembled. Gout
has done many ill deeds, ruined many tempers, spoiled many legs, but for
this at least we should be grateful---- it has afforded us the spectacle
of a gallant gentleman faithful to his earliest prescription, hopeful of
an ultimate cure and charitable to the town of his adoption. (Loud and
prolonged applause.) One moment, gentlemen: let me add that the guest of
this entertainment has expressed a desire to present the town with a new
set of mugs for the publick fountains." (Volleys of applause.)
Beau Ripple after leading the toast with three very urbane Huzzas
resumed his seat, and Sir Jeremy Dummer doddered up to make his reply.
As it consisted chiefly of a long and detailed account of his symptoms
and extended over half an hour, and as you, with knowledge of his speedy
death, will not bear it with the slumberous equanimity of his
contemporaries, I shall not recount it. It is enough to say that when it
was concluded, everybody woke with a start and cheered vociferously.
Then the Mayor proposed the health of Mr. Ripple, and somebody else
proposed the health of the Mayor, and so on until all the dignitaries
had had enough wine drunk to their long life to ensure for every one of
them an undiseased immortality.
When the toasts were finished, the quality adjourned to the Civick
Chamber to meet the ladies over a dish of tea, while the quantity
marched off to put the seal on a great occasion by talking it over in
the various taprooms round the town.
Vernon was not inclined to brave the extension of the affair when he
perceived his new friends cautiously escaping from the Beau. He hated to
be conspicuous, and it was a small pleasure to meet his Phyllida among
the dowagers. Indeed, he was beginning to wish he had been less hasty in
taking lodgings in the Crescent, and the prospect of the _Blue Boar_ was
already alluring enough to make him inquire the price of a room in that
merry house. So he asked if he might take Mr. Lovely's arm.
In the square, the elegant young gentlemen made a bright knot.
"What's to be done?" cried the Lieutenant.
"L-l-let's ride over to B-Baverstock Regis and s-see T-Tony's m-maiden
aunt," stammered little Peter Wingfield.
"Bravo!" shouted Charles.
Clare looked up in surprize. Charles was seldom willing to play the game
of light love. Could that chatter of Blewforth's have gone deeper than
he thought? There was a strange excitement about him--an excitement that
was aroused by something stronger than the civick wine. Was he in love?
Mr. Anthony Clare was puzzled.
"You must know, gentlemen," said Mr. Lovely, "that this maiden aunt is
of a very singular complexion. 'Tis usual, as we are all aware, to look
to maiden aunts for legacies and presents, but this lady, as I know by
the state of Tony's purse, gets more than she gives."
"Fie! Charles," protested his friend, "I vow your point of view
deteriorates." What could be the matter with him?
"Well, gentlemen," he continued, "since you are so set on meeting my
relatives, egad! you shall. We'll ride over to Baverstock to-night;
there are dances in Baverstock Barn, and the maids--maiden-aunts will
all be there. You'll come Charles?"
"Not another word. I'll lead the love-chase or, shall we say, the legacy
hunt."
"And you, sir?" Clare continued with a bow to Vernon.
After a moment's hesitation due, no doubt, to bashfulness, the latter
assented, and in a trice the whole party went whooping and holloaing in
the direction of the _Blue Boar_.
And all this time, Phyllida was counting the kisses in her teacup while
she watched Miss Sukey Morton search energetically for strangers.
_Chapter the Sixth_