Not unnaturally, the only topick of that memorable Sunday was the
rebellion. The excitement it raised far exceeded anything of the sort
not excepting the Jacobite rising, and the oldest inhabitant of the
Wells positively asserted that the landing of the Duke of Monmouth was
altogether inferior in the quality of emotional interest.
Sirloins of beef were allowed to freeze into glaciers of fat, horse
radish lost its sting, and the most frothy ale was flat in the presence
of such an absorbing topick of conversation. When at last everybody,
momentarily exhausted, sought recuperation in the Sunday dinner,
everybody ate so fast to be the sooner at the coffee-house or the Town
Hall or the Assembly Rooms or some such equally renowned haunt of gossip
that everybody had a remarkably bad attack of indigestion.
From every doorway the crowds hurried forth after dinner, scorning the
sacred forty winks. But coffee-house, Town Hall, and Assembly Rooms were
closed, bolted, barred and shuttered, and for a sign over each was a
scroll of parchment on which was inscribed in the finest gold leaf:
_Closed till further notice. By order. Horace Ripple._
Disconsolately the ladies trooped home again to discuss developments
over a dish of Bohea; eagerly the gentlemen trotted to the _Blue Boar_
only to be told that nobody save lodgers could be admitted.
Most of them admired the decision of the Great little Man, but the
rebels who, having once started, felt bound to hold out if only against
the censure of the faithful, laughed very loudly and boldly and said it
was all very well to close the places of publick entertainment on
Sunday, that was only a loss of two hours custom to the proprietors, but
on the next day, a very different tale would be told. So they prophesied
as they tripped home to their pipes and hot rum, with a twirl of their
elegant canes, a shake of their exquisite heads, and a _Whack
row-de-dow_ from their irreverent lips.
The faithful who had seen the Beau in the first flood of his wrath were
not so sanguine. They knew that like the late King of France he could
say _L'etat, c'est moi_, and what shopkeeper, innkeeper, or porter,
would be brave enough to defy him?
The sun set on a gloomy town and everybody went to bed at half-past
eight o'clock having nothing better to do.
Mr. Ripple had earlier in the afternoon assured himself of Mr. Lovely's
fidelity, and in the company of the young gentlemen of the _Blue Boar_,
passed a very pleasant evening over some capital Burgundy opened at his
expense. He sent down messages to my Lord Cinderton and my Lord Vanity
begging the favour of their company, and both my lords hurried back as
fast as their dignified legs would carry them. Of course, they quite
agreed with Mr. Ripple that the outbreak was scandalous and were
determined to support his decrees against the whole of society provided
they were not included in the excommunication. The news of Sir Jeremy
Dummer's sudden decease was brought in, and Mr. Ripple, deeply moved by
the melancholy event, ascribed it to the horror with which the old
baronet was overwhelmed at the defiance of himself. It was soon
announced in every drawing-room that Sir Jeremy Dummer had died of an
apoplexy brought on by the sight of the rebel abstainers from morning
Chalybeate.
It was arranged, almost in silence, that everybody faithful to the great
Beau, should repair to the Pump Room on the following morning, dressed
in funereal black, a quarter of an hour earlier than usual. They might
not be admitted, but their devotion would carry its own reward, and
would certainly afford the Beau confidence in the loyalty of the most of
his subjects. It was farther arranged that a deputation of the leading
visitors and residents should wait upon him at his lodgings with an
address black-edged, assuring him of their sorrow and fidelity. As for
the rebels, they must make what terms they could.
At eleven o'clock of Monday forenoon the deputation waited upon the Beau
and was ushered over the Turkey carpet into his urbane presence.
Apparently he was quite untouched by the almost servile assurance of
loyalty contained in the address. He begged leave to inform the company
that, while sensible of their compliment, he could not permit any
publick amusement until the ringleaders of the revolt had, hat in hand,
implored his forgiveness. He added he had reluctantly despatched mounted
messengers to Leamington, Cheltenham, Bristol Well, Brighthelmstone,
Harrowgate, Scarborough, Tunbridge and the Bath, begging his brethren to
refuse admittance to any new arrivals until farther warning. He was
confident that his appeal would not be disregarded. The abashed
deputation withdrew, having effected nothing. Monday passed gloomily
enough. There were no chairmen, there were no chairs, there were no
coaches, there was no Assembly. The shops were all closed: the Pump Room
was closed: coffee-houses, chocolate-houses and taverns were all closed.
The rebels were now merged almost imperceptibly into loyalists but a few
still held out, and two of the more callous--I will not affront the
living world with their names--went so far as to send out invitations to
a party of Quadrille. Six equally hardened rebels arrived at the time
appointed. Two tables were formed, the candles were lighted, the guineas
stood piled in glittering dozens, the cards were dealt, when suddenly
the door was flung open and Mr. Ripple in black sattin, armed with a
spade, marched into the room.
"I think, ladies and gentlemen, that I am Spadille this evening," he
proclaimed in a voice of ice.
The eight rebels dropped their cards. It was impossible to play with any
calmness in the presence of that menacing figure whose contempt was so
sublime. The ladies fluttered from the room in dismay.
"Gentlemen," said the Beau, "you will call at my house to-morrow with
the humblest apologies for this evening's outrage."
Then he vanished from the room. It only remains to add that the
gentlemen did call at the Great House on the following morning where
their humiliation was complete if we may judge by an alabaster tablet
set up in the portico of the Assembly Rooms where it remained until the
other day, when, alas! the famous old rooms, so long the most frequented
shrine of wit and beauty in England, were pulled down to make way for a
publick library.
The tablet which was in the likeness of the Ace of Spades bore the
following inscription:
Sacred to the Memory of Justice, Decency, and Order,
This Tablet was erected by four Gentlemen
In Token of their sincere Penitence and resolute
Amendment.
Also in the profoundest Admiration and deepest
Respect for Beau Ripple, King of Curtain Wells,
for many years
Arbiter of Fashion
and
Oracle of Wit.
The Great and Only
Spadille.
_Chapter the Ninth_