Meanwhile down the central street came another crowd not marching with the precision of movement inspired by the escort of the band, but still urged to a certain unanimity of gait by the common object of their advance. Mr. Mayor, preceded by his mace, set the time, and a line of Aldermen carefully ordered their pace to his. Behind the Aldermen came the Watch. This was a mistake. The latter should have led the dignitaries, but had spent so much time in buttoning and unbuttoning its capes and belts, in brushing its hats and polishing its staves that it was late, thereby belying its name. So the Watch followed behind and vented its contrition on a mob of boys in occasional backhanded cuffs and current imprecations. Behind the boys marched three small girls--Amazons heedless of the embargoe laid upon their sex.
However both these processions were overshadowed by the prodigious pageant that emanated from the street facing the medallion of Society. The last deserves a chapter to itself since no appendix could do justice to its importance. Let me therefore, without being held to have violated the decency of orderly narration, insert at this point a supplementary chapter which may serve as a programme to the entertainment I hope worthily to recount.
_Chapter V a_
THE ORDER OF THE EXQUISITE MOB
_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.