The Lay of the Sheriff

[1] Mr. Waddell, partner in the great coaching firm of Coster and Waddell. At his funeral Mr. William Bowers, better known as "Black Will," the oldest servant in his employ, drove the hearse.

[2] The celebrated "Tantivy" eighteen stone guard, nevertheless, as active as a really good yacht sailor, familiarly known by gownsmen as "Double Glos'ter."

[3] The accomplished artist who many years worked the "Tantivy" along with Mr. Cracknell. Their style, and the performance of their splendid bay team from Woodstock into Oxford, equalled any thing known in coaching days, and are still in my mind's eye as they used to pass my windows in the Old Grove at luncheon time. Teste W. S. VAUX of the British Museum. Mr. Cracknell was on the Brighton coach this season, and it was a treat to sit alongside him.

[4] His son still carries on the business in Castle Street, Reading, with increased talent. Teste two things just done for the author, 1868.

Mr. Brown used to supply the Sheriff's coach, in which the under Sheriff usually posted up to Oxford.

[5] Guas must be pronounced as spelled; Guas are well known to lawyers and clients also.

[6] Shackleford, of George Lane, Oxford, one of the best four-horse coach builders. He did the Tantivy work and all the other coaches that ran through Oxford.

Teste the late James Castle of 44, Corn Market, son of the well-known J. Castle, of the Blenheim.

[7] The annotator confesses to being pretty considerably flummaxed by this allusion. That some existing person is meant, appears from the context, or else how could fun be poked by him? said Master Phil.

He has bestowed great labour and attention upon the consideration of this point. He has gone through all grades and classes of Masters--builders, sweeps, carpenters, masons, keys, mariners, &c.; Masters in Chancery, ordinary and extraordinary, not forgetting the Rolls and Exchequer, Masters Smith, Brown, Thompson, Jones, Green, and hosts more, but without finding the least trace of this Master Phil.

He confesses to being regularly beat, and begs in "whipping off" to add--

"That as he can't discover Master Phil, He only hopes and trusts the reader will."

[8] John Reade of Ipsden, in the county of Oxford, Esquire, a well-known magistrate, celebrated for giving the law to the Judges and the Bar; his exertions in mending the "ways" of the neighbouring parishes, and sporting a blue umbrella on occasions about as suited for such a display as the late Eglinton Tournay.

[9] It may appear strange that the MS. should class "dons" among the subjects into which amazement is to be struck by the sheriff's gorgeous liveries. Were all people aware of the secluded life led by the Don class, wonder would cease, and a conviction might arise, that were Virgil now alive he might apply his line,--

"Et penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos,"

to Oxford Dons rather than the British community at large.

[10] Oxford city has a sheriff of its own; our hero was the High Sheriff of Oxfordshire, and so welcomed the Judges to the County town.

[11] Etonice for being frightened, or alarmed at, as may be illustrated by the following imaginary talk between two lower boys:--"I say, old fellow, who funks a flogging?" "Not I, my boy! but I am in a precious stew about that licking Box Major promised me!"

[12] "In my mind's eye, Horatio."--_Hamlet_.

[13] A somewhat abstruse and curious simile, at the first blush apparently paradoxical, somewhat akin to "Aut Cæsar, aut nullus." The author can vouch for the truth of it, as he heard it delivered.

[14] The break that occurs here in the MS. seems to prove that the Sheriff's promises were but partially fulfilled. There is ground for the hypothesis that a sort of mutual flooring took place between the sheriff and the bottle; in other words, that as the sheriff floored the bottle, so the bottle returned the compliment, and effectually floored the sheriff!

'Twas noon, in fact old Tom[1] had just rung out The mid-day hour. The crowd that hung about The doors of that once famous hostelrie, When 'neath the fostering sway of the Dupree,[2] Had almost gaped and gazed their utmost fill, Yet linger'd there, and gaped and wonder'd still; As when in passing some secluded square, I've seen a crowd of ragged urchins stare With all attention and uplifted gaze At a small theatre, covered with green baize, Where Punch performs, with most discordant squeak, His merry antics; now on gibbet's peak Hanging (the rogue) the constable on high; Now whopping Judy, whose most piteous cry Rings through the square and stops the passers by-- So did the crowd expectingly surround, Jostling with push and thrust and oaths profound, Gathering from every part, both near and far, The gate of Oxford's fast declining "Star."

But what's the row? There's something to be done; It looks as if this shindy meant some fun, Having the entrée of this famed hotel, We'll enter! "I say, Bob, just touch the bell." "Coming, sir, d'rectly." Well, Smith[3] what's the cause Of this tumultuous gathering and noise; What's in the wind? we're just from London come, Let's have the news! I'll bet it something rum." "Oh, Sirs, the Sheriff causes all the fuss! Excuse me, gents, I can't stay chattering thus;-- What shall I get ye? mutton chops for two? Or a grill'd fowl, or will some cutlets do? The cook's half-roasted--house is very full, The Judge is coming--you'll not find it dull."

"Here are the cutlets and a pot of ale, And while you're eating, you shall hear the tale Of this High Sheriff!" "Who on earth is he? (This tap's not bad, just hand it o'er to me.") "Why, bless you, Sirs, 'tis Mr. Vanderstegen, But here we call him 'Van;' I just now seed him Dressing to go and bring the Judges in." "How does he look?" "Why, really, quite the thing-- Barring his flurry--which is not surprising; But bless my life! why here he's coming down Ready for starting! here! Jack, Dick, and Brown, Way for the Sheriff! Let the Sheriff pass!"

Blow up, ye trumpeters! and crack your brass![4] Hark to the trumpets' mirth-creating strain![5] View the bold javelineers, a motley train, Perch'd upon what, in long-departed days, Might have been horses, grey, white, black, or bays; Height is no object--some stand fifteen three, Others not twelve; this one appears to be Fresh from a barge! that other tottering steed Is booked next week 'Lord Parker's'[6] hounds to feed! Could Mancha's knight his Rozinante bring To show against this miserable string, I'd bet a hat (a Randall[7] or a Paris one) He'd prove a downright "Clipper" by comparison. 'Twere better far keep javelineers on foot,[8] They're better there than where I've seen them put;-- Scarce one his saddle gains alone, and in it When there, what's next? he's out in half a minute Hilloa! what's this? that leader's rather queer, Don't like the bars! a little light, I fear, Behind--hold hard! look how that wheeler jibs! Stupid! hit t'other, punch him in the ribs, Tom Ostler, can't ye? hark ye, Master Will, When you'd start jibbers, jib they ne'er so ill, Let them alone, but make them go as will. Try it again--at last they're off, full tilt, Pray Heaven grant our Sheriff mayn't be spilt! Forward's the word, when lo! a sudden stop Causes the Sheriff from the coach to pop His head, to learn the cause of this delay. "Sir," says the footman, "cause of this delay, Look you, the Judge's carriage stops the way." It's useless now to dare contend with fate, Make the best of it, as you are too late; It can't be help'd, so come, O Sheriff Van, Pluck up your heart to meet him, if you can! 'Tis done! with solemn pace the Ipsden coach With Judge, and Sheriff, (pale as any roach) Reaches the goal, and sore from many a jar Sets down its precious burthen at the "Star."