THE LAY OF THE SHERIFF

BY

PHILIP LYBBE POWYS LYBBE.

LONDON PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 1869.

CHISWICK PRESS:—PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.

REVERENDO

EDVARDO MOORE

DE COLL. ÆN. NAS. OXON. ALUMNO, S. S. MARIÆ DE VITCHURCH, OXON. RECTORI, OPUSCULUM HOC, OLIM CONDITUM, NUPER CONFECTUM, DICAT, DEDICATQUE

PHILIPPUS LYBBE POWYS LYBBE,

DE DOMO ET MANORIO DE HARDWICK, ARMIGER.

PROLOGUE

BY MRS. VANDERSTEGEN, MOTHER OF THE HIGH SHERIFF OF OXFORDSHIRE, A. D. 1843.

"Garrit aniles Ex re fabellas." HOR. Sat. Lib. 11. vi. 77.

Fiddlers, awake! Rouse up, ye fife and drum! Clarion and trumpet, lo! I bid thee come! Blow up, tin horn, twang, harp of unbelievers![1] Bring me your aid, ye marrow bones and cleavers! Strike up at once, to celebrate this day! Who'd not be jolly, and who'd not be gay? I little thought such happy times to see, Such bliss, such joys, a sheriff's Ma to be! Is't true? can such felicity be mine? It glads me more than all my currant wine![2] Or do I dream? or are my senses flown? It's very strange, and mighty queer, I own, But yet I am, I must be, Mrs. Van![3] If I ain't, who is? who, good Heavens! can? I see my cupboards full, and running o'er, With tamarinds, nuts, and many a luscious store; There's my old chair, and here the oaken presses All full of mildew and brocaded dresses, Fashion'd in times of yore, when in the throng Of dazzling courtiers, as they pass'd along The palace halls, my grandam stood confess'd By all to be most beautifully dress'd; There's my old shay, and there the red-nosed Bob Who drives me slow, nor tires with the job. It must be true, I must be Mrs. Van,

The Sheriff's Ma, disprove it ye who can! And ye, the crowds,[4] who various duties tend In this our own snug circle at Cane End, Dismiss your labours, and with mirth and glee Bellow hurrahs for Henry and for me! Know for your feast (for now no English sinner Can e'er do anything without a dinner); Fox-hunters, statesmen, parsons, 'tis the same, And even sheriffs must partake the blame: For rumour tells me, shocking to relate, That at the "Star" 'twill be my Henry's fate O'er the Grand Jury Dinner to preside, And last, not least, believe me, pay beside. Sure I have had the kitchen table spread With mutton bones, and sundry pounds of bread;[5] Water in plenty, and (though very dear) Two gallons of strong treble X small beer! Drink if ye can! the beer's so very small I think there'll almost be enough for all! Drink! sing! rejoice! but let the Sheriff's praise Afford a subject for your roundelays!

[Exit MRS. VAN.

[1] "While vibrating in unbelieving tooth Harps twang in Drury's walls." Rejected Addresses, 19th ed. p. 24, see note 1.

[2] The Cane End currant wine was noted for its goodness.—AUTHOR.

[3] With regard to this abbreviation of the family name, the following anecdote may be relied on. A stranger to Cane End inquired of an ancient inhabitant thereof where Mr. Vanderstegen lived? "Lord, Sir!" (was the answer), "I cannot tell ye, but I knows where our Mr. Van does!"—AUTHOR.

[4] Report says, that the aforesaid red-nosed Bob, Screw Critchfield, and Blind Betty are the only attendants of this ancient family. Of course the text is more to be depended on than mere report.

[5] This seems to be an allusion to a certain supper after a certain ball.

CHORUS OF ATTENDANTS.

Red-nosed BOB leader.

Bottom. "Where are these lads, Where are these hearts?" Midsummer Night's Dream, act iv. sc. 2.

Hail, happy day, our only holiday! Hurrah, for old Cane End! Hip, hip, hip! hurrah, hurrah, hurrah Our master's a sheriff! A sheriff, a sheriff, hurrah!

Hail, happy day, our only holiday! Hurrah for Mrs. Van! Hip, hip, hip! hurrah, hurrah, hurrah Our master's a sheriff, A sheriff, a sheriff, hurrah!

Hail happy day, our glorious holiday! Hurrah for the sheriff! Hip, hip, hip! hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! Our master's a sheriff, A sheriff, a sheriff, hurrah!

[Exeunt shouting and singing.

THE LAY OF THE HIGH SHERIFF.

"Let's have him in a coach."—Boz.

Enter HIGH SHERIFF nervous, anxious, and apparently much concerned.

Who'd be a sheriff, I should like to know, With all this fuss and bother, teasing so? These three last weeks I've not had any time To sleep in quiet, eat, or drink my wine, Though 'tis but little wine that I imbibe; 'Tis sleep I love, past all the world beside. My moments once were calm from nine at night; My dreams were pleasant and my slumbers light Till next day's noon; but now 'tis alter'd quite. O Sleep! thou loveliest of the gifts divine From God to man, would thou again were mine, To hide the visions which for ever seem Haunting my fever'd moments, of the team Of Waddell's[1] jaded, miserable tits, Which, ere the rail had knock'd their trade to bits, In the "Tantivy" once so gaily pranced, When Cheeseman's[2] bugle all our ears entranced, And Sal'sbury[3] work'd his then fast-trotting bays, Now the sad emblems of regretted days! Of wigs and judges, barristers and ermine, Murders and felons, I can scarce determine Whether on head or heels I rightly stand, Wholly perplex'd, a very fish on land. Swords and cock'd hats, with all my other dress,

O'erload my fancies and my brain oppress; Where can I get a carriage for the judge? To pay Brown[4] thirty Guas,[5] I own, I grudge; What's to be done? A coach must needs be had. A coach! but stay, the thought is none so bad, I'll think me who, of all the people near, Sport coaches, if I don't, whip me, that's clear; The first coach-sporting neighbour that I know is My best of friends, the worthy Squire Powys; Yes! his will do, I'll ask for it to-morrow; 'Twill save me much vexation, toil, and sorrow. But will it do? Ah, stay! I fear me no! There's something whispers, "Van," this here's no go; 'Tis far too coachy, far too like the drags Of which our noted Oxford builder[6] brags. Indeed, you'd live to hear the judges say, "Good Mr. Sheriff! What's the fare to pay?" Had you that coach; besides, there's Master Phil[7] To poke his fun, as well you know he will. Next the bold captain's cumbersome and old. Old as its owner, Rattletrappy, cold; 'Twon't do! but now, I think me, Mr. Reade[8] Of Ipsden, he's the man to serve my need. I recollect when I at Ipsden call'd

One day last week, with wondering gaze enthrall'd, I spied his carriage standing at the door, New lined, new varnish'd and new painted o'er, Crests, arms, and all the proper blazonry Pomps and achievements, known in heraldry, Cushions well-stuff'd, well padded, and behind A charming footboard, suited to the mind Of any London "figure man" who clings Behind the well-appointed coach, that wings Its course down Bond Street, or the crowded rings Of that proud rendezvous of fashion yclept the Park. And what though arms and crest unlike my own Glare on its surface? who's to make it known,— No walking Gwyllim, Clarencieux, or Rouge Dragon Infests our streets, to put an envious gag on My borrow'd arms and crests. That I'll rely on. One care's at rest;—but now my liveries claim My next attention, and my thoughts' best aim: What shall the coats be? blue turn'd up with green, And smalls contrived of darkest velveteen? Or green with blue, and (pray don't, Ladies, blush,) Continuations built of crimson plush? 'Tis passing hard for one, unskill'd as me In dress, and such-like senseless vanity,

Such things to settle—would I had a wife! I never long'd for one so in my life (Not e'en when Jessica's fair hand I pray'd, And struggled hard, with anxious hopes delay'd,) As now, to bid some gorgeous liveries rise To grace my servants and astound the eyes Of wondering freshmen, javelineers, and Dons.[9] I'll to my mother, she can best advise, In coats and smalls she's wonderfully wise (Who says she wears the latter not, he lies.) When we've determined what the men shall wear, Then in the shay to Letchworth's we'll repair; He from his hoards of cloth blue, red, and green, Shall rig out liveries such as ne'er were seen. Such are my cares, and oh! I must confess I feel much trembling and sad nervousness; I've suffer'd much anxiety of late, Dread are my prospects, painful is my fate When I consider how the judge to meet! Make a low bow, or fall down at his feet;— And then my sword! 'twill sure be very queer, Lest it upset me clean I greatly fear— Powers of Impudence! assist, I pray, Give me some brass, and teach me how to say,—

"Good day, your lordships, welcome to our city."[10] Of Oxford, now I'm Sheriff—more's the pity. 'Tis said, 'tis good, our griefs and joys t'impart To kindly souls, and many a sorrowing heart Where brooded hopeless, melancholy grief, From sympathising friends has drawn relief. May it be so with me! full many an hour I've funk'd and stew'd[11] to think what earthly power Could nerve me up sufficiently to fill (The heart being sadly wanting, not the will,) My Sheriff's office; even now a gleam Of hope, though far, far off, is dimly seen By my mind's eye,[12] new light within me burns, Some welcome sprite my fear to courage turns, Makes glad my heart, and bids my spirits rise! What ho! within, some brandy and mince pies! Uncork a bottle of that curious wine Which once belonged to that grandfather mine Who first from Holland, settled at Cane End. Bring up, I say, a bottle! pray luck send It be a good one! for 'tis true enough It's either quite tip-top, or horrid stuff, Like Thoyt's horse,[13] of which I knowledge had Extremely good, or else extremely bad!

Here is a bottle! ah! 'tis wondrous kind, Brilliant and sparkling, suited to the mind Of more than sheriff, aldermanic quite! I'll floor the bottle, then I'll say, "Good night"[14]

[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!

PART II.

"Gentlemen from London; distinguished foreigners, anything."—PICKWICK.

'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."

[1] Old Tom, not the Old Tom of London Gin notoriety, but the veritable Tom of Christ Church, Oxford.

[2] The famous landlady of the "Star" in the olden time. The Queen of landladies.

[3] The then excellent head-waiter at the Star.

[4] "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks."—SHAKESPEARE and DRYDEN.

[5] Mirth-creating, inasmuch as people laugh'd at their discord.

[6] Now Lord Macclesfield, the best man ever known to get foxes away in our beech-wood country.

[7] An Oxford-bought hat was usually called a "Randall," after the eminent nunc alderman of that name, then in business in High Street.

[8] They are on foot now (September 16, 1868).

THE DINNER.

"Hold hard there, your eyes on me, gen'lemen."—MR. WELLER, SENIOR. Pickwick.

Hark to the clatter of the knives and forks, In go the corkscrews and out come the corks, Head waiter Smith bends 'neath a ponderous dish, One hopes a salmon, or some weightier fish, May be a turbot or a royal sturgeon— The very thing one's appetite to urge on; Covers of every size bedeck the feast, The host has lots of "plate" to say the least; It may be plated, though, 'tis hard to know The real from sham, one does get puzzled so By new inventions—here's albata plate, Electro silver, numerous plans of late Beguile the senses of the wondering guest, And palm off drugs as equal to the best. But to the dinner; one would think, forsooth, 'Twould be a banquet worthy of the tooth Of any a city gourmand; wait a minute, Look at that dish, and mark ye what's there in it; It seem'd to promise turbot or a sturgeon, And lo! what's there? a pike set round with gudgeon! Its vis-à-vis contains a bit of beef Cut from a cow, that died last week of grief, At hearing of Sir Robert's new tariff. A brace of sickly chickens, tough and dried, Usurp the centre, flank'd on either side