Chapter I: 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!