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).