PART III.
Vitæ me redde priori."—HORACE, Epist. Lib. 1. 7, 95.
'Tis pass'd, and all is silence, o'er that scene,
Which of forensic eloquence has been
The fit arena; where with subtle brain,
Counsel have plied in nicely fitting train
Their logic's art, or press'd their rhetoric's aid
This to convince, the other to persuade
A doubting jury, where with anxious care,
Lest they in vain Justitia's sword should bear,
The upright guardians of our country's laws,
With practised eye, in each successive cause,
Watching the varying points, the tangled clue
Of facts explaining to the jury's view,
Have shown their power, unsullied to maintain
The sway of Justice, in her peaceful reign.
Can it be fitting, think ye, e'er to bend
Justice to Pleasure's gay voluptuous end?
Is such a time for mirth and revelry,
Is't in a Christian country we should see
The gay Assize Ball? Reader, pray reflect,
(If thou'rt a woman) can this be correct?
I know the warmth and kindness of your nature,
Mercy and pity gleam from every feature;
Your sex's innate modesty will aid
My words far more than countless offerings paid
To Fashion's shrine! Oh, think me not too vile
For your attention; stay the withering smile
That seems to say, "This is some scribbler's cant;
Some low born Reptile's Methodistic rant;
Or else, some Fallen Star, condemn'd to dwell
With swaggering ostlers, or to bear the bell
In drunken riots; banish'd from the sphere
Where one of us, he once had his career,
Now dares, in hate, his slanderous venom raise,
In envious longing for his bygone days."
Pardon me if I break discretion's chain
In daring thus your pretty selves t' arraign,
To curb your pleasures, and to draw the rein
Of better feelings, o'er your giddy race.
Look on this picture first, then try to face
The other! Here, with art's consummate care,
Deck'd and adorn'd with gold, her jewell'd hair
Glistening as sunbeams o'er the rippling tide
Reflected from some towering mountain's side,
Proud beauty seeks, with brightly flashing een,
The miscall'd glories of that heartless scene;
Where Weippert[[1]] proudly wakes his dulcet strains,
And pleasure's cold, unfeeling sceptre reigns.
Turn to the other; mark that darkening gate,
That fearful structure, brooding o'er the fate
Of fellow creatures! There in loathsome cell
A wretched felon counts each passing bell
That marks the hours, as in their noiseless speed
They near the fatal morn, and bid him heed
His soul's salvation, ere that sun shall rise,
Which last on earth shall meet his dying eyes.
Say, can ye still unfeelingly forbear
To shed for pity's sake one sorrowing tear.
I know that youthful blood beats high to thread
Those mystic mazes, fairies love to tread;
This is but Nature's province, she bestows
Your limbs and beauty, these she bids you use
At proper seasons; will ye dare abuse
Her precious favours? that can never be
The time for dances and frivolity,
When open-handed Justice wields the scale
That rights the just, and bids offenders quail.
But to our Sheriff; we have strangely bent
A wandering course in search of sentiment.
Back to the "Star;" we want no Advertiser,
My lords being gone, he'll prove no early riser.
Hah! here we have him, slumbering sweetly still,
We must not wake him, lest he take it ill;
And when his dander's up, let them stand by—
Who'd singe a lion! I've no wish to try.
Steady a moment, just pull up the blind,
The sun breaks out, right on him, very kind;
May be 'twill wake him; ah, one other ray
Will do the trick; but, I say, look this way,
This jug, with water fill'd, so cold, so big,
I wish we dared to give him a cold pig.[[2]]
But sheriffs stand not gammon, in a crack
I'd have his rapier walking[[3]] through my back;
Good! he awakes, without our intervention,
(This, though no consequence, I wish to mention,)
And having rubb'd his eyes, and clear'd his throat,
Apostrophizes thus his Sheriff's coat:—
"O thou bless'd emblem of my shrievalty,
Perpetual witness of my dignity;
In which I've braved the concentrated gaze
Of wondering myriads, for the last few days;
How can I thanks sufficiently express
For thy assistance, for I here confess
How much I owe[[4]] thee, when I lay thee by;
Thou at Cane End in lavender shalt lie,
Snug in a chest, secure from curious eye,
Save mine; and I whene'er the lid I raise,
Will laud thy virtues, and renew thy praise.
Now, on my pony, straightway I'll depart,
Lighter in pocket, lighter far in heart,
Back to Cane End; I fear my anxious mother
In rapturous joy her boy will almost smother;
But this I'll risk, and should the Fates prove kind,
Should they restore my long lost peace of mind,
In slumbers light I'll close my wearied eyes,
And doze in quiet till the next Assize."
[[1]] The name of Weippert recalls the memory of many happy balls in Upper Harley Street, where Weippert always conducted in person. The memory of the host lives in the author's mind. The hostess still lives, and long may she live. (September 16, 1868.)
The author is happy to say that Assize Balls are now "gone out;" when he wrote this opusculum they did exist. (September 16, 1868.)
[[2]] Should any fair reader be at a loss for the meaning of this expression, ask any school-boy brother, if you have one, for a practical illustration thereof, and mark the result.
[[3]] The author remembers that "being pretty considerably walked into at Collections," was a favourite phrase with undergraduates. Hence he thus ventures to describe the undesirable transit of the sheriff's toasting fork through his body.
[[4]] From this sentiment of the Sheriff he seems to differ from William of Wykeham, who, if the plates at New College high table are to be relied upon, held that "manners makyth man." The Sheriff, on the contrary, would seem to hold that "the coat makes the sheriff."
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