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.