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 _dis_cord.

[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 By bad potatoes, baked, boil'd, roast and fried. I'd most forgot a piece of veal and ham-- Try it--I'll bet a crown there's no one can. Such, with a few disgusting tarts and pies, Some cheese of which, at every mouthful, dies A host of ugly vermin; such your bill Of foul I call it--call it what you will. Off with the cloth! don't let a trace remain Of this vile medley. Off! I say again. Oh, Mr. Griffith,[1] take a friend's advice, Give the best dinner where you charge best price; 'Twould be far better for your credit's sake, As for your conscience; that, old Nick may take, If he will have it, which I greatly doubt, You are far too clever, he has found you out. Who's on his legs; hurrah, 'tis honest John,[2] That Fane of Fanes! What topic is he on; Hark, let us listen! What on earth's he at? He means some fun, rest well assured of that; Gazing around, with mirth-creating grin, Says he, "My friends, I scarce know where begin, I am so modest, spare my youthful blushes, I'm yet a colt and have not cut my tushes. I beg permission to propose a toast. Such as I guess, just now will please you most; Health and long life to that illustrious man, Our now high Sheriff, worthy neighbour Van. Sheriff! your health! and now with three times three, And as you love me! let it bumpers be; We'll drink his health, now Gents, your eyes on me." Finish'd the toast; High Sheriff! is the call; Oh, dear! he looks just now uncommon small, White as his choker, tho' blush-red by turns With hectic flush, his quivering forehead burns. At last for words he finds a labouring vent: "I thank you, Gentlemen, with best intent "To pay your kindness, with a due requite "Of mingled thanks, enhanced with delight. "As I am certainly not used to public speaking, "And vainly now, for words of thanks am seeking, "I'll cut it short, and with your kind permission, "Seek in my chair an easier position." Round goes the wine, full many a toast goes down, To Queen and Country, Albert, Church and Crown. Some worthy Dons, wine-warm'd, propose the Bar; The Bar, the Dons, and swear the gems they are Of Oxford's glory. They, good easy men, Can't twig the joke, nor legal satire stem; And is it so? for half their mouldering lives They sweat their Fellowships, then marry wives; Or when in College, they have topp'd the tree,[3] They drone and doze in dull solemnity. After this long digression we must try Back to our Sheriff! What's this? Oh, my eye! He's fast asleep, bad luck; in vain, in vain, Old Ashurst[4] kicks, and kicks his shins again; The Doctor roars[5] and Waterferry's chief,[6] Thinks of some mode, to gain the wish'd relief. Nought will avail! at last cries Fane, "Here goes, Give us a cork, we'll black our sheriff's nose."[7]

[1] The "Star" sheriff's dinners, _teste_ the author, were miserable. But as _per contra_ to his bad dinners, the author must record Mr. Griffith's conduct towards the "Cause" in the election, A.D. 1862. Colonel Fane won't forget it, nor the author. He placed his "Star," all his horses, men, and carriages at the Colonel's service, free gratis.

[2] John Fane of Wormesly, late M.P. for Oxfordshire, father of the Colonel, now M.P. for Oxfordshire--known as honest John Fane, Master of Harriers, and "king of the most celebrated and successful Wormesly Tournament."

[3] The author begs to say that this expression must be taken metaphorically. The worthy heads of the different Colleges would be doubtless unable, from the expanse of waistcoat, to "top a tree," nor would their sense of dignity allow it, if they could. He must except the most Rev. the Prases of St. John's College, both from the tree and dozing business; he is without dispute an honour to our College, our University, and our County,

[4] Late M.P. for Oxfordshire. _Vide_ his portrait in the County Hall.

[5] His brother, late Fellow of All Souls, Oxford.

[6] The Right Honourable J. W. Henley, M.P., &c. senior member for Oxfordshire; and long may he so continue.

[7] The author not having been present at this dinner cannot be responsible for the concluding scene. He can only say that from his personal knowledge of the parties, he thinks it might most likely have occurred.