The L. O. L. (_to a stranger, who is approaching the_ _Princess's stall_). 'Ere, Mister, where are your manners? 'Ats off in the presence o' Royalty!

[_She pokes him in the back with her umbrella; the stranger turns, smiles slightly, and pa.s.ses on._

A WELL-INFORMED BYSTANDER. You are evidently unaware, Madam, that the gentleman you have just addressed is His Serene Highness the Prince of Potsdam!

The L. O. L. (_aghast_). Her '_usban_'! And me a jobbin' of 'im with my umbrella! 'Ere, let me get out!

[_She staggers out, in deadly terror of being sent to the Tower on the spot._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE CLa.s.sICAL SCHOLAR IN REDUCED CIRc.u.mSTANCES.

You are, let us say, a young professional man in chambers or offices, incompetently guarded by an idiot boy whom you dare not trust with the responsibility of denying you to strangers. You hear a knock at your outer door, followed by conversation in the clerk's room, after which your salaried idiot announces "A Gentleman to see you." Enter a dingy and dismal little man in threadbare black, who advances with an air of mysterious importance. "I think," he begins, "I 'ave the pleasure of speaking to Mr.----" (_whatever your name is_.) "I take the liberty of calling, Mr.----, to consult you on a matter of the utmost importance, and I shall feel personally obliged if you will take precautions for our conversation not being over'eard."

He looks grubby for a client--but appearances are deceptive, and you offer him a seat, a.s.suring him that he may speak with perfect security--whereupon he proceeds in a lowered voice.

"The story I am about to reveal," he says, smoothing a slimy tall hat, "is of a nature so revolting, so 'orrible in its details, that I can 'ardly bring myself to speak it to any 'uming ear!" (_Here you will probably prepare to take notes._) "You see before you one who is of 'igh birth but low circ.u.mstances!" (_At this you give him up as a possible client, but a mixture of diffidence and curiosity compels you to listen._) "Yes, Sir, I was '_ fruges consumeary nati_.' I 'ave received a neducation more befitting a dook than my present condition. Nursed in the lap of haffluence, I was trained to fill the lofty position which was to have been my lot. But, '_necessitas_,' Sir, as you are aware, '_necessitas non abat lejim_,' and such I found it. While still receiving a cla.s.sical education at Cambridge College--(praps you are yourself an alumbus of _Halma Mater_? No? I apologise, Sir, I'm sure)--but while preparing to take my honorary degree, my father suddenly enounced the horful news that he was a bankrup'. Stript of all we possessed, we were turned out of our sumchuous 'ome upon the cold world, my father's grey 'airs were brought down sorrowing to sangwidge boards, though he is still sangwin of paying off his creditors in time out of what he can put by from his scanty hearnings. My poor dear Mother--a lady born and bred--sank by slow degrees to a cawfy-stall, which is now morgidged to the 'ilt, and my eldest Sister, a lovely and accomplished gairl, was 'artlessly thrown over by a n.o.bleman, to 'oom she was engaged to be married, before our reverses overtook us. His name the delikit hinstinks of a gentleman will forbid you to inquire, as likewise me to mention--enough to 'int that he occupies a prominent position amongst the hupper circles of Society, and is frequently to be met with in the papers. His faithlessness preyed on my Sister's mind to that degree, that she is now in the Asylum, a nopeless maniac! My honely Brother was withdrawn from 'Arrow, and now 'as the 'yumiliation of selling penny toys on the kerbstone to his former playfellers. '_Tantee nannymice salestibus hirae_,' indeed, Sir!

"But you ask what befell myself." (_You have not--for the simple reason that, even if you desired information, he has given you no chance, as yet, of putting in a word._) "Ah, Sir, there you 'ave me on a tender point. '_Hakew tetigisti_,' if I may venture once more upon a scholarly illusion. But I 'ave resolved to conceal nothing--and you shall 'ear.

For a time I obtained employment as Seckertary and Imanuensis to a young baranit, 'oo had been the bosom friend of my College days. He would, I know, have used his influence with Goverment to obtain me a lucritive post; but, alas, ere he could do so, unaired sheets, coupled with deliket 'elth, took him off premature, and I was once more thrown on my own resources.

"In conclusion, Sir, you 'ave doubtless done me the hinjustice to expect, from all I 'ave said, that my hobjick in obtaining this interview was to ask you for pecuniary a.s.sistance?" (_Here you reflect with remorse that a suspicion to this effect has certainly crossed your mind._) "Nothing of the sort or kind, I do a.s.sure you. A little 'uming sympathy, the relief of pouring out my sorrers upon a feeling 'art, a few kind encouraging words, is all I arsk, and that, Sir, the first sight of your kind friendly face told me I should not lack. Pore as I am, I still 'ave my pride, the pride of a English gentleman, and if you was to orfer me a sovereign as you sit there, I should fling it in the fire--ah, I _should_--'urt and indignant at the hinsult!" (_Here you will probably a.s.sure him that you have no intention of outraging his feelings in any such manner._) "No, and _why_, Sir? Because you 'ave a gentlemanly 'art, and if you were to make sech a orfer, you would do it in a kindly Christian spirit which would rob it of all offence. There's not many as I would bring myself to accept a paltry sovereign from, but I dunno--I might from one like yourself--I _might_. _Ord hignara mali, miseris succur-reary disco_, as the old philosopher says. You 'ave that kind of _way_ with you." (_You mildly intimate that he is mistaken here, and take the opportunity of touching the bell_.) "No, Sir, don't be untrue to your better himpulses. '_Ave_ a feelin 'art, Sir! Don't send me away, after allowing me to waste my time 'ere--which is of value _to me_, let me tell yer, whatever _yours_ is!--like this!.... Well, well, there's 'ard people in this world? I'm _going_, Sir ... I 'ave sufficient dignity to take a'int.... You 'aven't got even a trifle to spare an old University Scholar in redooced circ.u.mstances then?... Ah, it's easy to see you ain't been at a University yourself--you ain't got the _hair_ of it! Farewell, Sir, and may your lot in life be 'appier than----All right, don't _hexcite_ yourself. I've bin mistook in yer, that's all. I thought you was as soft-edded a young mug as you look.

Open that door, will yer; I want to get out of this 'ole!"

Here he leaves you with every indication of disgust and disappointment, and you will probably hear him indulging in uncla.s.sical vituperation on the landing.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

RUS IN URBE.

(A SKETCH IN REGENT'S PARK.)

_A railed-in corner of the Park. TIME--About 7 p.m. Inside the enclosure three shepherds are engaged in shearing the park sheep. The first shepherd has just thrown his patient on its back, gripped its shoulders between his knees, and tucked its head, as a tiresome and obstructive excrescence, neatly away under one of his arms, while he reaches for the shears. The second is straddled across his animal, which is lying with its hind legs hobbled on a low stage under an elm, in a state of stoical resignation, as its fleece is deftly nipped from under its chin. The third operator has almost finished his sheep, which, as its dark grey fleece slips away from its pink-and-white neck and shoulders, suggests a rather decolletee dowager in the act of removing her theatre-cloak in the stalls. Sheep, already shorn, lie and pant in shame and shivering bewilderment, one or two nibble the blades of gra.s.s, as if to a.s.sure themselves that that resource is still open to them. Sheep whose turn is still to come are penned up at the back, and look on, scandalised, but with an air which seems to express that their own superior respectability is a sufficient protection against similar outrage. The shearers appear to take a humorous view of their task, and are watched by a crowd which has collected round the railings, with an agreeable a.s.surance that they are not expected to contribute towards the entertainment._

FIRST WORK-GIRL (_edging up_). Whatever's goin' on inside 'ere? (_After looking--disappointed._) Why they ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was Reciters, or somethink o' that.

SECOND WORK-GIRL (_with irony_). They _look_ like Reciters, don't they!

It do seem a shime cuttin' them poor things as close as convicks, that it do!

FIRST W.-G. They don't mind it partickler; you'd 'ear 'em 'oller fast enough if they did.

SECOND W.-G. I expeck they feel so redic'lus, they 'aven't the 'art to 'oller.

LUCILLA (_to GEORGE_). Do look at that one going up and sniffing at the bundle of fleeces, trying to find out which is his. _Isn't_ it pathetic?

GEORGE. H'm--puts one in mind of a shy man in a cloak-room after a party, saying feebly, "I rather think that's _my_ coat, and there's a crush hat of mine _somewhere_ about," eh?

LUCILLA (_who is always wishing that GEORGE would talk more sensibly_).

Considering that sheep don't _wear_ crush hats, I hardly see how----

GEORGE. My dear, I bow to your superior knowledge of natural history.

Now you mention it, I believe it _is_ unusual. But I merely meant to suggest a general resemblance.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "They ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was Reciters, or somethink o' that."]

LUCILLA (_reprovingly_). I know. And you've got into such a silly habit of seeing resemblances in things that are perfectly different. I'm sure I'm _always_ telling you of it.

GEORGE. You are, my dear. But I'm not nearly so bad as I _was_. Think of all the things I used to compare _you_ to before we were married!

SARAH JANE (_to her TROOPER_). I could stand an' look at 'em hours, I could. I was born and bred in the country, and it do seem to bring back my old 'ome that plain.

Her TROOPER. I'm country bred too, though yer mightn't think it. But there ain't much in sheep shearin' to _my_ mind. If it was _pig killin'_, now!

SARAH JANE. Ah, that's along o' your bein' in the milingtary, I expect.

Her TROOPER. No, it ain't that. It's the reckerlections it 'ud call up.

I 'ad a 'ole uncle a pork-butcher, d'ye see, and (_with sentiment_) many and many a 'appy hour I've spent as a boy----[_He indulges in tender reminiscences._

A YOUNG CLERK (_who belongs to a Literary Society, to his FIANCeE_). It has a wonderfully rural look--quite like a scene in 'Ardy, isn't it?

His FIANCeE (_who has "no time for reading rubbish"_). I daresay; though I've never been there myself.

The CLERK. Never been? Oh, I see. _You_ thought I said _Arden_--the Forest of Arden, in Shakspeare, didn't you?

His FIANCeE. Isn't that where Mr. Gladstone lives, and goes cutting down the trees in?

The CLERK. No; At least it's spelt different. But it was 'Ardy _I_ meant. _Far from the Madding Crowd_, you know.

His FIANCeE (_with a vague view to the next Bank Holiday_). What do you _call_ "far"--farther than _Margate_?

[_Her companion has a sense of discouragement._

An ARTISAN (_to a neighbour in broadcloth and a white choker_). It's wonderful 'ow they can go so close without 'urtin' of 'em, ain't it?

His NEIGHBOUR (_with unction_). Ah, my friend, it on'y shows 'ow true it is that 'eving tempers the shears for the shorn lambs!