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, assuring 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 circumstances!" (
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 classical 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 nobleman, 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 hiræ,' 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 assistance?" (
Here you reflect with remorse that a suspicion to this effect has certainly crossed your mind.) "Nothing of the sort or kind, I do assure 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 assure 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 circumstances 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 unclassical vituperation on the landing.
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 décolletée 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 grass, as if to assure 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 assurance 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.
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
