A Moralising Old Lady (at Case O).  No. 1260.  “Ball of Worsted wound by WILLIAM COWPER, the poet, for Mrs. UNWIN.”  NO. 1261.  “Netting done by WILLIAM COWPER, the poet.”  How very nice, and what a difference in the habit of literary persons nowadays, my dear!

IN THE CENTRAL HALL.—­MR. WHITEROSE, A JACOBITE FIN DE SIECLE, IS SEATED ON A BENCH BESIDE A SEEDY STRANGER.

The S.S. (half to himself).  Har, well, there’s one comfort, these ’ere GUELPHS’ll get notice to quit afore we’re much older!

Mr. Whiterose (surprised).  You say so?  Then—­you too are of the Young England Party!  I am rejoiced to hear it.  You cheer me; it is a sign that the good Cause is advancing.

The S.S. Advancin’?  I believe yer.  Why, I know a dozen and more as are workin’ ’art and soul for it!

Mr. W. You do?  We are making strides, indeed!  Our England has suffered these usurpers too long.

The S.S. Yer right.  But we’ll chuck ’em out afore long, and it’ll be “Over goes the Show” with the lot, eh?

Mr. W. I had no idea that the—­er—­intelligent artisan classes were so heartily with us.  We must talk more of this.  Come and see me.  Bring your friends—­all you can depend upon.  Here is my card.

The S.S. (putting the card in the lining of his hat).  Right, Guv’nor; we’ll come.  I wish there was more gents like yer, I do!

Mr. W. We are united by a common bond.  We both detest—­do we not?—­the Hanoverian interlopers.  We are both pledged never to rest until we have brought back to the throne of our beloved England, her lawful sovereign lady—­(uncovering)—­our gracious MARY of Austria-Este, the legitimate descendant of CHARLES the Blessed Martyr!

The S.S. ’Old on, Guv’nor!  Me and my friends are with yer so fur as doing away with these ’ere hidle GUELPHS; but blow yer MARY of Orstria, yer know.  Blow ’er!

Mr. W. (horrified).  Hush—­this is rank treason!  Remember—­she is the lineal descendant of the House of Stuart!

The S.S. What of it?  There won’t be no lineal descendants when we git hour way, ’cause there won’t be nothing to descend to nobody.  The honly suv’rin we mean to ’ave is the People—­the Democrisy.  But there, you’re young, me and my friends’ll soon tork you over to hour way o’ thinking.  I dessay we ain’t fur apart, as it is.  I got yer address, and we’ll drop in on yer some night—­never fear.  No hevenin’ dress, o’ course?

Mr. W. Of course.  I—­I’ll look out for you.  But I’m seldom in—­hardly ever, in fact.

The S.S. Don’t you fret about that.  Me and my friends ain’t nothing partickler to do just now.  We’ll wait for yer.  I should like yer to know ole BILL GABB.  You should ‘ear that feller goin’ on agin the GUELPHS when he’s ’ad a little booze—­it ’ud do your ’art good!  Well, I on’y come in ’ere as a deligate like, to report, and I seen enough.  So ’ere’s good-day to yer.