Voces Populi

Second Disinterested Dealer (to First D. D., in an undertone). I wouldn't tell every one, but I shouldn't like to see you stay 'ere and waste your time; so, in case you was thinking of waiting for that last lot, I may just as well mention —

[Whispers

First D. D. Ah, it's that way, is it? Much obliged to you for the 'int. But I'd do the same for you any day.

Second D. D. I'm sure yer would!

[They watch one another suspiciously

Auct. Now 'ere's a tasteful thing, Gentlemen. Lot. 41. "Nymph eating Oysters" ("Nymph 'ere, Gen'lm'n!"), by the celebrated Italian artist Vabene, one of the finest works of Art in this room, and they're all exceedingly fine works of Art; but this is a truly work of Art, Gentlemen. What shall we say for her, eh? (Silence.) Why, Gentlemen, no more appreciation than that? Come, don't be afraid of it. Make a beginning. (Bidding starts.) Forty-five guineas. Forty-six —pounds. Forty-six pounds only, this remarkable specimen of modern Italian Art. Forty-six and a 'arf. Only forty-six ten bid for it. Give character to any gentleman's collection, a figure like this would. Forty-seven pounds—guineas! and a 'arf… Forty-seven and a 'arf guineas… For the last time! Bidding with you, Sir. Forty-seven guineas and a 'arf – Gone! Name, Sir, if you please. Oh, money? Very well. Thank you.

Proud Purchaser (to Friend, in excuse for his extravagance). You see, I must have something for that grotto I've got in the grounds.

His Friend. If she was mine, I should put her in the hall, and have a gaslight fitted in the oyster-shell.

P. P. (thoughtfully). Not a bad idea. But electric light would be more suitable, and easier to fix too. Yes – we'll see.

The Obl. Broker (pursuing the Am. Spect.). I 'ope, Sir, you'll remember me, next time you're this way.

The Am. Spect. (who has only ransomed himself by taking over an odd lot, consisting of imitation marble fruit, a model, under crystal, of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and three busts of Italian celebrities of whom he has never heard). I'm afraid I sh'an't have very much chance of forgetting you. Good afternoon!

[Exit hurriedly, dropping the fruit, as Scene closes

At the Guelph Exhibition

IN THE CENTRAL HALL

A Thrifty Visitor (on entering). Catalogue? No. What's the use of a Catalogue? Miserable thing, the size of a tract, that tells you nothing you don't know!

His Wife (indicating a pile of Catalogues on table). Aren't these big enough for you?

The Thr. V. Those? Why they're big enough for the London Directory! Think I'm going to drag a thing like that about the place? You don't really want a Catalogue – it's all your fancy!

Mr. Prattler (to Miss Ammerson). Oh, do stop and look at these sweet goldfish! Pets! Don't you love them? Aren't they tame?

Miss Ammerson. Wouldn't do to have them wild– might jump out and bite people, you know!

Mr. P. It's too horrid of you to make fun of my poor little enthusiasms! But really, – couldn't we get something and feed them? —Do let's!

Miss A. I dare say you could get ham-sandwiches in the Restaurant – or chocolates.

Mr. P. How unkind you are to me! But I don't care. (Wilfully.) I shall come here all by myself, and bring biscuits. Great big ones! Are you determined to take me into that big room with all the Portraits? Well you must tell me who they all are, then, and which are the Guelphiest ones.

Considerate Niece (to Uncle). They seem mostly Portraits here. You're sure you don't mind looking at them, Uncle? I know so many people do object to Portraits.

Uncle (with the air of a Christian Martyr). No, my dear, no; I don't mind 'em. Stay here as long as you like. I'll sit down and look at the people till you've done.

First Critical Visitor (examining a View of St. James's Park). I wonder where that was taken. In Scotland, I expect – there's two Highlanders there, you see.

Second C. V. Shouldn't wonder – lot o' work in that, all those different colours, and so many dresses. [Admires, thoughtfully.

A Well-read Woman. That's Queen Charlotte, that is. George the Third's wife, you know – her that was so domestic.

Her Companion. Wasn't that the one that was shut up in the Tower, or something?

The W. W. In the Tower? Lor, my dear, no, I never 'eard of it. You're thinking of the Tudors, or some o' that lot, I expect!

Her Comp. Am I? I dare say. I never could remember 'Istry. Why, if you'll believe me, I always have to stop and think which of the Georges came first!

More Critical Visitors (before Portraits). He's rather pleasant-looking, don't you think? I don't like her face at all. So peculiar. And what a hideous dress – like a tea-gown without any upper part – frightful!

A Sceptical V. They all seem to have had such thin lips in those days. Somehow, I can't bring myself to believe in such very thin lips – can you, dear?

Her Friend. I always think it's a sign of meanness, myself.

The S. V. No; but I mean – I can't believe every one had them in the eighteenth century.

Her Friend. Oh, I don't know. If it was the fashion!

ABOUT THE CASES

Visitor (admiring an embroidered waistcoat of the time of George the Second —a highly popular exhibit). What lovely work! Why, it looks as if it was done yesterday!

Her Companion (who is not in the habit of allowing his enthusiasm to run away with him). Um – yes, it's not bad. But, of course, they wouldn't send a thing like that here without having it washed and done up first!

An Old Lady. "Teapot used by the Duke of Wellington during his campaigns." So he drank tea, did he? Dear me! Do you know, my dear, I think I must have my old tea-pot engraved. It will make it so much more interesting some day!

IN THE SOUTH GALLERY

Mr. Prattler (before a portrait of Lady Hamilton by Romney). There! Isn't she too charming? I do call her a perfect duck!

Miss Ammerson. Yes, you mustn't forget her when you bring those biscuits.

An Amurrcan Girl. Father, see up there; there's Byron. Did you erver see such a purrfectly beautiful face?

Her Father (solemnly). He was a beautiful Man– a beautiful Poet.

The A. G. I know – but the expression, it's real saint-like!

Father (slowly). Well, I guess if he'd had any different kind of expression, he wouldn't have written the things he did write, and that's a fact!

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 siècle, 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!