Title:  Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, 13 June 1891

Author:  Various

Release Date:  September 4, 2004 [EBook #13373]

Language:  English

Character set encoding:  ASCII

*** Start of this project gutenberg EBOOK Punch ***

Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Sandra Brown and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 100.

June 13, 1891.

VOCES POPULI.

At A music Hall.

Scene—­The Auditorium of a Music Hall, the patrons of which are respectable, but in no sense “smart.”  The occupants of the higher-priced seats appear to have dropped in less for the purpose of enjoying the entertainment than of discussing their private affairs—­though this does not prevent them from applauding everything with generous impartiality.

The Chairman.  Ladies and Gentlemen, the Celebrated Character-Duettists and Variety Artistes, the Sisters SILVERTWANG, will appear next!

[They do; They have just sung a duet in praise of Nature with an interspersed step-dance.  “Oh, I love to ’ear the echo on the Moun-ting!” (Tiddity-iddity-iddity-iddity-um!) “And to listen to the tinkle of the Foun-ting!” (Tiddity, &c.)

A White-capped Attendant (taking advantage of a pause, plaintively).  Sengwidges, too-pence!

Voluble Lady in the Shilling Stalls (telling her Male Companion an interminable story with an evasive point).  No, but you ’ear what I’m going to tell you, because I’m coming to it presently.  I can’t remember his name at this moment—­something like BUDKIN, but it wasn’t that, somewhere near Bond Street, he is, or a street off there; a Scotchman, but that doesn’t matter! (Here she breaks off to hum the Chorus of “Good Ole Mother-in-Law!” which is being sung on the stage.) Well, let me see—­what was I telling you?  Wait a minute, excuse me, oh, yes,—­well, there was this picture,—­mind you, it’s a lovely painting, but the frame simply nothing, not that I go by frames, myself, o’ course not, but I fetched it down to show him—­oh, I know what you’ll say, but he must know something about such things; he knew my uncle, and I can tell you what he is—­he’s a florist, and married nineteen years, and his wife’s forty—­years older than me, but I’ve scarcely spoke to her, and no children, so I fetched it to show him, and as soon as he set eyes on it, he says—­(Female “Character-Comic” on Stage, lugubriously.  “Ritolderiddle, ol de ray, ritolderiddle, olde-ri-ido!”) I can’t tell you how old it is, but ’undreds of years,