Punch: Punch (76.1879)

February 1, 1879.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

41

' I arrive, with Peter, in time for dinner.

Pilton shows me to my room—a bachelor's room—with, so to
speak, scratch furniture,—Pilton having objected to unnecessary
expense.

" It's not a warm room," says Pilton, standing before the empty
grate, with his hands in his pockets; "but I object to a warm
room: it's unhealthy."

I say politely that I also object to too warm a room ; and I glance
at the fire-place.

"We tried the fire," says Pilton, "and it smokes horribly;
perhaps it's only in this wind, or perhaps the chimney's a bit damp.
But I said to my wife that you wouldn't mind, just for once and
away, not having a fire."

" Oh, dear no! " I reply, with a serious smile, wishing to good-
ness he had told me when he invited me that he was going to put
me in a small room without a fire, furnished with a small chest of
drawers, which has to serve for a toilette-table, and a washing-stand,
on which there is no room for a water-bottle or even a bath-sponge.

" You'll find the bed all right," he adds ; " it's only a small iron
chair-bed." I see that, and hate it: "but," he goes on, " I don't
object to a small iron chair-bed myself." No, perhaps not; but then
he is not going to sleep on it.

[Happy Thought.—1 hope when I do sleep on it, I shall think
better of it.]

Pilton, it appears, doesn't object to a small washing-stand, he
doesn't object to the top of the chest of drawers serving for a toilette-
table, he doesn't object to no fire in the room, nor to one candle to
dress by, nor to only a strip of carpet, nor to the blind only coming
half-way down, nor to there being no bell, nor to the draught from
door to window, nor to my catching cold—in fact, he doesn't appear
to object to anything disagreeable that may happen to Me. And I
suppose he doesn't object to my leaving to-morrow, as I certainly
shall, if I'm not more comfortable.

" HOW WE WRITE NOW,"

{Adaptedfrom W. S. Gilbert, Esq.)

Scene—An Enterprising Manager's Sanctum. Enterprising Man-
ager discovered at desk, in a very new hat, smoking a cigarette,
and turning over leaves of Michel Levy Freres' latest Cata-
logue.

Enter W. Shakspeare, Jun.

Enterprising Manager. Ah! how do, my boy ? Well, what can I
do for you ?

Shakspeare, Jun. Give me an answer about those five Acts of
mine.

Enterprising Manager {looking towards a shelf loaded ivith MSS.).
Well, it will take its turn with the rest, my boy. I give them all a
fair chance ;—take six home every night, and read them before I go
to bed. {Poking at them with his stick.) By the way, what was it P
When did you send it in ? I don't remember.

Shakspeare, Jun. You've had the scenario this three months.
Suppose we run over it ?

Enterprising Manager {rising). Can't just now, my boy. Very
sorry, but I 've got an appointment at twelve, and it's only a quarter
to. Some other day.

Shakspeare, Jun. Really this is rather cool. I've come up all the
way from Stratford by train.

Enterprising Manager. Fact is, my boy, scenarios are no good.
You write your five Acts and send 'em in {looks at watch), and then
we can do business.

Shakspeare, Jun. But is work done no guarantee for work pro-
mised ? Surely after writing some thirty stock-plays-

Enterprising Manager. Yes, yes, I know. Capital, every one
of 'em. But you 're just as likely as not to tip us a frost to-morrow.
There 's no relying on what a man has done, or what he 's going to
do. . It's what he does that fills the house. That's why we go to
Paris. A man knows what he's about there.

Shakspeare, Jun. {reddening), Oh! I see.

Enterprising Manager.—Don't you twig? The whole thing's
done to your hand—scenery, business, lingo,—everything! It's steal-
ing one's brooms ready made, all but the mere English colour, in-
stead of the French polish, on the handle. But, look here, don't
you cut up rough. I '11 tell you what I '11 do for you. {Takes up
book of new French piece.) Here is the last big thing at the Palais
Royal. I've secured the English right. Cost me a pot o' money.
Put it m your pocket, andf run over it, or, better still, run over
there and see it yourself, and then do it into English for us. The
less talky-talky the better, but work up the comic business,—and
make the patter as spicy as you can. I was going to give it to
Jones: but you shall have the job, my boy. Your name will
make a good line in the bill;—and that's always something to the
good—eh ?

[Pats him affably on the shoulder. Exit W. S., Jun., with what
appetite he may for his adaptation job.

PROGRESS BY RECIPROCITY.

{From Captain F. Eurnaby's Prophetic Protectionist's Primer.)

1880. The great principle,
that " The community exists
only for the benefit of the
trader, not the trader for the
necessity of the community,"
universally recognised by all
enlightened Statesmen. The
abrogation of Commercial Trea-
ties begins.

1881. Saumur Champagne
sold at Public Auction, at
£25 10s. the dozen. First bot-
tle of British Chateau Mar-
gaux, made at Birmingham,
and condemned as "highly
dangerous to health " by pub-
lic analyst. Porter-drinking
at Weddings and Evening
Parties commences.

1882. "Haw Material, Re-
taliatory Bill" passed. Im-
portation of wood and leather
ceases. Paper Sandals worn at
the Opera, and hair-brushes,

n; a walking-sticks, drawing-room
furniture, and cricket-bats of
cast-iron, come into general use.

1883. Tallow supply ceases. Pomade riots in the Burlington
Arcade. The General Bristol Country Butter Company goes into
liquidation.

1884. Spirited policy of the Government towards America. Im-
portation of foreign corn stopped. The half-quartern loaf sold at
Co-operative Stores for 13s. 6d. Bath-buns first made of plaster of
Paris.

1885. Serious bread-riots in the dining-room at the Carlton. Rye,
oats, and Revalenta Arabica publicly sown in Hyde Park, the
London Squares, and Temple Gardens.

1886. Sugar, spice, and dry food " retaliatory measure carried.
Glycerine first taken with tea. The Lord Mayor's Banquet held as
usual—the menu consisting of "red herrings, calf's liver, and beet-
root dumplings."

1887. " Anti-retaliator" writes to the Times newspaper from
" Araminta Row, North Kilburn," to complain, that though his
family consists of four, and meat is only '' seen in the house on one
Sunday in six," he finds, with present prices, he spends over £4,000
a year.

1888. Chocolate and Mutton Chop smuggling commences. Ex-
tinction of the iron, cotton, hard-ware, and other industries. Uni-
versal emigration. Peers have to fetch their own coals from the pit's
mouth. The Lord Chancellor takes Drury Lane Theatre for an
amateur performance, and reads Campbell's Last Man to an
empty house.

1889. Wolves appear in South Kensington. Five-pound Notes
sold in the streets at the rate of four-dozen for one walnut. General
exodus of everybody. Last performance but six of Our Boys.

1890. England ceases to be a recognised portion of the " habitable
Globe." Departure of the Beadle of the Burlington Arcade for :
Monaco.

CLERICAL CANT.

On behalf of the Rev. Mr. Carter, Vicar of Clewer, charged
with introducing Ritualistic performances into the Church Service,
a plea has been founded on the alleged "elasticity" of the Church,
which gives full play to its different "schools of thought."
As to "elasticity," the question is, how much farther the Church,
by Law Established, will stretch without breaking away from
the Law, with which its relations have long been strained?
The Church had no elasticity in the old days which preceded the
modern influx of India Rubber within its pale. Neither did it then
comprise any " schools of thought," properly so-called. If it had any
" schools," they were not schools of thought, but schools of division
and dogma. If the Church of England were really divisible into
schools of thought, it would hardly present the present pitiable and
painful spectacle of schools in an uproar.

A Mad Bull.-—Anybody insane enough to buy for a rise in
Turks.