DOI issue:
January to June, 1851
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16607#0174
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
REFLECTIONS IN A BRIGHT SHOE.
{By " our own " Shoe-black).
ondon has been startled within the
last few weeks by an unwonted
invasion of red-coats—not soldiers
nor Red Republicans—but youth-
ful shoe-blacks, whom hopeful
benevolence has sent out of the
Ragged Schools, equipped to try
their chance in a newgameof Rouge
et Noir, or scarlet and blacking.
Mr. _ Punch, in his vocation of
mounting all sorts of coats, and
mixing with all manner of men, at
onoe took the hint—ordered a
red frock on his own account,
invested in
brushes and
blacking-bot-
tles, and is
now occupied,
whennotblack-
ening paper
with ink, in
polishing the
feet, instead of
brightening
the faces of the
community.
It is an interesting occupation, though many may consider it a humble
one. Mr. Punch, while busy with the boots and shoes of his customers-
high and low, and high-low, alike—gets very curious glimpses into their
heads and hearts. The ancients had a proverb, that you might estimate
the statue of a Hercules from his foot, and it is still found that
getting the length of a man's foot is a very good way of finding out the
size of his mind, no less than that of his body.
In his new situation as one of the rank and file of the Shoe-blacks'
brigade—and very curious files some of them are—Mr. Punch takes
care to get the length of every man's foot, whose boots come through
his hands, and he proposes to communicate to his dear Readers, from
time to time, the results of the unconscious self-measurement which
his customers are every day innocently applying to themselves. Mr.
Punch believes he may thus be the channel ot some not unimportant
truths. He prays John Bull, with his visitors, not to imitate the
cat who used to figure at the head of Mr. Warren's Advertisements,
setting his back up, and swelling his tail, in indignation at the image of
himself reflected in the boot which derived its polished surface from
" 30, the Strand."
And first of my new friends, the red-coated little shoe-blacks.
Dirty as their present calling is, most of them have left a dirtier to
follow it. They are themselves the moral off-scourings of those very
streets whose material mud it is now their business to remove. They
are an advanced guard of the first ragged regiment of Industry that the
jenevolence of Great Britain has set about enlisting and drilling. They
<re our garde mobile—only, iastead of sticking a musket into the hands
of our gamins, anH setting them to shoot their fellow-citizens, Loud
Ashley and his drill-serjeants arm their recruits with a blacking-bottle
and a brace of brushes, and employ them in polishing the boots and
shoes of all members of society who are able to pay the requisite penny.
And I must say that, of the two kinds of brushes, I infinitely prefer a
brush with a pair of boots to a brush with the defenders of a barricade.
I commenced work yesterday in the neighbourhood of the Crystal
Palace. There it stretched, in its lightsome length, a glass hive for
the human bees of the nineteenth century. I prayed, as I looked up at
it, waiting for a customer, that no one would ever attempt to take the
honey by the aid of sulphur; and that the bee-keepers of the world would
at last discover a better way of " swarming " their bees than by the noise
of a brass band. Society, hitherto, has been more afraid of the stings of
its bees, than anxious to cultivate and aid their power of honey-making.
But now that the glass hive has been introduced into the bee-keeping
practice, with the human as well as the insect worker, I could not but
hope that with the former, as the latter, we may henceforth see the
honey taken for use, while the bees, instead of being smothered or
starved in the process, are left to thrive and multiply, and fill their
Sells, year after year.
. -^d, full of this thought, as Prince Albert passed me to inspect
the ordering of the world's contributions, I could scarcely resist a
momentary inclination to fall down and kiss—I mean—black his
princely Bluchers.
But the day wore on, and the waggons, with their grim and strangely-
lormed packages, toiled up to the western entrance, and workmen, in
beards and blouses, in fustian and corduroy, swarmed in and out and
aoou,., with sappers, (m coats like my own), in orderly confusion, coming
and going, lowering and lifting, hoisting and heaving, pushing and
poising—and the noise of hammers began to pall on my ear, and I
ceased to feel an interest in the painters and glaziers that crawled like
flies on the roof—and still no customer came. It was a dry day,
unluckily for us, and mud was an abominably scarce article.
I had begun to think of packing up my brushes, when a hale and
hearty Briton, ruddy of the country, smelling of May-buds, and cows, and
fresh air (who had by some miracle contrived to find a puddle, and to
step into it), put one of his top-boots into my hand, and told me to black
away.
" Driving a tidy trade, lad—eh ? " was his first question, as I got a
half-crown patch of polish on to his broad instep.
Myself. Fust pair to-day, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Ah—yours is a bad trade, then—like all the
rest. That's it. The country's going to ruin, and the very shoe-blacks
feel it.
Myself. Why, Sir, mine wasn't a trade at all till yesterday. I've
just took it up, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Ah!—I see—Want of employment everywhere.
Why, bless me—there's sixteen of you, I can count from here. That's
Free Trade, that is. What trade was you at before you came to this ?
Myself. I was on the streets, Sir, 'oldin osses, and pickin' up things
where I could—thievin', I mean, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Holloa! A young thief. {And here the stout
gentleman made a violent effort to withdraw his boot, but I had him
tight).
Myself. But, please, Sir, I want to be an 'onest lad—and so I went to
the Ragged School—and guv up priggin', and they started us.
Stout Agriculturist {still struggling to get away). A pretty pass things
have come to, with their Ragged Schools, turning all the young thieves
in London loose on society in this way!
Myself. Please, Sir, I was loose on society afore—I was—and so was
Jem Twitcher, and Bob the Lusher, and Duck-legged Joe yonder—
and all on us.
Stout Agriculturist. And I '11 be bound they've taught you to read
and write, and cipher—and all for nothing ?
Myself. Yes, Sir, and I'm werrymuch obliged to 'em—and so's all on
us. And there's some gone to Australia, and makin' no end of wages
—and there's a lot they turned out, with these 'ere kiddy coats, in
the shoe-black line—and we arn't no need to go priggin' now. I made
a bob yesterday—all fair and straightforrard—Sir.
Stout Agriculturist {reflectively). Bless my heart! I wonder where
things wiil stop! Educating the very thieves. {To myself.) Well,
you '11 make something out of this cock-and-bull business (pointing to
the Palace with his stick), and that's more than most people can say,
except your old friends—the thieves.
Myself {timidly). Don't you approve on it, Sir ?
Stout Agriculturist {explosively). Approve of it ? Me approve of it!
With wheat at 37*. a bushel! No, Sir, I don't approve of it. I approve
of what Colonel Sibthorp said about it in the House. It's bringing
the foreigners about our ears, like a July thunder-storm, as if we hadn't
enough of the dirty democratic parley-voos already.
Myself {apologetically). There was a gent., as I blacked yesterday, said
it 'ud be a great thing for the peace of the world, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Peace of a fiddlestick! Why, you young block-
head, aren't you sharp enough to see it's meant to encourage the foreign
manufacturers, and to set our women's heads a-gadding after French
furniture, and French silks and satins, instead of being content with
what we have at home—and that the English upholsterers, and cabinet-
makers, and weavers, and manfacturers, and cutlers, will be driven out
of the market by the untaxed foreigners—and that we shall have
England overrun with parley-voo goods, as it is now with parley-voo
corn ? Peace of the world, indeed ! {Snorting with indignation.) But
it serves 'em right. The manufacturers were such fools as not to stand
by the farmers, and now they 're getting farmers' measure.
Myself. Well, Sir, I should be much obliged if you'd tell me what
they're a-goin' to send all them there things as you're a-mentioning of,
over here for ?
Stout Agriculturist {compassionately). Poor creature! Well! They
haven't taught you over-much at your Ragged School, I see. What
they '11 send their goods over for ? Why, to sell, to be sure.
Myself. Ah! I thought as how that must be the reason. 'Acos they
aint a goin' to give 'em away—'taint likely.
Stout Agriculturist. I should think not. Catch a foreigner giving
anything away.
Myself {inquiringly). Then, in course, Sir, them as gets these here
foreign articles must pay for 'em ?
Stout Agriculturist. I should think so—A pack of rubbish !
Myself {still inquiringly). Then the money must come from some-
where, Sir ? It don't grow here, like Californy, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Of course it must. Out of John Bull's pocket,
the stupid fool that he is i
Myself {somewhat confused). But, please, Sir, how does he get the
money in his pocket ?
Stout Agriculturist. The poor lad's a perfect idiot! Why, by
REFLECTIONS IN A BRIGHT SHOE.
{By " our own " Shoe-black).
ondon has been startled within the
last few weeks by an unwonted
invasion of red-coats—not soldiers
nor Red Republicans—but youth-
ful shoe-blacks, whom hopeful
benevolence has sent out of the
Ragged Schools, equipped to try
their chance in a newgameof Rouge
et Noir, or scarlet and blacking.
Mr. _ Punch, in his vocation of
mounting all sorts of coats, and
mixing with all manner of men, at
onoe took the hint—ordered a
red frock on his own account,
invested in
brushes and
blacking-bot-
tles, and is
now occupied,
whennotblack-
ening paper
with ink, in
polishing the
feet, instead of
brightening
the faces of the
community.
It is an interesting occupation, though many may consider it a humble
one. Mr. Punch, while busy with the boots and shoes of his customers-
high and low, and high-low, alike—gets very curious glimpses into their
heads and hearts. The ancients had a proverb, that you might estimate
the statue of a Hercules from his foot, and it is still found that
getting the length of a man's foot is a very good way of finding out the
size of his mind, no less than that of his body.
In his new situation as one of the rank and file of the Shoe-blacks'
brigade—and very curious files some of them are—Mr. Punch takes
care to get the length of every man's foot, whose boots come through
his hands, and he proposes to communicate to his dear Readers, from
time to time, the results of the unconscious self-measurement which
his customers are every day innocently applying to themselves. Mr.
Punch believes he may thus be the channel ot some not unimportant
truths. He prays John Bull, with his visitors, not to imitate the
cat who used to figure at the head of Mr. Warren's Advertisements,
setting his back up, and swelling his tail, in indignation at the image of
himself reflected in the boot which derived its polished surface from
" 30, the Strand."
And first of my new friends, the red-coated little shoe-blacks.
Dirty as their present calling is, most of them have left a dirtier to
follow it. They are themselves the moral off-scourings of those very
streets whose material mud it is now their business to remove. They
are an advanced guard of the first ragged regiment of Industry that the
jenevolence of Great Britain has set about enlisting and drilling. They
<re our garde mobile—only, iastead of sticking a musket into the hands
of our gamins, anH setting them to shoot their fellow-citizens, Loud
Ashley and his drill-serjeants arm their recruits with a blacking-bottle
and a brace of brushes, and employ them in polishing the boots and
shoes of all members of society who are able to pay the requisite penny.
And I must say that, of the two kinds of brushes, I infinitely prefer a
brush with a pair of boots to a brush with the defenders of a barricade.
I commenced work yesterday in the neighbourhood of the Crystal
Palace. There it stretched, in its lightsome length, a glass hive for
the human bees of the nineteenth century. I prayed, as I looked up at
it, waiting for a customer, that no one would ever attempt to take the
honey by the aid of sulphur; and that the bee-keepers of the world would
at last discover a better way of " swarming " their bees than by the noise
of a brass band. Society, hitherto, has been more afraid of the stings of
its bees, than anxious to cultivate and aid their power of honey-making.
But now that the glass hive has been introduced into the bee-keeping
practice, with the human as well as the insect worker, I could not but
hope that with the former, as the latter, we may henceforth see the
honey taken for use, while the bees, instead of being smothered or
starved in the process, are left to thrive and multiply, and fill their
Sells, year after year.
. -^d, full of this thought, as Prince Albert passed me to inspect
the ordering of the world's contributions, I could scarcely resist a
momentary inclination to fall down and kiss—I mean—black his
princely Bluchers.
But the day wore on, and the waggons, with their grim and strangely-
lormed packages, toiled up to the western entrance, and workmen, in
beards and blouses, in fustian and corduroy, swarmed in and out and
aoou,., with sappers, (m coats like my own), in orderly confusion, coming
and going, lowering and lifting, hoisting and heaving, pushing and
poising—and the noise of hammers began to pall on my ear, and I
ceased to feel an interest in the painters and glaziers that crawled like
flies on the roof—and still no customer came. It was a dry day,
unluckily for us, and mud was an abominably scarce article.
I had begun to think of packing up my brushes, when a hale and
hearty Briton, ruddy of the country, smelling of May-buds, and cows, and
fresh air (who had by some miracle contrived to find a puddle, and to
step into it), put one of his top-boots into my hand, and told me to black
away.
" Driving a tidy trade, lad—eh ? " was his first question, as I got a
half-crown patch of polish on to his broad instep.
Myself. Fust pair to-day, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Ah—yours is a bad trade, then—like all the
rest. That's it. The country's going to ruin, and the very shoe-blacks
feel it.
Myself. Why, Sir, mine wasn't a trade at all till yesterday. I've
just took it up, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Ah!—I see—Want of employment everywhere.
Why, bless me—there's sixteen of you, I can count from here. That's
Free Trade, that is. What trade was you at before you came to this ?
Myself. I was on the streets, Sir, 'oldin osses, and pickin' up things
where I could—thievin', I mean, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Holloa! A young thief. {And here the stout
gentleman made a violent effort to withdraw his boot, but I had him
tight).
Myself. But, please, Sir, I want to be an 'onest lad—and so I went to
the Ragged School—and guv up priggin', and they started us.
Stout Agriculturist {still struggling to get away). A pretty pass things
have come to, with their Ragged Schools, turning all the young thieves
in London loose on society in this way!
Myself. Please, Sir, I was loose on society afore—I was—and so was
Jem Twitcher, and Bob the Lusher, and Duck-legged Joe yonder—
and all on us.
Stout Agriculturist. And I '11 be bound they've taught you to read
and write, and cipher—and all for nothing ?
Myself. Yes, Sir, and I'm werrymuch obliged to 'em—and so's all on
us. And there's some gone to Australia, and makin' no end of wages
—and there's a lot they turned out, with these 'ere kiddy coats, in
the shoe-black line—and we arn't no need to go priggin' now. I made
a bob yesterday—all fair and straightforrard—Sir.
Stout Agriculturist {reflectively). Bless my heart! I wonder where
things wiil stop! Educating the very thieves. {To myself.) Well,
you '11 make something out of this cock-and-bull business (pointing to
the Palace with his stick), and that's more than most people can say,
except your old friends—the thieves.
Myself {timidly). Don't you approve on it, Sir ?
Stout Agriculturist {explosively). Approve of it ? Me approve of it!
With wheat at 37*. a bushel! No, Sir, I don't approve of it. I approve
of what Colonel Sibthorp said about it in the House. It's bringing
the foreigners about our ears, like a July thunder-storm, as if we hadn't
enough of the dirty democratic parley-voos already.
Myself {apologetically). There was a gent., as I blacked yesterday, said
it 'ud be a great thing for the peace of the world, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Peace of a fiddlestick! Why, you young block-
head, aren't you sharp enough to see it's meant to encourage the foreign
manufacturers, and to set our women's heads a-gadding after French
furniture, and French silks and satins, instead of being content with
what we have at home—and that the English upholsterers, and cabinet-
makers, and weavers, and manfacturers, and cutlers, will be driven out
of the market by the untaxed foreigners—and that we shall have
England overrun with parley-voo goods, as it is now with parley-voo
corn ? Peace of the world, indeed ! {Snorting with indignation.) But
it serves 'em right. The manufacturers were such fools as not to stand
by the farmers, and now they 're getting farmers' measure.
Myself. Well, Sir, I should be much obliged if you'd tell me what
they're a-goin' to send all them there things as you're a-mentioning of,
over here for ?
Stout Agriculturist {compassionately). Poor creature! Well! They
haven't taught you over-much at your Ragged School, I see. What
they '11 send their goods over for ? Why, to sell, to be sure.
Myself. Ah! I thought as how that must be the reason. 'Acos they
aint a goin' to give 'em away—'taint likely.
Stout Agriculturist. I should think not. Catch a foreigner giving
anything away.
Myself {inquiringly). Then, in course, Sir, them as gets these here
foreign articles must pay for 'em ?
Stout Agriculturist. I should think so—A pack of rubbish !
Myself {still inquiringly). Then the money must come from some-
where, Sir ? It don't grow here, like Californy, Sir.
Stout Agriculturist. Of course it must. Out of John Bull's pocket,
the stupid fool that he is i
Myself {somewhat confused). But, please, Sir, how does he get the
money in his pocket ?
Stout Agriculturist. The poor lad's a perfect idiot! Why, by