DOI issue:
February 16, 1867
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16879#0078
1
February 16, 1867.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 71
boot-hooks; and faintly whistles himself out of his room (March from
Norma, with variations), and down the passage.
The stamping man has, during this, stamped himself out of bed.
Judging from the sounds, he must perform all the operations of_ his
toilet by forced marches. 1 should say he walks a mile before breakfast.
The declaiming gentleman is not oratorical in the morning. I think
he is packing: I hear paper rustling, and, after a time, sounds as of
dragging heavy weights about the room. His struggles with one
obstinate portmanteau are awful. He has got it up against the wall
now, and is kicking it. Pause : he is panting and groaning. A bell:
the Boots comes : they are both struggling with the portmanteau. All
is quiet: the door opens. I look out and see the conqueror walking
down the passage in triumph followed by the Boots with the captive
portmanteau, bound and strapped, on his shoulder.
By the way, Milburd returning at about two o’clock in the morn-
ing, wakes me up to ask me “ if I’m asleep ? ” and to inform me that
“ he’s sorry he’s been away so long, but he’s been chatting with the
Tetheringtons ? ” Humbug.
Breakfast.—Milburd not back from his bath. Being late, I am the
only person at breakfast in this enormous coffee-room. Waiters in a
corner laughing; fancy it is at me. Should like to order them to
instant execution. A Chief of the waiters enters, and reviews a line
regiment of cold beef, cold mutton, cold chickens, tongue, ham, and
cold pork on a side-board. Satisfied.with his inspection, he retires. A
gentleman comes in to breakfast: looks at me as much as to say,
“ Confound it, Sir, what do you mean by being here ? ”
I return his look of contempt and scorn. He sits in full view of the
sea, and eats his dry toast with a puzzled air as if he was tasting it as
a sample, occasionally turning quickly towards the window as if expect-
ing some one to come in by it suddenly.
Milburd from his bath, with his hair very wet and neatly parted.
He complains of my breakfasting without him, and turns up his nose
at my chop and egg. He explains his absence by telling me that he
was “ having a chat with the man at the baths.” He’s always chatting.
I shall not come out with Milburd again.
Off to London, and then down to old Johnny Byng’s.
THE FRANCHISE FOR THE TAILORS!
Scene.—Breakfast. Edward and Ellen. Edward reading Paper.
Edward. Well, after this, nobody will ever mention goose to tailors
any more.
Ellen. Who ever did, dear ?
Edward. The lower orders. It is a term they are, or were, in the
habit of using to insult that class of artists. They must now drop it.
Listen {reads) “ Sensible Men.—The London Operative Tailors’ Asso-
ciation (21,000 strong) have informed the executive of the Reform
League that they intend to take no part in the proposed Reform
Demonstration.” They repudiate the geese.
Ellen. What geese, Edward ?
Edward. The Reform Demonstrationists.
Ellen. Ob, Edward 1 Do yon call them geese to want Reform ?
Edward. Certainly not; but on the contrary for trying to get it by
the means most likely to get it withheld; by their proposed demon-
stration.
Ellen. What is that ?
Edward. Forming a monster procession, and parading the streets
to the stoppage of business and promotion of theft.
Ellen. Well, certainly that does seem goosish.
Edward. It is peculiarly so. In the first place, geese are eminently
gregarious.
Ellen. What is that P
Edward. Accustomed to flock together, and do each as the other
does, for no other reason but that the other does it, and all agreed in
following a leader who is only a greater goose than the rest. There
are others besides Trades’ Unionists, my love, who answer to that
description.
Ellen. Very likely,
Edward. Now you see, to act like geese is not the way to demon-
strate their fitness for the franchise. I mean, you know, the right to
vote for Members of Parliament. It demonstrates nothing but the
disposition to use coercion. That will provoke opposition.
Ellen. They must be geese to do that.
Edward. Yes, and the proposed way of doing it is particularly goose-
like. It is one of the special habits of geese to march m procession. You
often see them doing so on a common—that is you would if you were
to walk, as I wish; and when you pass them they cackle and hiss at
you.
Ellen. How very rude of them !
Edward. Well; the tailors decline to go with the geese. So, it is to
be hoped, will many other sensible workmen. They will make the real
Reform Demonstration, by showing their sense. That is an irresistible
demonstration. Nobody worth naming wants to refuse votes to in-
structed and thinking men. Their votes are their own. Not so the
votes of men who go in flocks, and follow their leaders. Their votes
are at their leaders’ command. It won’t do for the country to be
governed by those great geese.
Ellen. What great geese ?
Edward. Certain demagogues and mob-orators, my love. I con-
gratulate the tailors on having taken their measure.
Ellen. Edward, dear, what shall we have for dinner ?
Edward. Say, roast goose.
{Scene closes.)
WHAT I THOUGHT ON SEEING THE LIONS.
I thought of you,_ Mr. Punch, and of the jokers and jocasters who
have turned your Office into a den of lions with their voluntary contri-
butions in prose and (leonine) verse, since the great quartett was
complete. But I remembered your words of old about a capacious
waste-paper basket and a roaring coal fire, and felt comforted.
I thought of all the animated, original, and profound criticisms that
had been made upon the bronze beasts—by Sir Collingham Lang-
ford, looking through his club window, by Lady De Chignon, from
her brougham, with inspecting eye-glass, by the exquisite Holme
Pierrepont to the impassive Adelaide Haugiitimore in the
quadrille’s solemn pause, and by Captain Lyspington to his com-
panion at the dinner-table, the beautiful Mrs. Cluny Lacy.
I thought how nice it was of the British Public, grown-ups as well
as whelps, to lose no time in touching and tapping (with their sticks)
and poking and sounding (with their umbrellas) the costly, but
fortunately unchippable creatures ; and I wondered how long it would
be before John Brown and James Jones, and Sam Robinson
scratched their deathless names upon the bronze.
I thought of the feelings of the lion on the screen of Northumberland
House, and was surprised he had not turned tail and fled.
I thought of certain Members of the House of Commons deprived
of one of their favourite grievances.
I thought of the living lions in the Zoological Gardens—how they
would miss their interviews with Sir Edwin Landseer.
I thought what an appropriate decoration orange-peel was for the
lion’s majestic port.
I thought of the satisfaction with which Sir Edwin must have
sat down to dinner on the evening of Thursday the 31st of January.
I thought of the time when his handiwork would be like unto
Havelock and Napier for nigritude.
I thought of the dreariness of the Square, and the next generation’s
new National Gallery; and then after thinking that these great
creations of painter and sculptor were the lions of London, I passed
on to the Strand, and thought who the people possibly could be
that buy the ten guinea Valentines.
THE PARLIAMENTARY PROGRAMME.
If Parliament should sing
“ We’ve got no work to do,”
It would declare a thing
The opposite of true.
Of tasks it has a store.
So many never yet
Has Majesty before
The Lords and Commons set.
If Parliament get through
That work that should be done,
Reform will make a new
But not a better one.
If Parliament omit
To do its work, we then
Must have, instead of it,
A House of Working Men.
A VETERINARY CRISPIN.
Two men were committed for trial at Worship Street the other day, 1
on a charge of burglariously attempting to break into certain dwelling- ]
houses. One of the prisoners, according to a police report, was a
certain “ John Maynard, 29, described as a shoemaker, but having
all the appearance of a blacksmith.” Perhaps Mr. Maynard com- [
bined in himself the art of the blacksmith with that of the shoemaker.
It may be that the shoes which he has been accustomed to make were
horse-shoes. We deplore the unhappy circumstances which have led
to his present retention from the respectable employment of making
them.
February 16, 1867.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 71
boot-hooks; and faintly whistles himself out of his room (March from
Norma, with variations), and down the passage.
The stamping man has, during this, stamped himself out of bed.
Judging from the sounds, he must perform all the operations of_ his
toilet by forced marches. 1 should say he walks a mile before breakfast.
The declaiming gentleman is not oratorical in the morning. I think
he is packing: I hear paper rustling, and, after a time, sounds as of
dragging heavy weights about the room. His struggles with one
obstinate portmanteau are awful. He has got it up against the wall
now, and is kicking it. Pause : he is panting and groaning. A bell:
the Boots comes : they are both struggling with the portmanteau. All
is quiet: the door opens. I look out and see the conqueror walking
down the passage in triumph followed by the Boots with the captive
portmanteau, bound and strapped, on his shoulder.
By the way, Milburd returning at about two o’clock in the morn-
ing, wakes me up to ask me “ if I’m asleep ? ” and to inform me that
“ he’s sorry he’s been away so long, but he’s been chatting with the
Tetheringtons ? ” Humbug.
Breakfast.—Milburd not back from his bath. Being late, I am the
only person at breakfast in this enormous coffee-room. Waiters in a
corner laughing; fancy it is at me. Should like to order them to
instant execution. A Chief of the waiters enters, and reviews a line
regiment of cold beef, cold mutton, cold chickens, tongue, ham, and
cold pork on a side-board. Satisfied.with his inspection, he retires. A
gentleman comes in to breakfast: looks at me as much as to say,
“ Confound it, Sir, what do you mean by being here ? ”
I return his look of contempt and scorn. He sits in full view of the
sea, and eats his dry toast with a puzzled air as if he was tasting it as
a sample, occasionally turning quickly towards the window as if expect-
ing some one to come in by it suddenly.
Milburd from his bath, with his hair very wet and neatly parted.
He complains of my breakfasting without him, and turns up his nose
at my chop and egg. He explains his absence by telling me that he
was “ having a chat with the man at the baths.” He’s always chatting.
I shall not come out with Milburd again.
Off to London, and then down to old Johnny Byng’s.
THE FRANCHISE FOR THE TAILORS!
Scene.—Breakfast. Edward and Ellen. Edward reading Paper.
Edward. Well, after this, nobody will ever mention goose to tailors
any more.
Ellen. Who ever did, dear ?
Edward. The lower orders. It is a term they are, or were, in the
habit of using to insult that class of artists. They must now drop it.
Listen {reads) “ Sensible Men.—The London Operative Tailors’ Asso-
ciation (21,000 strong) have informed the executive of the Reform
League that they intend to take no part in the proposed Reform
Demonstration.” They repudiate the geese.
Ellen. What geese, Edward ?
Edward. The Reform Demonstrationists.
Ellen. Ob, Edward 1 Do yon call them geese to want Reform ?
Edward. Certainly not; but on the contrary for trying to get it by
the means most likely to get it withheld; by their proposed demon-
stration.
Ellen. What is that ?
Edward. Forming a monster procession, and parading the streets
to the stoppage of business and promotion of theft.
Ellen. Well, certainly that does seem goosish.
Edward. It is peculiarly so. In the first place, geese are eminently
gregarious.
Ellen. What is that P
Edward. Accustomed to flock together, and do each as the other
does, for no other reason but that the other does it, and all agreed in
following a leader who is only a greater goose than the rest. There
are others besides Trades’ Unionists, my love, who answer to that
description.
Ellen. Very likely,
Edward. Now you see, to act like geese is not the way to demon-
strate their fitness for the franchise. I mean, you know, the right to
vote for Members of Parliament. It demonstrates nothing but the
disposition to use coercion. That will provoke opposition.
Ellen. They must be geese to do that.
Edward. Yes, and the proposed way of doing it is particularly goose-
like. It is one of the special habits of geese to march m procession. You
often see them doing so on a common—that is you would if you were
to walk, as I wish; and when you pass them they cackle and hiss at
you.
Ellen. How very rude of them !
Edward. Well; the tailors decline to go with the geese. So, it is to
be hoped, will many other sensible workmen. They will make the real
Reform Demonstration, by showing their sense. That is an irresistible
demonstration. Nobody worth naming wants to refuse votes to in-
structed and thinking men. Their votes are their own. Not so the
votes of men who go in flocks, and follow their leaders. Their votes
are at their leaders’ command. It won’t do for the country to be
governed by those great geese.
Ellen. What great geese ?
Edward. Certain demagogues and mob-orators, my love. I con-
gratulate the tailors on having taken their measure.
Ellen. Edward, dear, what shall we have for dinner ?
Edward. Say, roast goose.
{Scene closes.)
WHAT I THOUGHT ON SEEING THE LIONS.
I thought of you,_ Mr. Punch, and of the jokers and jocasters who
have turned your Office into a den of lions with their voluntary contri-
butions in prose and (leonine) verse, since the great quartett was
complete. But I remembered your words of old about a capacious
waste-paper basket and a roaring coal fire, and felt comforted.
I thought of all the animated, original, and profound criticisms that
had been made upon the bronze beasts—by Sir Collingham Lang-
ford, looking through his club window, by Lady De Chignon, from
her brougham, with inspecting eye-glass, by the exquisite Holme
Pierrepont to the impassive Adelaide Haugiitimore in the
quadrille’s solemn pause, and by Captain Lyspington to his com-
panion at the dinner-table, the beautiful Mrs. Cluny Lacy.
I thought how nice it was of the British Public, grown-ups as well
as whelps, to lose no time in touching and tapping (with their sticks)
and poking and sounding (with their umbrellas) the costly, but
fortunately unchippable creatures ; and I wondered how long it would
be before John Brown and James Jones, and Sam Robinson
scratched their deathless names upon the bronze.
I thought of the feelings of the lion on the screen of Northumberland
House, and was surprised he had not turned tail and fled.
I thought of certain Members of the House of Commons deprived
of one of their favourite grievances.
I thought of the living lions in the Zoological Gardens—how they
would miss their interviews with Sir Edwin Landseer.
I thought what an appropriate decoration orange-peel was for the
lion’s majestic port.
I thought of the satisfaction with which Sir Edwin must have
sat down to dinner on the evening of Thursday the 31st of January.
I thought of the time when his handiwork would be like unto
Havelock and Napier for nigritude.
I thought of the dreariness of the Square, and the next generation’s
new National Gallery; and then after thinking that these great
creations of painter and sculptor were the lions of London, I passed
on to the Strand, and thought who the people possibly could be
that buy the ten guinea Valentines.
THE PARLIAMENTARY PROGRAMME.
If Parliament should sing
“ We’ve got no work to do,”
It would declare a thing
The opposite of true.
Of tasks it has a store.
So many never yet
Has Majesty before
The Lords and Commons set.
If Parliament get through
That work that should be done,
Reform will make a new
But not a better one.
If Parliament omit
To do its work, we then
Must have, instead of it,
A House of Working Men.
A VETERINARY CRISPIN.
Two men were committed for trial at Worship Street the other day, 1
on a charge of burglariously attempting to break into certain dwelling- ]
houses. One of the prisoners, according to a police report, was a
certain “ John Maynard, 29, described as a shoemaker, but having
all the appearance of a blacksmith.” Perhaps Mr. Maynard com- [
bined in himself the art of the blacksmith with that of the shoemaker.
It may be that the shoes which he has been accustomed to make were
horse-shoes. We deplore the unhappy circumstances which have led
to his present retention from the respectable employment of making
them.