New Form of Prayer and Belief
To be said by all true Liberals, at all outdoor or indoor Meetings, at all Committee Rooms, and in front of all Hustings on which the Gladstonites and the Dizzeyites are to contend for the Managership at the forthcoming Elections, and to see who is to gain the belt, and rule the roast at St. Stephen’s. To be said without Barrel Organ or Grindstone accompaniment.
Now, my boy, as the Great Election is about to take place, and it becomes us all to sail under true colours, be so good as to tell me what you are, a Gladstonite, or a Dizzyite?
Boy.—Why a Gladstonite to the backbone, and no mistake.
There is a good lad; now let me hear you rehearse the Gladstone or Liberal Belief.
I believe in Bill Gladstone to be the true Champion of Reform, and that he is a perfect game cock, and that he will stick his spurs into the comb of any tory mountebank who shall attempt to set the working-man’s rights and privileges at naught; and I believe at the coming election that all true liberals will put their shoulders to the wheel and obtain a first-rate majority, not only in Church Reform, but in all things where reformation is wanted; and that Gladstone and his friends will reach the tip top of the poll, and start the tories off like scalded cocks, and this I firmly believe. So help me John Brown.
There is a good boy, now let us enlighten our friends on events, past, present, and future.
Now in the first place, there is Gladstone’s Irish Church Question! it is a stickler to many, more especially to Dizzey, the Isrælite, for it is to him like the carpenter’s saw, which the black cook said stuck in his gizzard.
For the Dizzeyites were sorely vexed by a political squib, which was recited by some of the unwashed in Hyde Park, who made a goodly collection, which went into the pockets of the Collectors in the usual manner.
And behold the Dizzeyites and Adullamites were alarmed, and they said who hath done this evil which is so likely to rob our fat shepherds of the golden wash they have so long fed upon.
And Sarah Gamp of the Standard did cause large bills to be posted in every corner, equal in size to the top of a large dining table, headed with these words, “Gladstone and his Friends,” showing how the needle had pricked their tender feelings.
And Dizzey was down on his luck, when he found that his nose was compared to double size, and he hid himself in a corner and wept.
And behold there arose a loud cry from the ladies of England, saying, we are man’s better half, why not let us have a voice in the affairs of our country, and not have our tongues muzzled like D— M— as served our dogs.
And moreover it is expected that when the Election takes place that the vendors of dog’s meat, headed by Jack Atchley and some of the nobs from Sharp’s alley will proceed to Scotland yard to petition D— M— to revoke the sentence on our blessed tykes; for they say if it goes on much longer, instead of skewing up meat for the dogs they will be skewered up themselves—in some union house washing their blessed inside with water-gruel.
Now behold B— S— of penny newspaper notoriety is again attempting to poke his nose in for Westminster, but he will find it is no go, for with Mill and Grosvenor before him, he will have no chance to walk in for our ancient and much respected borough.
And all tories and adullamites are hereby cautioned not to have any dirty tricks, at the coming Election, as they had at the Guildhall Meeting, when they hired land rats and water rats at two bob a nob to disturb the peace, or they may find something in the seat of their small clothes more than their shirt tails.
Thus endeth the morning’s address.
LET US SAY.
From all back-sliding liberals, or slop made adullamites, Friends of Reform spare us.
Spare us we implore thee.
From all tories who would give us such quarters as the wolf gives the lamb. Gladstone, the father of the people, save us!
Gladstone, look down upon us.
From being gobbled up by Dizzey’s “No Popery” bogey, noble army of liberals defend us.
From Dizzey’s Guy Faux keep us we beseech thee.
And oh, Lawrence, when you are made king of the city, let us have no more unseemly brawls in Guildhall.
From all paid ruffians, save us good Lawrence.
And may it please you, good Richard, to look down with an eye of pity on all distressed dog’s meat sellers, and take the harness from off the dogs, so that we may obtain food to supply the worms that now gnaw our hungry bowels.
Grant this, there’s a dear Dickey.
And oh, Dizzey, make your will, there’s a good boy, for at the forthcoming election, Gladstone and the whole host of Liberals will be at the top of the poll, and then farewell to all your greatness.
And I say so be it.
Henry Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.—W.C.