BREAD UP!
Wmr Covent Garden Market to give us dear vegetables,
with Billingsgate to give us dear fish, and with the “ lair Trade” agitators to give us dear bread, no one can say that England, and especially London, is showing any signs of Radical decadence. If we
pay four pence for potatoes that are worth a penny, who shall say that a Duke of Mudfoed
is not cheaply purchased at the money? If we pay the price of roast beef for hsh that is only worth about twopence a pound, we have in exchange the ancient Corporation of the
City of London, with all its turtle-dinners and historical associations — the benevolent “ Uncle ” who lent that Merry Monarch and jocular linancier, C
uari.es the Second, what he required for his personal wants, on security which taxed some of the necessaries of life for centuries. And if the Eair Trade League suc
ceed in taxing corn, in raising the price of the four-pound loaf, and in taking daily a slice of bread-and-butter out of the mouths of hungry children, they will give us in
return the blessings of a Tory Government—a Government that will double our taxation,
tie our Budgets into Gordian Knots, but will fool us to the top of our bent with cock-a- doodle-doism.
To Girtonians.—Wanted, for the prospected Holloway’s College, a few Female Private Tutors. No Male “Coaches” need apply.
A WORD FOR THE CITY. The City of London was
once destroyed by fire, and stands a very good chance of being so destroyed again. Its local fire-brigade consists of two engines and thirteen men —neither a lucky nor a suffi
cient number to cope with an
outbreak like the one which destroyed half-a-million of
property the other day in Cheapside, and provided the gaping public with something to gape at. Captain Shaw’s organisation is perfect as far as it goes, but he cannot be in two or more places at once; and if he was half-an-hour in reaching- the fire, the fault lies
with those who transferred his head-quarters to Southwark. The Metropolitan Board of Works is very anxious to reform the City, but it ought to take care that something is left to reform. Even Bil
lingsgate, as it is, is better
than no Billingsgate and a heap of charred ruins. The City is not London, but it is the most important part of London, and the payment of one-seventh of the Metropoli
tan rates ought certainly to insure it better treatment.
“Why, Cert’nt.y! ’’—Imagine the delight of Mr. Edgar Bruce, now on tour with his own Company—the only occa
sion when a Manager, unlike
most men, is not dull, i.e., left alone with his own Company —in the land of Bruce (N.B.),
at hearing of the success of The Colonel in Egypt He at
once wired to the Khedive to arrange terms.
A LANCASHIRE NOVELIST.
(Interviewed at Home by Our Own Special Stranger.)
“ Nothing had delighted me more than to be Btyled the Lancashire Novelist.”—Mr. Harrison Ainsworth at the Manchester Banquet.
It is no ordinary footman who has at length appeared in answer to our thirty-five minutes’ effort to make our advent known by “wind
ing a horn thrice,” as requested on the brass plate above the rare Toledo knocker. The door has been swung mysteriously back by a retainer handsomely caparisoned in rich Damascus doublet, russet jerkin, and arras trunks, relieved with the heraldic emblazonment of the house, a Tower of London reversed or, on a somersault double quevee gules,—and we are in the hall. At a glance we take in the
taste of the owner. Demi-lunes, battle-axes, culverins, stuffed beefeaters, death-warrants, piles of rare old unopened tapestry,
sackbuts, and other musical instruments of torture, almost bar our way to the reoeption-chamber. But we reaoh it at last. We have scarcely time to take in that we have been ushered into an ancient Elizabethan hall of vast proportions, dimly lighted by the flickering blaze of a huge yule log, when a sudden spring made at our throats by several recumbent blood-hounds, whose presence we had not hitherto noticed among the massive mediaeval furniture, brings our host courteously to his feet. With a “ Back—Northumberland! Off—Sir Catesby!—down, traitors!” and a cheery Grnmeroy, clogs,—an’ would ye throttle your Master’s honest_ interviewers . he quickly rescues us from our somewhat embarrassing position.
With a low ominous bay the hounds skulk off into dark recesses, and our host continues—
“ I see you are a couple of perfect strangers, over the eldest of whom some sixty summers, at least, must have swept; ” he says,
brightening, “ And, believe me, nothing could please me better; for I am always ‘ out ’ to friends and acquaintances. It is only the
strangers who inspire romance; and I like them always to call, a couple at a time ; and, if possible, without leaving their cards, in the setting sun. See! ” he adds, suddenly touching a quaint Venetian handle as ho is speaking, “We can always turn any amount of that on here! ” and, as if by magic, a flood of crimson light pours in through the mullions and trefoils of the great stained oriel window, and bathes the ancient chamber in a soft ruddy glow.
“ You’ll crush a flagon or two of good Malmsey sack, I warrant me,” he proceeds, with a genial wave of the hand, and, in a few minutes, steaming bowls of the mixture are being handed round by stalwart henchmen. . ...
As we throw ourselves luxuriously onto a wrought-iron lounge, one of Matsys’ masterpieces, wc notice that our host has resumed his place on a peculiarly-shaped seat, somewhat resembling a solid music-stool. .
“Staring at this ? ” he asks, good-humouredly. “It is the original block from the Tower; and I have had a back and arms added for comfort. Nothing like inspiration ! ”
We laugh, and take another deep draught of the well-spiced golden mixture, that seems such an appropriate accompaniment to the whole scene.
“ We should like to hear something about yourself,” we at length suggest, emboldened; as to gather a little information about our illustrious host is, in fact, the object of our mission. He meets us by another challenge to “about of honest sack,” which we gra
ciously accept. The bloodhounds seem to know that they may now safely quit their hiding-places. Bowls aro once more filled. Then he begins:—
“ How did I come to be the Manchester Novelist? ” he asks, colloquially. “Well,—I will tell you. Mine is a somewhat strange history,” he continues, as if trying to recall some incident in the
remote past; “ and, if I remember rightly, I was born in the Tower of London, somewhere about the time of the Great Plague,—let us say roughly, the year a.d. 1715. I remember those early days well. PUNCH’S FANCY PORTRAITS.-No. 50.
W. HARRISON AINSWORTH.
TO THE GREATEST AXE-AND-NECK-ROMANCER OF OUR TIME., WHO IS QUITE at the Head of his Profession, we dedicate this Block. Ad MULTOS ANNOS !
Wmr Covent Garden Market to give us dear vegetables,
with Billingsgate to give us dear fish, and with the “ lair Trade” agitators to give us dear bread, no one can say that England, and especially London, is showing any signs of Radical decadence. If we
pay four pence for potatoes that are worth a penny, who shall say that a Duke of Mudfoed
is not cheaply purchased at the money? If we pay the price of roast beef for hsh that is only worth about twopence a pound, we have in exchange the ancient Corporation of the
City of London, with all its turtle-dinners and historical associations — the benevolent “ Uncle ” who lent that Merry Monarch and jocular linancier, C
uari.es the Second, what he required for his personal wants, on security which taxed some of the necessaries of life for centuries. And if the Eair Trade League suc
ceed in taxing corn, in raising the price of the four-pound loaf, and in taking daily a slice of bread-and-butter out of the mouths of hungry children, they will give us in
return the blessings of a Tory Government—a Government that will double our taxation,
tie our Budgets into Gordian Knots, but will fool us to the top of our bent with cock-a- doodle-doism.
To Girtonians.—Wanted, for the prospected Holloway’s College, a few Female Private Tutors. No Male “Coaches” need apply.
A WORD FOR THE CITY. The City of London was
once destroyed by fire, and stands a very good chance of being so destroyed again. Its local fire-brigade consists of two engines and thirteen men —neither a lucky nor a suffi
cient number to cope with an
outbreak like the one which destroyed half-a-million of
property the other day in Cheapside, and provided the gaping public with something to gape at. Captain Shaw’s organisation is perfect as far as it goes, but he cannot be in two or more places at once; and if he was half-an-hour in reaching- the fire, the fault lies
with those who transferred his head-quarters to Southwark. The Metropolitan Board of Works is very anxious to reform the City, but it ought to take care that something is left to reform. Even Bil
lingsgate, as it is, is better
than no Billingsgate and a heap of charred ruins. The City is not London, but it is the most important part of London, and the payment of one-seventh of the Metropoli
tan rates ought certainly to insure it better treatment.
“Why, Cert’nt.y! ’’—Imagine the delight of Mr. Edgar Bruce, now on tour with his own Company—the only occa
sion when a Manager, unlike
most men, is not dull, i.e., left alone with his own Company —in the land of Bruce (N.B.),
at hearing of the success of The Colonel in Egypt He at
once wired to the Khedive to arrange terms.
A LANCASHIRE NOVELIST.
(Interviewed at Home by Our Own Special Stranger.)
“ Nothing had delighted me more than to be Btyled the Lancashire Novelist.”—Mr. Harrison Ainsworth at the Manchester Banquet.
It is no ordinary footman who has at length appeared in answer to our thirty-five minutes’ effort to make our advent known by “wind
ing a horn thrice,” as requested on the brass plate above the rare Toledo knocker. The door has been swung mysteriously back by a retainer handsomely caparisoned in rich Damascus doublet, russet jerkin, and arras trunks, relieved with the heraldic emblazonment of the house, a Tower of London reversed or, on a somersault double quevee gules,—and we are in the hall. At a glance we take in the
taste of the owner. Demi-lunes, battle-axes, culverins, stuffed beefeaters, death-warrants, piles of rare old unopened tapestry,
sackbuts, and other musical instruments of torture, almost bar our way to the reoeption-chamber. But we reaoh it at last. We have scarcely time to take in that we have been ushered into an ancient Elizabethan hall of vast proportions, dimly lighted by the flickering blaze of a huge yule log, when a sudden spring made at our throats by several recumbent blood-hounds, whose presence we had not hitherto noticed among the massive mediaeval furniture, brings our host courteously to his feet. With a “ Back—Northumberland! Off—Sir Catesby!—down, traitors!” and a cheery Grnmeroy, clogs,—an’ would ye throttle your Master’s honest_ interviewers . he quickly rescues us from our somewhat embarrassing position.
With a low ominous bay the hounds skulk off into dark recesses, and our host continues—
“ I see you are a couple of perfect strangers, over the eldest of whom some sixty summers, at least, must have swept; ” he says,
brightening, “ And, believe me, nothing could please me better; for I am always ‘ out ’ to friends and acquaintances. It is only the
strangers who inspire romance; and I like them always to call, a couple at a time ; and, if possible, without leaving their cards, in the setting sun. See! ” he adds, suddenly touching a quaint Venetian handle as ho is speaking, “We can always turn any amount of that on here! ” and, as if by magic, a flood of crimson light pours in through the mullions and trefoils of the great stained oriel window, and bathes the ancient chamber in a soft ruddy glow.
“ You’ll crush a flagon or two of good Malmsey sack, I warrant me,” he proceeds, with a genial wave of the hand, and, in a few minutes, steaming bowls of the mixture are being handed round by stalwart henchmen. . ...
As we throw ourselves luxuriously onto a wrought-iron lounge, one of Matsys’ masterpieces, wc notice that our host has resumed his place on a peculiarly-shaped seat, somewhat resembling a solid music-stool. .
“Staring at this ? ” he asks, good-humouredly. “It is the original block from the Tower; and I have had a back and arms added for comfort. Nothing like inspiration ! ”
We laugh, and take another deep draught of the well-spiced golden mixture, that seems such an appropriate accompaniment to the whole scene.
“ We should like to hear something about yourself,” we at length suggest, emboldened; as to gather a little information about our illustrious host is, in fact, the object of our mission. He meets us by another challenge to “about of honest sack,” which we gra
ciously accept. The bloodhounds seem to know that they may now safely quit their hiding-places. Bowls aro once more filled. Then he begins:—
“ How did I come to be the Manchester Novelist? ” he asks, colloquially. “Well,—I will tell you. Mine is a somewhat strange history,” he continues, as if trying to recall some incident in the
remote past; “ and, if I remember rightly, I was born in the Tower of London, somewhere about the time of the Great Plague,—let us say roughly, the year a.d. 1715. I remember those early days well. PUNCH’S FANCY PORTRAITS.-No. 50.
W. HARRISON AINSWORTH.
TO THE GREATEST AXE-AND-NECK-ROMANCER OF OUR TIME., WHO IS QUITE at the Head of his Profession, we dedicate this Block. Ad MULTOS ANNOS !