Punch: Punch (81.1881)

September 24, 1881.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 135

BREAD UP!

With Covent Garden Mar-
ket to give us dear vegetables,
with Billingsgate to give us
dear fish, and with the " Fair
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
payfourpence for potatoes that
are worth a penny, who shall
say that a Duke of Mudeord
is not cheaply purchased at
the money? If we pay the
price of roast beef for fish 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 financier,
Charles the Second, what
he required for his personal
wants, on security which
taxed some of the necessaries
of life for centuries. And if
the Fair 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.

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 /

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'nly ! "—Ima-
gine 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 styled 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 reception-chamber. But we reach 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 mediteval furniture, brings our
host courteously to his feet. With a " Back—Northumberland!
Off—Sir Catesby!—down, traitors!" and a cheery " Gramercy,
dogs,—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 he 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 on to a wrought-iron lounge, one
of Matsys' masterpieces, we 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 are once more filled. Then
he begins :—

" How did I come to be the Manchester Novelist ? " he asks, collo-
quially. "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 clays well.