Chapter 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

December 3, 1892.

THE MAN WHO WOULD.

III.--THE MAN WHO WOULD GET ON.

"I dreamed," said the Scotch Professor, "that I was struggling for dear life with a monstrous reptile, whose scaly coils wound about my body, while the extremity of his own was lost in the distance. At last I managed to shake myself free, and setting my foot on his neck, I was preparing to cut his throat, when the animal looked up at me with an appealing expression, and said, 'At least you might give me a testimonial!'"

This professional nightmare (for the labours of a Scotch instructor consist, to a great extent, in writing testimonials, or in evading requests for them), suggested to one of his audience the history of SAUNDERS MCGREGOR, the Man who would Get on. In boyhood, SAUNDERS obtained an exhibition, or bursary, to the University of St. Mungo's. This success implied no high degree of scholarship, for the benefice was only open to persons of the surname of MCGREGOR, and the Christian-name of SAUNDERS. The provident parents of our hero, having accidentally become aware of this circumstance, had their offspring christened SAUNDERS, and thus secured, from the very first, an opening for the young man.

At St. Mungo's, SAUNDERS was mainly notable for a generous view of life, which enabled him to look on the goods of others as practically common among Christians. A pipe of his own he somehow possessed, but tobacco and lights he invariably borrowed, also golf-balls, postage-stamps, railway fares, books, caps, gowns, and similar trifles; while his nature was so social, that he invariably dropped in to supper with one or other of his companions. The accident of being left alone for a few moments in the study of our Examiner, where SAUNDERS deftly possessed himself of a set of examination-papers, enabled him to take his degree with an ease and brilliance which very considerably astonished his instructors. By adroitly using his good fortune, SAUNDERS accumulated a pile of most egregious testimonials, and these he regarded as the mainspring of success in life. He had early discovered in himself a singular capacity for drawing salaries, and as he had unbounded conceit and unqualified ignorance, he conceived himself to be fit for any post in life to which a salary is attached. He had also really great gifts as a _crampon_, or hanger-on, and neglected no opportunity, while he made many, of securing useful acquaintances. Thus it was the custom of his college to elect, at stated periods, a man of eminence as Rector. SAUNDERS at once constituted himself secretary of a committee, and, without consulting his associates, wrote invitations to eminent politicians, poets, painters, actors, editors, clergymen, and other people much in the public eye. In these effusions he poured forth the innocent enthusiasm of his heart, expressing an admiration which might seem excessive to all but its objects. They, with the guilelessness of mature age and conscious merit, were touched by SAUNDERS'S expressions of esteem, which they set down to hero-worship, and a fervent study of Mr. CARLYLE'S works. Only one of the persons addressed, unluckily, could be elected; but SAUNDERS added their responses to his pile of testimonials, and frequently gave them good epistolary reason to remember his existence and his devotion.

His earliest object was to become secretary to somebody or something, the Prime Minister, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the Society for the Protection of Aborigines, or Ancient Monuments, or even as Secretary to the Carlton Club, SAUNDERS felt he could do his talents justice in any of these positions. If anything was to be had, SAUNDERS was the boy to ask for it; nay more, to ask other people to ask. Private Secretaryships to Ministers, or societies, or great Clubs, are not invariably given to the first applicant who comes along, even if he appeals to testimonials in the Junior Mathematical Class from Professor MCGLASHAN of St. Mungo's. But SAUNDERS was not daunted. He would write to one notable, informing him that his grandmother had been at a parish school with the notable's great uncle--on which ground of acquaintanceship he would ask that the notable should at once get him a post as Secretary of a Geological Society, or as Inspector of Manufactories, or of Salmon Fisheries, or to a Commission on the Trade of Knife-grinding.

Another notable he would tell that he had once been pointed out to him in a railway station, therefore he was emboldened to ask his correspondent to ask his Publisher, to get at the Editor of the _Times_, and recommend him, SAUNDERS, as Musical Critic, or Sub-editor, or Society Reporter. Nor did SAUNDERS neglect Professorships, and vacant Chairs. His testimonials went in for all of them. He was equally ready and qualified to be Professor of Greek, Metaphysics, Etruscan, Chemistry, or the Use of the Globes, while Biblical criticism and Natural Religion, prompted his wildest yearnings. Though ignorant of foreign languages, he was prepared to be a correspondent anywhere, and though he was purely unlearned in all matters, he proposed to edit Dictionaries and Encyclopædias, of course with the assistance of a large and competent staff. His proofs of capacity for a series of occupations that would have staggered a CRICHTON, was always attested by his old College testimonials, for SAUNDERS was of opinion that the courteous _obiter dictum_ of a Professor was an Open Sesame to all the golden gates of the world. Meanwhile, he supported existence by teaching the elements of the classic languages, with which he had the most distant acquaintance, to little boys, at a Day School. But one of these pupils came home, one afternoon, in tears, having been beaten on the palms of the hands with a leathern strap, in addition to the task of writing out the verb [Greek: tuptô]. This punishment was inflicted because, in accordance with SAUNDERS'S instructions, he had represented the Cyclops of Euripides as "sweeping the stars with a rake." The original words of the Athenian poet do not bear this remarkable construction, so SAUNDERS was dismissed from the only work which he had ever made even a pretence of doing. He has not the energy, nor the lungs necessary for the profession of an agitator; he has not the grammar required in a penny-a-liner, he cannot cut hair, and his manners unfit him for the occupation of a shop-assistant, so that little is left open to SAUNDERS but the industry of the Blackmailer. The office of Secretary to a Missionary in a Leper settlement, on an island of Tierra Del Fuego, is, however, vacant; and, if the many important personages with whom SAUNDERS has corresponded will only make a united effort, it is possible that the Man who would Get on may at last be got off, and relieve society from the burden of his solicitations. May the comparative failure in life of SAUNDERS MCGREGOR act as a warning to those who think that they shall be heard, by men, for their much asking!

P.S.--This does not apply to women. We have just been informed that Mr. SAUNDERS MCGREGOR, M.A., is about to lead to the altar the only and orphan daughter of the late ALISTER MCFUNGUS, Esq., of Castle Fungus, Dreepdaily, N.B., the eminent introducer of remarkably improved processes in the manufacture of Heel-ball.

* * * * *

"ONE DOWN, T'OTHER COME ON!"--Mr. HORACE SEDGER has a _Prima Donna_ supply always on tap. After two of them have retired from the principal part in _Incognita_, the lively Miss AIDA JENOURE--("'Aid 'em JENOURE,' she ought to be called," quoth Mr. WAGGSTAFF)--comes to the rescue, and "on we goes again" with an excellent _danseuse_, too, thoroughly in earnest, as her name implies, which sounds like Miss Sin-cere and is written Miss ST. CYR.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.

(_MODERN MONETARY VERSION._)

'Twas the gallant Golden Knight downed his visor for the fight. All true champions delight in hard tussles. With his yellow Standard reared at his back, no foe he feared, And his gaze all comers queered, There at Brussels.

Like _Sir Kenneth_, only more so, he expanded his fine torso. His Standard--bold he swore so--flying proudly, Still supreme should flow and flaunt, its defenders none should daunt. 'Twas a very valiant vaunt. Shouted loudly.

Now the Silver Knight had sworn--that the Standard so long borne By the Aureate One, in scorn irreducible Should not solitary wave. He'd squabosh that champion brave, Or would find a torrid grave-- In some crucible!

Such cremation he would dare if that Standard he might bear To the dust, and upraise there one more Silvery. For this Argent Knight, though pale, was right sure he could not fail, He was proud of his white mail, And his skill--very!

So here, Gentles, you behold that brave Knight in mail of Gold, Sworn his Standard to uphold high and aureate; And that blusterous battle-bout, twixt those champions stern and stout, Will inspire, I have no doubt, Our next Laureate!

Yank Knights-Errant may evince interest grave; that Indian Prince Will alternate swell and wince as they struggle; The young Scottish Knight BALFOUR (who looks callow more than dour) Hopes the Silver Knight may score, By some juggle.

But in spite of Yank and Scot, and the Bimetallic lot, They who're fly to what is what, back the Gold 'un. And did _I_ bet--for fun--ere this Standard fight is done, I should plank my ten to one On the Old 'Un!

* * * * *

SUN-SPOTS.

Fog, haze, smoke or cloud, almost daily enshroud The Metropolis--place we should shun-- And day after day the reports briefly say, "Bright sunshine at Westminster--none," Yes, none! O Sol, not a ray; no, not one!

_The Times_ says that lots, quite a fine group of spots, Are discernible now on the sun; Have these stopped heat or light, so that weather-wise write, "Bright sunshine at Westminster--none?" Yes, none! O Sol, what have you been and done?

Have these sun-spots increased? We know London, at least, Is a spot unconnected with sun; All day long we burn gas, the report is, alas! "Bright sunshine at Westminster--none," Yes, none! O Sol, you old son of a gun!

* * * * *

LADY GAY'S SELECTION.

_Mount Street, Berkeley Square._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

I am proud of being the "selection" referred to above, though, as a matter of fact it was _I_ who "selected" GAY from the numerous sweet young things submitted for my approval during the Season when I was considered "_the_ parti"!--but on this point I maintain a noble silence! In spite of the old Welsh proverb, "Oh, wad some Gay the giftie gie us," &c. &c., I was a bit puzzled on reading GAY's letters, at the similarity of names, but thought it only a coincidence, until she was so upset by the one she read when abroad, that she confessed everything, and asked my advice!--It's very strange how all these clever women, when they get into a fix, apply for assistance to weak "_man_!" eh? Now that flat-racing is over, we are "resting on our oars" for a time--(that is literally true, for the country has been mostly under water lately!)--but we shall shortly have a cut-in at steeplechasing, when GAY will doubtless have some new experiences to relate; meanwhile, allow me to subscribe myself--(I like to subscribe to everything good)--Yours explanatorily,

(Lord) ARTHUR FLEETWOOD.

* * * * *

ALL ROUND THE FAIR.

NO. III.

IN THE "FINE ART" EXHIBITION.

_Rustic Art Patrons discovered applying their eyes to peepholes, through which a motley collection of coloured lithographs of the Crimean Campaign, faded stereoscopic-views, Scriptural engravings, and daubed woodcuts from the "Illustrated Police News," is arranged for their inspection._

_First Art Patron_ (_waiting for his turn at the first peephole_). Look alive theer, GE-ARGE, ain't ye done squintin' at 'un yet?

_Ge-arge_ (_a local humorist_). 'Tis a rare old novelty, BEN, th' latest from London, and naw mistake 'bout it!

_Ben_ (_with disappointment, as he succeeds to the peephole_). Why, 'tain't on'y ADAM an' EVE afoor th' Fall! that ain't so partickler noo, as _I_ can see--Lar dear, they're a settin' nekked on a live lion, and a nursin' o' rabbits! (_At the next hole_ ADAM _and_ EVE _are represented "After the Fall," overwhelmed with confusion, while the lion is stalking off scandalised, with a fine expression of lofty moral indignation._) 'Ere they are _agen_! that theer lion thinks he's played sofy to 'en long 'nough, seemin'ly!

_Ge-arge_ (_from a further peephole_). I say, BEN, 'ere's Mrs. PEARCEY a murderin' Mrs. 'OGG down this 'un--we're a-gittin' _along_!

_Ben_ (_puzzled_). They must ha' skipped out a deal. I'm on'y at "CAIN killin' ABEL!"

_Female Patron_ (_to Proprietor_). 'Ere, Master, I can't see nothen' down 'ere--'tis all dark like!

_Proprietor._ Let _me_ 'ave a look! You shud put your 'ands so, each side o' your eyes, and--(_He looks._) 'Um, it is _rayther_--but what else do yer _expeck_? It's a "View o' Paris by Night," ain't it--_that_'s all right!

OUTSIDE "PROFESSOR PUGMAN'S SPARRING SALOON."

_The Professor_ (_on a little platform, with a pair of Pupils_). Now then, all you as are lovers o' the Noble and Manly Art o' Self-Defence, step inside and see it illusterated in a scientific an' fust-class manner! This (_introducing first Pupil, who rubs his nose with dignity_) is 'OPPER of 'Olloway, the becoming nine-stun Champion. This hother's BATTERS o' Bermondsey, open to fight any lad in England at eight-stun four. Is there anyone among you willing to 'ave a round or two with either on 'em fur a drink an' admission free?--if so, now's his time to step forward--there's no waiting, mind yer?

_Joe_ (_to Melia_). I b'lieve as 'ow I could tackle the little 'un--I used to box above a bit.

_Melia._ Don't ye now, JOE; you'll on'y go and git yourself 'urt or summat!

_Joe._ _I_ shan't git 'urt. 'Ere, Master, I'm game fur to put on the gloves wi' _'im_.

_Prof._ Git inside with yer then! (_To Crowd._) Now then for the Great Glove Contest--Just goin' inside to begin--Mind, there's _no_ waitin'!

_Joe._ 'Ere, MELIA, come along in, and look arter my 'at an' coat.

_Melia._ I dussen't, JOE! I can't abear to see no fightin', I'll bide 'ere till ye come out.

[_JOE enters the tent, followed by the Pupils and a few Connoisseurs._

_Prof._ (_looking into the interior of tent through a slit in the canvas_). Theer they are! Oh my, what a pictur'! They're puttin' on the gloves now, make 'aste if you're goin' in! (_The Crowd hesitate._) 'Ere! (_To the Champions._) Step outside once more and show yourselves!

[_The Champions appear, re-mount the platform, and are introduced all over again._

_Melia_ (_intercepting her swain_). JOE, 'ow are ye gittin' on? You don't look none the worse so fur; is it neelly over?

_Joe_ (_gruffly_). Neelly over! why, we ain't _begun_ yet--nor likely to wi' all this bloomin' palaverin'!

_Melia._ I do wish 'twas over--Kip a good 'art, JOE; don't let 'un go knockin' ye about!

_Joe_ (_with a slight decrease of confidence_). Theer's a way to talk! I doan't reckon as 'ow he'll _kill_ me, not in three rounds, I doan't, but if I'd a-know'd there'd be all this messin' about fust, I'd a--

[_He goes inside gloomily._

INSIDE THE SPARRING SALOON.

_The Spectators are waiting patiently around the ropes; the Professor is still on the platform, expatiating on the coming contest. JOE has found a friend whom he has entrusted with his hat and coat._

_Joe_ (_to the Friend_). Jest kip a heye on these 'ere, will ye!

[_He hands him a huge pair of highlows._

_Prof._ (_calling in_). Fur the larst time, come outside and show yerselves, all on yer!

_The Friend._ You got to go out agin, JOE, better putt on yer coat an' 'at, not to ketch cold!

_Joe._ Ah, and I'll 'ave to 'ave they bo-oots on agen, too. (_He gets into his things in a great flurry, and hastens outside._) 'Tis enough to take th' 'art out of a man, thet 'tis!

[_More exhortations from Proprietor, until the last Spectator has been induced to enter the Saloon, whereupon the Champions return, and the hangings at the entrance are finally drawn._

_Prof._ (_acting as Timekeeper_). Now then, all ready? (_To JOE._) In you go--What are yer waitin' for? Never mind about takin' orf yer boots! Gentlemen, BATTERS o' Bermondsey is agoin' to fight three rounds with a volunteer, one o' your own men. Whatever you see between 'em (_solemnly_), pass no remarks! Time!

[_JOE and "BATTERS o' Bermondsey" walk round each other and make a fumbling attempt to shake hands, after which JOE, while preparing to deliver a blow with extreme caution and deliberation, is surprised by a smart smack on his cheek, which makes him stagger; he recovers himself and prances down on BATTERS with a windmill action._

_Batters_ (_limping into his corner_). 'Ere, I say, ole man--moind my tows--foight at yer right _end_!

_Joe_ (_apologetically_). I didn't mean nothing unfair-like--I _warnted_ fur to take off them 'ere boots--but I warn't let!

_Batters._ I'll _let_ ye--fur 'taint no corpet slippers as you've got on, ole feller, I tell yer strite!

[_JOE removes the offending boots._

_Spectators_ (_during the second round, which is fought with more spirit than science on JOE'S part_). Ah, JOE ain't no match for 'un--he let un _'ave_ it then, didn't he? My word! but it's "Go 'ome an' tell yer Mother, an' ax yer Uncle 'ow ye be" with 'un, pretty near every time!

_Prof._ (_with affected rapture_). Oh dear! Oh lor! _What_ doins! Time! you two, afore ye _kill_ one another! Now, Gentlemen, a good clap, to encourage 'em. I think you'll agree as the Volunteer is showin' you good sport; and, if you think him deservin' of a drink, p'raps one o' you will oblige with the loan of a 'at, which he'll now take round. (_The hat is procured, and offered to_ JOE, _who, however, prefers that the collection should be made by deputy._) Don't _forgit_ 'im, Gentlemen! (_Coppers pour into the hat, and the last round is fought;_ B. of B. _ducking_ JOE'S _blows with great agility, and planting his own freely in various parts of_ JOE'S _anatomy._)

_Spectators._ 'E'll be knocked out in a minnit, 'e will! Don't sim to git near 'un no 'ow. Look a' _that_--and _thar_ agin! Ah, JOE got one in that time--but the tother's the better man--'e don't touch 'un without _'ittin'_ of 'un--d'ye see? Time! Ah, and time it _was_ time, too--fur _'im_!

_Prof._ (_to JOE, as he sits blinking, and blowing his nose with vigour_). That was a jolly good fight--tho' rough. You've some notion o' sparrin'--we'd soon make a boxer o' _you_. 'Ere's _your_ share of the collection--sevenpence ap'ny. We give _you_ the extry ap'ny, bein' a stranger. Would you feel inclined to fight six rounds, later on like, with another of our lads, fur ten bob, now?

_Joe_ (_making a futile attempt to untie his glove with his teeth_). Much obliged, Master, but I've 'ad about enough spree a'ready to do me fur a bit.

_Prof._ Are there any two friends in 'ere as 'ud like to fight a round or two?

[_Two Rustics step forward valiantly--a tall dark man and a little red-haired one--and, after the usual preliminaries, square up at a safe distance._

_Spectators_ (_to the tall man_). Why don't ye step _up_ to 'un, JIM? Use yer right 'and a bit! (_To the short one._) Let out on 'un, TOM!

[_TOM, thus exhorted, lands an unexpected blow on JIM'S eye._

_Jim_ (_suddenly ducking under the rope in great dudgeon_). 'Twas a cowardly blow! I didn' stan' up to be 'it in th' fa-ace i' that way; I've 'ad enoof of it!

_Tom._ Come back and fight it out! (_Soothingly._) Why, ye come at me like a thunderin' great _lion_, ye did!

_Jim_ (_putting on his hat and coat, sulkily_). Loi-on or noan, I ain't gawin' to hev naw moor on it, I tell 'ee. [_Groans from_ Spectators.

_Prof._ Don't be 'ard on 'im, Gents; it ain't 'is fault if he's on'y bin used to box with bolsters, and as he ain't goin' to finish 'is rounds, it's all over for this time, and I 'ope you're all satisfied with what you've seen.

_A Malcontent._ _I_ ain't. I carl it a bloomin' swindle. I come 'ere to see some _sparrin'_, _I_ did!

_Prof._ Step inside the ropes then, and _I'll_ soon show yer some! (_This invitation is hastily declined._) Well, then, go outside quiet, d'jear me? or else you'll do it upside down, like ole JOHN BROWN, in 'arf a sec., I can tell yer!

[_The Malcontent departs meekly, and reserves any further observations until he is out of hearing._

_Melia_ (_to JOE_). Lor, I wish now I'd been there to see ye; I do 'ope ye weren't too _rough_ with 'un, though, JOE. What shall we do next?--'ave a turn on the swings, or the swishback circus, or the giddy-go-round--or what? (JOE _shakes his head._) _Why_ won't ye, JOE?

_Joe_ (_driven to candour_). Why?--'cause it 'ud be throwin' away money, seein' I've got 'em all goin' on inside o' me at once as 'tis, if ye _want_ to know! I feel a deal more like settin' down quiet a bit, I do, if I cud find a place.

_Melia_ (_with an inspiration_). Then let's go and 'ave our likenesses took!

[_She cannot understand why JOE should be so needlessly incensed at so innocent and opportune a suggestion._

* * * * *

THE "BEST EVIDENCE"--HOW NOT TO GET IT.

Have been summoned to attend as a Witness in the trial of the six roughs who first drugged and then savagely ill-treated a foolishly convivial citizen in Whitechapel. Don't know if it was wise of me to tell the Police that I could identify the men. Since my evidence before the Magistrate came out, I have had thirty-seven threatening letters, my front windows have been broken several times over, and a valuable dog poisoned. Still, evidently a patriotic duty to "assist the course of Justice;" and no doubt I shall be compensated.

So this is the "Central Criminal Court," is it? Should hardly have believed it possible. Outside mean and dirty.

Interior, meaner and much dirtier. Speak to Usher. Usher most polite. Glad, that at any rate, they _do_ know how to treat important Witnesses. Am assured I shall have a seat "close to the Judge." Produce my witness-summons. Demeanour of Usher suddenly changes. I shall have to go to the "Witnesses' Waiting-room in the old Court." Where's that? _He_ doesn't know. I'd better ask a Policeman. It now flashes across me that Usher mistook me for a wealthy, and probably generous spectator, and thought when I was fumbling in my pocket for my summons, I was looking for half-a-crown for _him_! Depressing.

Policeman leaves me in a dark, draughty passage, with a bench on each side. "But where is the waiting-room?" I ask an attendant. "_This_ is the waiting-room," he replies. More like the Black Hole. _Was_ it wise of me to give information to the Police?