A Hat(e)ful Character.
The Crystal Palace, now that the new Bill is on the fair road to become law, seemingly has taken a fresh lease of popularity. The evening fêtes are a great feature, and jaded Londoners can scarcely do better than to take a train from Victoria or St. Paul's, and spend a pleasant couple of twilight hours amidst the lamps and (on Thursdays) the fireworks. In the daytime there is always an excellent panorama, and frequently a successful play performed by its original London company. This last has always a charm for
Yours most truly,
One who has Gone to Pieces.
ADAM SLAUGHTERMAN.[1]
By Walker Weird, Author of "Hee Hee," "Solomon's Ewers," &c.
CHAPTER I.—Blood Relations.
"It is very kind of you to come round," I said, to my two friends, Sir Harry and Bong, as they threw themselves violently into two arm-chairs (which almost broke under the brutal force of their descent), and emptied two casks of whiskey.
As I looked at Sir Harry, with his wide shoulders and deeper chest, I could not help thinking what a curious contrast I was to him, with my head of grizzled hair cut short and starting up like a half-worn scrubbing-brush. Then there was Bong, who is not like either of us, being short, dark, stout,—very stout,—with twinkling black eyes everlastingly hidden by blue spectacles.
"Look here, old fellow," said Sir Harry, "why shouldn't we give up civilisation, and go in for the mud—I mean blood—baths in South Africa?"
I fairly jumped at his words.
"Nothing I should like better. And you, Bong?"
Bong is so overpoweringly frivolous.
"I'll go, because I am getting fat."
"Shut up, Bong," said Sir Harry, and then we screamed at the witticism for three hours. After that we started for Africa, in search of the land of the White-eyed Kaffirs, which we believed to be somewhere south of the Westminster Aquarium, the Alhambra, and other Music-Halls in which a specimen of the race had occasionally been seen.
On our arrival in Africa we found our old friend, Umbugsoapygas, with his huge battle-axe (playfully called Kosikutums or "the brain-pricker," from a habit he had of chipping life out of a man's cranium), awaiting us. He was a huge savage, with a large piece of loose skin concealing the right side of his face, which was absolutely boneless. Umbugsoapygas was delighted to see us.
"O cove, O cove-dat-am-cool!"—(Oh individual, oh individual without the influence of passion!)—"brave one, great one! Let me come with thee to swim in gore!"
I let him say this, as I saw his enthusiasm was producing a marked effect upon the minds of some niggers that were listening to him. But after he had said it, I thought it better to stop his vapouring; for there is nothing I hate so much, as this Zulu system of extravagant praising—"zwaggering," as they call it.
"Shut up!" I cried, the more especially as I saw that he was getting the blood-fever upon him, and savagely destroying with his huge axe a spider's cobweb.
He gave me a sort of nod, and seized the niggers by their throats until their eyes cracked. Then, with roars of laughter (for they really looked most ridiculous), we followed the blacks into the boat, and went to the Mission House of the Rev. Bang McSaxpence, without any further adventure than cutting off at the wrist the hand of one of the murderous tribe of Lorkymussies.
CHAPTER II.—Mission Work in South Africa.
The Rev. Bang McSaxpence and his wife and child lived in great comfort amidst the people they had taught so carefully. I do not quite know what the educational curriculum happened to be, but no doubt it would have merited the approval of the London School Board. They had a French cook, called Adolphe, who seemingly had been obtained from a travelling Circus that no doubt had passed the Mission House in the course of a provincial tour.
"Oh, the monster! See the horrible man. He is a Mister Black," said Adolphe, looking at Umbugsoapygas. The savage in a moment had dragged out the little Frenchman's eyes, thrown them high in the air, rubbed them in salt, and replaced them in their sockets. Bong, Sir Harry, and I could not help laughing.
A little later we were called in by Mrs. Bang McSaxpence, and soon were enjoying a really good cup of tea. I was putting forth my hand for a fresh supply, when the breakfast-things were knocked over by a head freshly severed from the trunk.
"Rough and reddy!" I suggested, with a laugh.
"Another carpet spoiled!" said gentle Mrs. McSaxpence, trying to wipe out the deep crimson stain.
"This is serious," observed the Rev. Bang McSaxpence arming himself with a carving-knife, "the Lorkymussies are upon us. And, to cause me greater annoyance, they have kidnapped my daughter Tottie."
This turned out to be the case, and although we could not help smiling at the notion of a fair-haired little girl being at the mercy of some clumsy, tomahawking, brutal cannibals, we felt very sorry for the bereaved father.
We started. The first victim was a sentinel. Umbugsoapygas clutched him by the throat and pulling his head back, tore it off with a crack, like the popping of a soda-water cork. Then we were upon them. There were yells, crashes, and blood all over the place. The "Brain-pricker" was here there and everywhere, scooping out brains just like a cheese-scoop scoops out cheese to be tasted by the customers of a London butterman. It really was all very amusing, and in spite of our servants being absolutely cut to pieces, we were in the gayest spirits imaginable. That all should end happily, who should turn up at the last moment but Tottie, with a little pail into which the dear child had poured the heart's blood of some of her persecutors.
"I shot six of them with my own little revolver," said the interesting infant, as I stroked her golden-hair with my crimson-coloured fingers; "wasn't it clever of me?"
We had a very good lunch, the poulet à la Portugaise of Adolphe being particularly worthy of a second helping. After this meal was over, I went to the Rev. Bang McSaxpence, and taking him by the arm, observed, "I really think you ought to give up this sort of life. You see you owe a duty to your wife and daughter—especially the latter, who, if she does not receive any education, and only mixes with bloodthirsty cannibals, may grow up wild, shunning her kind."
"You are right, Slaughterman," replied the Minister, straightening his carving-knife, which since the night before had severed many a human rib. "I made up my mind to it this very morning, just before I began my hacking and slaying. I won't risk another fight, but leave it to a younger Clergyman. And besides, between you and me, I am well off. It is thirty thousand pounds I am worth to-day, and every farthing of it made by honest trade, and savings in the bank at Zanzibar—for living costs me here next to nothing."
"You are right."
"I am sure of it," answered the Clergyman. "I will turn my back upon this place in a month. But it will be a wrench—it will be a wrench." [2]
CHAPTER III.—Water on the Brain.
We left the Rev. Bang McSaxpence (whose successor, by the way, was killed and eaten six weeks later), taking with us the little Adolphe (a most invaluable butt for our buffooneries), and voyaged into the Unknown. We got into a boat, and throwing overboard some niggers to pick up dead swans, they were immediately (much to our amusement) drowned. This made us think, and we came to the conclusion that they must have been carried to death by a current. In a moment our canoe began to fly along as if seized with a mighty hand, and we were in a tunnel. The water hurried us along, and we had scarcely time to notice that we were passing now "Baker Street Station," now "Portland Road," now "King's Cross," when we were close to a gigantic lily of fire that nearly roasted us. We passed, got to some rocks, and were trying to get a cab, or at least a fly, when we suddenly came across a number of spiders. They were dreadful creatures. They foamed at the mouth, screamed at one another, and devoured their invalid relations.
Here I should like to pause to write something really terrible about these spiders, but must hurry on, as there is still a deal of killing to be done before I get to the end of my narrative. Enough to say I may return to those spiders some of these days, and out of their webs spin a three-volume novel of unusual grimness and humour.
Shortly after this we emerged from the tunnel (passing by a place called Gloucester Road), and found ourselves in the land of the White-eyed Kaffirs.[3]
CHAPTER IV.—Quite Killing.
The country we now occupied was called New Pendy—no doubt because it had never been written about before. It is not very necessary to describe the lands or the people; and really the most remarkable thing in the place was a staircase, of a very wonderful character. Let the reader imagine, if he can, a splendid stairway, sixty-five feet from balustrade to balustrade, consisting of two vast flights, each of one hundred and twenty-five steps, of eight inches in height, by three feet broad, connected by a flat resting-place sixty feet in length, and running from the palace wall, on the edge of the precipice down to meet a waterway or canal cut to its foot from the river. This was the great staircase, the magnificence of which fairly took our breath away.[4]
Having described the staircase, it is only necessary to say that the New Pendies were governed by two Queens, one of whom fell in love with Sir Harry and married him, quarrelled with her sister, and engaged in a civil war which rent the country in twain. This naturally occasioned a good deal of bloodshed. Never shall I forget the manner in which Tryleapyea (the lady who honoured Sir Harry with her preference) wooed that individual. When they first met they could not speak the same language, so she took a pencil from me and made a delightful little sketch, which I give in the margin. There is no difficulty in recognising a bride expressing admiration at a wedding-cake.
Need I say that after her marriage Tryleapyea's subjects had the most terrible fight with the subjects of her sister Saramariah, which was chiefly waged on the staircase. This happened after I and Umbugsoapygas had performed together a kind of "Turpin's Ride to York," from the battlefield. Adolphe escaped to post these memoirs—Umbugsoapygas was cut to pieces. Sir Henry and Bong in his blue spectacles, were kept for ever in the New Pendy country, and, finally, I myself was killed, funeralled, and cremated.[5]