Punch (95.1888)

Augustus, 1888.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

S9

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

I thought I was going to have a rare treat in Rider Haggard's
Maiwa? s Revenge. " Beati qui nihil expectant" as Major Monsoon

hath it, "for verily they
shall not be disappointed."
The hook is simply the
Zoological Gardens turned
loose with that old Choke-
bore Allan Quatermain,
who, I had hoped, was dead
and buried in the previous
novel, potting elephants and
rhinooeri as if they were
shrimps, meeting lions and
lionesses and savages, and
all the stale Rider-Haggar-
dian materials muddled up
together, without even the
thread of an interesting story whereon
to hang the dried skins of the beasts.
Maiwa herself, an insignificant person,
does not appear till page 105, out of a
book of 216 pages, and the other part is
taken up with stupid stories told by
that stupid low comedian Good, whom
his author loves, and somniferous after-
£ |j dinner sporting twaddle carried on by the
vjiVj /, small bore Sir Henry Curtis, the afore-
said low comedian Good, and the grand
■ old choke-bore, Allan Quatermain him-
.. ji} self with the little round button at the
. „ „ , top and the gunpowder running out of

A Creepy Crawly effect. ^ heelg of Mg boots. Herewith I make

a present to Mr. Rider Haggard of a final chapter, with a moral to
it—to be found in the application of it—which I will call,—

REDAH'S REVENGE!
First, Last, and Only Chapter.

On the dried wing of a Fly-leaf, brought to me by the maiden
Konstant Redah, I make out these words:—

" For Heaven's sake, whoever you are, try to help me. I have been
the slave of this awful Riteraggard for nearly four years. He caught
me in King Solomo?i's Mines; he charmed me, for he is a wizard,
with She; and he tortures me now by means of his slaves, Allano
Quarterman, Baddely Good, and Sir Henry Cowardis. Don't desert
me, or Riteraggabd and his Impi, the Pubbeli-Shahs, will have
another novel ready in less than a week, and I shall be forced to devour
every word of it. Help! help! help! I can bear this no longer.

" Yours, Jack Liyvrey."

"Great Heavens!" I gasped._ "Liyvrey! it must be my old
friend, Jack Liyvrey, of Liverpil, the great Novel Hunter." I too
had suffered at the hands of Riteraggard and his Impi, and I was
determined that they should not have another victim if I could
prevent it. Konstant Redah's eyes gleamed with a vindictive
light. She had often tried to put down the tyrant Riteraggard,
but could not. Now was her chance. So at once we were on the
march. "Within a few minutes we were in the Boshibook's country,
near Riteraggard's Impi and the Pubbeli-Shah's Kraal. When I
reached the Koppie-Right I lay down on my littery bed and took
an inspiriting draught of Punch. It was lucky I did so, for now a
strange thing happened.

Put of the thick red and blue coverts that surrounded the Koppie-
Right arose a swarm of fly-leaves, darkening the air like locusts, and
through this black density came flashes like red rays of the setting
sun. "It is the Impi's advertisements," said Konstajtt Redah,
coolly, replying to my exclamation. " I know them. Behold! "

I looked, and from underneath this swarm, kicking up a dust all
among the Koppie, right and left, came slowly on, as if by forced
marches, Riteraggard himself, Chokebore Allano Quarterman,
Baddely Good, Sir Henry Cowardis, Old Gobbo the Clown, a
lot of savage Elephants, Rhinoceri, Lions, Tigers, Crocodiles, Snakes,
m fact the whole menagerie and travelling troupe. The men were
all armed with repeating rifles loaded with Saymold ammunition.
Riteraggard had an old fifteen thousand Storey's repeating rifle,
with which he was shooting in every direction at random.

Help! help! They are cramming Maiwa down mv throat!"
I heard in the Tukwokwe dialect. It was the voice of the great
Novel Hunter, Jack Ltvvrey.

Not a moment was to be lost. With a dexterous whirl I sent my
Paypir-knife whizzing through the air. Riteraggard, to avoid it,
stepped backwards, and, with a yell such as I have rarely heard, tell
on to one of his Pubbeli-Shahs, and both tumbled backwards into
their own trap,—a trap intended for one horse, but quite suitable for
a different kind of animal.

Raising my kill-bore-repeater, I put the contents of one barrel into
Baddely Good just as he was preparing to let off a joke, and he fell
with his face to the earth. It was all over with him, and then, before
Sir Henry Cowardis could recover from his surprise, I let him have
the second barrel, and down he went, too, dead as a two-days'-old
glass of ale. Wheeling round I saw that old villain; Allano
Quarterman, preparing a yarn which was to come spinning at my
head and catch me as in a net. But at the critical moment I let fly,
and, with a great groan, he, too, fell lifeless, and, though I am a
Christian, I cannot say I felt sorry for any one of them. As for the
beasts of the menagerie, they were only pantomimic mechanical
animals, after all. Many collapsed like bladders on being pricked,
and others I ordered to be broken up, together with Riteraggard's
whole ba°; of tricks.

When I came up to the trap, I found that it had been turned over,
and the poor steed, cleverly contrived to imitate a kind of winged
Pegasus, had got entangled in the harness, but Riteraggard, having
managed to crawl out, had disappeared into the coverts of the
Koppie-Right. Here he was subsequently found by Konstant
Redah, who tortured him for hours by declaiming long extracts from
his own eccentric books. I left him to her. It was her revenge.
The poor Pubbeli-Shahs and the other Impis begged for mercy, and so
I let them crawl away as best they could to rejoin Riteraggard,
that is, if anything should be left of him after Konstant Redah's
awful torture. They may yet give us some trouble, but I doubt it.

As to poor Jack Liyvrey, the great Novel Hunter, he threw him-
self on his knees and kissed my hand in an ecstasy of gratitude. I
gave him a taste of Punch, when he speedily revived, and then I
recommended him a salutary course of Fielding, Dickens, and
Thackeray, which he is still pursuing, much to his advantage. He
is now a book-stall keeper at Victoria Station, and doing uncommonly
well. Only when the name of Riteraggard is mentioned in his hearing
does a cold shudder come over him, and he tries to hide himself away

under the evening newspapers.

******

And so I went to bed and dreamed that I was in the Garden of
Parodies, and that all the above was quite true, and woke up so
happy, wrote every word of it down, and now sign myself,

Yours ever, The Bold Baron de Book-Worms.

P.S.—And just one hint to the sensational author of Maiwa's
Revenge. Let him procure four small handy volumes published, in
most appropriate binding, by William Paterson of London and
Edinburgh, entitled Weird Tales, and then let him read over again
the curdlers writ by Allan—not Quatermain,—but Edgar Allan
Poe, and let him study A Fearful Revenge (author unknown), which
Rider Haggard would have spun out into three hundred pages at
least, while here it is thrillingly and concisely told in twenty-five.
Those who like Thrillers and Curdlers to shorten their journeyings
in this holiday season, cannot do better than purchase this series of
Weird 'Tales. _

Liverpool v. Lambeth.

The Bishop of Liverpool writes common sense on
The Lambeth "Encyclical" signed Primate Benson,
Who murmurs, with laugh in lawn sleeves all the while,
"I thought that it might you, my dear Bishop, rile."

THE MORAL OF THIS SEASON.

"You can tell me" said the Intelligent Foreigner, button-holeing
his London Friend, " what it is called."
'' It—what ?'' was the rejoinder.

"Why, when ladies and gentlemen go into a big field, and sit in
carriages in the rain looking at nothing—what is that ? "
"I have no idea."

"And when the same people go to boats on a river, and look at
other boats, but always in the ram—always—what is that ? "
" I cannot say."

" But you must know," said the Intelligent Foreigner, impatiently.
" When the same ladies and gentlemen go into the country, and sit
on damp benches, and cover themselves with waterproof s—alwavs in
the rain—what is that ? "

" How should I know ? "

" And when these same people go for months here, there, every-
where, always in the rain. When they meet morning, noon, and
night, always in the ram. When they bore one another to the
death. When they are as dull as ditch-water. Come, vou must
know? What is it?

" Ah, I have it! A big field in the rain.—Lord's. Storm on the
river—Henley. Damp benches in the country—Goodwood! Together
for months always m the rain! Why you must mean the London
Season ?"

"You are right," replied the other. "And now, my friend, I
must say good-bye."
And the Intelligent Foreigner left England for ever!