Oh, give me back my Arab steed, I cannot ride alone!Or tell me where my Beautiful, my four-legged bird has flown.'Twas here she arched her glossy back, beside the fountain's brink,And after that I know no more—but I came off, I think.More so-called original lines by aforesaid young English friend. But I have the shrewd suspicion of having read them before somewhere.—H. B. J.AND now, O gentle and sympathetic reader, behold our unfortunate hero confined in the darkest bowels of the Old Bailey Dungeon, for the mere crime of being an impecunious!Yes, misters, in spite of all your boasted love of liberty and fresh air, imprisonment for debt is still part of the law of the land! How long will you deafen your ears to the pitiable cry of the bankrupt as he pleads for the order of hisdischarge? Perhaps it has been reserved for a native Indian novelist to jog the elbow of so-called British jurisprudence, and call its attention to such a shocking scandal.Mr Bhosh found his prison most devilishly dull. Some prisoners have been known to beguile their captivity by making pets or playmates out of most unpromising materials. For instance, andexempli gratia, Mr Monty Christo met an abbey in his dungeon, who gave him a tip-top education; Mr Picciola watered a flower; the Prisoner of Chillon made chums of his chains; while Honble Bruce, as is well-known, succeeded in taming a spider to climb up a thread and fall down seven times in succession.But Mr Bhosh had no spider to amuse him, and the only flowers growing in his dungeon were toadstools, which do not require to be watered, nor did there happen to be any abbey confined in the Old Bailey at the time.Nevertheless, he was preserved from despair by his indomitable native chirpiness. Forwas notMilky Waya dead set for the Derby, and when she came out at the top of the pole, would he not be the gainer of sufficient untold gold to pay all his debts, besides winning the hand of Princess Petunia?He was waited upon by the head gaoler's daughter, a damsel of considerable pulchritude by the name of Caroline, who at first regarded him askance as a malefactor.But, on learning from her parent that his sole offence was insuperable pennilessness, her tender heart was softened with pity to behold such a young gentlemanly Indian captive clanking in bilboes, and soon they became thick as thieves.Like all the inhabitants of Great Britain, her thoughts were entirely engrossed with the approaching Derby Race, and she very innocently narrated how it was matter of common knowledge that a notorious grandame, to wit the fashionable Duchess of Dickinson, had backed heavily thatMilky Waywas to fail like the flash of a pan.Whereupon Mr Bhosh, recollecting that he had actually entrusted his invaluable mare with her concomitant jockey to the mercy of this self-same Duchess, was harrowed with sudden misgivings.By shrewd cross-questions he soon eliminated that Mr McAlpine was a pal of the Duchess, which she had herself admitted at the Victoria terminus, and thus by dint of penetrating instinct, Mr Bhosh easily unravelled the tangled labyrinth of a hideous conspiracy, which caused him to beat his head vehemently against the walls of his cell at the thought of his utter impotentiality.Like all feminines who were privileged to make his acquaintance, Miss Caroline was transfixed with passionate adoration for Bindabun, whom she regarded as a gallant and illused innocent, and resolved to assist him to cut his lucky.To this end she furnished him with a file and a silken ladder of her own knitting—but unfortunately Mr Bhosh, having never beforeundergone incarceration, was a total neophyte in effecting his escape by such dangerous and antiquated procedures, which he firmly declined to employ, urging her to sneak the paternal keybunch and let him out at daybreak by some back entrance.And, not to crack the wind of this poor story while rendering it as short as possible, she yielded to his entreaties and contrived to restore him to the priceless boon of liberty the next morning at about 5A.M.Oh, the unparalleled raptures of finding himself once more free as a bird!It was the dawn of the Derby Day, and Mr Bhosh precipitated himself to his dwelling, intending to array himself in all his best and go down to Epsom, where he was in hopes of encountering his horse. Heyday! What was his chagrin to see his jockey, Cadwallader Perkin, approach with streaming eyes, fling himself at his master's feet and implore him to be merciful!"How comes it, Cadwallader," sternly inquiredMr Bhosh, "that you are not on the heath of Epsom instead of wallowing like this on my shoes?""I do not know," was the whimpered response."Then pray where is my Derby favourite,Milky Way?" demanded Bindabun."I cannot tell," wailed out the lachrymose juvenile. Then, after prolonged pressure, he confessed that the Duchess had met him at the station portals, and, on the plea that there was abundance of spare time to book the mare, easily persuaded him to accompany her to the buffet of Refreshment-room.There she plied him with a stimulant which jockeys are proverbially unable to resist, viz., brandy-cherries, in such profusion that he promptly became catalyptic in a corner.When he returned to sobriety neither the Duchess nor the mare was perceptible to his naked eye, and he had been searching in vain for them ever since.It was the time not for words, but deeds,and Mr Bhosh did not indulge in futile irascibility, but sat down and composed a reply wire to the Clerk of Course, Epsom, couched in these simple words: "Have you seen my Derby mare?—Bhosh."After the suspense of an hour the reply came in the discouraging form of an abrupt negative, upon which Mr Bhosh thus addressed the abashed Perkin: "Even should I recapture my mare in time, you have proved yourself unworthy of riding her. Strip off your racing coat and cap, and I will engage some more reliable equestrian."The lad handed over the toggery, which Bindabun stuffed, being of very fine silken tissue, into his coat pocket, after which he hurried off to Victoria in great agitation to make inquiries.There the officials treated his modest requests in very off-handed style, and he was becoming all of a twitter with anxiety and humiliation, when,mirabile dictu!all of a sudden his ears were regaled by the well-knownsound of a whinny, and he recognised the beloved voice ofMilky Way!But whence did it proceed? He ran to and fro in uncontrollable excitement, endeavouring to locate the sound. There was no trace of a horse in any of the waiting-rooms, but at length he discovered that his mare had been locked up in the Left-Luggage department, and, summoning a porter, Mr Bhosh had at last the indescribable felicity to embrace his kidnapped Derby favouriteMilky Way!CHAPTER XIIA RACE AGAINST TIMEThere's a certain old Sprinter; you've got to be keen,If you'd beat him—although he is bald,And he carries a clock and a mowing-machine.On the cinderpath "Tempus" he's called.Stanza written to order by young English friend,but (I fear) copied from Poet Tennyson.AH! with what perfervid affection did Mr Bhosh caress the neck of his precious horse! How carefully he searched her to make sure that she had sustained no internal poisonings or other dilapidations!Thank goodness! He was unable to detect any flaw within or without—the probability being that the crafty Duchess did not dare to commit such a breach of decorum as to poison a Derby favourite, and thought to accomplish her fell design by leaving the mare as lost luggage and destroying the ticket-receipt.But old Time had already lifted the glass to his lips, and the contents were rapidly running down, so Mr Bhosh, approaching a railway director, politely requested him to hook a horse-box on to the next Epsom train.What was his surprise to hear that this could not be done until all Derby trains had first absented themselves! With passionate volubility he pleaded that, if such a law of Medes and Persians was to be insisted on,Milky Waywould infallibly arrive at Epsom several hours too late to compete in the Derby race, in which she was already morally victorious—until at length the official relented, and agreed to do the job for valuable consideration in hard cash.Lackadaisy! after excavating all his pockets, our unhappy hero could only fork out wherewithal enough for third-class single ticket for himself, and he accordingly petitioned that his mare might travel as baggage in the guard's van.I am not to say whether the officials at this leading terminus were all in the pay of the Duchess, since I am naturally reluctant toadvance so serious a charge against such industrious and talented parties, but it isnem. con.that Mr Bhosh's very reasonable request was nilled in highly offensive cut-and-dried fashion, and he was curtly recommended to walk himself and his horse off the platform.Que faire?How was it humanly possible for any horse to win the Derby race without putting in an appearance? And how wasMilky Wayto put in her appearance if she was not allowed access to any Epsom train? A less wilful and persevering individual than Mr Bhosh would have certainly succumbed under so much red-tapery, but it only served to arouse Bindabun's monkey."How far is the distance to Epsom?" he inquired."Fourteen miles," he was answered."And what o'clock the Derby race?""About oneP.M.""And it is now just the middle of the day!" exclaimed Bindabun. "Very well, since it seemsMilky Wayis not to ride in the railway,she shall cover the distance on shank's mare, for I will ride her to Epsom inpropriâ personâ!"THE ROAD WAS CHOCKED FULL WITH EVERY DESCRIPTION OF CONVEYANCETHE ROAD WAS CHOCKED FULL WITH EVERY DESCRIPTION OF CONVEYANCESo courageous a determination elicited loud cheers from the bystanders, who cordially advised him to put his best legs foremost as he mounted his mettlesome crack, and set off with broken-necked speed for Epsom.I must request my indulgent readers to excuse this humble pen from depicting the horrors of that wild and desperate ride. Suffice it to say that the road was chocked full with every description of conveyance, and that Mr Bhosh was haunted by two terrible apprehensions, viz., that he might meet with some shocking upset, and that he should arrive the day after the fair.As he urged on his headlong career, he was constantly inquiring of the occupants of the various vehicles if he was still in time for the Derby, and they invariably hallooed to him that if he desired to witness the spectacle he was to buck himself up.Mr Bhosh bucked himself up to such good purpose that, long before the clock struck one, his eyes were gladdened by beholding the summit of Epsom grand stand on the distant hill-tops.Leaning himself forward, he whispered in the shell-like ear ofMilky Way: "Only one more effort, and we shall have preserved both our bacons!"But, alas! he had the mortification to perceive that the legs ofMilky Waywere already becoming tremulous from incipient grogginess.And now, beloved reader, let me respectfully beg you to imagine yourself on the Epsom Derby Course immediately prior to the grand event. What a marvellous human farrago! All classes hobnobbing together higgledy-piggledy; archbishops with acrobats; benchers with bumpkins; counts with candlestickmakers; dukes with druggists; and so on through the entire alphabet. Some spectators in carriages;others onterra firma; flags flying; bands blowing; innumerable refreshment tents rearing their heads proudly into the blue Empyrean; policemen gazing with smiling countenances on the happy multitudes when not engaged in running them in.Now they are conducting the formality of weighing the horses, to see if they are qualified as competitors for the Derby Gold Cup, and each horse, as it steps out of the balancing scales and is declared eligible, commences to prance jubilantly upon the emerald green turf.(N.B.-The writer of above realistic description has never been actually present at any Derby Race, but has done it all entirely from assiduous cramming of sporting fictions. This is surely deserving of recognition from a generous public!)Now follows a period of dismay—forMilky Way, the favourite of high and low, is suddenly discovered to be still the dark horse! The only person who exhibits gratification is the Duchess Dickinson, who makes her entranceinto the most fashionable betting ring and, accosting a leading welsher, cries in exulting accents: "I will bet a million to a monkey againstMilky Way!"Even the welsher himself is appalled by the enormity of such a stake and earnestly counsels the Duchess to substitute a more economical wager, but she scornfully rejects his well-meant advice, and with a trembling hand he inscribes the bet in his welching book.No sooner has he done so than the saddling bell breaks forth into a joyous chime, and the crowd is convulsed by indescribable emotions. "Huzza! huzza!" they shout. "Welcome to the missing favourite, and three cheers forMilky Way!"The Duchess had turned as pale as a witch, for, galloping along the course, she beholds Mr Bhosh, bereft of his tall hat and covered with perspiration and dust, on the very steed which she fondly hoped had been mislaid among the left luggage!CHAPTER XIIIA SENSATIONAL DERBY STRUGGLEIs it for sordid pelf that horses race?Or can it be the glory that they go for?Neither; they know the steed that shows best paceWill get his flogging all the sooner over!Reflection at a Racecourse.—H. B. J.THE Duchess, seeing that her plot was foiled by the unexpected arrival of Mr Bhosh, made the frantic endeavour to hedge herself behind another bet of a million sterling to a monkey thatMilky Waywas to come off conqueror—but in vain, since none of the welshers would concede such very long odds.So, wrapping her features in a veil of feminine duplicity, she advanced swimmingly to meet Mr Bhosh. "How lucky that you have arrived on the neck of time!" she said."And you have ridden all the way from town? Tell me now, would not you and your dear horse like some refreshment after so tedious a journey?""Madam," said Mr Bhosh, bowing to his saddle-bow, while his optics remained fixed upon the Duchess with a withering glare. "We are not taking any—fromyourhands."This crushing sarcasm totally abashed the Duchess, who perceived that he had penetrated her schemes and crept away in discomfiture.After this incidentMilky Waywas subjected to the ordeal of trying her weight, which she passed with honours. For—very fortunately as it turned out—the twenty-four hours' starvation which she had endured as left luggage had reduced her to the prescribed number ofmaunds, which she would otherwise have infallibly exceeded, since Mr Bhosh, being as yet a tyro in training Derby cracks, had allowed her to acquire a superfluous obesity.Thus once more the machinations of theDuchess had only benefited the very individual they were intended to injure!But it remained necessary to hire a practical jockey, since Cadwallader Perkin was still lamenting in dust and ashes at home, so Mr Bhosh ran about from pillow to post endeavouring to borrow a rider forMilky Way.Owing, probably, to the Duchess's artifices, he encountered nothing but refusals and pleas of previous engagement—until, at the end of the tether of his patience, he said: "Since my mare cannot compete in a riderless condition, I myself will assume command and steer her to victory!"Upon which gallant speech the entire air became darkened by clouds of upthrown hats and shouts of "Bravo, Bindabun!"But upon this the pertinacious Duchess lodged the objection that he was not in correct toggery, and that, even if he still retained his tall hat, it would be contrary to etiquette to ride the Derby in a frock coat."Where are his racing colours?" she demanded."Here!" cried Mr Bhosh, pulling forth the cream and sky-blue silken jacket and cap from his pockets, and, discarding his frock coat, he assumed the garbage of a jockey in the twinkle of a jiffy."I protest," then cried the undaunted Duchess, "against such cruelty to animals as racing an overblown mare so soon after she has galloped from London!""Your stricture is just, O humane and distinguished lady," responded the judge, who had conceived a violent attachment toMilky Wayand her owner, "and I will willingly postpone the race for an hour or two until the horse has recovered her breeze.""Quite unnecessary!" said Bindabun. "My mare is not such a weakling as you imagine, and will be as fit as a flea after she has imbibed one or two champagne bottles."And his prediction was literally fulfilled,for the champagne soon renderedMilky Wayplayful as a kitten. Mr Bhosh ascended into his saddle; the other horses were drawn up in single rank; the starter brandished his flag—and the curtain rose on such a race as has, perhaps, never been equalled in the annals of the Derby.The rival cracks were named as follows:——Topsy Turvey,Poojah,Brandy Pawnee,Tiffin Bell,Tripod,Cui Bono,British JurisprudenceandRoseate Smell. The betting was even on the field.Poojahwas a large tall horse with a nude tail, but excessively nimble;Tripod, on the contrary, was a small cob of sluggish habits and needing to be constantly pricked;Tiffin Bellwas a piebald of goodly proportions; andRoseate Smellwas of same sex asMilky Way, though more vixenish in character.Not long after the start Mr Bhosh was chagrined to discover that he was all behindhand, and he almost despaired of overtakingany of his fore-runners. Moreover, he was already oppressed by painful soreness, due to so constantly coming in contact with the saddle during his ride from London—but "in for a penny, in for a pound of flesh," and he plodded on, and soon had the good luck to recapture some of his lost ground.It was the old fabulous anecdote of the Hare and the Tortoise. First of all,Topsy Turveywas tripped up by a rabbit's hole; thenRoseate Smellleaped the barrier and joined the spectators, whileTripodsprained his offside ankle. Gradually Mr Bhosh passedBrandy Pawnee,Cui Bono, andBritish Jurisprudence, until, on arriving at Tottenham Court Corner, onlyTiffin BellandPoojahremained in the running.Tiffin Bellbecame so discouraged by the near approach ofMilky Waythat he dwindled his pace to a paltry trot, so Mr Bhosh was easily enabled to defeat him, after which by Cyclopean efforts he urged his mare until she andPoojahwere cheek by jowl.For some time it was the dingdong race between a hammer and tongs!Still, as the quadrupeds ploughed their way on,Poojahchurlishly refused to giveplace aux dames, andMilky Waybegan to drop to the rear. Seeing that she was utterly incompetent to accelerate her speed and therefore in imminent danger of being defeated, Chunder Bindabun had the happy inspiration to make an appeal to the best feelings of the rival jockey, whose name was Juggins."Juggins!" he wheezed in an agonised whisper, "I am a poor native Indian, totally unpractised in Derby riding. Show me some magnanimous action, and allowMilky Wayto take first prize, Juggins!"But Mr Juggins responded that he earnestly desired thatPoojahshould obtain said prize, and applied a rather severe whipsmack to his willing horse."My mare is the favourite, Juggins!" pleaded Mr Bhosh. "By defeating her youwill land yourself in the bad odour of theoi polloi. Have you considered that, Juggins?"Juggins's only reply was to administer more whip-smacks, but Chunder Bindabun persevered. "Consider my hard case, Juggins! If I am beaten, I lose both aplacens uxorand the pot of money. If, on the other hand, I come in first at the head of the winning pole I promise to share my entire fortune with you!"Upon this, the kind-hearted and venial equestrian relented, warmly protesting that he would rather be aproxime accessitand second fiddle than deprive another human being of all his earthly felicity, and accordingly he reined in his impetuous courser with such consummate skill thatMilky Wayforged ahead by the length of a nose.Thus they galloped past the Grand Stand, and, as Mr Bhosh gazed upwards and descried the elegant form of the Princess Petunia standing upon the topmost roof, he was so exalted with jubilation that heelevated himself in his stirrups; and waving his cap in a chivalrous salute, cried out: "Hip-hip-hip! I am ramping in!""Then," I hear the reader exclaim, "it is all over, andMilky Wayis victorious."Please, my honble friend, do not be so premature! I have notsaidthat the race was over. There are still some yards to the judge's bench, and it is always on the racing cards thatPoojahmay prove the winner after all.Such inquisitive curiosity shall be duly satisfied in the next chapter, which is also the last.CHAPTER XIVA GRAND FINISHHappy Aurora is a happy Aurora!Hip, Hip, Hip, Hip, Hurrah! Hurrah!Dr Ram Kinoo Dutt (of Chittagong).ON the summit of the Grand Stand might have been observed groups of spectators eagerly awaiting the finish. Conspicuous amongst them were Princess Petunia (most sumptuously attired) and her parent, Merchant-prince Jones; and close by Duke and Duchess Dickinson, following the classic contest through binocular glasses."Poojahwill prove to be the winner!... No, it isMilky Way!... They are neck or nothing! It will be a deceased heat!" exclaimed the excited populaces.And the beauteous Petunia was as if seatedupon the spike of suspense, since Mr Bhosh's success was asine quâ nonto their union. Suddenly came the glad shout: "The Favourite takes the cake with a canter!" and Duchess Dickinson became pallid with anguish, for, rich as she was, she could ill afford to become the loser of a cool million.The shout was strictly veracious, for Mr Bhosh was ruling the roast by half-a-head, andPoojahwas correspondingly behind. "Macte virtute!" cried Princess Petunia, in the silvery tones of a highly-bred bell, while she violently agitated her sun-umbrella: "O my beloved Bindabun, do not fall behind at eleven o'clock!"And, as though in answer to this appeal (which he did not overhear), she beheld her triumphant suitor saluting the empress of his soul with uplifted jockey-cap.Alack! it was the fatal piece of politeness; since, to avoid falling off, he was compelled to moderate the speed of his racer while performing it, and Juggins, either repentinghis good-nature, or unable any longer to restrain the impetuosity ofPoojah, was carried first past the winning-pole, Mr Bhosh following onMilky Wayas the bad second!At this the Princess Petunia emitted a doleful scream; like Freedom, which, as some poet informs us, "squeaked when Kockiusko (a Japanese gentleman) fell," and suspended her animation for several minutes, while the Duchess "grinned a horrible ghastly smile," as described by Poet Milton inParadise Lost, at Mr Bhosh's shocking defeat and her own gain of a million, though all true sportsmen present deeply sympathised with our hero that he should be thus wrecked in sight of port on account of an ordinary act of courtesy to a female!But Mr Bhosh preserved his withers as unwrung as though he possessed the hide of a rhinoceros. "Honble Sir," said he, addressing the Judge, "I humbly beg permission to claim this Derby race and lodge an objection against my antagonist.""On what grounds?" was the naturally astonished rejoinder."On the grounds," deliberately replied Chunder Bindabun, "that he surreptitiously did pull his horse's head."Juggins was too dumbfoundered to reply to the accusation, and several spectators came forward to testify that they had personally witnessed him curbing his steed, and—it being contrary to thelex non scriptaof turf etiquette to pull at a horse's head when he is winning—Juggins was very ignominiously plucked by the Jockey's Club.The Duchess made the desperate attempt to argue that, if Juggins was a pot, Mr Bhosh was a kettle of equally dark complexion, since he also had reined up before attaining the goal—but Chunder Bindabun was able easily to show that he had done so, not with any intention to forfeit his stakes, but merely to salute his betrothed, whereas Juggins had pulled to prevent his horse from achieving the conquest.So, to Mr Bhosh's inexpressible delight,the Derby Cup, full as an egg with golden sovereigns, was awarded to him, and the notorious blue ribbon was pinned by the judge upon his proud and heaving bosom.But, as he was reverting, highly elated, to the side of his beloved amidst the acclamations of the multitude, the disreputable Juggins had the audacity to pluck his elbow and demand the promisedquid pro quo."For what service?" inquired Chunder Bindabun in amazement."Why, did you not promise me the moiety of your fortune, honble Sir," was the reply, "if I allowed you to be the winner?"Mr Bhosh was of an exceptionally mild, just disposition, but such a piece of cheeky chicanery as this aroused his fiercest indignation and rendered him cross as two sticks. "O contemptible trickster!" he said, in terrific tones, "my promise (as thou knowest well) was on condition that I was first past the winning-pole. Whereas—owing to thy perfidy—I was only the bad second. Do notattempt to hunt with the hare and run with hounds. Depart to lower regions!"THE NOTORIOUS BLUE RIBBON WAS PINNED BY THE JUDGE UPON HIS PROUD AND HEAVING BOSOMTHE NOTORIOUS BLUE RIBBON WAS PINNED BY THE JUDGE UPON HIS PROUD AND HEAVING BOSOMAnd Juggins slinked into obscurity with fallen chops.Benevolent and forbearing readers, this unassuming tale is near itsfinis. Owing to his brilliant success at the Derby, Mr Bhosh was now rolling on cash, and, as the prediction of the Astrologer-Royal was fulfilled, there was no longer any objection to his union with the Princess Jones, with whom he accordingly contracted holy matrimony, and now lives in great splendour at Shepherd's Bush, since all his friends earnestly besought him that he was not to return to India. He therefore naturalised himself as a full-blooded British, and further adopted a coat-of-arms from the Family Herald, with a splendidly lofty crest, and the motto "Sans Peur et Sans Reproche." ("Not being funky myself, I do not reproach others with said failing"—free translation.)But what of the wicked Duchess? I have to record that, being unable to pay the welsherher bet of a million pounds, she was solemnly pronounced a bankruptess and incarcerated (by a striking instance of the tit-for-tat of Fate) in the identical Old Bailey cell to which she had consigned Chunder Bindabun!And in her case the gaoler's fair daughter, Miss Caroline, did not exhibit the same softheartedness. Mr Bhosh and his Princess-bride, being both of highly magnanimous idiosyncrasies, for some time visited their relentless foe in her captivity, carrying her fruit and flowers and sweets of inexpensive qualities, but were received in such a cold, standoffish style that they soon discontinued such thankless civilities.As forMilky Way, she is still hale and flourishing, though she has never since displayed the phenomenal speed of her first (and probably her last) Derby race. She may often be seen in the vicinity of Shepherd's Bush, harnessed to a small basketchaise, in which are Mr and Mrs Bhosh and some of their blooming progenies.Here, with the Public's kind permission, we will leave them, and although this trivial and unpretentious romance can claim no merit except its undeviating fidelity to nature, I still venture to think that, for sheer excitement and brilliancy of composition, &c., it will be found, by all candid judges, to compare rather favourably with more showy and meretricious fictions by overrated English novelists.EndofA Bayard From Bengal.N.B.—I cannot conscientiously recommend the Indulgent Reader to proceed any further—for reasons which, should he do so, will be obvious.H. B. J.THE PARABLES OF PILJOSHFREELY RENDERED INTO ENGLISH FROM THE ORIGINAL STYPTIC WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTESBYH. B. JABBERJEE, B.A.INTRODUCTIONI shall begin by begging that it may not be supposed either thatIam the Author or even the Translator of the appended fables!The plain truth of the matter is that I am far indeed from standing agog with amazement at their literary or other excellences, and inclined rather to award them the faint damnation of a very mediocre eulogy.But it so happens that the actual translator is the same young English friend who kindly furnished me with a few selected poetic extracts for my Society novel, and has earnestly entreated me (as thequid pro quo!) to compose an introduction and notes for his own effusion,alleging that it is asine quâ nonnowadays for all first class Classics to be issued with introduction, notes and appendix by some literary knob—otherwise they speedily become obsolete and still-born.Therefore I readily consented to oblige him, although I am noau faitin the Styptic dialect, and cannot therefore be held answerable for the accuracy of my friend's translation, which he admits himself is of a rather free description.Of the Philosopher who composed these Proverbs or Fables little is known, even in his own country, except that (as all Scholiasts are aware) he was born on the 1st of April 1450 (old style), and for some years filled the important and responsible post of Archi-mandrake of Paraprosdokian. He probably met with a violent end.I shall not undertake to provide a note toeveryparable, but only in cases where I think that the Parabolist is not quite as luminous as the nose on one's face, and needs the services of an experienced interpreter.H. B. J.The Butterfly visited so many flowers that she fell sick of a surfeit of nectar. She called it "Nervous Breakdown.""Instead of vainly lamenting over those we have lost," said the young Cuckoo severely, to the Father and Mother Sparrow, "it seems to me that you should be rejoicing thatIam still spared to you!"Note.—A mere plagiaristic adaptation of the trite adage concerning the comparative values of birds in the hand and in the bush.—H. B. J."I am old enough to be thy Grandfather!" the Egg informed the Chicken."In that case," replied the Chicken, "it is high time thou bestirredst thyself!""Not so!" said the Egg, "since the longer I remain quiescent, the fitter I shall be for the career that is destined for me.""Indeed," inquired the Chicken, "and what maythatbe?""Politics!" answered the Egg with importance.And the Chicken pondered long over that saying.Note.—I must confess to following the Chicken's precedent, without arriving at any solution. For, logically, an Egg must be the junior of any Chicken. And again, even for parabolical purposes, it is far-fetched to represent an Egg as a potential Member of Parliament. On the whole, I am not entirely satisfied that my young friend is so proficient in acquaintance with Cryptic as he has represented to me.—H. B. J.There is only one thing that irritateth a woman more than the man who doth not understand her, and that is the man who doth.A certain Artificer constructed a mechanical Serpent which was so marvellously natural that it bit him in the back. "Had I but another hour to live," he lamented in his last agonies, "I would have patented the invention!"The Woman was so determined to be independent of Man that she voluntarily became the slave of a Machine.Note.—I do not understand the meaning of the Fabulist here.—H. B. J."She used to be so fresh; but she is gone off terribly since I first knew her!" said the Slug of the Strawberry.Note.—See my remark on the last parable.—H. B. J."Now, I call that downright Plagiarism!" observed the Ass, when he heard the Lion roar."A cheery laugh goes a long way in this world!" remarked the Hyena."But a bright smile goes further still!" said the Alligator, as he took him in.Note.—If the honble Philosopher is censuring here merely the assumption of hilarity and not ordinary quiet facetiousness, I amentirely with him. But I rather regard him as a total deficient in Humour and fanatically opposed to it in any form.—H. B. J."I trust I have now made myself perfectly clear?" observed the Cuttlefish, after discharging his ink.The Cockney was assured that, if he placed the Sea-shell to his ear, he would hear the murmur of Ocean.But all he caught distinctly was the melody of negro minstrels."It is some satisfaction to feel that we have both been sacrificed in a thoroughly deserving cause!" said the Brace-button, complacently, to the Threepenny Bit, as they met in the Offertory Bag.Note.—This must be some local allusion, for I do not know what sort of receptacle an Offertory Bag may be, or why such articles should be inserted therein.—H. B. J.Mistrust the Bridegroom who appeareth at his wedding with sticking-plaster on his chin [or "withoutsticking-plaster," &c.—the Styptic is capable of either interpretation.—Trans.].Note.—Then I will humbly say that it must be a peculiarly elastic tongue. But ineitherform the Proverb is meaningless.—H. B. J."What!—My Original dead?" cried the Statue. "Then I have lost all chance of ever becoming celebrated!"Note.—This is an obvious mistranslation, since a Statue is only erected when the Original is already celebrated.—H. B. J."What is your favourite Perfume?" they asked the Hog, and he answered them, "Pigwash.""How vulgar!" exclaimed the Stoat. "Mineis Patchouli!"But the Fox said that, inhisopinion, the less scent one used the better.Note.—This merely records the well-known physiological fact thatsome persons are born without the olfactory sense. Emperor Vespasian was accustomed to declare (erroneously) that "pecunia non olet."—H. B. J."I wonder they allow such a cruel contrivance as that 'Catch 'em alive, oh!' paper!" said the Spider tearfully, as she sat in her web.Note.—From this we learn that there may be a soft spot in themost unpromising quarters. Even Alexander the Great, who spent theblood of his troops like pocket money, is recorded to have wept at areview on suddenly reflecting that all his soldiers would probablybe deceased in a hundred years. It is barely possible that Piljoshmay have been a spectator of this incident.—H. B. J.A certain Pheasant was pluming herself upon having become a member of the Anti-Sporting League."Softly, friend!" said a wily old Cock, "for, should this League of thine succeed in its object, every man's hand would be against us both by day and night; whereas, at present, our lives are protected all night by vigilantkeepers, and spared all day by our owner and his guests, who are incapable of shooting for nuts!"Note.—This is a glaringnon sequiturand fallacy. I myself have never shot for nuts—but it does not necessarily follow that any pheasant would remain intact after I discharged my rifle-barrel!—H. B. J."It is not what welookthat signifieth," said the Scorpion virtuously, "it is what weare!"Note.—True enough—but the moral would have been improved by attributing the saying to some insect of more innocuous character than a Scorpion. Perhaps this is so in the original Styptic, for, as I have said, I cannot repose implicit faith in my young friend's version.—H. B. J."I have composed the most pathetic poem in the world!" declared the Poet."How can'st thou be sure of that," he was asked."Because," he replied, "I recited it to the Crocodile, and she could not refrain from shedding tears!""It is gratifying to find oneself appreciated at last," said the Cabbage, when the Cigar Merchant labelled him as a Cabaña."Don't talk tomeabout Cactus," said the Ostrich contemptuously to the Camel. "Insipid stuff,Icall it! No—for real flavour and delicacy, give me a pair of Sheffield scissors!""The accommodation might be more luxurious, it's true," remarked the philosophic Mouse, when he found himself in the Trap, "but, after all, it's not as if I was going to stay herelong!""People tell me he can shine when he chooses," said the Extinguisher of the Candle. "AllIknow is, he's positively dull whenever he's withme!"There was once a Musical Box which played but one tune, to which its owner was neverweary of listening. But, after a time, he desired a novelty, and could not rest until he had exchanged the barrel for another. However, he sickened of the second tune sooner than of the first, and so he exchanged it for a third, which he liked not at all.Accordingly he commanded that the Box should return to the first tune of all—and lo! this had become an abomination unto his ears, nor could he conceive how he had ever been able to endure it!So the Musical Box was laid upon the shelf, and the Owner procured for himself a cheap mouth-organ which could play any air that was suggested to it, and thus became an established favourite.Note.—This is apparently designed to illustrate the ficklety of the Musical Character.—H. B. J."Docome in!" snapped the severed Shark's Head to the Ship's Cat. "As you perceive, I am carrying on business as usual during the alterations."The Bulbul had no sooner finished her song than the Bullfrog began to make profuse apologies for having left his music at home.To a Butterscotch Machine the Penny and the Tin Disc are alike.Note.—Surely not if an official is looking on!—H. B. J."My dears," said the Converted Cannibal reverently to his Wife and Family, as they sat down to their Baked Missionary, "do not let us omit to ask a blessing!"There is but one Singer whom it is futile to encore—and that is a Dying Swan."I am doing a series of 'Notable Nests' for 'Sylvan Society,'" said the insinuating Serpent, on finding the Ringdove at home, "and I should so much like to includeyou." "You are very kind," said the Ringdove, in a flutter, "but I can assure you that there is no morein my poor little eggs than in any other bird's!" "That may be," replied the Serpent, "but I must livesomehow!""No outsiders there—only just their own particular set!" said the Cocksparrow, when he came home after having been to tea with the Birds of Paradise.The Elephant was dying of starvation, and a kind-hearted person presented him with an acidulated drop.Note.—It is well-nigh incredible that any Philosopher should be so ignorant of Natural History as to imagine that any Elephant would accept an acid drop, even if it was on its last legs for want of nutrition.The conclusion of this anecdote would seem to be either lost, or unfit for publication.—H. B. J.There was once a famous Violinist who serenaded his Mistress every evening, performing the most divine melodies upon his instrument.But all the while she was straining her ears to listen to a piano-organ round the corner which was playing "Good-bye, Dolly Gray!"The Performing Lioness kisses her Trainer on the mouth—but only in public.The Candle complained bitterly of the unpleasantness of seeing so many scorched moths in her vicinity."I have taken such a fancy to thee," said the Hawk genially to the Field-Mouse, "that I am going to put thee into a really good thing."And he opened his beak.There are persons who have no sense of the fitness of things.Like the Grasshopper, who insisted on putting the Snail up for the Skipping Club.The Cat scratched the Dog's nose out of sheer playfulness—but she had no time to explain."After all, itispleasant to be at home again!" said the Eagle's feathers on the shaft that pierced him.But the Eagle's reply is not recorded.Note.—Poet Byron also mentions this incident.—H.B.J.A certain Painter set himself to depict a lovely landscape. "See!" he cried, as he exhibited his canvas to a Passing Stranger, "doth not this my picture resemble the scene with exactitude?""Since thou desirest to know," was the reply, "thou seemest to me to have portrayed nothing but a manure heap!""And amIto blame," exclaimed the indignant Painter, "if a manure heap chanced to be immediately in front of me?"Before a Man marrieth a Woman he delighteth to describe unto her all his doings—even the most unimportant.But, after marriage, he considereth that such talk may savour too much of egotism.Note.-This is very very shallow. I have never experienced any such compunctiousness with my own wives.—H. B. J."I shouldn't have minded so much," said the Bee, with some bitterness, just before breathing his last in the honey-pot, "only it happens to be my own make!""Is the White Rabbit beautiful?" someone inquired of the Albino Rat."She might be passable enough," replied the Rat, "but for one most distressing deformity. She has pink eyes!"When the Ass was asked about his Cousin the Zebra, he said: "Do not speak about him—for he has disgraced us all. Never before has there been any eccentricity inourfamily!"The full-blown Sausage professeth to have forgotten the days of his puppyhood."Willyou allow me to pass?" said the courteous Garden Roller to the Snail.Had anyone met the Red Herring in the sea and foretold that he would one day be pursued by Hounds across a difficult country, the Herring would have accounted him but a vain babbler.Yet so it fell out!Note.—I shrewdly suspect that my young friend has made the rather natural mistake of substituting the word "Red Herring" for "Flying Fish."It is not absolutely incredible that one of the latter department should fly inland and be chased by Dogs—but even Piljosh should be aware that no Herring could pop off in such a way.—H. B. J.An Officious Busybody, perceiving a Phœnix well alight, promptly extinguished her by means of a convenient watering-pot."Had you refrained from this uncalled for interference," said the justly irate Bird, "I should by this time be rising gloriously from my ashes—instead of presenting the ridiculous appearance of a partially roasted Fowl!"Note.—I can offer no explanation of this allegory, except toremind the reader that the Phœnix is the notorious symbol for afire insurance.—H. B. J."Alas!" sighed the Learned Pig, while expiring from inflammation of the brain, brought on by a laborious endeavour to ascertain the sum of two and two, "Why,whywas I cursed with Intellect?""I shall know better another time!" gasped the Fish, as he lay in the Landing-net.A certain Merchant sold a child a sharp sword. "Thou hast done wrong in this," remonstrated a Sage, "since the child will assuredly wound either himself or some other.""Ishall not be responsible," cried the Merchant, "for, in selling the sword, I did recommend the child to protect the point with a cork!"A certain grain of Millet fell out of a sack in which it was being carried into the City, and was soon trampled in the dust."I am lost!" cried the Millet-seed. "YetI do not repine so much for myself as for those countless multitudes who, deprived of me, are now doomed to perish miserably of starvation!""I have given up dancing," said the Tongs, "for they no longer dance with the Elegance and Grace that were universal inmyyoung days!""But for the Mercy of Providence," said the Fox, piously, to the Goose whom he found in a trap that had been set for himself, "our respective situations might now be reversed!""She really sang quite nicely," remarked the Cuckoo, after she had been to hear the Nightingale one evening, "but it's a pity her range is so sadly limited!"The Mendicant insisted on making his Will:"But what hastthouto leave when thou diest?" cried the Scribe."As much as the richest," he replied; "for when I die, I leave the entire World!"Note.—This is (if not incorrectly translated) a grotesque and puerile allegation. The veriest tyro is aware that when a Millionaire hops the twig of his existence, he leaves more behind him than a mere Mendicant!—H. B. J."Forgive me," said the Toad to the Swallow, "but, although you may not be aware of it, you are flying on totally false principles!""Am I?" said the Swallow meekly. "I'm so sorry! Do you mind showing me howyoudo it?""I don't fly myself," said the Toad, with an air of superiority. "I've other things to do—but I have thoroughly mastered the theory of the Art.""Then teachmethe theory!" said the Swallow."Willingly," said the Toad; "my fee—toyou—will be two worms a lesson.""I can't bear to think that no one will weep for me when I am gone!" said the sentimental Fly, as he flew into the eye of a Moneylender.Note.—Cf.Poet Byron: "'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come!"—H. B. J.A certain Cockatrice, feeling sociably inclined, entered a Mother's Meeting, bent upon making himself agreeable—but was greatly mortified to find himself but coldly received."Womenareso particular about trifles!" he reflected bitterly. "I know I said 'Good Afternoon' with my mouth full—but, as I explained, I had just been lunching at the Infant School!""I want to beuseful!" said the Silkworm, as she sat down and "set" a sock for a Decayed Centipede.A Traveller demanded hospitality from fourteen Kurds, who were occupying one small tent."Enter freely," said the Kurds, "but we must warn thee that thou wilt find the atmosphere exceedingly unpleasant—for, by some inadvertence, we have greased our boots from a jar of Attar of Roses!"Note.—Once more I do not entirely fathom the Fabulist's meaning—unless it is that such a valuable cosmetic as Attar of Roses may become so deteriorated as to offend even the nostril organ of a Kurd.—H. B. J.A certain Basilisk having attained great success in petrifying all who came under his personal observation, there was a Scheme set afoot to present him with some Token of popular esteem and regard."If we give himanything" said the Fox, who was consulted as to the form of the proposed Testimonial, "I would suggest that it should take the shape of a pair of Smoked Spectacles."Note.—The Satire here, at least, is obvious enough. Smoked spectacles are a very inexpensive gift.—H. B. J."How truly the Poet sang that: 'we may rise on stepping-stones of our dead selves to higher things!'" remarked the Chicken's Merrythought, when it found itself apotheosised into a Penwiper.Note.—A young lady, that shall be nameless, once presented me with a very similar penwipe, which represented a Church of England ecclesiastic in surplice and mortar-cap.—H. B. J."I shall not have perished in vain!" gasped an altruistic Cockroach, immediately before expiring from an overdose of Insect Powder, "for, after this fatality, the Owners of the House will doubtless be more careful how they leave such stuff about!"Note.—British Cockroaches, however, resemble Emperor Mithridatesin being totally impervious to beetle poison.—H. B. J.The Sheep was so exceedingly tough and old, that the Wolf had thoughts of becoming a Vegetarian.Note.—When we see some person attaining Centenarian longevity, we are foolishly inclined to fancy that, by adopting their diet, we also are to become Methusalems!—H. B. J.A certain Ant that had lost its All owing to the sudden collapse of the Bank in which its savings were invested, applied to a Grasshopper for a small temporary advance."I am sorry, dear boy," chirpily replied the Grasshopper, "that, although I am playing to big business every evening, I have not put by a single grain. However, I will get up amatinéefor your benefit."This he did with such success that, next winter, the Ant was once more sufficiently prosperous to discharge his obligation by offering the Grasshopper a letter to the Charity Organisation Society!Note.—The application of this is that a kind action is neverreally thrown away.—H. B. J."I never feel quite myself till I've had a good bath!" said the Bird whom an elderly Lady had purchased from a Street Boy as a Goldfinch.And behold, when the Bird came out of its saucer of water, it was a Sparrow!Note.—Like many Philosophers, Piljosh would seem to have had no great liking for ablutions. But water which could transform a Goldfinch into a Sparrow must previously have been enchanted by some Magician, so that our Parabolist's shaft misses fire in this instance (as indeed in many others!). Possibly, however, his Translator has once more proved a Traitor!—H. B. J."Pride not yourself upon your Lustre and Symmetry," said the Jet Ear-ring austerely to the Pearl, "for, after all, you owe your beauty to nothing but the morbid secretions of a Diseased Oyster!""I am sorry to spoil your moral," retorted the Pearl with much suavity, "but, like yourself, I happen to be Artificial."Note.—Inhabitants of glassy mansions should not indulge inlapidation.—H. B. J."Come!" said the Peacock's Feather proudly to the Fly-flapper and the Tin Squeaker, as the final illumination flickered out and they lay in the gutter together, limp and exhausted with their exertions in tickling and generally exasperating inoffensive strangers. "They may say what they please—but at least we have shown them that the Spirit of Patriotism is not yet extinct!"Note.—This must refer to some Cryptic customs prevalent in the Parabolist's time. But I do not clearly apprehend what connection either tickling, fly-flapping, or squeaking can have with Patriotism!—H. B. J.Last WordsHere conclude the Parables of Piljosh, together with the present volume. That the former can possibly obtain honble mention when compared with the apologues of Plato, Æsop, Corderius Nepos, or even Confucius, I cannot for a moment anticipate, and none can be more sensible than my humble selfhow very poor a figure they cut in proximity to the production of my own pen!However, indulgent critics will please not saddle my unoffending head with the responsibility, the fact being that I was vehemently advised that, without some meretricious padding of this sort, my Romance would not be of sufficient robustness to produce a boom.But should "A Bayard from Bengal" unfortunately fail to render the Thames combustible, I should rather attribute the cause to its having been unwisely diluted with such milk and watery material as the Parables of Piljosh.So, leaving the decision to the impartial and unanimous verdict of popular approval, I subscribe myself,The Reader's very obsequious and palpitating Servant,Hurry Bungsho Jabberjee, B.A., etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.PRINTED BYTURNBULL AND SPEARS,EDINBURGH
Oh, give me back my Arab steed, I cannot ride alone!Or tell me where my Beautiful, my four-legged bird has flown.'Twas here she arched her glossy back, beside the fountain's brink,And after that I know no more—but I came off, I think.More so-called original lines by aforesaid young English friend. But I have the shrewd suspicion of having read them before somewhere.—H. B. J.
Oh, give me back my Arab steed, I cannot ride alone!Or tell me where my Beautiful, my four-legged bird has flown.'Twas here she arched her glossy back, beside the fountain's brink,And after that I know no more—but I came off, I think.
More so-called original lines by aforesaid young English friend. But I have the shrewd suspicion of having read them before somewhere.—H. B. J.
AND now, O gentle and sympathetic reader, behold our unfortunate hero confined in the darkest bowels of the Old Bailey Dungeon, for the mere crime of being an impecunious!
Yes, misters, in spite of all your boasted love of liberty and fresh air, imprisonment for debt is still part of the law of the land! How long will you deafen your ears to the pitiable cry of the bankrupt as he pleads for the order of hisdischarge? Perhaps it has been reserved for a native Indian novelist to jog the elbow of so-called British jurisprudence, and call its attention to such a shocking scandal.
Mr Bhosh found his prison most devilishly dull. Some prisoners have been known to beguile their captivity by making pets or playmates out of most unpromising materials. For instance, andexempli gratia, Mr Monty Christo met an abbey in his dungeon, who gave him a tip-top education; Mr Picciola watered a flower; the Prisoner of Chillon made chums of his chains; while Honble Bruce, as is well-known, succeeded in taming a spider to climb up a thread and fall down seven times in succession.
But Mr Bhosh had no spider to amuse him, and the only flowers growing in his dungeon were toadstools, which do not require to be watered, nor did there happen to be any abbey confined in the Old Bailey at the time.
Nevertheless, he was preserved from despair by his indomitable native chirpiness. Forwas notMilky Waya dead set for the Derby, and when she came out at the top of the pole, would he not be the gainer of sufficient untold gold to pay all his debts, besides winning the hand of Princess Petunia?
He was waited upon by the head gaoler's daughter, a damsel of considerable pulchritude by the name of Caroline, who at first regarded him askance as a malefactor.
But, on learning from her parent that his sole offence was insuperable pennilessness, her tender heart was softened with pity to behold such a young gentlemanly Indian captive clanking in bilboes, and soon they became thick as thieves.
Like all the inhabitants of Great Britain, her thoughts were entirely engrossed with the approaching Derby Race, and she very innocently narrated how it was matter of common knowledge that a notorious grandame, to wit the fashionable Duchess of Dickinson, had backed heavily thatMilky Waywas to fail like the flash of a pan.
Whereupon Mr Bhosh, recollecting that he had actually entrusted his invaluable mare with her concomitant jockey to the mercy of this self-same Duchess, was harrowed with sudden misgivings.
By shrewd cross-questions he soon eliminated that Mr McAlpine was a pal of the Duchess, which she had herself admitted at the Victoria terminus, and thus by dint of penetrating instinct, Mr Bhosh easily unravelled the tangled labyrinth of a hideous conspiracy, which caused him to beat his head vehemently against the walls of his cell at the thought of his utter impotentiality.
Like all feminines who were privileged to make his acquaintance, Miss Caroline was transfixed with passionate adoration for Bindabun, whom she regarded as a gallant and illused innocent, and resolved to assist him to cut his lucky.
To this end she furnished him with a file and a silken ladder of her own knitting—but unfortunately Mr Bhosh, having never beforeundergone incarceration, was a total neophyte in effecting his escape by such dangerous and antiquated procedures, which he firmly declined to employ, urging her to sneak the paternal keybunch and let him out at daybreak by some back entrance.
And, not to crack the wind of this poor story while rendering it as short as possible, she yielded to his entreaties and contrived to restore him to the priceless boon of liberty the next morning at about 5A.M.
Oh, the unparalleled raptures of finding himself once more free as a bird!
It was the dawn of the Derby Day, and Mr Bhosh precipitated himself to his dwelling, intending to array himself in all his best and go down to Epsom, where he was in hopes of encountering his horse. Heyday! What was his chagrin to see his jockey, Cadwallader Perkin, approach with streaming eyes, fling himself at his master's feet and implore him to be merciful!
"How comes it, Cadwallader," sternly inquiredMr Bhosh, "that you are not on the heath of Epsom instead of wallowing like this on my shoes?"
"I do not know," was the whimpered response.
"Then pray where is my Derby favourite,Milky Way?" demanded Bindabun.
"I cannot tell," wailed out the lachrymose juvenile. Then, after prolonged pressure, he confessed that the Duchess had met him at the station portals, and, on the plea that there was abundance of spare time to book the mare, easily persuaded him to accompany her to the buffet of Refreshment-room.
There she plied him with a stimulant which jockeys are proverbially unable to resist, viz., brandy-cherries, in such profusion that he promptly became catalyptic in a corner.
When he returned to sobriety neither the Duchess nor the mare was perceptible to his naked eye, and he had been searching in vain for them ever since.
It was the time not for words, but deeds,and Mr Bhosh did not indulge in futile irascibility, but sat down and composed a reply wire to the Clerk of Course, Epsom, couched in these simple words: "Have you seen my Derby mare?—Bhosh."
After the suspense of an hour the reply came in the discouraging form of an abrupt negative, upon which Mr Bhosh thus addressed the abashed Perkin: "Even should I recapture my mare in time, you have proved yourself unworthy of riding her. Strip off your racing coat and cap, and I will engage some more reliable equestrian."
The lad handed over the toggery, which Bindabun stuffed, being of very fine silken tissue, into his coat pocket, after which he hurried off to Victoria in great agitation to make inquiries.
There the officials treated his modest requests in very off-handed style, and he was becoming all of a twitter with anxiety and humiliation, when,mirabile dictu!all of a sudden his ears were regaled by the well-knownsound of a whinny, and he recognised the beloved voice ofMilky Way!
But whence did it proceed? He ran to and fro in uncontrollable excitement, endeavouring to locate the sound. There was no trace of a horse in any of the waiting-rooms, but at length he discovered that his mare had been locked up in the Left-Luggage department, and, summoning a porter, Mr Bhosh had at last the indescribable felicity to embrace his kidnapped Derby favouriteMilky Way!
A RACE AGAINST TIME
There's a certain old Sprinter; you've got to be keen,If you'd beat him—although he is bald,And he carries a clock and a mowing-machine.On the cinderpath "Tempus" he's called.Stanza written to order by young English friend,but (I fear) copied from Poet Tennyson.
There's a certain old Sprinter; you've got to be keen,If you'd beat him—although he is bald,And he carries a clock and a mowing-machine.On the cinderpath "Tempus" he's called.
Stanza written to order by young English friend,but (I fear) copied from Poet Tennyson.
AH! with what perfervid affection did Mr Bhosh caress the neck of his precious horse! How carefully he searched her to make sure that she had sustained no internal poisonings or other dilapidations!
Thank goodness! He was unable to detect any flaw within or without—the probability being that the crafty Duchess did not dare to commit such a breach of decorum as to poison a Derby favourite, and thought to accomplish her fell design by leaving the mare as lost luggage and destroying the ticket-receipt.
But old Time had already lifted the glass to his lips, and the contents were rapidly running down, so Mr Bhosh, approaching a railway director, politely requested him to hook a horse-box on to the next Epsom train.
What was his surprise to hear that this could not be done until all Derby trains had first absented themselves! With passionate volubility he pleaded that, if such a law of Medes and Persians was to be insisted on,Milky Waywould infallibly arrive at Epsom several hours too late to compete in the Derby race, in which she was already morally victorious—until at length the official relented, and agreed to do the job for valuable consideration in hard cash.
Lackadaisy! after excavating all his pockets, our unhappy hero could only fork out wherewithal enough for third-class single ticket for himself, and he accordingly petitioned that his mare might travel as baggage in the guard's van.
I am not to say whether the officials at this leading terminus were all in the pay of the Duchess, since I am naturally reluctant toadvance so serious a charge against such industrious and talented parties, but it isnem. con.that Mr Bhosh's very reasonable request was nilled in highly offensive cut-and-dried fashion, and he was curtly recommended to walk himself and his horse off the platform.
Que faire?How was it humanly possible for any horse to win the Derby race without putting in an appearance? And how wasMilky Wayto put in her appearance if she was not allowed access to any Epsom train? A less wilful and persevering individual than Mr Bhosh would have certainly succumbed under so much red-tapery, but it only served to arouse Bindabun's monkey.
"How far is the distance to Epsom?" he inquired.
"Fourteen miles," he was answered.
"And what o'clock the Derby race?"
"About oneP.M."
"And it is now just the middle of the day!" exclaimed Bindabun. "Very well, since it seemsMilky Wayis not to ride in the railway,she shall cover the distance on shank's mare, for I will ride her to Epsom inpropriâ personâ!"
THE ROAD WAS CHOCKED FULL WITH EVERY DESCRIPTION OF CONVEYANCETHE ROAD WAS CHOCKED FULL WITH EVERY DESCRIPTION OF CONVEYANCE
So courageous a determination elicited loud cheers from the bystanders, who cordially advised him to put his best legs foremost as he mounted his mettlesome crack, and set off with broken-necked speed for Epsom.
I must request my indulgent readers to excuse this humble pen from depicting the horrors of that wild and desperate ride. Suffice it to say that the road was chocked full with every description of conveyance, and that Mr Bhosh was haunted by two terrible apprehensions, viz., that he might meet with some shocking upset, and that he should arrive the day after the fair.
As he urged on his headlong career, he was constantly inquiring of the occupants of the various vehicles if he was still in time for the Derby, and they invariably hallooed to him that if he desired to witness the spectacle he was to buck himself up.
Mr Bhosh bucked himself up to such good purpose that, long before the clock struck one, his eyes were gladdened by beholding the summit of Epsom grand stand on the distant hill-tops.
Leaning himself forward, he whispered in the shell-like ear ofMilky Way: "Only one more effort, and we shall have preserved both our bacons!"
But, alas! he had the mortification to perceive that the legs ofMilky Waywere already becoming tremulous from incipient grogginess.
And now, beloved reader, let me respectfully beg you to imagine yourself on the Epsom Derby Course immediately prior to the grand event. What a marvellous human farrago! All classes hobnobbing together higgledy-piggledy; archbishops with acrobats; benchers with bumpkins; counts with candlestickmakers; dukes with druggists; and so on through the entire alphabet. Some spectators in carriages;others onterra firma; flags flying; bands blowing; innumerable refreshment tents rearing their heads proudly into the blue Empyrean; policemen gazing with smiling countenances on the happy multitudes when not engaged in running them in.
Now they are conducting the formality of weighing the horses, to see if they are qualified as competitors for the Derby Gold Cup, and each horse, as it steps out of the balancing scales and is declared eligible, commences to prance jubilantly upon the emerald green turf.
(N.B.-The writer of above realistic description has never been actually present at any Derby Race, but has done it all entirely from assiduous cramming of sporting fictions. This is surely deserving of recognition from a generous public!)
Now follows a period of dismay—forMilky Way, the favourite of high and low, is suddenly discovered to be still the dark horse! The only person who exhibits gratification is the Duchess Dickinson, who makes her entranceinto the most fashionable betting ring and, accosting a leading welsher, cries in exulting accents: "I will bet a million to a monkey againstMilky Way!"
Even the welsher himself is appalled by the enormity of such a stake and earnestly counsels the Duchess to substitute a more economical wager, but she scornfully rejects his well-meant advice, and with a trembling hand he inscribes the bet in his welching book.
No sooner has he done so than the saddling bell breaks forth into a joyous chime, and the crowd is convulsed by indescribable emotions. "Huzza! huzza!" they shout. "Welcome to the missing favourite, and three cheers forMilky Way!"
The Duchess had turned as pale as a witch, for, galloping along the course, she beholds Mr Bhosh, bereft of his tall hat and covered with perspiration and dust, on the very steed which she fondly hoped had been mislaid among the left luggage!
A SENSATIONAL DERBY STRUGGLE
Is it for sordid pelf that horses race?Or can it be the glory that they go for?Neither; they know the steed that shows best paceWill get his flogging all the sooner over!Reflection at a Racecourse.—H. B. J.
Is it for sordid pelf that horses race?Or can it be the glory that they go for?Neither; they know the steed that shows best paceWill get his flogging all the sooner over!
Reflection at a Racecourse.—H. B. J.
THE Duchess, seeing that her plot was foiled by the unexpected arrival of Mr Bhosh, made the frantic endeavour to hedge herself behind another bet of a million sterling to a monkey thatMilky Waywas to come off conqueror—but in vain, since none of the welshers would concede such very long odds.
So, wrapping her features in a veil of feminine duplicity, she advanced swimmingly to meet Mr Bhosh. "How lucky that you have arrived on the neck of time!" she said."And you have ridden all the way from town? Tell me now, would not you and your dear horse like some refreshment after so tedious a journey?"
"Madam," said Mr Bhosh, bowing to his saddle-bow, while his optics remained fixed upon the Duchess with a withering glare. "We are not taking any—fromyourhands."
This crushing sarcasm totally abashed the Duchess, who perceived that he had penetrated her schemes and crept away in discomfiture.
After this incidentMilky Waywas subjected to the ordeal of trying her weight, which she passed with honours. For—very fortunately as it turned out—the twenty-four hours' starvation which she had endured as left luggage had reduced her to the prescribed number ofmaunds, which she would otherwise have infallibly exceeded, since Mr Bhosh, being as yet a tyro in training Derby cracks, had allowed her to acquire a superfluous obesity.
Thus once more the machinations of theDuchess had only benefited the very individual they were intended to injure!
But it remained necessary to hire a practical jockey, since Cadwallader Perkin was still lamenting in dust and ashes at home, so Mr Bhosh ran about from pillow to post endeavouring to borrow a rider forMilky Way.
Owing, probably, to the Duchess's artifices, he encountered nothing but refusals and pleas of previous engagement—until, at the end of the tether of his patience, he said: "Since my mare cannot compete in a riderless condition, I myself will assume command and steer her to victory!"
Upon which gallant speech the entire air became darkened by clouds of upthrown hats and shouts of "Bravo, Bindabun!"
But upon this the pertinacious Duchess lodged the objection that he was not in correct toggery, and that, even if he still retained his tall hat, it would be contrary to etiquette to ride the Derby in a frock coat.
"Where are his racing colours?" she demanded.
"Here!" cried Mr Bhosh, pulling forth the cream and sky-blue silken jacket and cap from his pockets, and, discarding his frock coat, he assumed the garbage of a jockey in the twinkle of a jiffy.
"I protest," then cried the undaunted Duchess, "against such cruelty to animals as racing an overblown mare so soon after she has galloped from London!"
"Your stricture is just, O humane and distinguished lady," responded the judge, who had conceived a violent attachment toMilky Wayand her owner, "and I will willingly postpone the race for an hour or two until the horse has recovered her breeze."
"Quite unnecessary!" said Bindabun. "My mare is not such a weakling as you imagine, and will be as fit as a flea after she has imbibed one or two champagne bottles."
And his prediction was literally fulfilled,for the champagne soon renderedMilky Wayplayful as a kitten. Mr Bhosh ascended into his saddle; the other horses were drawn up in single rank; the starter brandished his flag—and the curtain rose on such a race as has, perhaps, never been equalled in the annals of the Derby.
The rival cracks were named as follows:——Topsy Turvey,Poojah,Brandy Pawnee,Tiffin Bell,Tripod,Cui Bono,British JurisprudenceandRoseate Smell. The betting was even on the field.
Poojahwas a large tall horse with a nude tail, but excessively nimble;Tripod, on the contrary, was a small cob of sluggish habits and needing to be constantly pricked;Tiffin Bellwas a piebald of goodly proportions; andRoseate Smellwas of same sex asMilky Way, though more vixenish in character.
Not long after the start Mr Bhosh was chagrined to discover that he was all behindhand, and he almost despaired of overtakingany of his fore-runners. Moreover, he was already oppressed by painful soreness, due to so constantly coming in contact with the saddle during his ride from London—but "in for a penny, in for a pound of flesh," and he plodded on, and soon had the good luck to recapture some of his lost ground.
It was the old fabulous anecdote of the Hare and the Tortoise. First of all,Topsy Turveywas tripped up by a rabbit's hole; thenRoseate Smellleaped the barrier and joined the spectators, whileTripodsprained his offside ankle. Gradually Mr Bhosh passedBrandy Pawnee,Cui Bono, andBritish Jurisprudence, until, on arriving at Tottenham Court Corner, onlyTiffin BellandPoojahremained in the running.
Tiffin Bellbecame so discouraged by the near approach ofMilky Waythat he dwindled his pace to a paltry trot, so Mr Bhosh was easily enabled to defeat him, after which by Cyclopean efforts he urged his mare until she andPoojahwere cheek by jowl.
For some time it was the dingdong race between a hammer and tongs!
Still, as the quadrupeds ploughed their way on,Poojahchurlishly refused to giveplace aux dames, andMilky Waybegan to drop to the rear. Seeing that she was utterly incompetent to accelerate her speed and therefore in imminent danger of being defeated, Chunder Bindabun had the happy inspiration to make an appeal to the best feelings of the rival jockey, whose name was Juggins.
"Juggins!" he wheezed in an agonised whisper, "I am a poor native Indian, totally unpractised in Derby riding. Show me some magnanimous action, and allowMilky Wayto take first prize, Juggins!"
But Mr Juggins responded that he earnestly desired thatPoojahshould obtain said prize, and applied a rather severe whipsmack to his willing horse.
"My mare is the favourite, Juggins!" pleaded Mr Bhosh. "By defeating her youwill land yourself in the bad odour of theoi polloi. Have you considered that, Juggins?"
Juggins's only reply was to administer more whip-smacks, but Chunder Bindabun persevered. "Consider my hard case, Juggins! If I am beaten, I lose both aplacens uxorand the pot of money. If, on the other hand, I come in first at the head of the winning pole I promise to share my entire fortune with you!"
Upon this, the kind-hearted and venial equestrian relented, warmly protesting that he would rather be aproxime accessitand second fiddle than deprive another human being of all his earthly felicity, and accordingly he reined in his impetuous courser with such consummate skill thatMilky Wayforged ahead by the length of a nose.
Thus they galloped past the Grand Stand, and, as Mr Bhosh gazed upwards and descried the elegant form of the Princess Petunia standing upon the topmost roof, he was so exalted with jubilation that heelevated himself in his stirrups; and waving his cap in a chivalrous salute, cried out: "Hip-hip-hip! I am ramping in!"
"Then," I hear the reader exclaim, "it is all over, andMilky Wayis victorious."
Please, my honble friend, do not be so premature! I have notsaidthat the race was over. There are still some yards to the judge's bench, and it is always on the racing cards thatPoojahmay prove the winner after all.
Such inquisitive curiosity shall be duly satisfied in the next chapter, which is also the last.
A GRAND FINISH
Happy Aurora is a happy Aurora!Hip, Hip, Hip, Hip, Hurrah! Hurrah!Dr Ram Kinoo Dutt (of Chittagong).
Happy Aurora is a happy Aurora!Hip, Hip, Hip, Hip, Hurrah! Hurrah!
Dr Ram Kinoo Dutt (of Chittagong).
ON the summit of the Grand Stand might have been observed groups of spectators eagerly awaiting the finish. Conspicuous amongst them were Princess Petunia (most sumptuously attired) and her parent, Merchant-prince Jones; and close by Duke and Duchess Dickinson, following the classic contest through binocular glasses.
"Poojahwill prove to be the winner!... No, it isMilky Way!... They are neck or nothing! It will be a deceased heat!" exclaimed the excited populaces.
And the beauteous Petunia was as if seatedupon the spike of suspense, since Mr Bhosh's success was asine quâ nonto their union. Suddenly came the glad shout: "The Favourite takes the cake with a canter!" and Duchess Dickinson became pallid with anguish, for, rich as she was, she could ill afford to become the loser of a cool million.
The shout was strictly veracious, for Mr Bhosh was ruling the roast by half-a-head, andPoojahwas correspondingly behind. "Macte virtute!" cried Princess Petunia, in the silvery tones of a highly-bred bell, while she violently agitated her sun-umbrella: "O my beloved Bindabun, do not fall behind at eleven o'clock!"
And, as though in answer to this appeal (which he did not overhear), she beheld her triumphant suitor saluting the empress of his soul with uplifted jockey-cap.
Alack! it was the fatal piece of politeness; since, to avoid falling off, he was compelled to moderate the speed of his racer while performing it, and Juggins, either repentinghis good-nature, or unable any longer to restrain the impetuosity ofPoojah, was carried first past the winning-pole, Mr Bhosh following onMilky Wayas the bad second!
At this the Princess Petunia emitted a doleful scream; like Freedom, which, as some poet informs us, "squeaked when Kockiusko (a Japanese gentleman) fell," and suspended her animation for several minutes, while the Duchess "grinned a horrible ghastly smile," as described by Poet Milton inParadise Lost, at Mr Bhosh's shocking defeat and her own gain of a million, though all true sportsmen present deeply sympathised with our hero that he should be thus wrecked in sight of port on account of an ordinary act of courtesy to a female!
But Mr Bhosh preserved his withers as unwrung as though he possessed the hide of a rhinoceros. "Honble Sir," said he, addressing the Judge, "I humbly beg permission to claim this Derby race and lodge an objection against my antagonist."
"On what grounds?" was the naturally astonished rejoinder.
"On the grounds," deliberately replied Chunder Bindabun, "that he surreptitiously did pull his horse's head."
Juggins was too dumbfoundered to reply to the accusation, and several spectators came forward to testify that they had personally witnessed him curbing his steed, and—it being contrary to thelex non scriptaof turf etiquette to pull at a horse's head when he is winning—Juggins was very ignominiously plucked by the Jockey's Club.
The Duchess made the desperate attempt to argue that, if Juggins was a pot, Mr Bhosh was a kettle of equally dark complexion, since he also had reined up before attaining the goal—but Chunder Bindabun was able easily to show that he had done so, not with any intention to forfeit his stakes, but merely to salute his betrothed, whereas Juggins had pulled to prevent his horse from achieving the conquest.
So, to Mr Bhosh's inexpressible delight,the Derby Cup, full as an egg with golden sovereigns, was awarded to him, and the notorious blue ribbon was pinned by the judge upon his proud and heaving bosom.
But, as he was reverting, highly elated, to the side of his beloved amidst the acclamations of the multitude, the disreputable Juggins had the audacity to pluck his elbow and demand the promisedquid pro quo.
"For what service?" inquired Chunder Bindabun in amazement.
"Why, did you not promise me the moiety of your fortune, honble Sir," was the reply, "if I allowed you to be the winner?"
Mr Bhosh was of an exceptionally mild, just disposition, but such a piece of cheeky chicanery as this aroused his fiercest indignation and rendered him cross as two sticks. "O contemptible trickster!" he said, in terrific tones, "my promise (as thou knowest well) was on condition that I was first past the winning-pole. Whereas—owing to thy perfidy—I was only the bad second. Do notattempt to hunt with the hare and run with hounds. Depart to lower regions!"
THE NOTORIOUS BLUE RIBBON WAS PINNED BY THE JUDGE UPON HIS PROUD AND HEAVING BOSOMTHE NOTORIOUS BLUE RIBBON WAS PINNED BY THE JUDGE UPON HIS PROUD AND HEAVING BOSOM
And Juggins slinked into obscurity with fallen chops.
Benevolent and forbearing readers, this unassuming tale is near itsfinis. Owing to his brilliant success at the Derby, Mr Bhosh was now rolling on cash, and, as the prediction of the Astrologer-Royal was fulfilled, there was no longer any objection to his union with the Princess Jones, with whom he accordingly contracted holy matrimony, and now lives in great splendour at Shepherd's Bush, since all his friends earnestly besought him that he was not to return to India. He therefore naturalised himself as a full-blooded British, and further adopted a coat-of-arms from the Family Herald, with a splendidly lofty crest, and the motto "Sans Peur et Sans Reproche." ("Not being funky myself, I do not reproach others with said failing"—free translation.)
But what of the wicked Duchess? I have to record that, being unable to pay the welsherher bet of a million pounds, she was solemnly pronounced a bankruptess and incarcerated (by a striking instance of the tit-for-tat of Fate) in the identical Old Bailey cell to which she had consigned Chunder Bindabun!
And in her case the gaoler's fair daughter, Miss Caroline, did not exhibit the same softheartedness. Mr Bhosh and his Princess-bride, being both of highly magnanimous idiosyncrasies, for some time visited their relentless foe in her captivity, carrying her fruit and flowers and sweets of inexpensive qualities, but were received in such a cold, standoffish style that they soon discontinued such thankless civilities.
As forMilky Way, she is still hale and flourishing, though she has never since displayed the phenomenal speed of her first (and probably her last) Derby race. She may often be seen in the vicinity of Shepherd's Bush, harnessed to a small basketchaise, in which are Mr and Mrs Bhosh and some of their blooming progenies.
Here, with the Public's kind permission, we will leave them, and although this trivial and unpretentious romance can claim no merit except its undeviating fidelity to nature, I still venture to think that, for sheer excitement and brilliancy of composition, &c., it will be found, by all candid judges, to compare rather favourably with more showy and meretricious fictions by overrated English novelists.
EndofA Bayard From Bengal.
N.B.—I cannot conscientiously recommend the Indulgent Reader to proceed any further—for reasons which, should he do so, will be obvious.H. B. J.
FREELY RENDERED INTO ENGLISH FROM THE ORIGINAL STYPTIC WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES
BY
H. B. JABBERJEE, B.A.
INTRODUCTION
I shall begin by begging that it may not be supposed either thatIam the Author or even the Translator of the appended fables!
The plain truth of the matter is that I am far indeed from standing agog with amazement at their literary or other excellences, and inclined rather to award them the faint damnation of a very mediocre eulogy.
But it so happens that the actual translator is the same young English friend who kindly furnished me with a few selected poetic extracts for my Society novel, and has earnestly entreated me (as thequid pro quo!) to compose an introduction and notes for his own effusion,alleging that it is asine quâ nonnowadays for all first class Classics to be issued with introduction, notes and appendix by some literary knob—otherwise they speedily become obsolete and still-born.
Therefore I readily consented to oblige him, although I am noau faitin the Styptic dialect, and cannot therefore be held answerable for the accuracy of my friend's translation, which he admits himself is of a rather free description.
Of the Philosopher who composed these Proverbs or Fables little is known, even in his own country, except that (as all Scholiasts are aware) he was born on the 1st of April 1450 (old style), and for some years filled the important and responsible post of Archi-mandrake of Paraprosdokian. He probably met with a violent end.
I shall not undertake to provide a note toeveryparable, but only in cases where I think that the Parabolist is not quite as luminous as the nose on one's face, and needs the services of an experienced interpreter.
H. B. J.
The Butterfly visited so many flowers that she fell sick of a surfeit of nectar. She called it "Nervous Breakdown."
"Instead of vainly lamenting over those we have lost," said the young Cuckoo severely, to the Father and Mother Sparrow, "it seems to me that you should be rejoicing thatIam still spared to you!"
Note.—A mere plagiaristic adaptation of the trite adage concerning the comparative values of birds in the hand and in the bush.—H. B. J.
"I am old enough to be thy Grandfather!" the Egg informed the Chicken.
"In that case," replied the Chicken, "it is high time thou bestirredst thyself!"
"Not so!" said the Egg, "since the longer I remain quiescent, the fitter I shall be for the career that is destined for me."
"Indeed," inquired the Chicken, "and what maythatbe?"
"Politics!" answered the Egg with importance.
And the Chicken pondered long over that saying.
Note.—I must confess to following the Chicken's precedent, without arriving at any solution. For, logically, an Egg must be the junior of any Chicken. And again, even for parabolical purposes, it is far-fetched to represent an Egg as a potential Member of Parliament. On the whole, I am not entirely satisfied that my young friend is so proficient in acquaintance with Cryptic as he has represented to me.—H. B. J.
There is only one thing that irritateth a woman more than the man who doth not understand her, and that is the man who doth.
A certain Artificer constructed a mechanical Serpent which was so marvellously natural that it bit him in the back. "Had I but another hour to live," he lamented in his last agonies, "I would have patented the invention!"
The Woman was so determined to be independent of Man that she voluntarily became the slave of a Machine.
Note.—I do not understand the meaning of the Fabulist here.—H. B. J.
"She used to be so fresh; but she is gone off terribly since I first knew her!" said the Slug of the Strawberry.
Note.—See my remark on the last parable.—H. B. J.
"Now, I call that downright Plagiarism!" observed the Ass, when he heard the Lion roar.
"A cheery laugh goes a long way in this world!" remarked the Hyena.
"But a bright smile goes further still!" said the Alligator, as he took him in.
Note.—If the honble Philosopher is censuring here merely the assumption of hilarity and not ordinary quiet facetiousness, I amentirely with him. But I rather regard him as a total deficient in Humour and fanatically opposed to it in any form.—H. B. J.
"I trust I have now made myself perfectly clear?" observed the Cuttlefish, after discharging his ink.
The Cockney was assured that, if he placed the Sea-shell to his ear, he would hear the murmur of Ocean.
But all he caught distinctly was the melody of negro minstrels.
"It is some satisfaction to feel that we have both been sacrificed in a thoroughly deserving cause!" said the Brace-button, complacently, to the Threepenny Bit, as they met in the Offertory Bag.
Note.—This must be some local allusion, for I do not know what sort of receptacle an Offertory Bag may be, or why such articles should be inserted therein.—H. B. J.
Mistrust the Bridegroom who appeareth at his wedding with sticking-plaster on his chin [or "withoutsticking-plaster," &c.—the Styptic is capable of either interpretation.—Trans.].
Note.—Then I will humbly say that it must be a peculiarly elastic tongue. But ineitherform the Proverb is meaningless.—H. B. J.
"What!—My Original dead?" cried the Statue. "Then I have lost all chance of ever becoming celebrated!"
Note.—This is an obvious mistranslation, since a Statue is only erected when the Original is already celebrated.—H. B. J.
"What is your favourite Perfume?" they asked the Hog, and he answered them, "Pigwash."
"How vulgar!" exclaimed the Stoat. "Mineis Patchouli!"
But the Fox said that, inhisopinion, the less scent one used the better.
Note.—This merely records the well-known physiological fact thatsome persons are born without the olfactory sense. Emperor Vespasian was accustomed to declare (erroneously) that "pecunia non olet."—H. B. J.
"I wonder they allow such a cruel contrivance as that 'Catch 'em alive, oh!' paper!" said the Spider tearfully, as she sat in her web.
Note.—From this we learn that there may be a soft spot in themost unpromising quarters. Even Alexander the Great, who spent theblood of his troops like pocket money, is recorded to have wept at areview on suddenly reflecting that all his soldiers would probablybe deceased in a hundred years. It is barely possible that Piljoshmay have been a spectator of this incident.—H. B. J.
A certain Pheasant was pluming herself upon having become a member of the Anti-Sporting League.
"Softly, friend!" said a wily old Cock, "for, should this League of thine succeed in its object, every man's hand would be against us both by day and night; whereas, at present, our lives are protected all night by vigilantkeepers, and spared all day by our owner and his guests, who are incapable of shooting for nuts!"
Note.—This is a glaringnon sequiturand fallacy. I myself have never shot for nuts—but it does not necessarily follow that any pheasant would remain intact after I discharged my rifle-barrel!—H. B. J.
"It is not what welookthat signifieth," said the Scorpion virtuously, "it is what weare!"
Note.—True enough—but the moral would have been improved by attributing the saying to some insect of more innocuous character than a Scorpion. Perhaps this is so in the original Styptic, for, as I have said, I cannot repose implicit faith in my young friend's version.—H. B. J.
"I have composed the most pathetic poem in the world!" declared the Poet.
"How can'st thou be sure of that," he was asked.
"Because," he replied, "I recited it to the Crocodile, and she could not refrain from shedding tears!"
"It is gratifying to find oneself appreciated at last," said the Cabbage, when the Cigar Merchant labelled him as a Cabaña.
"Don't talk tomeabout Cactus," said the Ostrich contemptuously to the Camel. "Insipid stuff,Icall it! No—for real flavour and delicacy, give me a pair of Sheffield scissors!"
"The accommodation might be more luxurious, it's true," remarked the philosophic Mouse, when he found himself in the Trap, "but, after all, it's not as if I was going to stay herelong!"
"People tell me he can shine when he chooses," said the Extinguisher of the Candle. "AllIknow is, he's positively dull whenever he's withme!"
There was once a Musical Box which played but one tune, to which its owner was neverweary of listening. But, after a time, he desired a novelty, and could not rest until he had exchanged the barrel for another. However, he sickened of the second tune sooner than of the first, and so he exchanged it for a third, which he liked not at all.
Accordingly he commanded that the Box should return to the first tune of all—and lo! this had become an abomination unto his ears, nor could he conceive how he had ever been able to endure it!
So the Musical Box was laid upon the shelf, and the Owner procured for himself a cheap mouth-organ which could play any air that was suggested to it, and thus became an established favourite.
Note.—This is apparently designed to illustrate the ficklety of the Musical Character.—H. B. J.
"Docome in!" snapped the severed Shark's Head to the Ship's Cat. "As you perceive, I am carrying on business as usual during the alterations."
The Bulbul had no sooner finished her song than the Bullfrog began to make profuse apologies for having left his music at home.
To a Butterscotch Machine the Penny and the Tin Disc are alike.
Note.—Surely not if an official is looking on!—H. B. J.
"My dears," said the Converted Cannibal reverently to his Wife and Family, as they sat down to their Baked Missionary, "do not let us omit to ask a blessing!"
There is but one Singer whom it is futile to encore—and that is a Dying Swan.
"I am doing a series of 'Notable Nests' for 'Sylvan Society,'" said the insinuating Serpent, on finding the Ringdove at home, "and I should so much like to includeyou." "You are very kind," said the Ringdove, in a flutter, "but I can assure you that there is no morein my poor little eggs than in any other bird's!" "That may be," replied the Serpent, "but I must livesomehow!"
"No outsiders there—only just their own particular set!" said the Cocksparrow, when he came home after having been to tea with the Birds of Paradise.
The Elephant was dying of starvation, and a kind-hearted person presented him with an acidulated drop.
Note.—It is well-nigh incredible that any Philosopher should be so ignorant of Natural History as to imagine that any Elephant would accept an acid drop, even if it was on its last legs for want of nutrition.The conclusion of this anecdote would seem to be either lost, or unfit for publication.—H. B. J.
There was once a famous Violinist who serenaded his Mistress every evening, performing the most divine melodies upon his instrument.
But all the while she was straining her ears to listen to a piano-organ round the corner which was playing "Good-bye, Dolly Gray!"
The Performing Lioness kisses her Trainer on the mouth—but only in public.
The Candle complained bitterly of the unpleasantness of seeing so many scorched moths in her vicinity.
"I have taken such a fancy to thee," said the Hawk genially to the Field-Mouse, "that I am going to put thee into a really good thing."
And he opened his beak.
There are persons who have no sense of the fitness of things.
Like the Grasshopper, who insisted on putting the Snail up for the Skipping Club.
The Cat scratched the Dog's nose out of sheer playfulness—but she had no time to explain.
"After all, itispleasant to be at home again!" said the Eagle's feathers on the shaft that pierced him.
But the Eagle's reply is not recorded.
Note.—Poet Byron also mentions this incident.—H.B.J.
A certain Painter set himself to depict a lovely landscape. "See!" he cried, as he exhibited his canvas to a Passing Stranger, "doth not this my picture resemble the scene with exactitude?"
"Since thou desirest to know," was the reply, "thou seemest to me to have portrayed nothing but a manure heap!"
"And amIto blame," exclaimed the indignant Painter, "if a manure heap chanced to be immediately in front of me?"
Before a Man marrieth a Woman he delighteth to describe unto her all his doings—even the most unimportant.
But, after marriage, he considereth that such talk may savour too much of egotism.
Note.-This is very very shallow. I have never experienced any such compunctiousness with my own wives.—H. B. J.
"I shouldn't have minded so much," said the Bee, with some bitterness, just before breathing his last in the honey-pot, "only it happens to be my own make!"
"Is the White Rabbit beautiful?" someone inquired of the Albino Rat.
"She might be passable enough," replied the Rat, "but for one most distressing deformity. She has pink eyes!"
When the Ass was asked about his Cousin the Zebra, he said: "Do not speak about him—for he has disgraced us all. Never before has there been any eccentricity inourfamily!"
The full-blown Sausage professeth to have forgotten the days of his puppyhood.
"Willyou allow me to pass?" said the courteous Garden Roller to the Snail.
Had anyone met the Red Herring in the sea and foretold that he would one day be pursued by Hounds across a difficult country, the Herring would have accounted him but a vain babbler.
Yet so it fell out!
Note.—I shrewdly suspect that my young friend has made the rather natural mistake of substituting the word "Red Herring" for "Flying Fish."It is not absolutely incredible that one of the latter department should fly inland and be chased by Dogs—but even Piljosh should be aware that no Herring could pop off in such a way.—H. B. J.
An Officious Busybody, perceiving a Phœnix well alight, promptly extinguished her by means of a convenient watering-pot.
"Had you refrained from this uncalled for interference," said the justly irate Bird, "I should by this time be rising gloriously from my ashes—instead of presenting the ridiculous appearance of a partially roasted Fowl!"
Note.—I can offer no explanation of this allegory, except toremind the reader that the Phœnix is the notorious symbol for afire insurance.—H. B. J.
"Alas!" sighed the Learned Pig, while expiring from inflammation of the brain, brought on by a laborious endeavour to ascertain the sum of two and two, "Why,whywas I cursed with Intellect?"
"I shall know better another time!" gasped the Fish, as he lay in the Landing-net.
A certain Merchant sold a child a sharp sword. "Thou hast done wrong in this," remonstrated a Sage, "since the child will assuredly wound either himself or some other."
"Ishall not be responsible," cried the Merchant, "for, in selling the sword, I did recommend the child to protect the point with a cork!"
A certain grain of Millet fell out of a sack in which it was being carried into the City, and was soon trampled in the dust.
"I am lost!" cried the Millet-seed. "YetI do not repine so much for myself as for those countless multitudes who, deprived of me, are now doomed to perish miserably of starvation!"
"I have given up dancing," said the Tongs, "for they no longer dance with the Elegance and Grace that were universal inmyyoung days!"
"But for the Mercy of Providence," said the Fox, piously, to the Goose whom he found in a trap that had been set for himself, "our respective situations might now be reversed!"
"She really sang quite nicely," remarked the Cuckoo, after she had been to hear the Nightingale one evening, "but it's a pity her range is so sadly limited!"
The Mendicant insisted on making his Will:
"But what hastthouto leave when thou diest?" cried the Scribe.
"As much as the richest," he replied; "for when I die, I leave the entire World!"
Note.—This is (if not incorrectly translated) a grotesque and puerile allegation. The veriest tyro is aware that when a Millionaire hops the twig of his existence, he leaves more behind him than a mere Mendicant!—H. B. J.
"Forgive me," said the Toad to the Swallow, "but, although you may not be aware of it, you are flying on totally false principles!"
"Am I?" said the Swallow meekly. "I'm so sorry! Do you mind showing me howyoudo it?"
"I don't fly myself," said the Toad, with an air of superiority. "I've other things to do—but I have thoroughly mastered the theory of the Art."
"Then teachmethe theory!" said the Swallow.
"Willingly," said the Toad; "my fee—toyou—will be two worms a lesson."
"I can't bear to think that no one will weep for me when I am gone!" said the sentimental Fly, as he flew into the eye of a Moneylender.
Note.—Cf.Poet Byron: "'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come!"—H. B. J.
A certain Cockatrice, feeling sociably inclined, entered a Mother's Meeting, bent upon making himself agreeable—but was greatly mortified to find himself but coldly received.
"Womenareso particular about trifles!" he reflected bitterly. "I know I said 'Good Afternoon' with my mouth full—but, as I explained, I had just been lunching at the Infant School!"
"I want to beuseful!" said the Silkworm, as she sat down and "set" a sock for a Decayed Centipede.
A Traveller demanded hospitality from fourteen Kurds, who were occupying one small tent.
"Enter freely," said the Kurds, "but we must warn thee that thou wilt find the atmosphere exceedingly unpleasant—for, by some inadvertence, we have greased our boots from a jar of Attar of Roses!"
Note.—Once more I do not entirely fathom the Fabulist's meaning—unless it is that such a valuable cosmetic as Attar of Roses may become so deteriorated as to offend even the nostril organ of a Kurd.—H. B. J.
A certain Basilisk having attained great success in petrifying all who came under his personal observation, there was a Scheme set afoot to present him with some Token of popular esteem and regard.
"If we give himanything" said the Fox, who was consulted as to the form of the proposed Testimonial, "I would suggest that it should take the shape of a pair of Smoked Spectacles."
Note.—The Satire here, at least, is obvious enough. Smoked spectacles are a very inexpensive gift.—H. B. J.
"How truly the Poet sang that: 'we may rise on stepping-stones of our dead selves to higher things!'" remarked the Chicken's Merrythought, when it found itself apotheosised into a Penwiper.
Note.—A young lady, that shall be nameless, once presented me with a very similar penwipe, which represented a Church of England ecclesiastic in surplice and mortar-cap.—H. B. J.
"I shall not have perished in vain!" gasped an altruistic Cockroach, immediately before expiring from an overdose of Insect Powder, "for, after this fatality, the Owners of the House will doubtless be more careful how they leave such stuff about!"
Note.—British Cockroaches, however, resemble Emperor Mithridatesin being totally impervious to beetle poison.—H. B. J.
The Sheep was so exceedingly tough and old, that the Wolf had thoughts of becoming a Vegetarian.
Note.—When we see some person attaining Centenarian longevity, we are foolishly inclined to fancy that, by adopting their diet, we also are to become Methusalems!—H. B. J.
A certain Ant that had lost its All owing to the sudden collapse of the Bank in which its savings were invested, applied to a Grasshopper for a small temporary advance.
"I am sorry, dear boy," chirpily replied the Grasshopper, "that, although I am playing to big business every evening, I have not put by a single grain. However, I will get up amatinéefor your benefit."
This he did with such success that, next winter, the Ant was once more sufficiently prosperous to discharge his obligation by offering the Grasshopper a letter to the Charity Organisation Society!
Note.—The application of this is that a kind action is neverreally thrown away.—H. B. J.
"I never feel quite myself till I've had a good bath!" said the Bird whom an elderly Lady had purchased from a Street Boy as a Goldfinch.
And behold, when the Bird came out of its saucer of water, it was a Sparrow!
Note.—Like many Philosophers, Piljosh would seem to have had no great liking for ablutions. But water which could transform a Goldfinch into a Sparrow must previously have been enchanted by some Magician, so that our Parabolist's shaft misses fire in this instance (as indeed in many others!). Possibly, however, his Translator has once more proved a Traitor!—H. B. J.
"Pride not yourself upon your Lustre and Symmetry," said the Jet Ear-ring austerely to the Pearl, "for, after all, you owe your beauty to nothing but the morbid secretions of a Diseased Oyster!"
"I am sorry to spoil your moral," retorted the Pearl with much suavity, "but, like yourself, I happen to be Artificial."
Note.—Inhabitants of glassy mansions should not indulge inlapidation.—H. B. J.
"Come!" said the Peacock's Feather proudly to the Fly-flapper and the Tin Squeaker, as the final illumination flickered out and they lay in the gutter together, limp and exhausted with their exertions in tickling and generally exasperating inoffensive strangers. "They may say what they please—but at least we have shown them that the Spirit of Patriotism is not yet extinct!"
Note.—This must refer to some Cryptic customs prevalent in the Parabolist's time. But I do not clearly apprehend what connection either tickling, fly-flapping, or squeaking can have with Patriotism!—H. B. J.
Last Words
Here conclude the Parables of Piljosh, together with the present volume. That the former can possibly obtain honble mention when compared with the apologues of Plato, Æsop, Corderius Nepos, or even Confucius, I cannot for a moment anticipate, and none can be more sensible than my humble selfhow very poor a figure they cut in proximity to the production of my own pen!
However, indulgent critics will please not saddle my unoffending head with the responsibility, the fact being that I was vehemently advised that, without some meretricious padding of this sort, my Romance would not be of sufficient robustness to produce a boom.
But should "A Bayard from Bengal" unfortunately fail to render the Thames combustible, I should rather attribute the cause to its having been unwisely diluted with such milk and watery material as the Parables of Piljosh.
So, leaving the decision to the impartial and unanimous verdict of popular approval, I subscribe myself,
The Reader's very obsequious and palpitating Servant,Hurry Bungsho Jabberjee, B.A., etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
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