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A BAYARD FROM BENGAL
[Illustration: EXHORTED HER, WITH AN ELOQUENCE THAT MOVED ALL
PRESENT, TO ABANDON HER FRIVOLITIES AND LEVITIES (Frontispiece)]
A BAYARD FROM BENGAL
BEING SOME ACCOUNT OF THE MAGNIFICENT AND SPANKING CAREER OF
CHUNDER BINDABUN BHOSH, ESQ., B.A., CAMBRIDGE, BY HURRY
BUNGSHO JABBERJEE, B.A., CALCUTTA UNIVERSITY, AUTHOR OF
"JOTTINGS AND TITTLINGS," ETC., ETC., TO WHICH IS APPENDED THE
PARABLES AND PROVERBS OF PILJOSH, FREELY TRANSLATED FROM THE
ORIGINAL STYPTIC BY ANOTHER HAND, WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES AND
APPENDIX BY THE ABOVE HURRY BUNGSHO JABBERJEE, B.A.
THE WHOLE EDITED AND REVISED
BY
F. ANSTEY
AUTHOR OF "VICE VERSA," ETC. ETC.
WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY BERNARD PARTRIDGE
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1902
_Reprinted from_ "PUNCH"
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. FROM CALCUTTA TO CAMBRIDGE OVERSEA ROUTE
II. HOW MR BHOSH DELIVERED A DAMSEL FROM A DEMENTED COW
III. THE INVOLUNTARY FASCINATOR
IV. A KICK FROM A FRIENDLY FOOt
V. THE DUEL TO THE DEATH
VI. LORD JOLLY IS SATISFIED
VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNWIELDY GIFTHORSE
VIII. A RIGHTABOUT FACER FOR MR BHOSH
IX. THE DARK HORSE
X. TRUST HER NOT! SHE IS FOOLING THEE!
XI. STONE WALLS DO NOT MAKE A CAGE
XII. A RACE AGAINST TIME
XIII. A SENSATIONAL DERBY STRUGGLE
XIV. A GRAND FINISH
* * * * *
THE PARABLES OF PILJOSH
PRELIMINARY
I have the honour humbly to inform my readers that, after prolonged
consumption of midnight oil, I succeeded in completing this imposing
society novel, which is now, by the indulgence of my friends and kind
fathers, the honble publishers, laid at their feet.
My inducement to this enterprise was the spectacle of very inferior
rubbish palmed off by so-called popular novelists such as Honbles
Kipling, Joshua Barrie, Antony Weyman, Stanley Hope, and the
collaborative but feminine authoresses of "The Red Thumb in the
Pottage," all of whom profess (very, very incorrectly) to give accurate
reliable descriptions of Indian, English or Scotch episodes.
The pity of it, that a magnificent and gullible British Public should be
suckled like a babe on such spoonmeat and small beer!
Would no one arise, inflamed by the pure enthusiasm of his _cacoethes
scribendi_, and write a romance which shall secure the plerophory of
British, American, Anglo-Indian, Colonial, and Continental readers by
dint of its imaginary power and slavish fidelity to Nature?
And since Echo answered that no one replied to this invitation, I (like
a fool, as some will say) rushed in where angels were apprehensive of
being too bulky to be borne.
Being naturally acquainted with gentlemen of my own nationality and
education, and also, of course, knowing London and suburban society _ab
ovo usque ad mala_ (or, from the new-laid egg to the stage when it is
beginning to go bad), I decided to take as my theme the adventures of a
typically splendid representative of Young India on British soil, and I
am in earnest hopes to avoid the shocking solecisms and exaggerations
indulged in by ordinary English novelists.
I have been compelled to take to penmanship of this sort owing to
pressure of _res angusta domi_, the immoderate increase of hostages
to fortune, and proportionate falling off of emoluments from my
profession as Barrister-at-Law.
Therefore, I hope that all concerned will smile favourably upon my new
departure, and will please kindly understand that, if my English
literary style has suffered any deterioration, it is solely due to my
being out of practice, and such spots on the sun must be excused as mere
flies in ointment.
After forming my resolution of writing a large novel, I confided it to
my crony, Mr Ram Ashootosh Lall, who warmly recommended me to persevere
in such a _magnum opus_. So I became divinely inflated periodically
every evening from 8 to 12 P.M., disregarding all entreaties from
feminine relatives to stop and indulge in a blow-out on ordinary
eatables, like Archimedes when Troy was captured, who was so engrossed
in writing prepositions on the sand that he was totally unaware that he
was being barbarously slaughtered.
And at length my colossal effusion was completed, and I had written
myself out; after which I had the indescribable joy and felicity to read
my composition to my mothers-in-law and wives and their respective
progenies and offspring, whereupon, although they were not acquainted
with a word of English, they were overcome by such severe admiration for
my fecundity and native eloquence that they swooned with rapture.
I am not a superstitious, but I took the trouble to consult a
soothsayer, as to the probable fortunes of my undertaking, and he at
once confidently predicted that my novel was to render all readers dumb
as fishes with sheer amazement and prove a very fine feather in my cap.
For all the above reasons, I am modestly confident that it will be
generally recognised as a masterpiece, especially when it is remembered
that it is the work of a native Indian, whose 'prentice hand is still a
novice in wielding the _currente calamo_ of fiction.
I cannot conclude without some allusion to the drawings which are, I
believe, to adorn my work, but which I have not yet been enabled to
inspect, owing to the fact that, having fish of more importance to fry
at the time, I commissioned a certain young English friend (the same who
furnished sundry poetic headings for chapters) to engage a designer for
the pictorial department.
Needless to say, I intended that he was to award the apple only to some
Royal Academician of distinguished talents--yet at the eleventh hour,
when too late to make other arrangements, I am informed that the job has
been entrusted to a certain Birnadhur Pahtridhji, whose name (though
probably incorrectly transcribed) certainly denotes a draughtsman of
native Indian origin!
Whether he is fully competent for such a task I cannot at present say.
But, unless he is qualified, like myself, by actual residence in Great
Britain, I fear that he may not possess sufficient familiarity with the
customs and solecisms of English society to avoid at least a few
ludicrous and even lamentable mistakes.
To guard against such contingencies I shall insert a note or comment
opposite each picture as it is submitted to me, pointing out in what
respects (if any) the artist has failed to represent the author's
intentions.
I sincerely hope that I may now and then be able to pat the aforesaid Mr
P. on the back instead of acting as a Rhadamanthus to rap his knuckles.
CHAPTER I
FROM CALCUTTA TO CAMBRIDGE OVERSEA ROUTE
At sea the stoutest stomach jerks,
Far, far away from native soil,
When Ocean's heaving waterworks
Burst out in Brobdingnagian boil!
_Stanza written at Sea, by H. B. J. (unpublished)._
The waves of Neptune erected their seething and angry crests to
incredible altitudes; overhead in fuliginous storm-clouds the thunder
rumbled its terrific bellows, and from time to time the ghastly flare of
lightning illuminated the entire neighbourhood. The tempest howled like
a lost dog through the cordage of the good ship _Rohilkund_ (Captain O.
Williams), which lurched through the vasty deep as though overtaken by
the drop too much.
At one moment her poop was pointed towards celestial regions; at another
it aimed itself at the recesses of Davey Jones's locker; and such was
the fury of the gale that only a paucity of the ship's passengers
remained perpendicular, and Mr Chunder Bindabun Bhosh was recumbent on
his beam end, prostrated by severe sickishness, and hourly expecting to
become initiated in the Great Secret.
Bitterly did he lament his hard lines in venturing upon the Black Water,
to be snipped off in the flower of his adolescence, and never again to
behold the beloved visages of his relations!
So heartrending were his tears and groans that they moved all on board,
and Honble Mr Commissioner Copsey, who was returning on leave, kindly
came to inquire the cause of such vociferous lachrymation.
"What is the matter, Baboo?" began the Commissioner in paternal tones.
"Why are you kicking up the shindy of such a deuce's own hullabaloo?"
"Because, honble Sir," responded Mr Bhosh, "I am in lively expectation
that waters will rush in and extinguish my vital spark."
"Pooh!" said Mr Commissioner, genially. "This is only the moiety of a
gale, and there is not the slightest danger."
Having received this assurance, Mr Bhosh's natural courage revived, and,
coming up on deck, he braved the tempest with the cool composure of a
cucumber, admonishing all his fellow-passengers that they were not to
give way to panic, seeing that Death was the common lot of all, and,
though everyone must die once, it was an experience that could not be
repeated, with much philosophy of a similar kind which astonished many
who had falsely supposed him to be a pusillanimous.
The remainder of the voyage was uneventful, and, soon after setting his
feet on British territory, Mr Bhosh became an alumnus and undergraduate
of the _Alma Mater_ of Cambridge.
I shall not attempt to relate at any great length the history of his
collegiate career, because, being myself a graduate of Calcutta
University, I am not, of course, proficient in the customs and
etiquettes of any rival seminaries, and should probably make one or two
trivial slips which would instantly be pounced upon and held up for
derision by carping critics.
So I shall content myself with mentioning a few leading facts and
incidents. Mr Bhosh very soon wormed himself into the good graces of his
fellow college boys, and his principal friend and _fidus Achates_ was a
young high-spirited aristocrat entitled Lord Jack Jolly, the only son of
an earl who had lately been promoted to the dignity of a baronetcy.
Lord Jolly and Mr Bhosh were soon as inseparable as a Daemon and
Pythoness, and, though no nabob to wallow in filthy lucre, Mr Bhosh gave
frequent entertainments to his friends, who were hugely delighted by
the elegance of his hospitality and the garrulity of his conversation.
Unfortunately the fame of these Barmecide feasts soon penetrated the
ears of the College _gurus_, and Mr Bhosh's _Moolovee_ sent for him and
severely reprimanded him for neglecting to study for his Little-go
degree, and squandering his immense abilities and talents on mere
guzzling.
Whereupon Mr Bhosh shed tears of contrition, embracing the feet of his
senile tutor, and promising that, if only he was restored to favour he
would become more diligent in future.
And honourably did he fulfil this _nudum pactum_, for he became a most
exemplary bookworm, burning his midnight candle at both ends in the
endeavour to cram his mind with _belles lettres_.
But he was assailed by a temptation which I cannot forbear to chronicle.
One evening as he was poring over his learned tomes, who should arrive
but a deputation of prominent Cambridge boatmen and athletics, to
entreat him to accept a stroke oar of the University eight in the
forthcoming race with Oxford College!
This, as all aquatics will agree, was no small compliment--particularly
to one who was so totally unversed in wielding the flashing oar. But the
authorities had beheld him propelling a punt boat with marvellous
dexterity by dint of a paddle, and, taking the length of his foot on
that occasion, they had divined a Hercules and ardently desired him as a
confederate.
Mr Bhosh was profoundly moved: "College misters and friends," he said,
"I welcome this invitation with a joyful and thankful heart, as an
honour--not to this poor self, but to Young India. Nevertheless, I am
compelled by _Dira Necessitas_ to return the polite negative. Gladly I
would help you to inflict crushing defeat upon our presumptuous foe, but
'I see a hand you cannot see that beckons me away; I hear a voice you
cannot hear that wheezes "Not to-day!"' In other words, gentlemen, I am
now actively engaged in the Titanic struggle to floor Little-go. It is
glorious to obtain a victory over Oxonian rivals, but, misters, there is
an enemy it is still more glorious to pulverize, and that enemy
is--one's self!"
The deputation then withdrew with falling crests, though unable to
refrain from admiring the firmness and fortitude which a mere Native
student had nilled an invitation which to most European youths would
have proved an irresistible attraction.
Nor did they cherish any resentment against Mr Bhosh, even when, in the
famous inter-collegiate race of that year from Hammersmith to Putney,
Cambridge was ingloriously bumped, and Oxford won in a common canter.