A Bayard From Bengal. Being some account of the Magnificent and Spanking Career of Chunder Bindabun Bhosh…

THE 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 its finis. 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 welsher her 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 for Milky 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.

Endof

A 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.

notes

1

Videlicet: his heart