A BAYARD FROM BENGAL

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.