grandmothers of people that have passed away, and his little
improprieties are such as might illustrate a sermon of the present
day. [A rabbit might play with him if there were no chutni lying
about.]

But you must never speak to him as if his sun were setting. He is as
hopeful as a two-year-old. Every Gazette thrills him with vague
expectations and alarms. If he found himself in orders for a Brigade
he would be less surprised than anyone in the Army. He never ceases to
hope that something may turn up--that something tangible may issue
from the circumambient world of conjecture. But nothing will ever turn
up for our poor old Colonel till his poor old toes turn up to the
daisies. This change only, which we harshly call "Death," will steal
over his prospects; this new slide only will be slipped into the magic
lantern of his existence, accompanied by funeral drums and slow
marching.

Soon we shall hardly be able to decipher his name and age on the
crumbling gravestone among the weeds of our horrible station
cemetery--but what matters it?

"For his bones are dust,
And his sword is rust,
And his soul is with the saints, we trust."

ALI BABA, K.C.B.

No. XVI

THE CIVIL SURGEON

"Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it."

[November 22, 1879.]

Perhaps you would hardly guess from his appearance and ways that he
was a surgeon and a medicine-man. He certainly does not smell of
lavender or peppermint, or display fine and curious linen, or tread
softly like a cat. Contrariwise.

He smells of tobacco, and wears flannel underclothing. His step is
heavy. He is a gross, big cow-buffalo sort of man, with a tangled
growth of beard. His ranting voice and loud familiar manner amount to
an outrage. He laughs like a camel, with deep bubbling noises. Thick
corduroy breeches and gaiters swaddle his shapeless legs, and he rides
a coarse-bred Waler mare.

I pray the gods that he may never be required to operate upon my eyes,
or intestines, or any other delicate organ--that he may never be
required to trephine my skull, or remove the roof of my mouth.

Of course he is a very good fellow. He walks straight into your
drawing-room with a pipe in his mouth, bellowing out your name. No
servant announces his arrival. He tramples in and crushes himself into
a chair, without removing his hat, or performing any other high
ceremonial. He has been riding in