ear Vanity, you may call me a
Russophile, or by any other marine term of endearment you like, if I
don't think the old plan was the better of the two. We ourselves could
conduct corruption decently; but to be responsible for corruption over
which we exercise no control is to lose the credit of a good name and
the profits of a bad one.

[Old qui-hyes tell you that there are three things you cannot separate
from an "Indian"--venality, perjury, and rupees. Now I totally
disagree with the old qui-hyes. In secret I am a great admirer of the
Indian, and publicly I always treat him with respect. I have such a
regard for him that I never expose him to temptation. I pay him well,
I explain to him my eccentric opinions about receiving bribes, and I
remind him of the moral and electrifying properties of the different
species of cane which Nature has so thoughtfully provided nearly
everywhere in India. The consequence is that my chuprassies do not
soil their hands with spurious gratifications, and figuratively
describe me as their father and mother.]

I hear that the Government of India proposes to form a mixed committee
of Rajas and chuprassies to discuss the question as to whether native
chiefs ever give bribes and native servants ever take them. It is
expected that a report favourable to Indian morality will be the
result. Of course Raja Joe Hookham will preside.--ALI BABA, K.C.B.

No. XII

THE PLANTER

A FARMER PRINCE

[Illustration: THE PLANTER--"A farmer prince."]

[October 25, 1879]

The Planter lives to-day as we all lived fifty years ago. He lives in
state and bounty, like the Lord of Burleigh. He lives like that fine
old English gentleman who had an old estate, and who kept up his old
mansion at a bountiful old rate. He lives in a grand wholesale manner;
he lives in round numbers; he lives like a hero. Everything is Homeric
about him. He establishes himself firmly in the land with great joy
and plenty; and he gathers round him all that makes life full-toned
and harmonious, from the grand timbre of draught-ale and the
organ-thunder of hunting, to the piccolo and tintinnabulum of Poker
and maraschino. His life is a fresco-painting, on which some Cyclopaean
Raphaelite has poured his rainbows from a fire-engine of a hundred
elephant-power.

We paltry officials live meanly in pen-and-ink sketches. Our little
life is bounded by a dream of promotion and pension. We toil, we
slave; we put by money