the 'King's Arms' gardens hard by. We watched these fellows from our
lattice. By Saint Boniface 'twas a rare sight!

The tulips in Mynheer Van Dunck's gardens were not more gorgeous than
the liveries of these pie-coated retainers. All the flowers of the field
bloomed in their ruffled bosoms, all the hues of the rainbow gleamed
in their plush breeches, and the long-caned ones walked up and down the
garden with that charming solemnity, that delightful quivering swagger
of the calves, which has always had a frantic fascination for us. The
walk was not wide enough for them as the shoulder-knots strutted up and
down it in canary, and crimson, and light blue.

Suddenly, in the midst of their pride, a little bell was rung, a side
door opened, and (after setting down their Royal Mistress) her Majesty's
own crimson footmen, with epaulets and black plushes, came in.

It was pitiable to see the other poor Johns slink off at this arrival!
Not one of the honest private Plushes could stand up before the Royal
Flunkeys. They left the walk: they sneaked into dark holes and drank
their beer in silence. The Royal Plush kept possession of the garden
until the Royal Plush dinner was announced, when it retired, and we
heard from the pavilion where they dined, conservative cheers, and
speeches, and Kentish fires. The other Flunkeys we never saw more.

My dear Flunkeys, so absurdly conceited at one moment and so abject
at the next, are but the types of their masters in this world. HE WHO
MEANLY ADMIRES MEAN THINGS IS A SNOB--perhaps that is a safe definition
of the character.

And this is why I have, with the utmost respect, ventured to place The