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
Snob Royal at the head of my list, causing all others to give way before
him, as the Flunkeys before the royal representative in Kensington
Gardens. To say of such and such a Gracious Sovereign that he is a Snob,
is but to say that his Majesty is a man.
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