The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 110, December, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
History
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 110, December, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
According to the Code of Menyu, "a believer in Scripture may receive
pure knowledge even from a soodra, a lesson of the highest virtue even
from a chandala, and a woman bright as a gem even from the lowest
family." So if Karlee's wife, instead of being of the same social rank
as himself, had come of basest caste, she would still have been a
treasure. Soon after she had retired, she gently pushed into the room,
to pay his respects to the Sahib, a shy little boy of five years, whom
Karlee presented to me as the child of his only son, a bhearer in the
service of an English officer stationed at Fort William. The mother had
died in blessing her husband with this bright little puttro. In costume
he was the exact miniature of his grandfather, except that he wore no
puggree, and his hair was cut short round the forehead in a quaint
frill, like the small boys one sees running about the streets in Orissa.
His ankles, too, were loaded with massive silver rings, which noticeably
impeded the childish freedom of his steps. When he has begun to
understand what the word "wife" means, these must be laid aside. In his
manners, likewise, little Karlee was the very tautology of his namesake
with the gray moustache,--the same wary self-possession, the same
immovable gravity and nice decorum. Like a little courtier, he made his
small salaam, and through his grandfather replied to some playful
questions I addressed to him, with good emphasis and discretion, without
either awkwardness or boldness, and especially without a smile. When I
gave him a rupee, he construed it as the customary signal, and with
another small salaam immediately dismissed himself.
Little Karlee must have taken lessons in deportment with his primal pap;
and in India all good little boys, who hope to go to heaven when they
die, keep their noses clean, and never romp or whistle. As to girls it
matters less; the midwife gets only half price for consummating that
sort of blunder; for when you are dead only a son can carry you out and
bury you _dacent_,--no daughter, though she pray with the power and
perseverance of the Seven Penitents, can procure you a respectable
metempsychosis.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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