calling them sooa-logue,—that is, pigs; where—where, in fine, everything in heathen human-nature happens butcha, and the very fables with which the little story-tellers entertain the little loafers on the corners of the little streets, are full of little giants and little dwarfs. Let us pursue the little idea, and talk butcha to the end of this chapter.
When, in Calcutta, you have smitten the dry rock of your lonely life with the magic rod of connubial love, and that well-spring of pleasure, a new baby, has leaped up in the midst of your wilderness of exile, the demonstration, if any, with which your servants will receive the glad tidings, will depend wholly on the “denomination of the imbecile offspring,” as our eleëmosynary widow, Mrs. Diana Theodosia Comfort Green, would call it. If it happen to be only a girl, there will be a trace of pity in the silent salaam with which the grim durwan salutes you as you roll into your palkee at the gate to proceed to the godowns where they are weighing the saltpetre and the gunny-bags. As he touches his forehead with his joined palms, he thinks of the difference that color makes to the babivorous crocodiles of Ganges. Perhaps your gray-beard circar, privileged by virtue of high caste and faithful service, wall take upon himself to condole with you: “Khodabund,” he will say, “better luck next time; Heaven is not always with one’s paternal hopes; let us trust that my lord may live to say it might have been worse; let us pray that the baba’s bridal necklace may be as gay as rubies and as light as lilies, and that she may die before her husband.”
But if to the existing number of your suntoshums—the jewels that hang on the Mem Sahib’s bosom—a man-child is added, ah, then there is merry-making in the verandas, and happy salaaming on the stairs; and in the fulness of his Hindoo Sary-Gampness, which counts the Sahib blessed that hath “his quiver full of sich,” he says, Ap-ki kullejee kaisa burri ho-jaga! Khodá rukho kibeebi-ka kullejee bhee itni burri hoga,—Gurreeb-purwan! “How large my lord’s liver is about to grow! God grant to the Mem Sahib, my exalted lady, a liver likewise large,—O favored protector of the poor!” The happiness and honors which should follow upon the birth of a male child being figuratively comprehended in that enlargement of the liver whence comes the good digestion for which alone life is worth the living.
Many and grievous perils do environ baby-life by the Ganges,—perils of dry nurses, perils by wolves, perils by crocodiles, perils by the Evil Eye, perils by kidnappers, perils by cobras, perils by devils.
You are living at one of the up-country stations, where the freer air of the jungle imparts to babes and sucklings a voracious appetite. Besides your own dhye, brought from Calcutta, there is not another wet-nurse to be bad, for love or money. Immediately Dhye strikes for higher wages. The Baba Sahib, she says, has defiled her rice; yesterday he put his foot into her curry; to-day he washes the monkey’s tail in her consecrated lotah. What shall she do? she has lost caste; the presents to the Brahmins, that her reinstatement will cost her, will consume all her earnings from the beginning. Gurreeb-purwan, O munificent and merciful! what shall she do? She strikes for higher wages.—But you are hard-hearted and hard-headed; you will not pay,—by Gunga, not another pice! by Latchmee, not one cowry more!—Oh, then she will leave; with a heavy heart she will turn her back on the blessed baby; she will pour dust upon her head before the Mem Sahib, at whose door her disgrace shall lie, and she will return to her kindred.—Not she! the durwan, grim and incorruptible, has his orders; she cannot pass the gate.—Oho! then immediately she dries up; no “fount,” and Baby famishing. You try ass’s milk; it does not agree with Baby; besides, it costs a rupee a pint. You try a goat; she does not agree with Baby, for she
