It was even so. And as the possessed made spasmy fists with his feet, clinching his toes strangely, and grinned, with his chin between his knees, I solemnly wished for the presence of One who might cry with the voice of authority, as erst in the land of the Gadarenes, “Come out of the lad, thou unclean spirit!”
At the Hurdwar fair pretty little naked girls are exposed for sale, and in their soft brown innocence appeal at once to the purity of your mind and the tenderness of your heart. They come from Cashmere with the shawls, or from Cabool with the kittens, or from the Punjaub with the arms and shields.
Very quaint are the little Miriams, Ruths, and Hannahs of the Jewish houses in Bombay,—with their full trousers of blue satin and gold, their boyish Fez caps of spangled red velvet, bound round with party-colored turbans, their chin-bands of pearls, their coin chains, their great gold bangles, and the jingling tassels of their long plaits.
Less interesting, because formal and inanimate, even to sulkiness, are the prim little Parsee maidens, who often wear an “exercised” expression, of a settled sort, as though they were weary of reflecting on the hollowness of the world, and how their dolls are stuffed with sawdust, and that Dakhma, the Tower of Silence, is the end of all things.
Then there are the regimental babalogue, the soldiers’ children, sturdiest and toughest of Anglo-Indian urchins,—affording, in their brown cheeks and crisp muscles and boisterous ways, a consoling contrast to the oh-eall-it-pale-not-fairness, and the frailness, and premature pensiveness of the little Civil Service.
And there is the half-caste child, the lisping chee-chee, or Eurasian, grandiloquently so called, much given to sentimental minstrelsy, juvenile polkas, early coquetry, and early beer, hot curries, loud clothes, bad English, and fast pertness. I never think of them without recalling a precocious ballad-screamer of eight years who was flourished indispensably at every chee-chee hop in Chandernagore:
“O lay me in a little pit, With a marvle thtone to cover it, And keearve thereon a turtle-dove, That the world may know I died for love!”
I left India in consequence of that child.
But for the true Anglo-Indian type of brat, at all points a complete “torn-down,” “dislikeable and rod-worthy,” as Mrs. Mackenzie describes it, there is nothing among nursery nuisances comparable to the Civil-Service child of eight or ten years, whose father, a “Company’s Bad Bargain,” in the Mint, or the Supreme Court, or the Marine Office, draws per mensem enough to set his brat up in the usual servile surroundings of such small despots. Deriving the only education it ever gets directly from its personal attendants, this young monster of bad temper, had manners, and bad language becomes precociously proficient in overbearing ways, and voluble in Hindostanee Billingsgate, before it has acquired enough of its ancestral tongue to frame the simplest sentence. It bullies its bhearer; it bangs distractingly on the tom-tom; it surfeits itself to an apoplectic point with pish-pash; it burns its mouth with hot curry, and bawls; it indulges in horrid Hindostanee songs, whereof the burden will not hear translation; it insults whatever is most sacred to the caste attachments of its attendants; the Moab of ayahs is its wash-pot, over an Edom of bhearers will it cast out its shoe; it slaps the mouth of a gray-haired khansaman with its slipper, and dips its poodle’s paws in a Mohammedan kitmudgar’s rice; it calls a learned Pundit an asal ulu, an egregious owl; it says to a high-caste circar, “Shut up, you pig!” and to an illustrious moonshee, “Hi, toom jungleewallah!” Whereat its fond mamma, to whom Bengalee, Hindostanee, and Sanscrit are alike sealed books of Babel, claps the hands of her heart, and crying, Wah, wah! in all the innocence of her philological deficiency, blesses the fine
