And in this terrestrial elysium, the man
Who is most like an angel, is the Dewan.
From Comorin's foam to Himmaleh's snows,
A man that's his match, sure nobody knows!
In his gay free mien, and his honied laugh,
He is perfect,—yes almost too perfect by half!
How courtly his bow, his smile how sweet,
And how soft is the tread of his cat-like feet!
Then how frank his look! you might think you could view
The soul through the eye of this good Hindoo.
How chaste his manners, his English how choice!
How liquid, how mellow, the tones of his voice!
His whole demeanour seems to import
That doing good is his one great forte.
But since 'tis beyond the powers of my pen
To pourtray, as I should, this most perfect of men,
I'll relate, instead, a remarkable story
Which will picture Sir Gammon in all his glory,
His goodness, the justice he loves, and the claim
His deeds have to noto—I mean, to fame!
In the heart of the country of Cocoanutcore
Lies the Brahmin city of Brahminipore.
Though you search'd through India up and down,
You could never discover a holier town.
For the blessed Twice-born, who chance to live there,
By deigning to breathe it, have hallowed the air—
The houses are holy, and holy each street,
And even the dust has been blessed by their feet.
Each pot in each hut, of brass or of clay,
Has been sanctified in some wonderful way.
And the sacred carpets in every house
Are the daily gift of Brahminical cows!
A blessed brahmin, named Rowdy Row,
Once lived in this city. He lives there now.
A man whose success in life was complete;
He had the best house in the very best street.
He throve well on ghee; he was worth, I am told,
A couple of lacs in lands and gold.
His youngest wife, sweet Betelammâl,
Was rich, and fair, and, for thirteen, tall.
As his morals were so-so, but rigid his creed,
Men thought him a very good Brahmin indeed.
He said long Mantras; he strictly kept caste:
Each pariah slunk from the road till he passed.
Nothing was strange about his person;—
You might see a better, you might see a worse one.
In short, our Rowdy was happy, and bore
A very good name in Brahminipore.
Now Ichabod Green, a Quaker, one day
Happened to travel along that way.
A harmless soul, with a fat little frame,
Along the street he leisurely came.
At the very first glance could be easily seen
What sort of person was Mr. Green.
In his mild, meek eyes his heart you could trace,
And PEACH was writ on his placid face.
On he sauntered, not thinking his feet
Would defile the mud of that sacred street,
A street that seemed public to beast and to man,
For right along it the highway ran.
So on he came, and came at last
To Rowdy Row's house, and would have passed;
But the holy Brahmin rushed forth with a shout,
"You white cow-eater, get out, get out!
Go back! Quick! Run! your low caste feet
Will defile the mud of this sacred street!"
But since poor Green, with a startled stare,
Said; "Sir, I thought this a thoroughfare,"
The righteous Brahmin gave him a kick,
And knocked him about the head with a stick.
Then while his applauding friends drew round,
He kicked him again as he lay on the ground.
He gave him a whack, he gave him a crack,
He smack'd his face, and sat on his back.
He thump'd him, he bump'd him, he tugged at his hair,
He tumbled him here, he pummelled him there.
He used his slipper, he used his fist,
Gave a tweak to his nose, to his ear a twist;
He laughed as he heard poor Ichabod's cries,
And filled with sand poor Ichabod's eyes.
Then set him again on his tottering feet,
And hooted him out of the sacred street.
With many a moan, with many a groan,
Poor Ichabod trudged on his way alone.
For his servants, when they beheld the fray,
Had one and all skedaddled away.
That night on the road poor Ichabod spent;
Next day to the Dewan Peischar went;
Stated his case,—where, when, and how,
He had got such a thrashing from Rowdy Row:
And showed, as witness, his tattered clothes,
His blackened eyes and his damaged nose.
Now when the Peishcar, with solemn face,
Had gone right through this remarkable case,
To his chief, the Dewan, for sentence due
He sent Mr. Green, and Rowdy too.
Sir Gammon Row, with his grandest bow,
Received Mr. Green and Rowdy Row.
Mr. Green had a chair,—but I really think
He gave friend Rowdy a nod and a wink.
Then he read through the case; and as he read
Adjusted the turban upon his head:
Now turned his eyes up, now turned his eyes down,
Now smiled a sweet smile, now frown'd a stern frown:
Now sighed; now his head sagaciously shook;—
And look'd—in short—as wise as a book.
Then, after many a hum and haw
Summ'd up,—and thus declared the law.
"You, Mr. Green, were very wrong
In daring that street to venture along.
You ought to have known that your low-caste feet
Would defile the mud of that sacred street.
As a "neecha jâthi káran" you
Should render the Brahmins reverence due.
For all know that Brahmins, in every place,
Are a quiet, peaceful, respectable race,
Whilst Quakers—(Sir Gammon here heav'd a sigh,
And turned up the greenish white of his eye!)
"In the second place, that street you declare
Was merely,—you thought,—a thoroughfare;
Since straight along it the highway ran,
Open to beast, and public to man.
You thought this, did you? Who ever heard
Of a thought so palpably absurd!
Good Heavens, Mr. Green! a Brahmin street
Public to every Englishman's feet!
"Thirdly, you thought it a highway? Then can
You wonder they thought you a highwayman?
They acknowledge they gave you a thrashing. Hence
I infer they did so—in self-defence!
"Fourthly, who authorised you, I pray
In daring to travel along that way?
'Twas a street of Brahmins, a sacred spot;
It might have been public, yet it might not.
You heeded this not: you prejudged the case;
And boldly ventured into the place;—
And frightened poor Rowdy, a mild Hindoo,
Into thrashing—yes, into half-killing—you,
which in him, since he thought he ought to use force,
Was somewhat excusable conduct of course.
So this is my final sentence—that he
Should pay the fine of one Rupee."