Part 71 (2/2)
The Pa.r.s.ees a.s.sign as their reason for not burying their dead, that, having received many benefits from the earth during their lifetime, they consider it defiled by placing dead bodies in it. Similarly, they do not adopt the Hindoo custom of burning their dead, as another element, fire, would be rendered impure.
The chief distinctive feature of the Pa.r.s.ee dress is the hat, to which the community cling with a pertinacity that would be extraordinary, were it not common. Even the Pa.r.s.ee representative of ”Young Bombay,”
dressed from top to toe in European costume, including a pair of s.h.i.+ny boots, cannot be induced to discard the abominable _topee_, or hat, distinctive of his race; though, perhaps, after all, we who live in gla.s.s houses should not throw stones; for what can be more hideous than the chimney-pot hat of our boasted civilization? The Pa.r.s.ee head-dress, which contests the palm of ugliness with its English rival, is constructed on a strong but light framework, covered with highly-glazed, dark-colored chintz. The priests, who dress like the laity, wear a hat of much the same shape as the former, but white, instead of a dark color.
On occasions of ceremony, the ordinary tight-fitting narrow garment is exchanged for one with very full skirts, like a petticoat; and a shawl is usually worn round the waist, which is at other times omitted. The costume of the women is a combination of that of the Hindoos and Mussulmans, consisting of the short body and _sarree_ of the former, with the full trousers of the latter. Both s.e.xes endue themselves, at seven years of age, with the sacred s.h.i.+rt, which is worn over the trousers; the _sadra_, as it is called, is made of a thin, transparent muslin, and is meant to represent the coat-of-mail the men wore when they arrived in India, and with which they believe they can resist the spiritual a.s.saults of Ahriman, the evil principle. The hair of the women is concealed by linen skull-caps, fitting tight to the head.
It is a singular and interesting sight to watch the Pa.r.s.ees a.s.sembled on the sea-sh.o.r.e, and, as the sun sinks below the horizon, to mark them prostrating themselves, and offering up their orisons to the great giver of light and heat, which they regard as representing the Deity. Their prayers are uttered, it is said, in an unknown tongue; and after the fiery face of the orb of day has disappeared in his ocean bed, and the wondrous pillars of light shooting aslant the sky, proclaim that the ”day is done,” and the night is at hand, they raise themselves from their knees, and turn silently away from the beach, which is left once more to twilight and the murmur, or, if in angry mood, the roar, of the sea as it breaks on the sh.o.r.e.
[Ill.u.s.tration: {The unknown man rescues the girl from the burning building}]
THE CRIPPLED BOY.
FROM THE FRENCH.
”Don't cry any more, Genevieve; you must get married again,” said a man in the working dress of a slater, just returning from his day's work, to a poor woman who was sitting at the foot of a camp bed, weeping, and rocking her baby at the same time. ”Your husband is dead; he fell from a ladder, and it killed him. It is a great misfortune for you and your family; but crying won't help you.”
Saying these words in a rough voice, to hide the emotion caused by the poor woman's despair, the workman brushed away a tear with his coat sleeve.
”My poor George!” said the woman.
”If your son was only good for anything,” added the workman, rudely, throwing a glance of disdain upon a poor, pale, weak, and crippled boy, who was seated on the floor in a corner of the room; ”if that child would ever grow into a man, I would take him with me, and teach him how to clamber over roofs, and to keep his balance upon the beams, and drop from the end of a rope. But no, he grows worse and worse every day; and now he can hardly bear his own weight. He is almost twelve years old, that son of yours; and if they said he was four, it would be a compliment.”
”Is it the fault of Jacques that he came crooked into the world, my brother?”
”No, certainly not. I don't blame him, poor child, I don't blame him; but he will always be a useless mouth in the world. Luckily, he will not live long,” he whispered in the ear of his sister. Then he rose, and went out, calling, ”Good by till to-morrow,” in a tone of voice which betrayed the anxiety he felt at the situation of his sister and her children.
”_Luckily_ I shall not live long,” was repeated by a sweet, sad voice, in an accent which only belongs to those who have suffered deeply.
”What are you saying, Jacques?” inquired Genevieve.
”That I am good for nothing. My uncle was right.”
”Take courage, my son. When you are older, you will grow stronger.”
”Yes, if--” said the boy.
But he left the sentence unfinished, and his mother was too much absorbed in her grief to ask him what he meant. It was late, and in a few minutes the poor family retired. It was hardly light when Jacques went down into the court-yard to see the grooms curry the horses, wash the carriages, and get ready for the day.
It was summer, and very soon a pretty little girl came down into the court. Jacques uttered a loud cry when he saw her.
”Without crutches, Mademoiselle Emilie!”
”So you see, Jacques,” replied the young girl, with a sweet smile. ”I shall not use them any more. To be sure, I am a little weak here,” she added, showing her left arm and foot, which were smaller than the right; ”and besides,” she said, ”I am a little crooked.”
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