Chapter XXVIII
Those tranquil moods to which allusion has already been made on several occasions, have now become a decided feature in our character. There is certainly something very charming in the society of well-bred women. However, we hope before long we need not be forced from home to find that enjoyment. We have discovered the object of Nix’s recent gifts of Brahminical works. It was a ponderous roundabout species of humor peculiar to Nix, the works in question being supposed to furnish appropriate study for a person in our presumed position as admirer of Bud (or Boodh).
Nix has for some time past made himself very wearisome with continual allusions to Vishnu, Siva, Buddhism, and so forth. We gained one idea, however, from his jest. We have written a Hindoo play, the plot of which turns on the love of a devout Brahmin. The play is entirely finished save the last act, which is complete up to the point where Neer Je Haun declares his love for the Unblown Rose.
The Last Act of the Play
We took our play to the Adams’ to-night, and told Bud that it was nearly completed, but we were in some embarrassment how to conclude it. We had consequently come to consult her on the subject, begging at the same time she would give it her most careful attention, as her decision was of vital importance. We were alone. We had read the whole play through with the utmost care, till we came to the final sentence in our manuscript, where the hero declares his passion for the Unblown Rose. It runs thus:
Neer Je Haun. “Light of my soul, whose voice is sweeter than the murmur of the Ganges, whose name is incense to my nostrils, whose eyes are brighter than the fire-flies by night—my highest ambition is to be thy slave, my greatest hope to guard thee from harm, to bask in the radiance of thine eyes. For thee I would sacrifice all other earthly happiness. When I pray thee to share my humble fortunes, turn not away thy proud head; parch not my soul with scorn, though well I should deserve such a fate for my temerity.”
Now turning to Bud, we asked her to decide what answer the lover should receive; should he be accepted or rejected?
“Oh, accepted, of course!” eagerly exclaimed Bud, her bright eyes kindling with sympathy for the ardent Hindoo.
“It is well!” we replied, and wrote down the maiden’s answer.
“I will trust my life in thy hands from this day till death.”
“Is that right?” we asked.
She said it was, though perhaps a little cold.
We then drew from our breast pocket one sheet of the manuscript she had not yet seen. It was the title of the play:
The Worship of Bud
Bud colored—looked at us in an embarrassed way, and then with much hesitation was about to speak, when we stretched out our hand and said:
“You will not make us alter what we have written?”
She gave no answer, but from the pressure of her hand we knew we need doubt no more.
Now this heathen idolator would not change places with the greatest Christian monarch in Europe.