Twenty-One Days in India; and, The Teapot Series | Page 6

Mrs. Lollipop, "the joy of wild asses."
An Archdeacon is one of the busiest men in India--especially when he
is up on the hill among the sweet pine-trees. He is the recognised
guardian of public morality, and the hill captains and the semi-detached
wives lead him a rare life. There is no junketing at Goldstein's, no
picnic at the waterfalls, no games at Annandale, no rehearsals at Herr
Felix von Battin's, no choir practice at the church even, from which he
can safely absent himself. A word, a kiss, some matrimonial charm
dissolved--these electric disturbances of society must be averted. The
Archdeacon is the lightning conductor; where he is, the leaven of
naughtiness passes to the ground, and society is not shocked.
In the Bishop and the ordinary padre we have far-away people of
another world. They know little of us; we know nothing of them. We
feel much constraint in their presence. The presence of the
ecclesiastical sex imposes severe restrictions upon our conversation.
The Lieutenant-Governor of the South-Eastern Provinces once
complained to me that the presence of a clergyman rendered
nine-tenths of his vocabulary contraband, and choked up his fountains
of anecdote. It also restricts us in the selection of our friends. But with
an Archdeacon all this is changed. He is both of Heaven and Earth.
When we see him in the pulpit we are pleased to think that we are with
the angels; when we meet him in a ball-room we are flattered to feel
that the angels are with us. When he is with us--though, of course, he is
not of us--he is yet exceedingly like us. He may seem a little more
venerable than he is; perhaps there may be about him a grandfatherly
air that his years do not warrant; he may exact a "Sir" from us that is
not given to others of his worldly standing; but there is nevertheless
that in his bright and kindly eye--there is that in his side-long
glance--which by a charm of Nature transmutes homage into familiar
friendship, and respect into affection.

The character of Archdeacons as clergymen I would not venture to
touch upon. It is proverbial that Archidiaconal functions are Eleusinian
in their mysteriousness. No one, except an Archdeacon, pretends to
know what the duties of an Archdeacon are, so no one can say whether
these duties are performed perfunctorily and inadequately, or
scrupulously and successfully. We know that Archdeacons sometimes
preach, and that is about all we know. I know an Archdeacon in India
who can preach a good sermon--I have heard him preach it many a time,
once on a benefit night for the Additional Clergy Society. It wrung four
annas from me--but it was a terrible wrench. I would not go through it
again to have every living graduate of St. Bees and Durham disgorged
on our coral strand.
From my saying this do not suppose that I am Mr. Whitley Stokes, or
Babu Keshub Chundra Sen. I am a Churchman, beneath the surface,
though a pellicle of inquiry may have supervened. I am not with the
party of the Bishop, nor yet am I with Sir J.S., or Sir A.C. I abide in the
Limbo of Vanity, as a temporary arrangement, to study the seamy side
of Indian politics and morality, to examine misbegotten wars and
reforms with the scalpel, Stars of India with the spectroscope, and to
enjoy the society of half-a-dozen amusing people to whom the Empire
of India is but a wheel of fortune.
I like the recognised relations between the Archdeacon and women.
They are more than avuncular and less than cousinly; they are tender
without being romantic, and confiding without being burdensome. He
has the private entrée at chhoti hazri, or early breakfast; he sees loose
and flowing robes that are only for esoteric disciples; he has the private
entrée at five o'clock tea and hears plans for the evening campaign
openly discussed. He is quite behind the scenes. He hears the earliest
whispers of engagements and flirtations. He can give a stone to the
Press Commissioner in the gossip handicap, and win in a canter. You
cannot tell him anything he does not know already.
Whenever the Government of India has a merrymaking, he is out on the
trail. At Delhi he was in the thick of the mummery, beaming on
barbaric princes and paynim princesses, blessing banners, blessing

trumpeters, blessing proclamations, blessing champagne and truffles,
blessing pretty girls, and blessing the conjunction of planets that had
placed his lines in such pleasant places. His tight little cob, his perfect
riding kit, his flowing beard, and his pleasant smile were the admiration
of all the Begums and Nabobs that had come to the fair. The
Government of India took such delight in him that they gave him