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Title: The wondrous sickle, and other stories
Author: A. L. O. E.
Release date: December 30, 2025 [eBook #77569]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Gall and Inglis, 1892
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WONDROUS SICKLE, AND OTHER STORIES ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Day by day the monarch went out to reap his corn
and bind up his sheaves.]
THE
WONDROUS SICKLE
And Other Stories
BY
A. L. O. E.
_Authoress of "Ned Franks,"_
_"The White Bear's Dean," &c._
[Illustration]
London
GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
_AND EDINBURGH._
Contents.
——————
THE WONDROUS SICKLE
THE ZAMINDAR
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VILLAGE AND THE CITY
THE STRAIT GATE
AN HOUR OF PERIL
THE GENEROUS BENEFACTOR
THE DESECRATED TEMPLE
THE TWENTY-FOUR PIECES OF SILVER
THE BAD BARGAIN
THE ILL-FAVOURED BRIDE
THE LADDER OF LIFE
THE BRAHMIN BOY
THE
WONDROUS SICKLE
And Other Stories
THE
WONDROUS SICKLE.
[Illustration]
FATH MASIH had been appointed "patwari" * in a large village. Though
many Hindus and Mahomedans in that village had been annoyed at the
situation being given to a Christian, and some bigoted individuals
annoyed him as much as they could, the poor in general were pleased.
Here was a man who dealt justly; here was a man who took no bribes;
here was a man ready to listen to the appeal of the humblest, a friend
of the widow and the orphan. The people thought better of Christianity,
when they saw the life led by the Christian.
* The business of the patwari is to measure land, keep a map of
the district, &c. His is a small office under Government, giving
considerable opportunity for fleecing the peasantry.
Fath Masih and his wife were almost shut out from intercourse with any
others of their own faith. The only Christian whom they ever saw was
Ishák, who had a place in the Forest Department at a station ten miles
distant, and who, about once a-month, managed to come over and see
them. Ishák was a pious man, and a warm friend of Fath Masih. It might
be expected that the meeting between the two Christians would be a
great pleasure to both. It would, indeed, have been so, had not Ishák,
every time that he came to Durhiala, found Fath Masih more and more in
low health, and depressed in spirits.
"I can hardly endure this life," said the poor patwari, one day, as
he sat under the shade of a banyan beside his friend. "My wife and I
have no one with whom to hold Christian converse. There is no church
in which, on Sundays, our souls can be refreshed by hearing the Word
of God. When we are in trouble, there is no one to remind us that the
Lord chasteneth those whom He loveth. If we look to the right, behold,
a Hindu temple,—to the left, we see through the trees the domes of a
Mahomedan mosque. It is very depressing!"
"It is so, indeed," replied Ishák, who was himself in much the same
position. "But you have still the comfort of the Bible and prayer."
The face of Fath Masih grew only the sadder. He gave a deep sigh
before he replied,—"The worst of all is that I am losing my pleasure
in reading the Bible, and all my comfort in prayer. My soul, from want
of Christian intercourse, is becoming dry, like a field that never is
watered. I fear that were my Lord to send a message to me, as He did to
Ephesus of old, it would be, 'I have something against thee: thou hast
fallen from thy first love'" (Rev. ii. 4). The words ended with a deep
sigh.
Ishák looked anxiously at his friend, whose melancholy was evidently
affecting his health.
"Does your wife feel the loneliness as much as you do?" asked Ishák,
after a pause.
"Perhaps not," replied Fath Masih gravely. "Many women come to visit
my wife, both Mahomedan and Hindu, but their talk is mere gossip. They
show their jewels, expect my wife to take pleasure in their weddings,
and mourn at their funerals. But, of course, there is no religious
intercourse between them."
Ishák looked almost as grave as his friend on hearing this. He had
noticed that Moni's dress was less distinctively Christian than it had
been in the city in which she had formerly dwelt; that she wore more
gaudy ornaments, as if to look like the women around her. He fancied
that Fath Masih was not quite satisfied with his wife, and felt that,
in this heathen place, her love, like his own, was growing cold.
"I sometimes wonder whether I ought to stop in Durhiala," said Fath
Masih.
"Your present situation was procured with much difficulty," observed
his friend; "and I remember how fervently you thanked God for granting
your prayers at last, and enabling you to be independent of all
assistance from the Mission."
"Yes, I was thankful, and I am thankful, for this," replied Fath Masih.
"I think it a mean thing, and a wrong thing, for a man who can support
himself to be always coming for help, and taking from the store, which
is all too small to supply the wants of such as are really unable to
work. I have seen men—with a great show of religion, too—who seemed
to me like the leech, with their one cry of 'Give, give!' Thank God!
I am able to help the good cause a little myself, instead of sitting
with folded hands, expecting others to put bread into the mouth of
a sluggard." Fath Masih followed the excellent example of those who
always give at least a tenth of whatever they possess to God, and find
that they are never the poorer for so doing.
"Were you to leave your post here, you would be dependent again,"
observed Ishák.
"That is what keeps me here, and the thought that God sent me here,"
said Fath Masih. "But am I right in believing that He sent me here,
when my soul is in danger of starving for lack of spiritual food? Its
life seems to be decreasing day by day. If we remain here long, I fear
that we shall be 'dead' Christians—Christians only in name!" Fath Masih
turned his face aside, to hide the tears that had started into his eyes.
Ishák said nothing more at that time, and indeed had then no
opportunity to continue the subject, for Moni gave notice that she had
served up the evening meal.
The food was eaten almost in silence. Fath Masih felt too sad and too
ill to care to eat much, and his friend was lost in thought. But when
the "pilau" was succeeded by fruit, as the heap of ripe mangoes rapidly
lessened, Ishák, in a cheerful tone, engaged in conversation, and even
Fath Masih, swallowing the luscious golden juice, seemed to forget half
his gloom. Ishák offered to tell a story, and Moni, as well as her
husband, gladly listened.
"Once upon a time there was a king, good and just, and beloved by his
subjects. But he had not been long seated on the throne before his
health began to fail. Re cared not to go forth from his palace, and all
its beautiful adornments gave him no pleasure. The feast spread before
him he scarcely tasted, for all his appetite was gone. The king grew
thin, his form wasted, he had no spirit either for work or amusement.
At last, the courtiers whispered amongst themselves, 'Alas! Alas! Our
king is gradually wasting away! He will not long remain in this world!'
"Many doctors were sent for; various were the opinions which they gave
as to the cause of the king's illness, the nature of his disease. Some
persons even hinted at poison. Much medicine was given to the king, but
still he grew no better. He seemed at last unable to do anything but
recline on cushions, taking hardly any nourishment, and finding solace
in nothing but smoking his hookah. It was commonly reported in the
city, 'Our good king is going to die.'
"At last, a very famous physician from a neighbouring country was sent
by its friendly king. The fame of this physician had been spread far
and wide, so numerous had been the cures which he had wrought. It was
said, 'Our king's last chance is from this man's skill; if it fail in
this case, all hope is lost!'
"The physician was admitted to the presence of the king, whom he found
pale and almost lifeless, with closed eyes, extended on his soft couch.
The physician felt the king's pulse, inquired into his symptoms, and
then asked for twenty-four hours before deciding on his case.
"Those twenty-four hours were a time of great anxiety to many both
within and without the palace, and most of all to the poor sick king.
"The next day the physician returned with something wrapped up in an
embroidered cloth, and with a countenance so cheerful that the hearts
of all gathered hope.
"'Have you, O physician! found out any cure for my grievous sickness?'
asked the king.
"'I have found something, O Ruler of the world! which, by the favour
of the All-merciful, may work a cure, if used with courage and
perseverance,' said the physician.
"'I will shrink from no remedy, however painful,' cried the king, 'if
only my lost health can be restored.'
"The physician slowly opened the folds of the cloth, and behold! a
bright sickle, with handle of carved ivory, appeared in view. The
attendants looked on in wonder, for they knew not by what magic power a
sickle could work a cure.
"Then said the physician, 'Every day, O mighty Monarch! take this
sickle in your royal hand, and descend into yon field in which I behold
corn ripening in the sunshine. Ply the sickle with force and vigour,
until the ivory handle almost cleave to the hand that grasps it, and
the toil-drops stand on your Majesty's brow. Then, returning to the
palace, deign to partake of the food which will then be set before your
Majesty. Persevere in thus using my sickle until yon field be reaped,
and if my lord's health be not improved, let his servant's head be the
forfeit.'
"The sick monarch agreed to try the virtue of the wonderful sickle,
which, when not actually used, was, by his command, to be kept locked
up in a sandal-wood chest. No one was to touch one ear of corn in the
little field except the king, who hoped to gather health from its
reaping.
"He went forth alone on the following morning with the wonderful
sickle, nor returned till his hand almost clave to the ivory, and the
toil-drops stood on his brow.
"Bring me food—and quickly!' cried the king, 'I am half dead with
fatigue!' And he threw himself back on his cushions.
"Food was served in silver vessels. The courtiers looked on wondering
as the king proceeded to eat it.
"'Yesterday,' whispered one, 'the dishes went away almost as full as
when they were brought. To-day the king has almost finished the pilau,
and now he is busy with the curry and rice!'
"After a plentiful meal, the king, who was usually sleepless, fell into
a long, deep slumber. When he awoke, he observed with a smile, 'I have
not had such a sleep for many months. There must be magic virtue in the
sickle.'
"Day by day the monarch went out to reap his corn, and bind up his
sheaves, which were always given to the poor. Day by day he returned
weary, and very hungry. His step grew firmer, his eye brighter, he
was far more cheerful and hopeful. Soon the king gave audience to
ambassadors, then felt able again to judge the cause of the poor in
person. All the dwellers in the city rejoiced to see his returning
health, all praised the gifted physician, and sick grandees offered the
latter thousands of rupees for magic sickles like that used by the king.
"When all the corn in the little field had been reaped by the royal
hand, the monarch sent for the physician. He loaded the doctor with
praises and costly gifts, and permitted him to return to his own land.
The wonderful sickle was preserved amongst the choicest treasures of
the king."
"Was there really magic virtue in the sickle?" asked Fath Masih, when
Ishák had finished his story.
Ishák's only reply was a smile.
"I suspect that the real medicine in it was the work which it made the
king do, and the cure was the effect of that work on the monarch's
health and spirits," observed Moni, who was a very intelligent woman.
"True," was Ishák's reply, "and it was not without a purpose that I
have told you this story, which I read in a book long ago. Fath Masih!
Your soul is faint, you are almost weary of life; you think that you
are placed in a spiritual desert; I see in it a field, yea, a promising
field of corn. You are surrounded by enemies of your faith; there is
not one amongst them that is not a possible convert to that faith.
To the Hindu temple and Mahomedan mosque throng beings with immortal
souls, souls that our Lord died to save, souls that may be won for Him.
Take the sharp weapon of God's Word in your hand; grasp it by the ivory
handle of prayer. Why hath God brought you to this dark place but that
your light may shine to His glory! There is little danger of love dying
out when it is actively, prayerfully engaged in work for the good of
souls."
Fath Masih made no reply, his eyes were fixed on the ground. A painful
consciousness had come upon him that his conduct had been that of the
man who buried his talent in the earth. He was becoming less and less
"fervent in spirit," because not "serving the Lord."
No more was said in conversation on the subject, but when Ishák that
evening led the family devotions, he earnestly prayed that the Holy
Spirit of God might be shed into the heart of each present, that not
one might stand idle when the Lord saith, 'Go work in my vineyard;'
but that all might inherit the blessing promised to those who, turning
'many to righteousness, shall shine as the stars for ever and ever.'
(Daniel xii. 3).
"We are all weakness!" he cried. "But Thou, O Lord, art our strength!
Thou canst put treasure into earthen vessels; Thou canst touch the dumb
lips with living fire; Thou canst give power to the feeblest reaper;
and from Thee alone we look for the harvest, the precious harvest of
souls!"
Ishák departed on the following morning, and a longer time than usual
elapsed before he was again able to revisit his friend. The weather
being exceedingly hot, Ishák started on his long walk to Durhiala
whilst the stars were yet shining in the sky, and arrived about two
hours after sunrise.
As Ishák approached the village, he met ten or twelve little children,
some of whom had primers in their hands, and who were smilingly
repeating to each other some simple rhyme which they had just been
learning.
"What! Is there a school in Durhiala?" asked Ishák of the eldest child
of the party.
"No, there never was a school," said the child; "but the patwari's bibi
lets us come to her of a morning, and teaches us 'bhajans' * and our
letters, and when we learn well, she sometimes gives us fruit."
* A wild kind of song, much admired by Hindus.
"And she tells us such nice stories!" cried a smiling, bright-eyed
little girl.
"What kind of stories?" asked Ishák.
Then half-a-dozen eager voices answered at once—
"Oh! About the Holy Baby that was put in a manger."
"About the Lord who loves little children."
"About the song of the angels."
"About the lost sheep and the Good Shepherd!"
Ishák smiled on the eager little pupils, and passed on, with a silent
thanksgiving to God that Moni had laid her hand to the sickle.
One lame little girl came limping after the rest.
Ishák stopped to speak to her also. "Have you too been to the patwari's
bibi?" he asked.
The child looked up timidly into his face, and reading kindness there
she replied, "She has been putting something on my bad boils to make
them well."
"Is the bibi clever at making people well?" inquired Ishák.
The girl looked rather doubtful. "She could not make little brother
well, though she tried," was the child's reply. "She sat beside him
all night long, but he died in the morning, and poor mother sobbed and
wailed, for he was her only boy."
"Did the bibi not try to comfort her?" asked Ishák gently, stooping
down to listen to the scarcely audible reply.
"The bibi told mother that she had lost her own—her only little baby;
but she said that God had comforted her in her trouble, for she knew
that her baby had gone to be with the Lord Jesus, who carries little
lambs in His bosom."
Again a silent thanksgiving arose from the heart of Ishák. "My friend's
wife is like the woman who hid leaven in three measures of meal,"
he said to himself. "Oh! May God make this once childless woman the
spiritual mother of many!"
Ishák had now come in view of the patwari's house. He saw Fath
Masih, who was engaged in such earnest conversation with an
intelligent-looking young man, that he did not notice the approach of
his friend.
Tired as he was, Ishák would not interrupt the conversation, for, from
the earnest manner of the speakers, and the few words which reached his
ears, it was evident that it was on the subject of religion. Ishák saw
Fath Masih place a little book in the young man's hand, and heard his
parting words, "You promise to read it—and with prayer!"
The reply Ishák could not hear, but he read it in the thoughtful
countenance of the young man as he turned and departed with a copy of
the Gospel in his hand.
Then Fath Masih caught sight of Ishák, and hastened to welcome him,
with a countenance beaming with joy. As he grasped his friend's hand,
he exclaimed, "O Ishák, I thank God for bringing me here! I think that
there are three real inquirers in this place!"
"You too have laid your hand to the sickle," said Ishák; "and, to judge
from your face, you do not find the work irksome."
"It is a blessed, blessed work!" exclaimed Fath Masih. "God forgive me
for leaving it so long undone! I feel now that not only missionaries,
but every Christian in India should pass on the glad tidings to others.
I used to content myself with praying, 'Lord! The harvest is great;
send forth more labourers into Thy harvest.' Now I myself have heard
His call, and venture humbly to say, 'Here am I, send me!'"
"But do not your efforts raise up much opposition?" asked Ishák. "Do
you not bring yourself into trouble?"
"I have sometimes a little of that trouble which is coupled with a
blessing," replied Fath Masih cheerfully. "But I never now feel that
weariness, that deadness of spirit which oppressed me when last you
were here. My experience has been something like that of the king in
your story," he added, smiling; "I find that health, and vigour, and
joy come from the use of the wonderful sickle!"
[Illustration]
THE ZAMINDAR.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE sun had set; the red glow had just died away in the sky, but
the moon had risen. A railway official, named Karim, stood on the
platform of the small station of Banda, watching for an expected train.
A zamindar (peasant) * named Matrá, came up to him, and asked him
respectfully when the train from Calcutta would arrive.
* In parts of India, a farmer.
"I expect it in ten minutes," answered Karim.
The zamindar sat down on the ground, like one who is very weary. As
Karim looked at him, pity arose in the official's heart. Matrá was
quite young, scarcely eighteen years of age, but lines of care were
already on his features. His blanket was little better than a rag. His
limbs, naturally strong and graceful, were thin as if from lack of
food. As he sat on the ground, a deep sigh came from the poor zamindar.
"You seem tired," observed Karim kindly.
"I was up before the sun, and have been driving the plough all the
day," said Matrá; "and now I have just walked seven miles to this
station."
"Are you going a long journey?" asked Karim, who noticed that the
zamindar had no bundle with him, not even a hookah or brass lota.
"I am not going on any journey," replied the zamindar. "I have come to
meet the train, because I hope that it may bring my father."
"You must be very anxious to see him that you come so far after a long
day's work," observed Karim, seating himself beside the zamindar on an
empty box which chanced to be on the platform.
It was pleasant to the zamindar to have some one to converse with, some
one who spoke in a friendly tone, and who was willing to listen. Matrá
was soon telling his simple story.
"My father is a sepoy," he said, "and it is ten or twelve years since
he left our village to march away with his regiment. I can remember
that day very well; how grand I thought it to see the sepoys marching,
and hear the music playing. But we have never had anything but trouble
since that unlucky day. First came my marriage."
"Was that a trouble?" asked Karim, smiling.
"It did not seem so at the time. We had fine clothes, and feasting,
and drum-beating, and fireworks let off in our village. It was a
grand 'tamasha!' The girl's family were Chhatries, so, of course, my
grandfather would have all done in good style, and many rupees were
given both to the father of the bride and the Brahmins, and there were
jewels to buy besides. Then first my grandfather fell into debt, and in
debt we have been ever since. It is easier to get into a bog than out
of it."
Karim nodded his head in assent.
[Illustration: "You must be very anxious to see him that you come so
far after a long day's work," observed Karim.]
"Before the girl came to live with us," continued the young zamindar,
"as she was playing with her little companions on the top of the house,
she fell over, broke her neck, and was taken up dead!"
Matrá could not be expected to mourn much for a child-wife whom he had
hardly seen. Karim rightly guessed that the zamindar's evident regret
was chiefly on account of the debt incurred by the expense of such a
profitless marriage. "And what were your other troubles?" he asked.
"My grandfather fell sick not long after this, and sick he continued
for years. He had no son but my father, and my father was far away
with the army. Mere boy as I was, I did what I could, looked after the
buffaloes, and worked in the fields, but I could not do the work of a
man. And there was always the debt a-growing, like the gourds in the
rains."
"Did your father do nothing to help you?" inquired Karim.
"He sent several times five-rupee notes," said the zamindar, "but it
was like throwing stones into a bog, which swallows them up and you see
no more of them. The money-lenders could never have enough. My mother
fretted and went on pilgrimage, and bathed at holy ghauts, and did
pujá at many shrines. But she took the smallpox and died, though she
had made many offerings to the goddess of smallpox." Matrá sighed very
deeply; the loss of his mother lay much more heavily on his heart than
that of his little wife.
"You have indeed had troubles," observed Karim.
"You have not heard the end of them," said the poor young zamindar. "My
grandfather died at last. I paid all the respect I could to his body. I
feasted for days a hundred neighbours who came to its burning, gave a
cow and many rupees to the Máhá-Brahmin, and myself carried the ashes
to the Ganges, though it was just the season when the corn was ripe
for reaping. If I had been in the bog of debt before, I was now up to
my eyes! It's heartless work watering one's fields in the dry season,
and seeing the corn springing up so green, when one knows that the
money-lender may sweep down any day like the locusts, and eat up all
the fruit of one's toil!"
"Is not running into debt at all the cause of the mischief?" observed
Karim.
"What is to be done?" said the zamindar sadly. "Wedding and funeral
ceremonies are the ruin of the poor, and bad seasons which come now and
then, when there's drought, and the heat dries up all the crop."
"Have you no relations to help you?" asked Karim.
"Not one on earth but my poor old grandmother, who is now scarcely able
even to spin or card cotton; and my father, who has been so long away.
But he is coming back at last!" said the zamindar, and a look of joy
beamed on his careworn face. "I had a letter from him some weeks ago
(I've learned to read a little in a village school), and I made out
that he would be here before the rabi * harvest is ripe; the corn is
green enough yet, but I thought that after work, I would come over here
to meet him. Maybe my father will arrive sooner than he said; any-ways,
I would not miss my chance of the first sight of him, if I had to walk
twenty miles."
* The spring harvest. Let it be borne in mind that there are two annual
harvests at least in some parts of India, so that the zamindar may
often be seen ploughing in one field, while a rich crop covers the next
one.
"Would you remember the face of the father whom you have not seen since
you were a child?" asked Karim.
"I know that he was tall—taller than any other peasant in our
village—and that he used to seat me on his shoulder, and then I could
pluck mangoes from the high boughs," replied Matrá, brightening at the
recollection of the happy time which he had had with his father. "I
can't just bring his face to my mind—I wish that I could—but surely I
should know him if he arrived. How long the train is of coming!" he
said suddenly, looking down the long, dark line of railway.
"The whistle has not yet sounded," said the official; "we shall have
notice when the train is drawing near."
CHAPTER II.
"I TOO have had many troubles," said Karim, after a little pause,
"perhaps even greater troubles than you. But my Father has helped me
out of them all."
"It is a great thing to have a father near at hand," said the young
zamindar. "Probably you live with yours, and see him every day."
"I have never seen Him yet," replied Karim.
"Never seen him yet!" repeated Matrá. "Then you are worse off than I
am. But you say that he helps you in all your troubles."
"There is not a thing that happens to grieve me that I do not tell Him
of," said Karim, "and my Father sets everything right. There never was
another so kind and so wise, or so powerful either."
"Then I wonder that he keeps you here looking after the trains,"
observed Matrá. "He might find some better situation for you; or, if he
be rich, give you all that you want, without need of your working at
all."
"My Father thinks it better for me to earn my bread by honest labour,"
observed the official. "But after awhile, He will call me to His own
beautiful dwelling-place, and put splendid robes upon me, and give me
freely all that my heart can desire."
"I wish that my father could do so," said Matrá; "but I doubt that he
will ever have enough to pay off our debt. Does your father live very
far off, that he never sees you at all?"
"He sees me always," said Karim, looking upwards; "night and day, in
darkness and light, He is ever close beside me. God is my Heavenly
Father, I have now no parent beside Him."
"Are you a Christian?" asked the zamindar. There was a little scorn in
his tone as he uttered the word.
"I am a Christian," was Karim's reply. "A year ago, I had father,
mother, brother, sisters, friends, and as many rupees as I chose to
spend; now I am cast off by every one except that Heavenly Father,
whose love makes up for all."
The zamindar did not understand why a man should give up home and
everything for the sake of changing his religion. "I suppose that you
were a Mahomedan," he said.
"I was, and a bigoted one," replied Karim.
"I think that the Mahomedan religion is good for the Mahomedans, and
the Christian for the English, and the Hindu for us Hindus," said
Matrá. "I believe what my fathers believed, and do what my fathers did.
They always performed pujá to the gods."
"And what benefit did they receive from so doing?" asked Karim.
It was a difficult question to answer; Matrá did not attempt to reply.
"You do pujá to many gods; we pray but to One Supreme Being," said
Karim; "He is the Maker of everything that we behold, the bright sun,
yon moon, earth, sea, and the myriads of creatures that live therein.
As to a man there can be but one father, so can there be but one God,
and that God is Love. This is what we are taught in our holy Book."
"I know that you Christians believe not in Krishan, Vishnu, or
Mahedeo," said Matrá, slowly rising to his feet, as if inclined to end
the conversation.
"Listen to me, brother," said Karim, also rising to a standing
position. "You are expecting your father by the coming train, a father
whom you love, though you do not remember his face. Suppose that, when
the train stops, a Brahmin should get out of a carriage, and carry with
him some dozens of images, one with the head of an elephant, another
with a hundred arms, another with no shape at all, and should say to
you, 'Rejoice, O zamindar! "These" are the fathers whom you have been
expecting so long! Would you take the figures of brass or stone to your
bosom, and cry, 'Now am I satisfied!' Would you receive the lifeless
things, and acknowledge them to be your parent indeed?"
The zamindar shook his head. He was expecting a living father, a loving
father; he could not receive as such any image of stone or brass.
"And if it would be an insult to your parent to let an image for
one moment take his place, think you that the one great Father, the
Eternal, the Invisible, is not offended when His creatures liken Him to
such monstrous forms as you do pujá to in your temples?"
"No one ever spake such things to me before," said Matrá, his common
sense striving against the force of old habits, and his fear of the
anger of those whom he had been taught to look on as gods.
"Listen but a minute longer," said Karim earnestly. "If in your village
you heard any one saying that your father had committed theft, murder,
and done other things that it is shameful even to mention, would you
listen with a pleased countenance, and reward the speaker at the end?"
"I would break the liar's head with my goad!" muttered the young
zamindar.
"And yet you are willing that Brahmins should tell you of deities
committing crimes, which, if committed by a man, would drive him
from society and bring him to prison, or to the gallows! Look at yon
clear sky with its pure moon, and the stars just beginning to shine
above us, can you believe it to be peopled with beings revelling in
blood, delighting in suffering, pleased with the shrieks of helpless
babes flung into the Ganges, or the groans of victims crushed under
Juggernath's car? Does not Nature, beautiful, bounteous, pure, tell of
a Maker all perfect and holy—repeat, as it were, the words of our Book,
that there is one God, the Heavenly Father of all, and that He is Love?"
There was no time for reply, for as Karim uttered the last word, the
whistle was heard which announced the coming train. Soon, snorting and
puffing, like some mighty monster, its one red eye gleaming through the
gloom, the train rushed up. It slackened its pace, and then stopped as
it reached the side of the platform. Karim was ready at his post. With
lamp in his hand, he passed from carriage to carriage, giving the name
of the station in case any traveller should wish to alight.
Eagerly Matrá ran along the platform, passing the carriages occupied
by Europeans with scarcely a glance at the faces within, but anxiously
peering into every one filled with natives. The station was a small
one, and but few passengers alighted. There was a sahib whose "sais"
(groom) was waiting with his horse, a bunniah and his family, and that
was all. There was not a trace of a sepoy.
It was with a heavy heart as well as weary limbs that poor Matrá left
the station. He knew too well the face of the bunniah, for he owed him
a debt, and had found in him one of the hardest of his creditors. The
poor man slunk away, as debtors will, with mingled fear and shame.
Matrá murmured to himself as he left the station, "I have had my weary
walk for nothing."
CHAPTER III.
HAD Matrá indeed had his walk for nothing? Any one who could have read
his heart as he went on his homeward way would hardly have said so.
A seed of truth, a living seed had been dropped there, and had found
good soil to grow in. As Matrá walked on, with the soft pure moonlight
around him, he almost forgot his weariness, he almost forgot his
burden of debt, so constantly were Karim's words coming back to his
mind—"There is but one God, and that God is Love."
"The one God of the English seems to do more for them than our millions
of gods do for us," thought Matrá. "The English press onward like
that engine which I saw rushing into the station, with a long line of
carriages behind it. What speed, what straight course, what power! We
go on like one of our country waggons, creaking along in the old ruts,
and sometimes a wheel comes off or an ox drops down, and there we are
left on the road. What makes the difference between us? The engine goes
faster and better, pushed on by something which we cannot see, than
does the cart with the oxen which we always are goading. The God of the
Christians must be a very strong God, and the man at the station says
that He is a very kind one; but it's likely enough that He would have
nothing to do with poor Hindu zamindars such as we."
Matrá found his old grandmother Sibbi still awake, and preparing for
him some chapatties. The poor old woman, with her shrunken fleshless
limbs, looked almost like a living skeleton as she crouched by her
little oven. There was not much appearance of life about her except in
the wistful black eyes deep sunken under the brows whitened by age.
Sibbi was a strange old woman, not like the others in the village, and
no great favourite with them. She could actually think of something
besides marriage and funeral ceremonies, pilgrimages and pujás. Even
before she became a widow, Sibbi's whole heart had not been set on
her ornaments, and she had sold all of any value to help to pay her
husband's debts, taking even the ring out of her nose. Sibbi had drawn
upon herself the anger of the Máhá-Brahmin, by suggesting to her
grandson that on account of their exceeding poverty, the gift to him of
a very old and almost useless cow might be sufficient. It was indeed
the only one which the family possessed, but another was procured to
satisfy the covetousness of the Brahmin.
It was supposed, and probably with reason, that the difference which
existed between old Sibbi and her neighbours was caused by her having,
when eleven years old, passed six weeks in the house of an English
lady. The parents of Sibbi had lost her at one of the great melás at
which tens of thousands of Hindus assemble, melás which occasion a
fearful amount of confusion, disease, and misery. An English magistrate
found the poor girl, frightened and almost famished, crying by the
side of the road. In compassion, he took her home to his wife. Sibbi
received in that English home kindness which she never forgot. She was
clothed, fed, and allowed to attend on the Mem Sahiba's sweet little
girl.
In that house Sibbi had, as it were, a glimpse of paradise; and though
a loving daughter, she was hardly glad when her parents found her at
last. The parents took her away back to their village, though the lady
offered to keep her. From that day, the usual occupations of zamindars'
girls were those of Sibbi. She cooked, she carded cotton and spun it,
she worked in the fields; married early, was a servant to her husband,
and a slave to her husband's mother; but she often recalled the past,
and asked herself if the six weeks, so unlike all that preceded or
followed them, had not been a beautiful dream! One persuasion remained
on her mind, that there were other places in the world besides her
mud-built village, and that people existed more clever, and at least as
holy as Brahmins.
Matrá sat down hungry to his insufficient meal, having first washed
his hands, feet, and face. He could have eaten twice as much as
was prepared, but took care to leave something for his poor old
grandmother. Matrá took his meal in silence, but then told Sibbi all
that had passed between himself and the man at the station.
"One God,—and that God is Love!" repeated Sibbi to herself, looking
like one trying to recall something that has almost escaped memory, as
she put her wasted hand to her wrinkled forehead. "Missy Baba learned
to say that, little Missy Baba—the pretty one—who died. I almost cried
my eyes out when they took her away to bury her!"
Tears came into the old woman's eyes as she remembered the sorrow which
nearly fifty years had not effaced from her loving heart. "Missy Baba
could not speak many words even in her own language, but the Mem taught
her to say, 'Our Father' and 'God is Love,' that she might repeat them
to me. She said them both the very day that she died. And when I was
crying and moaning over the little form that looked so peaceful where
it lay still and cold on the bed with a rose on its breast, the Mem
said to me, quite quiet and calm-like, 'She has gone to the God who
is Love.' I never shall forget that night! I wondered why the Mem did
not moan and beat her breast as we do, she loved the little darling so
dearly."
"Perhaps," thought Matrá, "the same great Father who helps that
Christian in all his troubles was comforting the poor mother too." Then
Matrá observed aloud, "How could the Mem Sahib be sure that her child
had been taken to her God—how could she know that her soul had not
passed, by a new birth, into some unclean dog or ass?"
"I am sure that it never did!" said Sibbi quickly. "Missy Baba's soul
could never have gone into anything unclean. I often think that she's
somewhere up above, like one of those; stars, safe with the Heavenly
Father!" And as she spoke, the old Hindu pointed with her trembling
fingers to a brilliant star in the east.
Another seed of truth had been dropped into the mind of Matrá, a
thought of One who could not only support in life, but receive after
death. But it was as yet as a seed wrapt up in its husk, that needs
warmth and moisture to make it rise up to life, and burst forth to
beauty.
CHAPTER IV.
"I WONDER whether that poor half-starved fellow will come over again
this evening on the chance of meeting his father," said Karim to
himself, as on the following evening he again took his station on the
platform to watch for the train. "Here come some to meet the train, but
I take it that they are very different sort of folk from my zamindar."
A prisoner, in clanking irons, led by two policemen, stood now on the
platform. He was going to be tried on a charge of murder, and if a
man's character could be read in his face, this one might have been
deemed guilty of any crime. Fierce wolf-like eyes glared under a mass
of shaggy hair, and as he squatted on the ground, just under the yellow
gleam of the lamp, he looked somewhat like a wild beast crouching in
the act to spring.
As Karim gazed at this wretched man with mingled pity and disgust,
he was saluted by Matrá, the zamindar. Karim courteously returned
the salám, and then walked to the other end of the platform, that
conversation might not be overheard by policemen or prisoner, if, as he
thought probable, the zamindar should talk to him again.
As he expected, Matrá followed his steps.
"Have you been thinking over what I said to you last night?" asked
Karim, when both men had reached the end of the platform.
"I've thought of little else," said the peasant. "As I watered my
buffaloes, and drove my plough, I was always turning over in my mind
what you told me of the one God, who lives up yonder, the God of Love."
"And you believe that I spake truth?" asked the railway official.
"How can I believe it?" cried the zamindar bitterly. "If God be a God
of love, why is the world so full of misery? Why are the poor oppressed
and trodden down like the dust under foot? Why is there crime and
wickedness?" Matrá pointed as he spake towards the prisoner. "The sun,
the dew, the rain, and the green crops seem to tell us that there is a
great God who made them, and who wishes man to be happy; but thorns and
briars, locusts and blight, plague and pestilence, poverty and famine,
they tell quite a different tale. If God be good, and powerful too, how
came misery into the world?"
"It is a sad story, and a somewhat long one," said Karim, "but if you
wish, you shall hear the account given in our Scriptures."
"I wish to hear it," said Matrá.
"The good God when He had made this world, created one man and one
woman, from whom all the people that ever lived are descended."
"What!" exclaimed Matrá in surprise. "English, Hindus, Brahmins,
Mehtars,—all descended from one pair! This is not what our Vedas tell
us."
"No indeed," replied Karim; "your Gorus tell you that Brahmins came
from Brahma's mouth, and low caste folk from his feet; being Brahmins
themselves, they have their own reasons for telling you this," he
added, with a smile. "But listen to the true account given in the
Holy Scriptures. This first pair, named Adam and Eve, God placed in a
beautiful garden, where they lived in love, innocence, and joy. They
had abundance of fruits to eat; only as regarded one tree, the Maker
of all gave command, 'Thou shalt not eat of its fruit; if thou eatest
thereof thou shalt surely die."
"Such a command was easily obeyed," observed Matrá.
"There was an evil spirit, called Satan, who envied the peace and
happiness in which dwelt Adam and Eve. He had, however, no power to
harm them, unless he could tempt them into sin. Alas! He succeeded
too well! It was as if the husband and wife had had a choice placed
before them, 'Will you believe God or Satan? Will you choose God or
Satan to be your master?' A fatal choice was made. The woman ate of the
forbidden fruit and gave it to her husband, and from that hour both
fell under the power of cruel Satan. Misery, pain, sin, and death came
into the world!"
"An evil hour for the first pair," said Matrá, "as it was for my
grandfather when he first got into the clutches of the money-lenders,
and mortgaged our land. But was it not rather hard that all the race
born of this man and woman should suffer as well as themselves?"
"Let us take your simile," said Karim. "Your grandfather, by his act,
laid a heavy debt upon you, his grandson, but you yourself, by your own
account, have added to the debt. So not only were Adam and Eve sinners,
but Satan once getting power in the world, has tempted and drawn into
sin every man and woman in it, and one terrible sentence, that of death
for the body, and death for the soul (which is eternal separation from
God) hangs over all."
"Could not God forgive us all the debt, as He is, as you tell me,
Love?" inquired the zamindar.
"If your creditor took you before the judge, and that judge were the
kindest man in the world, he might pity you, indeed, but justice would
compel him to give a sentence against you. The judge might be powerful,
wise and good, but still you would be ruined."
Poor Matrá looked very sad; he knew that this was indeed too true.
A just and kind judge could not save him from the consequences of
incurring a debt which he could not pay.
"I don't think that there is any comfort at all in your religion," said
the zamindar with a sigh. "If it only tells us that we are in the power
of a wicked spirit, and that we are separated for ever from God, and
have a great debt like a heavy stone hung round our necks to drown us,
it makes us out to be in a miser able state indeed."
"But from that state God has found a way to save us," cried Karim
cheerfully. "If you were to be told how all your debt could be cleared
off at once, and that you should be restored to your father, and live
all the rest of your life in plenty and peace, would not your heart be
glad?"
"I should feel as if I were in heaven!" cried Matrá. But he sighed
after he had uttered the words, for he felt that he could no more hope
for such joy than he could build a house on a rainbow.
"God 'has' found a way of saving us, of freeing us from Satan, of
paying our debt, of—" here Karim was suddenly interrupted by the shrill
railway whistle.
Matrá had been so much interested in the conversation that he had
almost forgotten for the moment why he had come to the station. But now
the sound of the whistle gave him joy, for it might be the signal that
his father was near.
The same sound made a groan burst from the wretched prisoner, for it
told him that he was soon to be hurried off to the place of his trial,
probably the place of his execution. It is with such different feelings
that God's children and His enemies hear that death draws nigh. To the
first it brings hopes of a blissful meeting, to the latter the terror
of coming judgment
CHAPTER V.
AGAIN, on the train's arrival, Matrá ran anxiously along the line of
carriages, in search of his father. There was the usual hum of many
speaking, and the hissing noise of the steam let out from the boiler,
but no sound of greeting from a once familiar voice! The prisoner was
hurried by his keepers into a third-class carriage, and Matrá saw him
no more.
Once again the zamindar sorrowfully retraced his steps homewards.
He had not the same peaceful feeling which had soothed him on the
preceding night. It was not so much a God of Love that had been
presented to his mind, as the terrible condition of those born and
living in sin.
"Satan was cruel indeed to make the man and woman so miserable,"
thought Matrá, "when they were so peaceful and happy. Why did they
listen to his evil counsel? But I might as well ask, why did we go
into debt? We knew well enough that a money-lender's heart is as hard
as a buffalo's hide. The crackers at my wedding were soon let off, the
fireworks died into darkness, the sweetmeats were eaten, the fun was
over, and then came the debt to crush us! We've had to pay dear for
the honour of the thing. Why, all that we have borrowed for wedding,
burning, and everything else hardly came to 500 rupees, and I'm sure
that, little by little, 'we've paid the whole sum three times over,' *
yet the debt remains large as ever!
"Our land is mortgaged, every inch of it; my creditors only leave
the fields to me now, because they enable me to work, and as long as
I can work, they can squeeze something out of me still, ay, if it
were my very life-blood! Were I to fall sick—and ill-fed as I am, I
am likely enough to do so—they would be down on me at once. My poor
old grandmother and I might just lie down by the side of the road and
perish of hunger. That station-man did but mock my misery when he asked
how I should feel if I heard that my debt could be cleared off at once,
and I be restored to my father, with peace and plenty before me. That
never, never will be!"
* I fear that this is no exaggeration. The simple peasants are
grievously cheated, and pay enormous interest.
Matrá walked fast, as if he wished to walk away from his own bitter
thoughts, but they followed him like his black shadow. When he had
almost reached his mud hut, which was at the nearer end of the village,
the zamindar heard a low murmuring behind some bushes, in a voice which
he recognised as that of his grandmother.
Noiselessly Matrá approached the spot, near enough to catch the meaning
of the words uttered. The old woman, with her hands pressed together,
and her forehead almost touching the ground was in the attitude of one
performing pujá, but there was no temple or idol in that place, only
the quiet jungle before her, and the dark blue sky above her. These
were the words which the zamindar heard, broken by a few low sobs—
"I have done pujá at many shrines, but the gods do not hear me; I am
poor and old, and getting blind, and if my son does not come back soon,
I shall die without seeing his face. O God of Love! Hear me! We are
very needy and wretched, and sorely want Thy help. Perhaps up in the
bright place Thou canst look down on us poor ignorant folk, who do not
even know how to pray. Wilt Thou be angry if I too say, 'Our Father,'
and beg Thee very, very hard to send back my only son!"
A slight rustling in the bush made by Matrá, startled the poor old
woman. She raised herself trembling lest she should have drawn upon
herself a storm of wrath by such a strange and terrible act as that of
addressing the God of the Christians. It had been some remembrance of
olden days that had made the poor creature attempt to do what she had
seen done by the English lady and Missy Baba.
Matrá looked on Sibbi quietly for some time without uttering a word.
In the faint moonlight, and with her dimmed eyes she could not tell
from his face whether her grandson were angry or not. Still less could
Sibbi read the strange thoughts that were rising in the soul of Matrá.
Without knowing it, the old Hindu had dropped another seed of life into
the zamindar's heart. He saw devotion in a form to him perfectly new.
It was no shouting of "Rám! Rám!" or "Hari! Hari!" No wild loud singing
and drum-beating before a painted idol; no Brahmin's purchased prayers!
It was addressing an unseen Being as if He could listen, and answer,
and help. It was like a child's cry of pain, which a parent at least
understands.
Matrá turned silently away.
Sibbi said to herself, "He despises me; he thinks I have done an evil
thing. If I were not his grandmother, Matrá would spurn me with his
foot, and get the Brahmins to curse me."
But Matrá's silence was not that of contempt, it was that of perplexity
and doubt. As he lay down to rest that night on his charpai, wrapped
in his ragged blanket, Matrá, caught himself repeating some of his
grandmother's words of prayer.
When in the morning Matrá looked towards the rising sun, he thought of
what the Christian had told him about the God who made it, and wondered
whether there were in truth such a Being, to whom the sorrowful might
go in their troubles, to find in Him a Father indeed. Then Matrá
remembered what the Christian had been saying when the conversation had
been suddenly interrupted, of God's having found a way to save poor
sinners.
"I will tie up the buffaloes a little earlier than usual," said Matrá
to himself, "that I may have a longer talk with the Christian. He at
least finds comfort in his religion, and I have none in mine. I will
hear of the way of being saved of which he told me; there is no harm
in knowing what other men believe. That Christian must have found
something in his faith very precious to be ready to give up for its
sake father, mother, all that he had in the world. Did he not say that
the love of his God made up for the loss of all?"
CHAPTER VI.
"I WANT to hear the end of your account of what you Christians think
about man and his miseries," said the zamindar, as again he stood on
the railway platform beside his new friend.
"I would rather tell you of the way of escape which God has made for
man out of his miseries," replied the Christian. "I know the way, for I
am in it; I wish you to know it also, for it is open to you."
The two men seated themselves, the one to speak, and the other to
listen.
"God pitied lost man," continued Karim, "yet Divine justice and truth
required that by man punishment should be borne. No mere human being
could help his brother, because every one was himself under the same
condemnation. You, for instance, could not pay a brother's debt,
because you are in the same strait as he."
"I could certainly help no one out of a bog in which I am sinking
myself," sighed Matrá.
"So God sent His own Son into the world to become a man, that He might
suffer as man, and for man," said Karim.
"Stop! You told me that there is but one God, and now you speak of His
Son!" exclaimed Matrá. "Do you Christians worship two Gods?"
"There is but one God," replied Karim with reverence, "and yet we find
from our Scriptures that in this One there are three Persons, the
Father, the Son, and the Spirit, so closely joined that they are One,
and yet each in Himself a distinct object of devotion."
"I do not understand," said Matrá.
"Man cannot understand the deep things of God, but what is revealed we
must believe. A simile makes it more simple to my own mind," continued
Karim, "and it may make it more simple to yours. Is the sun in the sky
one object or two?"
"Certainly there is but one sun," replied Matrá.
"When we speak of the sun, we mean the sun and his beams also, for the
sun and his beams are as one. Yet, seen through a mist, the sun appears
shorn of his beams, and sometimes, on the other hand, we see the rays
when the sun himself is hidden. In one sense, therefore, they are
distinct, while in another they form but one glorious sun."
"It is a mystery," said the zamindar thoughtfully, "but I think that
all religions have mysteries."
"The great God," continued Karim, "sent His Son into the world to
save sinners by the sacrifice of Himself. Christ came as the sunbeams
come down, to enlighten, warm, and bless. As a body was needed for
sacrifice, the Saviour assumed a mortal body. He was born of a pure
virgin. Thus the Lord Jesus Christ was Man that He might suffer, whilst
ever continuing to be God that He might save."
"A deity putting on a mortal form—that is an avatar," said Matrá. "I
did not know that Christians, like Hindus, believe in avatars."
"Your Brahmins," said Karim, "tell you that one of your deities nine
times became incarnate, and that while inhabiting a body—as a fish,
a tortoise, a boar—he performed wonders, or committed crimes. We
Christians believe but in one sinless avatar; that God's Son appeared
as a mortal, that He might conquer Satan, give an example of perfect
holiness, and then die as a sacrifice for sin. The Lord Jesus,
before His avatar, knew perfectly well what His life on earth would
be, and what its terrible close. He knew that He would be despised
and rejected, poor and afflicted, He knew that He would be put to a
death of torture, nailed hands and feet to a cross. His death was the
punishment of sin, but of sin 'not His own;' He stood in our place,
bore the shame of our guilt, and paid our debt with His blood."
"Do you indeed believe this?" exclaimed the astonished Hindu.
"As firmly as I believe in my own existence; so firmly that I would lay
down my life as a witness to its truth, as thousands of Christians have
laid down their lives."
"The Son of God slain as a sacrifice for sin! It sounds so strange, so
wonderful!" cried Matrá.
"It is love passing knowledge," said Karim. "Love in the Father to
send His Son; love in the Son to be willing to die for man. The idea
of sacrifice is no new thing to Hindus. Do not your books tell of the
wondrous merit of the sacrifice of a thousand horses? But what is the
value of the blood of a crore of horses, weighed against one drop of
the blood of an Incarnate God!"
"And what do you think that you gain by this great sacrifice?" inquired
Matrá.
"Everything!" exclaimed the Christian with animation, his whole face
radiant with joy. "First, there is the debt of sin wiped out as if it
had never been, full and free forgiveness. Then there is peace with
God—adoption into His family, and an inheritance of endless glory
and joy in the kingdom of heaven. No mere absorption, no loss of
individuality, which is the highest hope of the Hindu, but conscious
happiness, unutterable bliss in the society of blessed saints and
angels dwelling together in perfect love in the presence of the
Heavenly Father of all."
CHAPTER VII.
THE words were still on Karim's lips, when he interrupted himself by
the sudden exclamation, "See yonder!"
"There is a man running along the line!" said Matrá, looking in the
same direction.
"The madman!" cried Karim. "He will be crushed by the coming train!"
And loudly he shouted, again and again, to warn the man off the
dangerous line.
The runner appeared not to heed or to hear. The speed at which he was
advancing left him no breath to call out, but he threw up his arms
wildly as if to excite attention.
"There may have been some accident to the train!" exclaimed Karim.
The words went like a knife to the heart of Matrá. He could hardly
forbear rushing forwards to meet the runner, but Karim laid a hand
on his arm. The men had not long to wait. In two minutes the panting
messenger reached the platform.
"Train ran off the line!" he gasped forth. "Carriages smashed—people
killed!"
Karim instantly hurried away to the telegraph office, and as rapidly
as he could sent off a message to the nearest station, then went in
search of some one to despatch with the tidings to the magistrate of
the neighbouring town. He would have sent Matrá, but Matrá was not on
the platform.
The zamindar was rushing along the line to the place where the accident
had occurred. In his overwhelming anxiety, his former fatigue was
forgotten; only Matrá felt as if weights were attached to his feet, for
his speed could not keep pace with his will.
The scene of the accident was reached. The engine, a huge black object,
loomed before Matrá, half encircled by a mass of broken carriages. A
number of passengers were standing about, some shouting for help, some
moaning with pain, some, especially women, crying with terror.
"Is any one killed?" gasped forth Matrá; he could hardly utter the
question.
"A good many are hurt, only one killed," replied a railway guard,
whose face bore the mark of severe bruises. "A sepoy lies yonder, poor
fellow! His head was crushed under a wheel!" As he spoke, he pointed to
a spot a few yards distant, where, in a little pool of blood, a fearful
object to behold, lay the corpse of a tall sepoy.
In a moment, poor Matrá was on his knees beside the body, beating his
breast, and sobbing forth, "My father! It is my father!"
It was to him a terrible moment. For years the young zamindar's hopes
had clung to a meeting with his parent, the thought of seeing Bhola
Náth had been the one bright spot in Matrá's prospect, the one sweet
drop in his cup. And now as he looked on that poor mangled disfigured
corpse, and saw in it the wreck of all his hopes, the strength and
courage of Matrá completely gave way, he wept and sobbed like a child.
And if such was the grief of the son, what was the anguish of the poor
old mother, when, on the following day, the sepoy's body was carried to
her wretched hovel! Then indeed did Sibbi bewail the day of her birth;
she tore the grey hairs from her head, and uttered bitter wailings, the
wailings of those who mourn without hope.
By this time, poor Matrá had regained some calmness, but it was the
calmness of despair. He had to make preparations for burning the corpse
that night, and so miserably poor was he, that he had the bitter task
of collecting most of the materials himself. The Brahmins, knowing
that Matrá had no more power even to borrow, took very little interest
in the funeral rites; one even reproached poor Sibbi, saying that the
terrible misfortune which had come upon her was doubtless due to the
wrath of the gods whom she had offended. It mattered little now to
Sibbi whether they reproached her or not. Does the agitated ocean show
more disturbance because of the pelting of a shower?
Nearly two hours after sunset the sad preparations were completed. The
sepoy's corpse was laid on the funeral pile, the head to the north,
the feet to the south. A man with shaven head set fire to the pile,
and soon red flames were crackling and curling around the body, and a
mass of smoke was obscuring the light of the full moon. Meta, in silent
anguish, stood by, watching the fire do its terrible work.
"My son! What dost thou here?" exclaimed a voice behind him.
Matrá started, as if he had been spoken to by the dead. Turning round,
he uttered a cry of joyful surprise, and then threw himself into the
arms of his father!
Yes, it was indeed Bhola Náth who had arrived at Banda by that
evening's train, and had come in time to see his mother and son, in
bitter woe, paying the last honours to the corpse of one in no way
related to them, whilst he whom they mourned as dead stood in life and
vigour beside them. Sibbi rushed forward with extended arms, shrieking
forth, "My son! My son!"
The sudden appearance of Bhola Náth beside what all supposed to be his
funeral pile, roused the superstitious fears of some ignorant peasants.
They believed him to be no man but an evil spirit. Some actually caught
up stones, and Bhola Náth was in danger of being mercilessly pelted by
his neighbours, but Sibbi threw her arms around her new-found son.
"He is no ghost!" she cried. "Behold his feet are not turned backwards!
His voice is the voice of a living man! It is he whom I nursed as a
babe in my arms! It is indeed my son, the light of mine eyes! Now shall
I die happy!" *
* This strange kind of reception of Bhola Náth by his neighbours was
suggested to me by my accomplished native critic, who knew what,
under such circumstances, would probably occur. To have "feet turned
backwards," and "to speak through the nose," are supposed by the Hindus
to be the characteristics of ghosts!
It was some time before Bhola Náth was left alone with his mother and
son. There was too much to say, too much to think of, for any of the
three to retire to rest. Day broke as they still sat together outside
their little hut. Sibbi and Matrá looked very happy; their minds were
too full of the unexpected joy of Bhola Náth's return, to have at that
time any room for care or regret. But it was otherwise with Bhola Náth
himself. He looked thoughtful and grave.
"Perhaps my father is thinking of the wife and parent whom he misses
from our home," reflected Matrá; "those whose faces he never more can
behold."
CHAPTER VIII.
AT last, after a pause of silence, Bhola Náth thus spake:—"O mother and
son! Two things are on my mind; of two things I have to tell you; one
will cause you joy, the other will cause you grief. Of which shall I
speak first?"
Then replied Matrá, "Father, this is a time of rejoicing, because we
behold you again. Let your words, then, be of joy."
"Thou knowest, my son, that the debt which has pressed on thee has
lain also as a weight on my heart. When, on leaving the service, I
found myself entitled to a pension, I reasoned thus in my mind—'I am
still a strong man; I can earn my living; what need is there to me of
a pension? If I could change it for a sum large enough to pay off our
debt at once, then would we be as free men, the mortgage would be off
our land, and no money-lender could devour its produce year by year."
Sibbi and Matrá listened with intense interest.
"After turning over this matter much in my mind, I resolved to ask the
advice of my colonel, and find from him if such a thing could be. The
Colonel Bahadar * had shown me much favour since I had had the good
fortune to save him from an enemy's sword. I went to his quarters, and
made my salám, and told him of all our trouble."
* A title of respect.
"What said the Sahib Bahadar?" asked Matrá.
"He muttered to himself, 'Debt, debt; it is always the same story. Debt
is the cancer that eats into the very life of this people.' Then said
the sahib to me, 'How much does your family owe?'
"I replied, 'O my lord! The debt altogether is 500 rupees. It has been
paid over and over again, but we could never clear off all at once; and
where interest is fifty per cent.—'
"'Fifty per cent.!' exclaimed the sahib, looking more angry than I had
ever seen him look before. 'This India is full of rogues, and their
senseless victims, the zamindars!'
"So he strode several times up and down the room, as is the colonel's
way when he is thinking. Then, after a while, he stopped straight
before me.
"'Bhola Náth,' said he, 'you are a brave fellow and an honest man, and
have done me a great service. I am loth that you should be all your
life like a man with a halter round his neck. I will myself pay off
your debt at once, but upon one condition.'"
Sibbi uttered a cry of delight, and Matrá eagerly said, "What was that
one condition?" He feared that some very difficult thing, some lifelong
task would be named.
"The one condition was, that neither I nor my son should ever go to a
money-lender again."
"I would as lief go into the den of a hungry tiger!" exclaimed Matrá
with vehemence. "Never, never again will I plunge into the bog of debt!"
The news just given by Bhola Náth caused great delight to his hearers.
Matrá, remembered the words of Karim, which had seemed to him at the
time like a mocking of his hopeless trouble—"How would you feel if you
knew that your debt would be cleared off at once, and you be restored
to your father, with peace and plenty before you?"
"And now perhaps it is better that I should tell you at once of what
you will deem my evil tidings," said Bhola Náth.
"There can be no evil tidings for us now!" exclaimed the rejoicing
Matrá.
"You are just reunited to a long-lost father. Would it be no sorrow to
you to be separated from him again, and perhaps for ever?"
"Nothing shall separate us!" exclaimed Matrá.
"Nothing—but death," murmured old Sibbi.
"What if all the world should despise me, and abuse me, and cast me
off?"
"Father! I would stand by you against all the world!" exclaimed the
young zamindar.
"Then hear the truth at once," said Bhola Náth. "After three years
of thinking, reading, praying, I have resolved to be baptised as a
Christian!"
He looked as a brave man might do tied to a gun, when the match is
brought to blow him to pieces. But there was not the loud explosion of
grief and anger which he expected. Matrá looked on his father in mute
surprise.
Sibbi muttered to herself, "Then I can keep my vow."
"What vow? What do you mean?" asked her son.
"When I prayed to the Christian's God to bring you back, I vowed
that if He heard me, I would—" she dropped her voice to a faint
whisper—"that I would throw our idol into the river!"
"Well done, brave mother!" exclaimed Bhola Náth, with an unutterable
sense of relief, for he had dreaded more than anything else the grief
and opposition of his parent. "And you, my son," he continued, turning
towards Matrá, "will you despise me for changing a false religion for
the only true one?"
"Father," replied the young zamindar, "I as yet know nothing of the
Christian religion but a little which I have heard from a man at the
station, who was a Mahomedan once. But you will teach me more. If I
once saw my way to getting clear of the debt of sin as we are getting
clear of the mortgage, let the Brahmins say what they may, I will never
again worship any god but the God who has redeemed me from evil."
WE will not follow closely the events of the following days, weeks, and
months. Bhola Náth sought out the native pastor of Banda, and had many
interviews with him, as well as with his son's Christian friend, Karim.
It was principally from the latter that Matrá received instruction, and
from reading the New Testament with his father, when the work was done.
When it became known in the village that the sepoy had come back
with new strange notions, that he no longer did pujá to the gods,
nor feasted Brahmins, nor shouted "Rám! Rám!" bitter opposition was
raised against him. Matrá and Sibbi came in for their full share of
persecution. Their neighbours would not eat nor barter with them; the
family were driven from the well; they were even pelted and beaten.
But blows and insults were not arguments, and the more Matrá
contrasted the spirit of Hinduism with that of Christianity, the more
he felt convinced that Karim and his father had found the true way
of salvation. After the lapse of some months, the whole family—aged
grandmother, brave father, and stalwart son—were baptised in a tank.
Crowds of Hindus assembled to witness the baptism; some mocked, some
abused the new converts, but in the hearts of many arose the thought,
"Perhaps these honest Hindus have some good reason for changing their
religion. Perhaps there is some truth in the Bible."
The family of Matrá were not long to be the only Christians in their
village. As one torch lights another, so by their means gradually
spread the knowledge of the Gospel.
Sibbi did not long survive her baptism. Receiving the Gospel simply,
as a little child might do, she dropped peacefully asleep as her Missy
Baba had done, feeling that she had a Heavenly Father, and that she was
going to Him. The aged woman's body was not burned, but buried; it was
laid like a seed in the ground, to rise again, even as the seed which
the husbandman lays in the soil.
Matrá said, what he had never said when standing by a heathen's funeral
pile, "We shall see her again in glory. Thanks to Him who died for
sinners, we shall meet once more, never to be parted, in the presence
of the God who is Love!"
THE VILLAGE AND THE CITY.
[Illustration]
ACHHRUMAL, the bunniah, came from Kashi (Benares) to visit his kinsman,
Nand Lál, who dwelt in a little village about twenty kos distant. The
home of Nand Lál was close by a jungle, and in a lonely part of the
country. Achhru had never visited the place before, and, with some
contempt, contrasted the mud-built village with the tall buildings, the
grand pagodas, the wide "ghats" (bathing-places) of his own large and
beautiful city.
On the first morning after Achhru's arrival, Nand Lál asked him how he
had slept during the night.
"How could I sleep, O brother!" cried Achhru. "The horrid noises which
I heard so distracted me that I could scarcely close my eyes!"
"What noises?" inquired his cousin.
"First there was such a croaking of frogs from yon pond, that one might
have thought that all the frogs in Bengal had come on pilgrimage to
a sacred tank, and were crying 'Rám! Rám!' together. Then, as I was
beginning to drop asleep, wild wailing yells came from the jungle, as
if the place were haunted by demons!"
"Only the jackals," observed Nand Lál; "we so often hear the noise that
we hardly heed it."
"That was not all," continued his cousin. "As I lay awake, listening to
the yells of the jackals, I heard another horrible sound, which made my
heart almost stand still. It was between a howl and a laugh!"
"A hyena has been prowling about," said Nand Lál. "Three kids were
taken by it last week."
"When that horrible sound ceased," cried Achhru, "and the jackals had
stopped their yelling, I was more troubled than ever, for my ear caught
a sound which was, I am sure, the hissing of a serpent."
"There are many hereabouts," observed Nand Lál; "our people are often
bitten by snakes when they go out in the jungle."
"I shall certainly not stay long in this dreadful place," thought the
timid-hearted Achhru. And he suddenly remembered that there was to be
a festival in honour of the goddess Lachmi, in Kashi, which he must
certainly attend. He would therefore go back on that very day to the
city.
Poor Nand Lál looked mortified and disappointed. "Why, brother!" he
cried. "Thou hast had no time to take rest. Thou hast scarcely partaken
of food in my house. After an absence of years, I had looked for a long
visit, I had hoped that we should have passed weeks together!"
"We shall pass weeks, and months, too, if you will," cried Achhru, "but
not in this noisy village. Come back with me to Kashi. You have never
yet seen the holy city, or visited its thousands of shrines. Come and
bathe in the sacred Ganges, and delight thy soul with such sights as
have never met thine eyes before."
Nand Lál did not need much pressing, for he had often felt curiosity to
visit Kashi, and bathe in the Ganges. His preparations were few, and
speedily made. Nand Lál fastened up his cooking vessels in a little
bundle, wrapped his blanket about him, put some "annas" into his
hamarband, and told his wife to expect him back in a fortnight. Then he
departed with his cousin.
Before the fortnight was over, however, Nand Lál found his way back
to his secluded village beside the jungle. His wife welcomed him with
gladness, for he was a good and gentle husband, and had never been
known to beat her. Quickly she prepared the evening meal, and brought
the hookah to refresh the weary traveller.
Neighbours, impelled by curiosity, came to visit Nand Lál; his wife
asked him why he had returned before the appointed time.
"I could not stand the noises," replied Nand Lál, with a smile; "like
my cousin Achhru, I did not like the croaking of frogs, the yelling of
jackals, the howling of hyenas, the hissing of snakes."
"Why, surely Kashi is not like our jungle!" cried one of his friends.
"Not like our jungle, but a thousand times worse!" exclaimed Nand Lál.
"Explain your meaning," said his friend.
"O Nattu! The sounds of a large city are worse than any made by wild
beasts," replied Nand Lál. "I have heard murmurs and complaining, the
groanings of the poor, the grumbles of the rich that they are not
richer. The voices of discontent are to me as the croaking of myriads
of frogs."
"And your jackals, what are they?" asked Nattu, who began to see the
meaning of his companion.
"I witnessed quarrelling and heard disputes. There were sellers and
buyers in the bazaars abusing each other for a matter of a few pice,
or even cowries, reviling each other's mothers, wives, and daughters,
pouring out curses and threats; and I said to myself, 'The city has its
jackals and hyenas as well as the jungle, to yell over their carrion
prey.'"
"And your hissing serpents?" asked his friend. "Did you find them too
in the city?"
"In the city—here—everywhere—for is there a spot in all Hindostan where
the liar is not to be found? Speak not our children lies almost as
soon as they can utter the name of father? But I had deemed that in a
holy city I might find some who would speak the truth. Alas! The very
air seemed filled with the hissing of falsehood. The bunniah lies, the
beggar lies, the courtier lies, and the priest at the shrine tells the
greatest lies of all. My heart grew sad, and I said to myself, 'If
I could but hear of one man who keeps his lips pure from murmuring,
abuse, and lying, I would go a hundred kos to prostrate myself before
him, and put his foot on my head."
"Was there ever such a man?" said Nattu.
"Such was my thought," continued Nand Lál. "When passing through the
bazaar one day I saw a crowd gathered together, and went up to the
place in hope of seeing some 'tamasha' (show). In the midst of that
crowd stood an earnest-looking man, with a book in his hand, who was
addressing the people. I stood with the rest to listen, and I heard the
preacher tell of One who 'did no sin, neither was guile found in His
mouth, who when He was reviled, reviled not again, when He suffered,
He threatened not' (1 Pet. ii. 22, 23). I exclaimed to myself, 'Here
must have been a perfect man He who thus governed His lips, He who was
free from all guile, must have been a saint indeed! Such a one would I
choose for my Goru!'"
"But perhaps the preacher was himself telling lies when he described
such a Goru," observed one of the peasants.
"He spoke as one who believes what he teaches," was the reply of
Nand Lál, "and I had occasion to see that, in one thing at least,
he followed the example of his Master. Some of the crowd abused the
preacher; some even pelted him with dust; but he spake not an angry
word. Then I said to myself, 'As is Goru, so is disciple.' Since he is
like the Holy One whom he preaches, in having on his tongue the law of
kindness, so also he must surely be like Him in having lips free from
guile."
"Perhaps the man was a 'Karáni'" (Christian), observed Nattu.
"He certainly is a follower of Him whom he called the Lord Jesus
Christ," said Nand Lál. "He spake so much of his Master's purity,
goodness, and gentleness, that my heart was melted within me. I desired
to hear some of the gracious words which, as the preacher said, came
from the Holy One's lips. I had my desire gratified. The man with
the book, looking earnestly round at the crowd, repeated to them the
invitation given, as he said, by his Master,—'Come to me, all ye
that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest' (Matt. xi.
28). O brothers! These words were to me as the note of the 'bul-bul'
(nightingale) after the howling and cries and wild yells of the jungle!
Discord seemed changed to music, tumult to peace. I listened as if I
could listen for ever!"
"I would that I too had heard the preacher," said Nattu.
"Close to him was a lad selling books," continued Nand Lál. "After the
preacher had finished his discourse, he advised the hearers to buy the
Holy Gospels, which would tell them about the Heavenly Goru. The books
cost but an 'anna' each [less than 1 ½ d.]. Even I was able to buy one,
and I have it here in my bosom."
"Thou art something of a scholar, Nattu; thou wilt read it to us after
the day's work is done," said one of his companions.
And so the first ray of light fell on the little mud-built village
beside the jungle. The Gospel was read and re-read, till the pages
of the little book would hardly hold together. A whole Testament was
afterwards with some difficulty procured, through a peasant going
to Kashi. What had been mocked at in the city was listened to with
gladness by simple zamindars. And one of the first effects of receiving
the Gospel of salvation was to be noticed in the conversation of those
who had learned something of Him who had no guile in His mouth. Still
round the village were the noises which had so disturbed Achhru Mal:
the frogs croaked from the pond, the jackals yelled in the jungle, the
serpents hissed in the long rank grass; but the tongues of peasants,
and even the lips of their children, now spake the truth, and had
learned, as it were, a new song, words of prayer and praise to God,
words of kindness and love to man.
[Illustration]
THE STRAIT GATE.
[Illustration]
MANY hundred years ago, a king built a palace which was a miracle of
beauty. The treasures stored up within were greater than man could
count. The interior of the building was inlaid with jewels, and beside
it the glories of the Taj Mahal would grow pale. The king did not wish
so to shroud himself in his grandeur that his subjects should not have
free access to him. He gave command that a door of his palace should
be left constantly open, so that all, whether rich or poor, might be
able to enter his presence. There was no bell placed on that door, no
bar placed across, and no guard of sepoys denied admittance: a single
porter waited within. But the door was exceedingly small, its height
was as that of a child but seven years old.
But to that door came a noble of high rank, who proudly traced back his
lineage to kings of old. He came mounted on an elephant in a howdah of
carved sandal-wood, and the gilded trappings of the elephant glittered
in the sunshine.
[Illustration: "I will not descend from my elephant, and put myself on
a level with the low and the mean!" cried the noble.]
"How shall I enter the king's palace?" he said to one of his
attendants. From his lofty height he had not even noticed the little
door.
Then answered the porter from within, "This is the way, O descendant of
monarchs! Your honour must descend from your howdah, and even, as doth
the son of the humblest peasant, enter in by this door."
"I will not descend from my elephant, and put myself on a level with
the low and the mean!" cried the noble. "There should be a loftier,
more worthy door for those in whose veins runs the blood of princes!"
So, full of the pride of rank, he departed, never to enter the palace,
or behold the glories within.
Then came a man bearing a large bundle of valuable goods, through which
he hoped to become the most wealthy man in the city. He was so fearful
of losing his treasure that he would entrust it to no one, lest some
precious thing should be lost. But he desired to see the palace, and
prostrate himself before the king.
Then said the porter within, "Lay down your burden, or give it to
others, and enter in by this door."
The rich merchant looked at the door, then at the bundle, which he
prized as much as his life. He shook his head, and, proud of his
riches, turned away. He was never to enter the palace, or behold the
glories within.
Then came a learned pundit, reading in a book as he walked along.
He too intended to enter the presence of the king, and he believed
himself, by reason of his learning, to be entitled to a high place at
court. He was so buried in his book that when he reached the little
door, he did not observe it, nor hear the invitation of the porter
within.
Full of the pride of talent, he passed on, never to enter the palace,
or to behold the glories within.
Then came a religious devotee, a very tall man, wrapped in a blanket.
Many had been his austerities, terrible the penances which he had
performed. He was believed to be a great saint; the people sought his
blessing and dreaded his curse. He looked upon himself as the chosen of
Heaven. The tall devotee walked up to the door and then paused. Said
he, "How can I possibly pass through so low an entrance as this?"
"Thou who carriest thy head so high must stoop low," cried the porter
within.
"What! I—deeply read in the mysteries of religion, I whose life is
spent in holy meditation, bow down my head so low as to be of but the
stature of a child! Let the wide doors of ivory be thrown open for me,
or I care not to cross the threshold."
So, full of the pride of self-righteousness, the devotee passed on. He
was never to enter the palace, or behold the glories within.
Then came a youth mounted on a white horse, and wearing a mantle stiff
with gold. When he rode up to the door, he somewhat marvelled to see
it so low, but he dismounted and approached it. The youth was as tall
as the devotee, and though he stooped low and lower, he but struck his
head in the attempt to pass through.
"The rich mantle hampers your movements," said the porter inside.
It had indeed caught on a nail, and was so thoroughly entangled that no
efforts of the youth could release it.
He now hesitated, but only for a moment. Undoing the clasp which
fastened the mantle round his neck, he left it behind, then falling on
his knees, and so humbling himself to the stature of a child, in the
attitude of a suppliant the youth entered the palace, and beheld the
glories within.
The palace, O reader! is the religion taught by the Lord Jesus Christ.
To the true believers who enter in, it presents treasures of grace, of
joy, of glory, such as no pen can write, or tongue can speak, or mind
conceive.
What are some of its treasures?
Free forgiveness of every sin, full acceptance with God, purity of
life, gladness of heart, comfort in this world, and eternal joy
hereafter.
But he who would enter must lay aside "pride," whether of birth,
wealth, or talent. Above all, he must lay aside the pride of
self-righteousness. The first step towards heaven is the knowledge of
sinfulness. We must go down on our knees and pray,—
"God be merciful to me a sinner! Create in me a pure heart, O God! and
renew a right spirit within me!"
The Christian religion exalts God and humbles man. The Mahomedan trusts
to enter paradise by the favour of his Prophet, and his own good works.
He says, "Have I not observed the fasts, and prayed five times a day?"
The Hindu religion fosters pride in the Brahmin, and makes the favour
of the gods an accident of birth. In his view, how can the Sudra or the
Chumar enter like him the state of absorption which he tries to regard
as bliss?
The Christian exalts God, for it shows Him to be perfectly holy,
merciful, and just. And while God is exalted, the pride of man is
humbled.
Is he puffed up because of lofty birth? Thus saith the Scriptures,
"Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return" (Gen. iii. 19).
Is he proud of his wealth? "We brought nothing into the world, and
certainly we shall carry nothing out" (1 Tim. vi. 7).
Is he vain of his learning? "The wisdom of man is foolishness with God"
(1 Cor. iii. 19).
Is he proud of his holiness and his good works? "The heart is deceitful
above all things, and desperately wicked" (Jer. xvii. 9). "By the works
of the law shall no man living be justified" (Gal. ii. 16).
If a man be saved from the just punishment of his sin, it is because
our Substitute, Christ, hath borne that punishment on the cross. If a
man be accounted righteous, it is because the Holy One hath clothed him
in the robe of His own merits. If a man be admitted into heaven, it is
because the Son of God hath purchased admittance for him by shedding
His own precious blood. If a man be called to wear a crown of glory, it
is because his Saviour wore a crown of thorns. Everything that is good
in a Christian comes from the gift of God's Holy Spirit; his only plea
for mercy is the spotless sacrifice—Christ; his only hope of acceptance
with a holy God is that the Saviour died for sinners!
Therefore, O proud man! descend from thy height, and humble thyself in
the dust. It is on thy knees, stooping to be as a little child, that
thou mayst enter the spiritual palace, and behold the glories within.
"Pride goeth before destruction, and a lofty spirit before a fall."
"Before destruction the heart of man is haughty, and before honour is
humility" (Prov. xviii. 12).
[Illustration]
AN HOUR OF PERIL.
[Illustration]
FAZL DE, a merchant, was travelling towards the city of Delhi with
camels and asses laden with various goods. After the day's stage was
over, his attendants pitched his tent under a clump of mango trees,
and unlading his beasts of burden, suffered them to graze. The place
was not far from a village. The hour was sunset. Many of the peasants
returning from field-work drew near; to them the merchant spoke with
kindness. Then, opening one of his bales, Fazl De disposed amongst
them, at cheap rates, of such of his goods as suited the needs of
peasants.
More and more people now gathered around, pleased both with the
traveller's goods and with his gracious speech. After a while, when
business was over, seated outside his tent with a circle of listeners
around him, the merchant thus addressed them:—
"I bring you, O my friends! something better than anything contained in
my bales; and that, which is most valuable, you may have without money
and without price. That I may better explain to you my meaning, I will
tell you of an adventure which happened to myself some three years ago."
The crowd listened in perfect silence.
"I had business that took me from Jhelum to Pind Dadar Khán. I had no
goods with me then, but I travelled alone and on horseback. I came to a
village, where I stayed for more than an hour. I expressed my intention
of going on as soon as my horse should have rested a little, for my
business required urgent haste.
"Then said the villagers, 'The road is not safe for your honour. Rain
has been falling for three days, and the way is now over an almost
impassable bog.'
"I was not a man to be easily daunted, and I replied, 'I know that many
persons travel by this road.'
"'It is perfectly safe in dry weather,' said the peasants; 'but now,
even with a guide, it is not safe to cross the morass.'
"I thought this a cunning attempt to make me stop longer at the serai
(inn). I determined to press on. I, however, took the precaution of
engaging a guide. Then again I mounted my horse and rode on.
"I proceeded on my way, deep in thought, for many things pressed on
my mind at that time. I was a seeker after truth. I had heard much
of the Gospel, and I admired greatly the purity of its teaching. But
one doctrine in it offended the pride of my heart—the doctrine that
man cannot be saved by any good works, by alms-giving, fasting, or
pilgrimages; that he can only be saved by faith in Jesus Christ, a
crucified Saviour. I was a man bearing a good character, and I thought
that by strenuous efforts I could certainly reach heaven at last.
Turning these things over in my mind, I rode to the edge of the bog,
and then looked round for my guide. The cowardly fellow had failed me;
he was nowhere to be seen.
"'It matters not,' I said to myself, 'my horse is a good one, and
neither he nor his rider mind floundering through a little soft mud. I
shall soon reach firm ground on the farther side.'
"Now mark me, my friends," continued the merchant, "I have always
looked on that day's adventure as a kind of parable of my own state. I
trusted my body's safety to my good horse, just as I trusted my soul's
safety to my good works, and in both cases I played the part of a
fool. I rode on some way with difficulty indeed, but no great danger.
At last, I found that at every step my horse's feet sank up to the
fetlocks, to go even a few yards cost him such exertion that he was
soon as thoroughly wet as if he had been hunting all day. But I was
too proud to go back. I spurred and whipped my poor horse, and tried
to encourage him by my voice. 'I will soon reach the farther side,'
thought I; 'I see good firm ground before me.'
"But that good firm ground I was never to reach by any efforts of my
horse, though desperate were the efforts which he made. I felt him
sinking deeper and deeper under me, till he could no longer get on; his
ears were turned back with terror, he sank to his knees, then down,
down to the girths of the saddle!
"'His weight and mine are sinking him!' thought I. 'My only chance is
to abandon the poor brute to his fate. I am comparatively light, and
am not clogged with mud as he is. By going with springing step, I may
manage to reach firm ground.'
"But, O my friends! I felt mine to be but a desperate chance. I would
have given all that I possessed to have been fairly out of that
terrible bog.
"What gave me some hope, however, was to see a mounted camel before me
at a place where the bog evidently ended, for the ground was a little
raised, and there were some bushes upon it. I called out loudly to the
man on the camel, and he halloed back to me. I knew, however, that no
man would ride a heavy camel into the bog. The man would only be a
witness of my terrible end.
"For I felt that the end was at hand. I was no more able to reach
safety without my horse, than I had been when in the saddle. In vain I
tried to lift my legs, it seemed as if some cruel enemy from beneath
were pulling me down! Then I thought of my sins as I had never thought
before. Then I dreaded to meet an angry God. Then the terrors of
judgment rose up before me. My good works were as the poor perishing
brute behind me. I longed, oh! How I longed for a Saviour then!
"In my perplexity, floundering and struggling, I had not marked the
movements of the man in front. Through the merciful providence of God,
the camel had been laden with tent ropes and poles; the former the man
was, as rapidly as he could, unwinding, and preparing to throw out to
me. At last, I perceived his aim; but my impatience grew to agony when
I saw the difficulty which my kind friend experienced in making the
rope reach me. He threw it again and again, but had to draw it back, it
was quite beyond reach of my hand.
"I had by this time sunk up to my waist! I saw the man look anxiously
around, as if seeking for other means of saving me; at last, he seized
on a long tent-pole. The man then, holding with one hand the end of the
rope, of which he had fastened the other end to the camel, placed the
pole on the bog before him. I was now in the mud up to my arm-pits. Ten
more minutes and I knew that I must be suffocated and perish. I saw
the man step cautiously on the tent-pole, but could it, even for a few
minutes, support his weight? My senses became confused with terror, I
hardly knew what was passing before my eyes till I heard a loud voice
cry, 'Grasp it, and hold fast!'
"Then I saw the rope which my preserver, stepping along the slippery
half-sinking pole, had risked his life to throw, I saw it just within
reach of my hand! I grasped it, poor perishing wretch that I was, how
tightly I grasped it! It was my one hope for life. It was hard to hold
on—the strain of my weight, all mud-clogged as I was, was so great!
Still I never for an instant let go, till the camel, impelled by his
master, drew me out of the bog!"
"That moment was doubtless the happiest of your honour's life, when
you stood again on firm ground," observed one of the peasants, who had
listened with interest to the story.
"No, I had a happier moment still," observed the merchant, "and that
was when I found firm ground for my soul to rest on. I told you that
my adventure is to me as a parable, now I will unfold to you the
lesson which it taught me. The bog is like the everlasting punishment
inflicted by a just God for sin. I thought that, mounted, as it were,
on my good works, I had nothing to fear from it. I nearly lost my soul
through my error. The rope thrown to me is the emblem of salvation
freely offered to all who will 'grasp it and hold fast.'"
"Who throws the rope?" asked one of the hearers.
"The Lord Jesus Christ," was the reply; "He who watched from heaven
the vain struggles of poor sinners, even as my preserver mine from the
farther side of the swamp. Christ descended from heaven to earth and
assumed the form and nature of man that He might deliver sinners from
the endless pangs of hell. He gave His life a ransom for many, and by
His perfect obedience, even unto death, He saved believers from the
just punishment of their disobedience to the law of a holy God."
These were new words to the peasants, who wondered at the, to them,
strange doctrine taught by the merchant.
"Notice, my friends, that I had nothing to do with procuring the rope,
nothing to do with throwing the rope; all that I could do was to grasp
it and hold it fast. And so when I found that without any desert of my
own, free salvation was offered to me by another, I accepted that free
offer of mercy, I grasped and held fast the blessed hope of eternal
life given to us in the Saviour Jesus Christ. I believed that Christ
could save me, I believed that He was willing to save me. I was, all
clogged with the mire of sin, helpless and perishing, dragged, as it
were, by the cord of love to the firm ground of salvation. And there
I stand now, rejoicing in hope of eternal glory, washed from my sins,
cleansed, and made an heir of the kingdom of heaven. It is that you may
reach this safe ground, it is that you too may receive this blessing,
that we Christians now preach the Gospel amongst you. Being saved
ourselves, we are not willing that others should perish. The rope is
held out to all; it only needs faith in Christ to receive it. To you I
now call in the words of my kind preserver—Grasp it, and hold it fast!"
[Illustration]
THE GENEROUS BENEFACTOR.
[Illustration]
THE beautiful young Gangi went to gather flowers for the shrine of
the goddess Durga. Gangi was not a widow, and yet she dressed in the
garb of a widow. There were no bracelets on her arms, no ornament on
her slender ankles. Her unbraided hair fell on her shoulders, and her
form drooped like a creeper that is torn from the stem around which
it had twined. Gangi's young husband had become a Christian; he had
broken caste, and henceforth was to all whom he loved as one dead and
forgotten, or remembered only to be cursed.
But Gangi could neither curse nor forget, though she feared that her
husband had done some very horrible thing. She could hardly believe
that her kind, gentle Charu Dás was wicked, but she knew that she
herself was wretched. Gangi dared not speak of Charu Dás, though he
was constantly in her thoughts. Oh! Could she but win him back by
austerities! Gladly would she have wasted away her flesh by fasting, or
have walked, with bare and bleeding feet, all the way to Kashi. Gangi
was possessed with the same spirit of loving devotion which, in former
days, made the Satí burn herself on the funeral pyre of her husband.
Gangi was bending over a tank to gather some beautiful lotus blossoms,
when she started, as if she had seen a snake in the water below. It was
the reflection of some one standing behind her, one whom she knew well,
but from whom she had deemed herself parted for ever. With a faint cry,
Gangi started from her stooping position, and fled a few steps; then
she paused, for a familiar voice entreated her to stop, a voice which
she had never yet disobeyed.
"I am an outcast from all my family; dost thou desert me also, O Gangi!
Light of my soul?" said the husband of the youthful Hindu.
Gangi stood trembling, and the tears fell fast from her eyes.
"I am not changed towards thee, O Gangi! Is not my form the same, my
voice the same, the love in my heart the same? Yea, greater than ever!
We were so happy together!"
"And cannot we be happy again?" exclaimed Gangi suddenly, as a hope
flashed across her soul. "The Brahmins may be won * to receive you back
by large offerings, and great penances. I will give everything that I
possess; oh! would that I had more to give! Your father, brothers, will
strip themselves of their property—"
* This receiving back is not so difficult a matter to accomplish as
it was formerly. As more converts from Hinduism are drawn into the
Christian fold, the Brahmins are opening their eyes to the fact that
it is more for their own interests to tempt them back, than to bar and
bolt the door against them.
"Never, never will I cease to be a Christian!" said Charu Dás firmly.
The sudden blaze of hope in the heart of Gangi as suddenly died out,
like the fire which consumes a light muslin veil. With bitterness, she
said, "I do not know what is meant by being a Christian, but I have
heard that my lord has broken caste, thrown away his janeo, no more
does pujá to our gods, and eats with those of low caste, or Christians,
who have no caste at all."
"Didst thou also hear why I broke caste?" asked her husband.
"I have not heard much, save that my lord was beguiled—led astray by
the juggling arts * of the wicked Christians," said Gangi sadly.
* The natives are ready to imagine that missionaries practise some kind
of enchantment. At Batála it has been said that the Rev. F. B— puts his
hand on the head of a Hindu, in consequence of which charm the man on
returning towards the city, "beholds it in flames," and dares not go on!
"Hear, then, my story, beloved one, and judge for thyself whether in
breaking caste I committed a sin so great as to deserve the hatred of
my family and wife."
Gangi listened, leaning against the trunk of a tree, at a little
distance from her husband.
"I went to Agra, as thou knowest, and was detained there for a long
time on business. Whilst there, O Gangi! I found myself in a terrible
position. Thy husband was a criminal, and under sentence of death."
Gangi started in horror. "Under sentence of death!" she exclaimed.
"Then he was falsely accused, cruelly condemned."
"Not falsely accused,—but justly condemned," replied Charu Dás. "I
could plead nothing in my own defence; I knew myself to have deserved
any punishment that might be inflicted."
"But how is my lord free now?" asked Gangi, drawing a step nearer in
her eagerness to hear the reply.
"I had a Friend, not a Brahmin, not one of my race, but One of high
rank and the most exalted character," replied Charu Dás. "This man
loved me with a love as great, yea, even greater than mine for thee, O
wife of my youth! When all other hope failed me, He gave the greatest
proof of love that a friend could give—He offered to die in my stead!"
Gangi clasped her hands and drew nearer still, for her whole soul was
absorbed in listening.
"And my Friend 'did die,'" continued Charu Dás, dropping his voice
almost to a whisper. "For me the guilty one, He, the innocent, died; it
is through His mortal agony that I now am free."
"Oh! What love," faltered Gangi.
"Before undergoing a shameful and most painful death, my deliverer made
a dying request that I would come, and in His company, share a meal
with His chosen companions. Gangi, I could not do so without breaking
my caste; I could not do so without forfeiting my privileges as a
Brahmin. What choice should I make? I hesitated long. If I consented, I
should become an outcast; if I refused my Benefactor's dying request,
should I not be the most ungrateful of men?"
Gangi bowed her head in silence.
"Now tell me, joy of my soul, hadst thou been in my place, wouldst thou
have turned a deaf ear to a dying Saviour, or wouldst thou have broken
thy caste?"
Gangi was now so near to her husband that he could catch the faintly
whispered words, "I think—I believe, that I should have broken my
caste."
"Then, O Gangi! How canst thou condemn me?" exclaimed Charu Dás.
"But what sin had my lord committed that he should be counted worthy
of death?" asked Gangi, to whom the first part of her husband's story
appeared hardly credible.
"Not one sin only, but a thousand," was Charu Dás's reply. "O Gangi!
Every man and woman in this world has broken again and again the
commands of a holy God, and is by His law justly sentenced to eternal
death. How can a sinner be justified before his Maker? We Hindus
pictured our deities themselves full of every vice, and therefore
we regarded not vice with horror; but the true religion reveals to
us a Being whose very nature is perfection. How dare the polluted
sinner approach Him! Man could find no way, though he sought it by
pilgrimages, penances, prayers.
"God Himself found a way. He sent His beloved Son to earth, and His Son
was willing to leave heaven to save us. This Friend, whose love exceeds
that of a brother, became incarnate, assumed a mortal body, that He
might offer up that pure body as a sacrifice for our sin. O Gangi! The
Lord Jesus Christ offered Himself to stand in our place. He underwent
the punishment which we had deserved. He humbled Himself unto death, a
painful shameful death, that we might receive eternal life.
"And, O Gangi! What a gift was that which Christ purchased for us!
The highest bliss which we aim at is absorption into deity, which
leaves the soul no separate existence; it is a bliss which resembles
annihilation. The Christian's heaven is a place of pure unmixed
delight, where the redeemed of the Lord meet around Him as one large
family, shining in His light, rejoicing in His love, washed in His
blood from every stain.
"Gangi! When I believed that God's Son had died for me, when I received
from Him the gift of pardon and peace, and the hope of eternal life,
what could I do but give myself up, body and soul, to Him who loved and
gave Himself for me?"
"Hark!" exclaimed Gangi suddenly. "I hear the sound of steps! Fly, fly!
If my kindred find you here, they may kill you."
Before the sentence was completed, Charu Dás had disappeared in the
jungle.
But the deep impression made by his words remained in the mind of his
youthful wife. Gangi said little, but she thought much. She ceased to
weep for her lost husband—her relatives thought that she was learning
to forget—but silently and secretly a resolve was gaining strength in
her mind, which was soon to bear fruit in action.
Charu Dás, according to the law, appealed to the magistrate for
permission to have an interview with his wife before they should be
separated for ever. The young Hindu, under Government protection, would
be allowed to make her final choice as to whether she would remain
amongst her own people, or break caste and cut herself off from them by
following her husband. It was a time to Charu Dás of terrible anxiety,
but he tried to cast his burden of care upon God, and trust to Him to
incline the heart of Gangi towards the husband whom she had certainly
at one time loved.
The Hindus felt little uneasiness as to the result of the meeting.
Gangi was a Brahminee, brought up from infancy amidst those who
professed her religion, and they believed that she would as soon be
trampled under foot by elephants, as break caste and become an outcast.
But they knew not the strength of a woman's love, nor were they aware
that a gleam of heavenly light had fallen on the soul of Gangi. Closely
shrouded, the young wife went to what all her relatives believed to be
her last meeting with the despised Christian. In shrinking modesty she
stood before the magistrate. Gangi dared not raise her eyes to meet the
anxious gaze of Charu Dás.
The grave magistrate then gave her her choice, that choice which would
affect the whole of her future life.
To the surprise of all present, except one, Gangi, with trembling
voice, said she would go with her husband.
The anger of her relatives was great; threats and entreaties were
alike used to move her from her purpose, but Gangi, though trembling
and weeping, kept firm. But for the presence of the magistrate, the
poor young girl would have been dragged away by violence, and never
suffered to see again him whom she loved best upon earth. But force was
forbidden by the law. The Hindu wife must be allowed a free choice. In
the midst of uproar, but full of thankfulness and joy, the convert bore
away his rescued treasure.
The rest of the story is soon told. The young Brahminee learned ere
long to believe what Charu Dás believed, and to serve the God whom he
served. When once reproached by a former companion for her change of
religion, Gangi meekly replied, "How can we refuse to give our lives to
the generous Benefactor who gave His for us? I have learned to say from
my heart, 'We love Him, because He first loved us'" (1 John iv. 19).
[Illustration]
THE DESECRATED TEMPLE.
[Illustration]
MANY hundred years ago, a beautiful temple was built, of pure white
marble, for the worship of the great God, the Creator of all. On the
walls of the building were inscribed, in letters formed of diamonds,
emeralds, and rubies, the words HOLINESS, HAPPINESS, PEACE. As guardian
of the temple, a strong watchman was placed, whose name was Conscience.
He was to keep the holy place clean, and take care that nothing
defiling should enter.
For awhile all was well, until an enemy, full of the greed of spoil,
determined to possess himself of the jewels in the white marble temple.
He had no power to do so by force. The door was strong, the watchman
who kept the keys was always at his post, and he had a bell by which
he could bring powerful help whenever needed. The enemy saw no means
of accomplishing his purpose but by deceiving or bribing the watchman.
Night, also, was the only time when he could do so unobserved by the
rest of the world.
One dark and windy night the enemy came and knocked at the door of the
temple.
"Who art thou?" cried the watcher within, without opening the
strongly-barred door.
"I am a pilgrim who has come from a great distance, and with very large
offerings," replied the deceiver. "I know no one in the neighbourhood,
the night is stormy, and I fear to remain without, lest I should be
robbed of my treasures. Only see what I have brought with me."
"It is against rules to admit any one at night," said the porter.
"But every rule has exceptions. Mine is a peculiar case. I have brought
gifts, also, for you," said the robber.
The watchman, in his folly, believed the word of the stranger;
curiosity and covetousness overpowered his caution. In an evil hour, he
unbarred the strong door, and let the enemy in.
The deceiver entered, bringing with him what he called his treasures,
which were carefully enclosed in many wrappings, and secured by seals.
Entrance had thus been effected, but as long as Conscience remained
awake, the enemy could do but little. The bell might at any moment be
rung, he be overpowered, and thrust out, or handed over to justice. The
robber was indeed within the walls, but his every movement was watched
by one stronger than he.
Deferring opening out his pretended treasures till the morning,
the intruder produced from his wallet some fruit, cakes, and
delicious-looking sweetmeats, and prepared to refresh himself after his
long journey by a meal, of which he asked the watchman to partake.
"It is against rules to eat in the temple," said the watchman; "go
outside and eat your meal in peace."
The deceiver pleaded the roughness of the night, and the length of
his journey. "There can be no harm," said he, "in breaking a rule for
once, and no one will know that you have done so." He spread out the
tempting food on the floor, and used such artful persuasion, that the
watchman not only permitted him to sit down and eat, but after awhile
was induced to sit down also and partake of a few sweetmeats which wore
of a most tempting appearance.
The sweetmeats were drugged, and in the midst of his forbidden meal,
the faithless guardian of the temple fell into a deep sleep.
Then, indeed, the enemy had it all his own way. Quickly unwrapping
what he had called his treasures, he produced instruments suited to
accomplish his wicked designs. With dexterity the robber extracted
the jewels from the walls. It was a work of time, for they had been
well and firmly set. But first the word HOLINESS was effaced, then
HAPPINESS, and then PEACE. Only a rude broken outline was left to show
where they once had been. Hours and hours went by, and all this time
the watchman slept.
The enemy's object was not only to despoil, but to defile the once
beautiful temple. There were a number of little idols with him, and
these he placed in niches in every direction. There was one called
Falsehood, an idol representing a woman, with snakes instead of hair
curling around her brow; there was Covetousness, with many hands;
Cruelty, with a necklace of skulls; Impurity, with an animal's head.
What was beautiful had been destroyed, what was hideous was put in its
place; the once pure white temple was pure no longer, and still the
guardian slept!
How long he might have slept none can tell, had not what may be called
a trifling incident occurred. Just when the work of destruction was
almost completed, and the first gleam of dawn appeared in the sky, a
little bird flew through a small opening in the temple, and struck the
sleeper with its wing as it passed.
Startled, Conscience awoke, but, dizzy from the effects of the drug,
was at first hardly able to understand what had happened. The lamps in
the temple were still burning, and the faint light of morn was stealing
in. Conscience looked round and perceived hideous idols in the niches.
He saw that the jewels had been torn from their places, and beheld the
enemy going on with his work of destruction,—soiling, marring, defiling
the temple raised to the One pure God. Conscience, through the effects
of the drug, had lost power to overcome the enemy. His strength had
become as weakness, but he was still able to pull the rope which was
attached to the bell.
[Illustration: "With all his might he pulled it, startling the enemy by
the sudden clang above his head."]
With all his might he pulled it, startling the enemy by the sudden
clang above his head. Knowing that many would rush to the spot on
hearing the sound of the alarm bell, the robber hastily rushed out from
the temple, dropping, in his flight, the jewels which he had plundered.
Measures were taken as quickly as possible to repair the sore
mischief done. The idols Covetousness, Cruelty, Falsehood were, one
after another, thrown down. The place received a thorough cleansing.
Gradually, though not without much difficulty, the jewels were put back
in their places, and HOLINESS, HAPPINESS, and PEACE again glittered on
the wall. But it was long ere Conscience recovered his health, or the
confidence of his superior, and never without shame and grief could he
remember the night when he threw open the door to a traitor, and let
the spoiler enter and pollute the temple of God.
Reader! The temple of God is the human heart, first formed by its Maker
pure and clean, with holiness, happiness, and peace within it. How
Satan, the enemy, first gained entrance, how he stained, robbed, and
despoiled it, is written in the Word of God, and alas! its effects are
seen in the world around us.
And what is meant by the watchman Conscience?
Conscience is that power to distinguish between good and evil which God
has placed as a guard on the human heart. It is Conscience that tells
us that to kill, to rob, and to lie is sin, and that sin is hateful to
a holy God, and must be punished by Him.
But the enemy, Satan, has had power to drug Conscience, to put it
to sleep, so that its voice has been silent. Look at Hindostan, and
see how deep has been the slumber of Conscience! Murder is sin of
the blackest dye; yet widows have been burnt alive, innocent babes
killed by their own parents, thugs have strangled travellers, without
Conscience being awakened to cry out, "O wretches! You will be called
to a fearful account for crimes such as these! God's wrath is upon your
heads!"
Where is Conscience in the heart of the deceit, the midnight thief,
or the bold robber who rejoices over his ill-gotten spoils! Where is
Conscience in the hearts of millions who utter lies as they swallow in
air, quite unconscious that the path of falsehood leads to destruction!
It is asleep, drugged and senseless! Conscience says nothing when man
is robbed of happiness and God is robbed of honour. The once holy
temple of God becomes a harbour for idols, for Covetousness, Hatred,
Pride, and every other sin, and the watchman Conscience is silent and
asleep!
Asleep, indeed, but not dead. Sometimes what seems an accident may
awaken it from its dangerous repose. Even a little book, such as this,
like the flap from the wing of a bird, may rouse Conscience, and open
the watchman's eyes to the peril of the soul. Ask yourself these
questions, O reader! "Is the temple of my heart clean; are purity,
happiness, and peace within it? Do I abhor all sin, and give to none a
place in my soul? Do I harbour no covetousness, hatred, or pride? Do I
refuse all unlawful gains? Are my lips clean from lying and slandering?"
If these questions are honestly asked, and a voice within you answers
"No!" that is the voice of awakening Conscience.
If, then, in anguish of soul you exclaim, "How can I escape from sin,
and the dreadful punishment of sin?" know that the watchman has sprung
to his feet, he is ringing the alarm bell for help.
God is ready to grant that help, to send His cleansing Spirit into your
heart, to give back to it all that it has lost. The Christian religion
not only tells of Satan's entering the world to despoil the temple
of God, but it tells of the Conqueror of Satan entering the world to
restore what had been polluted and spoiled. The temple may become
fairer than ever before, for the blood of the Lamb of God was shed to
cleanse it from sin. Conscience, made more watchful and faithful, may
once more be trusted to keep guard against the entrance of evil, and
happiness, holiness, and peace be again inscribed in shining letters
within the temple of the heart.
[Illustration]
THE TWENTY-FOUR PIECES OF SILVER.
[Illustration]
A MERCHANT bade his servant Kesho go into the bazaar, and buy such
things as he required. The merchant counted out twenty-four pieces of
silver, and regarding their expenditure, gave the following directions
to Kesho:—
"Take this money, and with it buy seven pillows, at the cost of one
rupee each. Lay out, at least, eight on working tools, and see that
they be thoroughly good. Thou must also buy food, and various other
things which thou knowest to be required. But first of all, go to the
railway station, where there are three parcels of value waiting to be
called for. Pay what is requisite for them, and bring them to me with
the utmost care. Be diligent and obedient, and show thyself worthy of
trust."
Kesho salaamed and departed, having wrapped up the twenty-four rupees
in the scarf which he wore round his waist.
My story, O reader! is a parable. In Kesho we behold an emblem of every
man and woman now in this world. To each is entrusted the treasure of
Time, the twenty-four hours of each day. Seven may be spent on the
pillows of sleep; eight should be given to honest work, whether in the
fields or the bazaar, whether in the school or in the office. They who
have not to earn their own bread must be diligent still. Let them work
freely for the good of others, spending their time in labours for God,
caring for the poor, teaching the ignorant, pleading the cause of the
widow. No one without guilt, and consequent punishment, can waste the
twenty-four hours committed every day to his charge by his Maker.
And the three precious parcels which are first of all to be redeemed
are—Prayer to God, Praise of the Most High, and Reading of the Holy
Scriptures. These offer to us the noblest employment of time, and bring
the richest profit.
Now hear what Kesho did with the rupees entrusted to his care.
Kesho took with him a mule to carry his purchases, and in the evening
again appeared before his master. A very high but not very heavy burden
made the mule's back appear almost as lofty as that of a camel.
"My lord, I bring the goods on the purchase of which I have expended my
twenty-four rupees," said Kesho to the merchant, after a humble salaam.
"'Thy' rupees, forsooth!" muttered the merchant, knitting his brow
in displeasure. Then, advancing to examine the mule's burden, he
exclaimed, "O thou most dull of soul! I told thee to expend seven
rupees on seven pillows, and behold thou bast brought to me twelve!
What idle waste of my money. Doubtless thou hast spent on pillows for
sleep five of the silver pieces that were meant for a nobler purpose.
Where are the good working tools which I ordered?"
Kesho was slowly and lazily unpacking the mule. He now produced, one by
one, put up carelessly between the pillows, the tools which were needed
for work. The merchant examined each closely.
"These are too few in number, and not thoroughly good of their kind,"
he said, angrily laying one down. "Thou hast taken no pains in their
choice, and hast doubtless spent too little upon them. What else hast
thou bought with my money?"
Kesho produced a supply of food.
"More silver rupees have been spent on this than was required,"
observed the merchant; "your greatest expenditure seems to have been on
eating and sleeping. But I see that thou hast still many things to show
me. What are in those two bags slung across the back of the mule?"
Kesho did not appear to be in any haste to open them. Looking rather
sullen, he poured out the contents of one upon the ground; it showed a
hookah,* and a heap of worthless rattles.
* The hookah is the Eastern representative of pipes and cigars. Women
smoke it as well as men.
"Are you a child or an idiot that you have spent rupees on such trash
as this?" cried the merchant, spurning the rattles with his foot. "I
hope that my three valuable parcels are safe in the other bag. Show me
its contents directly."
Kesho was more unwilling than before, but he had no option. He first
took out a box, which he held in his hand, and then emptied the bag on
the ground. Out came packs of dirty playing-cards,—mingled with dice!
So many had been bought by the faithless servant with his master's
rupees, that the merchant saw that Kesho must have spent on them at
least half of the money that should have gone for the tools, perhaps a
good deal more than half!
Exceedingly wrathful was the merchant. The two heaps before him showed
how utterly unworthy was his servant to be entrusted with the money
of time. But even worse was to come. Hoping that his master might not
notice the movement, Kesho was trying to hide the box which he held
behind the pile of cushions. But the merchant's eye was keen, and he
detected the attempt in a moment.
"Slave! What art thou attempting to conceal?" he exclaimed in a voice
of thunder. "Open that box, and show me upon what worse than trash thou
hast been wasting my money!"
Most unwillingly, and with a trembling hand, Kesho obeyed. Scarcely had
he raised the cover of the box when a number of hideous black scorpions
were crawling about in every direction.
The merchant was more wrathful than ever. "Wretch! Worthy of a thousand
stripes!" he exclaimed. "Is that what thou hast to show for my
entrusted money? And where are the three parcels which I charged thee
first of all to redeem?"
Prostrating himself in the dust, the servant faltered forth, "I forgot
them!"
"Then thou hast injured thyself only!" said the merchant sternly.
"Those parcels contained gifts for thee which are now lost to thee for
ever!"
Scarcely had the words fallen on the ear of Kesho, when he sprang up
from his prostrate position screaming with pain, for three of the
scorpions had fastened on his leg!
Terrible was the effect of the stings of those scorpions, and still
more terrible the scourging inflicted by the merchant upon his
worthless servant. Kesho never forgot either the stings or the dreadful
punishment to the end of his days.
O reader! Art thou like unto Kesho? Or hast thou learned to make a
better use of the treasure of time? Review the way in which yesterday
was spent; deceive not thyself, for thou canst not deceive Him who
entrusted to thee those twenty-four hours which thou canst never
recall. How many were lost in lazy sloth? How many were given to
unnecessary spinning out the time employed in eating and drinking? How
many were spent in that idle gossip which is worthless as the rattle of
a child? Were any thrown away in those games of chance which have been
the ruin of many? Oh! Search thy heart, and answer the solemn question
truly, have any of thy hours been spent in such deeds of evil as are
more poisonous than scorpions, deeds which thou wouldst gladly hide?
Seriously consider these questions, and let thy conscience give answer.
If it be silent now, at the last Day it will most assuredly speak.
After reviewing but "one" day of the many of thy life, dost thou not
tremble and cast thyself in the dust, exclaiming to thy great Master,
"'Lord! be merciful to me a sinner.' I have forgotten, or carelessly
performed the duties of Prayer, Praise, and Perusal of Thy Word; I
have indulged in sloth, in idle-speaking, in sinful pleasures, perhaps
in acts of which I should be ashamed. And that not for one day only,
but for weeks—for months—for years! Thousands on thousands of precious
hours have been wasted, squandered, lost for ever!"
And now, O Reader! How can the past be redeemed? Thou canst not tell
how many hours remain to be spent; make the best use of the one now
before thee. And first, I would earnestly urge upon thee to search the
Scriptures. Reading them carefully, prayerfully, thou wilt find a means
of escaping both from the scourge and the scorpions, the punishment
here and hereafter, which thou hast justly deserved. And there are to
be found directions for redeeming the time in future, for laying out to
the best advantage such hours as may be left to thee yet. We may count
the treasures of time, but the treasures of Eternity cannot be counted.
The one are as silver rupees in the girdle, the others, if blissful,
will be as mountains of gold. On the way in which time is spent here,
eternity will depend. Oh! May God bestow His Spirit upon thee, and make
thee what all of His servants are commanded to be, "not slothful in
business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord"! (Rom. xii. 11).
[Illustration]
THE BAD BARGAIN.
[Illustration]
TRUTHFULNESS is as the Koh-i-nur, the gem without a flaw, which shines
in the crown of a monarch. If you would know what comes of falsehood,
hear ye the story of Shibbu.
In the island of Ceylon dwelt Lachman Dás, who, above all other men,
was skilled in the art of making false jewels. He used to provide such
for those men who go to ships arriving from England, to cheat unwary
passengers by selling the false under the name of the true. Those who
knew Lachman Dás best called him by the title of Father "Jhuth Muth"
(Falsehood).
One of the customers who most often came to the dwelling of Lachman
Dás was a man of the name of Shibbu, who had amassed some hundreds of
rupees by cheating the English by selling false gems. One day he came
to Lachman's house with a look of great eagerness on his face.
"What hast thou ready, O Father?" he cried. "The smoke of a large
steamer is now to be seen in the sky, passengers will soon be arriving,
and I have not so much as a bit of glass bottle left with which to
tempt them!"
Lachman Dás did not answer at once; he was putting the last finishing
touch to a beautiful ornament made of false rubies. But presently he
relieved the impatience of Shibbu by drawing forth from a secret place
a basket containing many more, each more splendid-looking than the
other. Shibbu was dazzled by their beauty, and eager to buy.
"How many are there altogether?" he cried.
"Twenty-four choice ornaments," replied Lachman Dás, after counting
them slowly.
"I do not mind taking the whole lot,—four annas * each, six rupees for
them all," said Shibbu, trying to look as if he were indifferent to
gain, and rather bestowing a favour on the maker.
* An anna is less than three half-pence.
"Four annas each!" cried Lachman Dás indignantly. "Wert thou born
without eyes! Seest thou not that the worst of these is fit for the
wear of a rajah!"
"If it were real," said Shibbu. "But come, you are an old friend of
mine, I will give you—say five annas each."
"I will not let them go for one pie under a rupee each," said Lachman
Dás with decision.
"A rupee each! Would you ruin a poor man with five children?" cried
Shibbu. "Come, come, I am an old customer, let us say six annas
a-piece."
"A rupee each, not a pie less. I shall find many who will purchase my
jewels at that rate; go then elsewhere and buy," said the maker of
false gems, beginning to put his gaudy trash back again into the basket.
"Do not be hard on an old friend. You have made many rupees by me, O
Father!" cried Shibbu, in a pleading tone.
Lachman Dás considered for several moments; he appeared to be counting
the false emeralds in a ring which he held in his hand. At last, he
said, "I am willing to make a bargain with thee, O Shibbu! Thou shalt
have, if thou wilt, the whole lot on the following terms. For the first
ornament thou shalt give but one pie." *
* Less than a "mite." A rupee is now worth about 1s. 8d.
"'One pie!'" exclaimed the delighted Shibbu, scarcely able to believe
his own ears.
"For the second 'two' pies, for the third 'four,' so to go on doubling
till the whole twenty-four be paid for."
Shibbu was not clever at counting, but he soon made out that all the
first four ornaments would cost him but a mere trifle. Was ever bargain
so good! Shibbu began to think that the cunning old cheat before him
must have grown crazy from age to sell his jewels for a few pice! He
eagerly closed with the bargain, if Lachman Dás would but wait for
payment until the false jewels should be sold.
"Enough," said Lachman Dás, with twinkling eyes. "Thou shalt sign an
agreement before witnesses that if thou pay me not, not merely shall
thy property be mine, but thou thyself shalt be my bondsman to the end
of thy days."
Shibbu, eager to gain more rupees by lying and cheating, willingly put
his mark to the paper which was drawn up for him to sign. He could
hardly bear waiting till the business was over, so much afraid was he
that some other seller of gems should get the start of him, and cheat
the strangers out of their rupees before he had time to display before
them his beautiful but worthless ware.
But Shibbu had no need for such haste. Not only did he reach the quay
before the passengers landed, but his false gems were so superior to
those of any other seller, that he disposed of the whole twenty-four,
and made three hundred rupees!
"I never had such a catch in my life!" thought the exulting teller of
lies. "It will break old Lachman's heart when he finds what a wretched
bargain he has made. If he had stuck to his demand for rupees, I should
have given in at last. Now he must content himself with his pice!" And
Shibbu laughed to himself at the mortification of the covetous old man.
But Shibbu did anything but laugh when standing by the maker of false
jewels, with many witnesses around, he heard the beginning of the
calculation made as to the real amount of his debt. He kept silent at
first, though growing graver and graver, till he found that though
the first jewel cost him but one pie, the twelfth was rated at "ten
rupees," "ten minas," and "eight pies."
"Stop! Stop!" he cried. "There is some jugglery here. They never can
come to so much!"
"Go on," said the maker of jewels to the accountant who, pen in hand,
was making up the sum.
Now poor Shibbu was like a wretch undergoing the torture. As the
doubled price of each ornament was named, he first groaned, then
actually shrieked, as if a twisted rope were being drawn tighter and
tighter around him. Long before the price of the twentieth jewel was
reached, he was a ruined man; and when the twenty-fourth was named as
worth upwards of "forty thousand" rupees, Shibbu threw himself on the
ground, beat his breast, tore his hair, and cast dust on his beard.
"Oh! Have mercy—mercy on me!" he cried.
He might as well have asked mercy from the stones as from the wicked
Lachman Dás.
Shibbu saw himself stript at once not only of his ill-gotten three
hundred rupees, but of his house, everything that he possessed,—yes,
even of his very freedom! Lachman Dás kept him to his agreement, and
the fruit of Shibbu's successful, lying and cheating was poverty,
misery, and bondage to the end of his wretched days.
Reader! Have you ever made anything by lying or cheating? Then are you
in as evil a condition as Shibbu? You have a hard creditor in Satan,
the evil spirit, and every pie that you have gained by his means is
"set down," to be accounted for hereafter. You may now, like Shibbu,
be exulting in your success. Perhaps you are a bunniah, rich from
what you have wrung from the poor. Perhaps a Government official,
whose hands are not clean from bribes. Perhaps a contractor, who has
amassed thousands of rupees by dishonest bargains. In whatever way the
ill-gotten money has come, be sure that the reckoning day is near.
Do you know what, in the Word of God, is written about the fate of the
liar? Hear it, O sinner! and tremble—"All liars shall have their part
in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second
death" (Rev. xxi. 8). You have sold yourself as bondsman to him who is
indeed the father of lies, one who is more cruel than Lachman Dás. Man
can but hurt the body, but the evil one destroys the soul. Poor lost
one! Dost thou boast of thy successful lies and thy clever bargains?
See what they will bring thee to in the end. Thou hast heaped up a debt
beyond what thou canst count, and every pie must be paid.
Yet even thou needst not despair; if thou, O lost one! repent and
forsake thy sin, there is a way by which even your enormous debt can be
paid—The Son of Man is come to save that which is lost (Matt. xviii.
11). The Christian religion offers pardon to the sinful, freedom to the
bound, and life to the dying.
What would have been the feelings of Shibbu, when grovelling on the
ground, groaning and despairing, had some prince come forward and said,
"Fear not, I will pay all thy debt; my treasury is full, and were thy
debt even to empty it, thou shouldst go free." Would not Shibbu have
sprung up from the dust, then thrown himself at the prince's feet, and
wept for joy? Even this act of mercy hath the Lord Jesus, God's Son,
performed for thee, if thou believe. From the treasures of His grace
He pays all thy debt, so that Satan hath no power to ruin thee. Christ
came from heaven to pay it; He shed His own blood to pay it; there is
freedom and life and joy for those who trust in His name!
[Illustration]
THE ILL-FAVOURED BRIDE.
[Illustration]
TO the wise and virtuous Hossein was born a son whom he called Shádia
Shah (Prince of Pleasure) in the gladness of his heart. But the son
at whose birth had been many rejoicings, grew up to be a care and
sorrow to his parents. As the son of a wealthy man, Shádia fell into
temptations which assail the rich more than the poor. He thought that,
having no need to labour for his bread, he was not required to labour
at all.
Shádia was placed at a Government school, but scarcely attended one day
out of three. He fell amongst evil companions, who led him into habits
of gambling. From morn till night the youth would sit in worse than
idleness, rattling the dice or shuffling the cards. In vain his father
reproved him, in vain his mother entreated. Shádia constantly incurred
debts which his father paid with sorrow and shame.
"Alas!" said the neighbours. "That so wise a man should have so foolish
a son!"
One evening Shádia, having partaken of a plentiful meal, stretched
himself on his charpai, wrapped his rich coverlet around him, and
closed his eyes as if to sleep. His father and a friend named Mihr Dád,
sat at a little distance smoking their hookahs. Then after a while, the
bubbling sound of the hookahs ceased, and the two friends engaged in
the following conversation:—
"Is it not time," asked Mihr Dád, "that your honour should make some
arrangement for the marriage of your son?"
"Arrangements are already in progress," was the reply.
This was to Shádia startling and interesting intelligence. * He
noiselessly turned round on his charpai, and raised his head a little
that he might listen the better.
* But not as astounding as it would have been to a European. In the
East, relatives arrange marriages, the bride and bridegroom are not
supposed to meddle in the matter.
"No doubt your honour has chosen for Shádia the daughter of some
highly-esteemed man of excellent family," said Mihr Dád.
"I cannot say that," replied Hossein. "The bride's father is not a
respectable man, but one of mean and grasping character, and of very
low birth. He is, moreover, exceedingly ugly."
"That sounds not well," said the friend. "But perhaps the good
qualities of the bride's mother counterbalance the evil ones of the
father."
"Oh! The mother is mad!" replied Hossein.
Poor Shádia became very uneasy as he listened, and raised his head a
little higher, hoping that he was unnoticed, as he lay in the shadow of
a pillar.
"It is to be hoped that the girl does not resemble her parents,"
observed Mihr Dád.
"She is said to be more ugly than her father, and more mad than her
mother," was Hossein's reply.
The poor intended bridegroom could hardly refrain from an exclamation
of disgust. What could his father mean by making so horrible a marriage
for his only son and heir!
"I suppose that the money arrangements at least will be satisfactory,"
said Mihr Dád after a pause; "the girl will bring great wealth to the
house of her future lord."
"Anything but wealth," replied Hossein with a sigh. "Her father makes
many promises indeed, but he is pretty certain never to fulfil them. On
the other hand, Shádia's friends must settle on his bride all that he
now possesses, or may inherit at my death. I believe that the result of
the union will be to bring him to beggary at last."
Shádia could listen in silence no longer. He sprang from his charpai,
and with flashing eyes and quivering lips suddenly appeared before his
father.
"I will never make such a marriage!" he exclaimed. "Why have you chosen
for me so hateful a bride?"
"I have not chosen her for thee, O my son!" Hossein mildly replied.
"Thou hast chosen her for thyself. I would have wedded thee unto
Wisdom, thou hast given thyself unto Gambling."
The youth looked somewhat perplexed.
"Sit down beside us," said the father, "and hear the meaning of my
parable, and profit by it, my son."
Shádia took his place on the mat, and listened in silence while Hossein
went on. "Gambling is the daughter of Covetousness, and her mother is
the mad Love of Pleasure. She inherits the evil qualities of both her
parents. She brings the rich to poverty, and the honourable unto shame.
Didst thou ever know a gambler who rose to distinction by honest,
persevering industry? Didst thou ever know a gambler who was blessed by
his family, or who left a good name behind him?"
Shádia hung his head as one ashamed.
"Oh! My son, it is in youth that unions are formed on which the
happiness or misery of the whole life may depend. You are now
contracting habits which, if confirmed, will prove your ruin. The wild
mirth of your associates is like the festivities and fireworks at a
marriage, where the bridegroom is a victim, and the bride a fiend in
disguise. For is it not the natural effect of the vice of gambling to
destroy all that is noble in the character of man? If the parents of
Gambling be Covetousness and the mad Love of Pleasure, what are her
children? Idleness, Selfishness, Neglect of Duty, Poverty, Misery, and
at length Despair."
Shádia took to heart the words of his father, and resolved from that
day to break from the evil habit which was ruining his prospects and
corrupting his heart.
And now, O reader! There is another kind of gambling against which
I would warn you, Gambling daily practised by many who never touch
a dice or a card. It is playing at the game of chance, at which the
immortal soul is the stake. You may have been born among Hindus or
Mahomedans, Sikhs or Christians; you may have learned from childhood
to streak your forehead with the mark of Shiv, or to say, "There is
one God, and Mahomed is His prophet," or to honour Goru Nanak, or to
reverence the name of Christ. You go on doing these things, but as
a matter of custom. Your common sense tells you that amongst many
differing religions not all can be right—that if God be One, so Truth
must be one; many paths lead to Hell, only one can lead to Heaven. Why
do you not search and inquire, to be certain which is the right one?
Why read you not Shastra and Grundth, Qurán and Bible, and compare them
together, with earnest prayer to God for guidance? Because you shrink
from labour, because you are willing to stake your soul on a "chance!"
Consider what is the stake. If you saw a royal gambler who should cry
as he rattled the dice—"If I throw anything but six, I am content to
forfeit my crown, come down from my throne, and take my place amongst
the beggars who throng my gates!" Would you praise that king for
wisdom? Would you not say, "Alas! He is mad!"
Or if you saw a youth seated at play, and heard him exclaim with
a solemn oath—"If I lose this game of chance, I will throw myself
into yon well a thousand feet deep, and make my life the forfeit of
failure!" Would you praise that youth for wisdom; would you not rather
cry, "Put him at once into confinement; it is not safe to leave him to
himself!"
But he who stakes his soul, stakes more than a crown, stakes more than
his earthly existence. He stakes future happiness, more precious than
kingdoms; he risks the loss of bliss through millions and millions of
ages. He risks it on the "chance" that his forefathers were right, and
seeks no proof that they were so. Is this conduct the conduct of the
wise? If the Mahomedan religion be from God, what will become of the
Hindu? If the Christian Faith be indeed the true one, what will be the
fate of those who, refusing to examine its proofs, reject it?
O reader! Gamble not with your own soul; become a patient, earnest,
prayerful inquirer after truth. Examine the foundations of various
religions, especially of that which fears no test. Mahomed himself
declared the Tauret of Moses, the Books of the Prophets, and the Gospel
to be the Word of God, yet willed not that his followers should read
them! Has Wisdom no answer to the question "'Why' was he unwilling that
men should search the Scriptures, though Christ, whom he knew to be a
Prophet, commanded that men should search them?" Was it not that he had
reason to dread the light that would pour in on the soul from reading
the inspired books?
To seek for the truth—this is wisdom. To search and examine whether
the foundation on which we build our hopes of heaven be firm and
sure—this also is wisdom. To pray to the unseen God to guide us in our
search—this is wisdom; and having found truth, to embrace and hold it
fast to the end—this is wisdom indeed!
[Illustration]
THE LADDER OF LIFE.
[Illustration]
LOOK on the shadow of great realities shown forth in a dream! I beheld
as it were a mighty Cross, the top of which I could not see, for it was
hidden in a bright cloud; and the arms spread from East to West, as if
to embrace all the world. Against this Cross, resting upon it, was a
wondrous ladder with poles of gold, and seven rounds of various tints,
each different from the other.
The first round of the ladder was of the hue of ashes, and on it was
written these words from Scripture—"I acknowledge my transgressions,
and my sin is ever before me: what shall I do that I may be saved?" The
name of this round was Repentance.
The second round was blue and bright as the summer sky. On it was
written these words—"God so loved the world that He gave His only
begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but
have everlasting life." The name of this round was Faith.
The third round was of glowing crimson hue, richer and more beauteous
than that of rubies. On it was written these words—"We love Him because
He first loved us." The name of this round was Love.
The fourth round was green as emeralds sparkling in the light of the
noonday sun. Even to look on it gladdened the heart, and ever and anon
flowers appeared to blossom upon it, as roses bloom on the green earth.
The name of this round was Joy. On it was written—"In whom believing,
ye rejoice with joy unspeakable, and full of glory."
The fifth round was very marvellous to look on. Its colour was pale
violet, and on it appeared in gold the semblance of an eye, an ear, a
mouth, a hand, a heart, and other objects. The name of this round was
Service, and on it was written—"I beseech you, by the mercies of God,
that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto
God, which is your reasonable service."
The sixth round was of spotless whiteness, compared to which the pearl
is without beauty, and the new-fallen snow without brightness. The name
of the round was Holiness, and on it was written, "Holiness—without
which no man shall see the Lord."
The seventh round appeared to be formed of golden light, but it dazzled
my eyes so much, that I could not see it distinctly. The name of that
round was Glory. On it was written, though I scarcely could read, on
account of the excessive brightness—"To them who by patient continuance
in well-doing seek for glory, and honour, and immortality, eternal
life."
When I looked upon the ladder, I rejoiced, but when I looked from it
to the earth I trembled. In the distance I saw red flames, as of a
vast conflagration, and though yet afar off, minute by minute they
drew nearer and nearer. I knew that a fiery deluge of destruction was
spreading over the land, and was conscious that at last there would be
no means of escape but by the way of the ladder that was resting upon
the Cross.
On the first round of the ladder, Repentance, I saw several women
seated, and all appeared to be in trouble, looking ever and anon to
the fire at a distance. I heard first one, then another, repeat with
weeping the words inscribed on the round. These were women whose hearts
were touched with a sense of their sins.
"Oh! What must I do to be saved?" cried one.
A Brahmin in a long dhoti, and with painted lines on his forehead,
and a string of beads in his hand, stood near. He heard the woman's
exclamation and replied, "Go on pilgrimage to Kashi, bathe in the
sacred Ganges, do pujá at the shrines, give offerings to the priests,
and possibly even thou mayst obtain emancipation."
A turbaned Mahomedan Moulvie on the other side, with a copy of the
Qurán in his hand, cried aloud, "There is but one God, and Mahomet is
his prophet. Keep the fasts, pray five times a day, observe all the
laws of Islam; even for women a place in Paradise may be found; saith
not the prophet, that God will lead the believers of both sexes to the
gardens of delight?"
Some of the women descended from their place on the round, and followed
the one or the other speaker. I know not whether their hearts had found
rest, but as they were now standing on the doomed earth, I feared that
none were really in safety. Their eyes were fixed on that earth, and
they turned their backs upon the Cross.
Two youthful sisters remained on the round of Repentance, nor listened
to Brahmin nor Moulvie. Their gaze was anxiously fixed on the second
round of the ladder, a round which was very high, and therefore hard
to climb. At last, one of the sisters raised her hand, grasped firmly
the round of Faith, and by her companion's aid got a footing upon it.
The uppermost climber then helped the other up. Trembling from the
exertions which they had made, both the young women stood trembling
upon the round.
Then loudly from those below arose the cry, "Come down!" mingled with
angry threats and curses. And suddenly a tremendous wind began to blow,
increasing to a hurricane. It could not shake the ladder indeed, but it
greatly harassed and frightened the girls who were clinging to it.
"I cannot stop here!" cried the elder. "I cannot endure this storm!" I
could see in my dream that every limb was trembling from the blast of
"persecution."
"Hold on! Oh! Hold on, my sister!" cried the younger. "A voice is
sounding even through the storm, 'Whosoever shall confess Me before
men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven.'"
"Oh! This is terrible!" exclaimed the elder. "I can endure no more!" As
she uttered the words she let go her hold, and dropped to the ground,
sorely bruising herself against the round of Repentance as she fell.
A cry of anguish burst from her sister; but still notwithstanding the
furious storm, and the fiercer cries of those beneath, she maintained
her grasp, and only clung the harder, the louder the tempest of
persecution blew.
She not only clung, but she climbed. It seemed as if the very blast
helped to bear her upward, so quickly did the brave girl reach the
third round, the ruby round of Love. It appeared as if there she would
find some rest; from thence she could look down on the crowd, and less
heed their hooting and upbraiding. I thought in my dream that I heard
her say, "Perfect love casteth out fear."
Upward and upward still, struggling, clinging, climbing, the girl has
reached the round of Joy. Then suddenly the wind went down, as if a
voice had commanded it to be still, and as I looked on the climber, I
beheld her face lighted up with exceeding delight. A song of joy burst
from her lips, "My soul doth, magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath
rejoiced in God my Saviour!" Methinks there is no happiness on earth
like the happiness which fills the heart of those who have risen from
Faith and Love to Joy!
But there were other heights to be reached, and the climber was soon
upon the round of Service. The ruby light of Love, the emerald radiance
of Joy were about her still, as if she carried them with her. Her happy
song did not cease; Service was evidently to the climber a post of
honour and pleasure. To devote heart and eye, lips and hand, all that
we have, and all that we are to Him who gave Himself for us, this is
not the task of the slave, this is the adopted child's privilege and
delight.
But still, even when on the round of Service, the girl's eyes were
fixed on the round of Holiness above her, the beauteous pearly round.
She stretched her hand upwards, longing to reach it, but it seemed
too high for her even to touch. "Oh! Create in me a clean heart!" she
cried. "And renew a right spirit within me!"
As the climber stretched upwards with wistful gaze, I saw an angel
with snowy wings and starry crown suddenly swoop down from the sky. He
caught the weary one in his strong arms, and in a moment placed her on
the round of Holiness, and then onwards—upwards to Glory!
The crowd below cried, "The Christian is dead!" I knew that she had
but entered into heavenly rest. They saw in the winged messenger the
terrible form of Death, I beheld in him a ministering angel sent by the
Lord of Life. Blessed are they whom He finds on the round of Service,
still shining with Faith, and Love, and Joy!
Reader! This is a parable for all who have learned that they are
sinners, who have heard of the love of a Saviour! If you have read this
book, the Ladder of Life is before you, it remains with you whether
or not you will resolve to climb it. At the last Great Day you cannot
plead, "No one warned me of coming judgment, no one showed me a way to
escape." Have you reached even the first round of the ladder? Has the
cry ever burst from your heart, "God be merciful to me a sinner! What
must I do to be saved?"
If, as is possible, though you yet be called a Hindu, you have reached
the second round of the ladder, think not that it is possible to rest
securely on the bare belief that Christ died for sinners, without the
Love which can raise you above the fear of man. The devils believe, but
do not love; their dead faith can never save them. If you, like too
many, are content to think as a Christian, but live like a heathen,
you are in fearful danger of a fall. Oh! Climb upward, struggling and
praying, and be assured that it is Love that leads to Joy, and to that
ready glad Service which shows to all that true faith inevitably leads
to a useful, devoted life.
Do you long for Holiness, never fully attained on earth, yet aimed at
by every sincere Christian? Hear the words of the Saviour— "Blessed
are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be
filled. We know that when He shall appear we shall be like Him, for we
shall see Him as He is." To be with Him, and like Him for ever, this is
glory indeed!
Once more look at the rounds of the Ladder of Life, and as you look,
ask your own heart, "Do I desire to climb it?" And if you find the
desire, oh! Turn it into a prayer—"Lord! By the help of Thy Holy
Spirit, give me strength to climb it, for the sake of Thy blessed Son."
A. L. O. E. would suggest to kind young friends eager to help
Missionaries, how very acceptable would be copies of this Ladder made
in cardboard, with bright colours and gilding. She has herself made
several, and few things are so useful to her in Zenanas as the one
which she has reserved for herself. A friend greatly added to its value
by putting a little figure of a man upon it, who, by being drawn up by
means of a string at the back, mounts from round to round. Children in
Mahomedan schools have readily learned by heart the precious verses
attached to Repentance, Faith, &c. Nothing should be written on the
Ladder except the names of the rounds and references to suitable
verses. Each Missionary should learn to repeat these verses in the
language of the people she visits.
Ladder of Life.
GLORY WITH CHRIST.
LIKENESS TO CHRIST.
SERVICE FOR CHRIST.
JOY IN CHRIST.
LOVE TOWARDS CHRIST.
FAITH IN CHRIST.
REPENTANCE FOR SIN.
THE BRAHMIN BOY.
[Illustration]
PRITHU was the eldest son of a "Brahmin" (one of the highest "caste"
or class in India, who think themselves twice-born, and so entitled to
look down on their fellow-men). Little Prithu would probably at one
time have almost rather starved than have eaten food which had been
touched by one of low caste, or by a Christian, or have cut off the
tuft of hair at the top of his head, which was a sign of his being a
Brahmin. Prithu has cut away the precious tuft, and now sits down at
the Christian's table, and gives thanks to the Christian's God. But the
Brahmin boy had a hard struggle to go through before he left father and
mother, country and friends, for the sake of the Gospel.
Prithu's home was in Narowal, which is in the large province called
the Punjab. Narowal is a heathen place, but in it is a school, which
was watched over by Mr. Bateman, an English missionary. Earnestly had
Mr. Bateman been trying to win souls for Christ in Narowal and the
country around. His was not an easy work, nor always a safe one. On
one occasion some villagers were so angry with Mr. Bateman for having
been the means of drawing a boy to the Saviour, that they threatened to
drown the missionary the next time that he should cross their ferry.
"I am not easily drowned," was Mr. Bateman's good-humoured reply.
The natives dared not drown the English gentleman, however willing
they were to do so, but they showed their spite by trying to drown his
camels. When the large heavy beasts had to cross the ferry, a villager
led them into a quicksand, where they had no safe footing. Down went
the poor camels and Mr. Bateman's luggage into the water. The heathen
around refused to bring a boat, or to help the poor struggling beasts.
But let us return to our Brahmin.
Prithu's father placed his boy at the Narowal school, hoping to make
him a clever man, but certainly "not" a Christian; he wished his son
to gain knowledge, but not that knowledge which is more precious than
all besides. But Prithu was thus within hearing of God's Word, and
with him it did not fall like seed by the wayside. The boy listened,
attended, and learned to love the Gospel, Prithu did not read his Bible
as carelessly as do many so-called Christian boys. The truth was taking
root in his heart, and the young Brahmin believed that Christ died for
sinners, and felt that he must love Him who had given so great a proof
of His love for mankind.
Great was the vexation of Prithu's father when he found that his son
wished to become a Christian. He took his boy from Narowal, and placed
him in a school at Lahore. But though no longer with his friend the
missionary, Prithu did not forget his teachings. The seed of truth went
on growing, Prithu's faith and love increased. In the spring, Prithu
returned to Narowal, and spent a fortnight there, studying the Gospel,
and trying to encourage a fellow-scholar who, like himself, believed
the truth, and had to suffer persecution for righteousness' sake.
You must not suppose that Prithu was a boy without faults; he had to
fight against sin within, as well as bear opposition from without. The
Brahmin lad had been brought up in a land where sins of the tongue,
evil-speaking, and lying, are fearfully common. On one occasion, he
insulted his friend the missionary.
Mr. Bateman was engaged in writing, when Prithu asked him a question.
The reply did not please the young Brahmin, who uttered a rude word to
express that he did not believe that what the clergyman had told him
was true.
The missionary rebuked the insolent lad. "Do you take me for a Hindoo
or a Mahometan," said he, "that you think that I should lightly tell
you a lie?" And turning round, the missionary went on with his writing.
Mild as was the reproof, it cut the boy to the heart. As Mr. Bateman
described it, "he shrivelled up like the branch of a sensitive plant."
Prithu felt how unjust, how ungrateful it had been to give the lie to
one whom he so well knew to be speaking the truth in love.
For about half-an-hour Mr. Bateman went on with his writing, leaving
the boy to reflect over his fault. Then the missionary, looking at the
silent humbled Prithu, asked him of what he was thinking.
"I was thinking that if God were to cut out my unworthy tongue, it
would be better for me," was the poor young Brahmin's reply.
Surely the "idle word" thus repented of was forgiven both by the master
on earth and the Master in Heaven.
Thus has been described the peace and joy which came to Prithu when
shown how he could overcome the sins of the tongue.
No burst of Sunshine on that April day made any landscape brighter than
was his face when God's light broke through the cloud which hung over
his heart, and he found the true remedy for his fault as he learned to
pray, "Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth, and keep the door of my
lips, that I offend not with my tongue." How many of my British readers
have from the heart uttered this prayer, and if they have never yet
done so, is it "because they do not need it?"
Brightly and more brightly the light of truth shone upon the Brahmin
boy. He received Christ as his Saviour, he was willing to leave all,
and take up his cross to follow Christ. But oh! what a heavy cross it
was to the tender loving heart of Prithu!
We who have been born of Christian parents, and brought up in Christian
homes, know little of the agony to be borne by the convert who stands
alone in his family, the one Christian amongst many heathen. The more
tender the heart, the more sharp is the pain.
Prithu had the courage to ask for baptism, but Mr. Bateman thought him,
under the circumstances, too young yet to receive it. Prithu was then
not fifteen years old; he must count the cost before he gave up all
for Christ; he must not hastily take a step which might divide him for
ever from those whom he fondly loved. Prithu returned to Lahore without
having had the water of baptism on his brow, but he carried with him
the grace of God in his heart. Unlike many lads in Britain who dread
even the scoff or laugh from ungodly companions which might follow
their showing that they care for religion, unlike those who are ashamed
even to be seen engaged in prayer, Prithu boldly confessed his faith in
Christ.
The Brahmin father took his boy from the school in Lahore, and placed
him in another, where he heard wicked blasphemous words uttered against
Christ. Prithu was sorely distressed. He was like a light shining in a
dark place; the wind of opposition was blowing round it; would it not
flicker, would it not go out? Could a boy not yet fifteen years old
hold fast his faith to the end?
Mr. Bateman was anxious about Prithu, and consulted a magistrate
regarding the case of the boy. By the magistrate's advice, the
missionary had a serious conversation with the father of his young
friend. Mr. Bateman told the Brahmin that in three months more Prithu
would be old enough to judge for himself which God he would serve, and
that if, after that time, the lad still wished to be a Christian, the
missionary would no longer refuse to baptise him. But during those
three months of trial Prithu must go home with his father; that father
might do all that he could to draw him back to the Hindoo religion,
every means might be taken to work upon the boy's love or fear, his
desire of praise, his dread of shame, and his pride of caste.
It was just and fair that the father should be given those three months
during which he might try to win back his boy; it was honourable in
the missionary to do nothing, even for the sake of converting a soul,
in a deceitful underhand way. But it was a bitter trial to Mr. Bateman
thus to part with his beloved young convert; he could not but dread the
effect which those terrible three months might have upon the courage
and faith of Prithu. Could the lad, with no Christian friend beside
him, resist the arguments of his father, the tears of his own dear
mother, the taunts or entreaties of those whom he had known from his
childhood? Doubtless Mr. Bateman was very earnest in prayer for his
poor Brahmin boy, but he felt like Darius when giving up Daniel to be
thrown into the den of lions!
Prithu had indeed a trying time before him, his faith and perseverance
had to endure a very sharp test. He was carried off into the land of
Cashmir, which does not belong to our Queen, that he might be quite
beyond reach of Christian friends. He was washed in so-called sacred
springs; he was talked to by famous Brahmins; he was made to sit day
after day before one of the hideous idols whom the heathen worship.
Those around him tried to stir up the pride of the youthful Brahmin.
"Alas!" said one. "That you should trouble so holy a man as your
father, and disgrace so great a family by becoming a Christian!"
"If I am the son of a great and good man, why should I not put out my
hand to take a great and good thing?" was Prithu's reply.
Prithu had indeed put out his hand to grasp the Christian's hope; but
would he have strength to hold it fast? The poor boy's comfort and
strength was found in prayer. Even when forced to crouch before a
hateful idol, the young convert was lifting up his heart to his Lord.
Prithu was specially comforted by the Saviour's promise, "BE THOU
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH, AND I WILL GIVE THEE A CROWN OF LIFE."
Prithu had no opportunity of writing to Mr. Bateman, and yet he
contrived to send a message to him. The way in which the poor lad did
this is one of the most interesting parts of his story.
Before Prithu had been forced to leave his Christian friend, the two
had studied together a part of the Bible which to some of my readers
may be little known. In the law of Moses it is written that a freed
slave might have the choice of serving his master still, if he loved
that master so well as to resolve never to leave him till death. In
sign of such earnest, devoted love, the freed slave had his ear bored,
such was the token appointed by Moses. Now Prithu had resolved to take
the Lord Jesus as his Master for ever, and he thought that he would
have a sign like that of the freed slave. There was no need to bore
Prithu's ear, for it was already pierced for rings, after the custom of
the East, where boys as well as girls wear jewels. Prithu, as a token
of his love for his Master in Heaven, had put a little sprig of wood
into the hole in his ear, and had told Mr. Bateman that if ever he,
Prithu, should take that sprig out, it would be because he had given up
serving Christ as his Master.
Often must the missionary have anxiously thought of his tempted boy,
and have asked himself the question, "Does my poor Prithu still wear
the sprig in his ear, or has he thrown it away, and with it cast away
his faith in Christ, and his hope of heaven?"
Mr. Bateman was not to be left in doubt. One day a letter from Prithu's
father reached the missionary. I do not know what the letter contained,
most likely words of reproach, perhaps of abuse. But it was not on the
letter itself but on the yellow envelope which had held it that the
eyes of Mr. Bateman were fixed with eager interest.
I have seen that yellow envelope in the missionary's album, there kept
amongst his treasures; and why is it thus preserved and valued? It is
certainly a very common-place thing to look at, and its neatness is not
improved by having on it an odd little sketch of a head in profile,
a head not so large as a pea, and roughly drawn, as if by the hand
of a child. Out of the head something appears to be sticking, such a
very small thing that when I saw it first it scarcely attracted my
notice. But that tiny head with something sticking out of it, had not
only attracted the missionary's notice, but had filled his heart with
thankful delight. Not the finest painting in the world could have given
Mr. Bateman such joy as did the rude sketch on the yellow envelope. He
knew that Prithu, his brave noble boy, must have drawn it on the cover
of his father's letter; and was sure that the small line, which to a
stranger would have no meaning, must represent "the sprig in the bored
ear!" The tried, tempted Prithu in that sketch had sent a token that he
was still resolved to serve the Lord.
Mr. Bateman described his feelings on seeing the tiny picture as like
those of King Darius when he heard the voice of the living Daniel
coming from the lions' den, "My God hath sent His angel, and stopped
the lions' mouths, that they should not hurt me."
It wanted but one day to the end of the three months of trial, when the
Brahmin father brought back Prithu to Mr. Bateman. There was a little
disappointment felt by the missionary at that meeting; for though
Prithu said that his faith was firm, yet he did not ask yet to be
baptised. Perhaps the lad's courage failed him a little before he took
so decisive a step; perhaps he shrank from cutting himself off from
family and friends. Prithu may have been suffered to feel natural fear,
that he might know the better that all his former strength had been
given by God. But if Prithu wavered a little, it was not for long, his
mind soon was made up, and soon the Brahmin convert was baptised in the
Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, thus openly confessing
his faith, and devoting himself, boy and soul, to the service of his
Redeemer.
You may think that Prithu had now passed through his trials, but they
were not quite over yet. The boy was dear to his family, and even after
his baptism they would have taken him back to their home and their
hearts, had he consented to deny his Lord. But neither entreaties nor
taunts moved Prithu to give up Christ.
The first time that Prithu's father came to see him after his baptism
was a painfully anxious time for Mr. Bateman. The Brahmin took his boy
alone with him to the top of the house; what passed between them I know
not, but the time was one of great anxiety to Mr. Bateman, who remained
below. The private conversation lasted so long, that the missionary
grew very uneasy. Great was his relief when Prithu at last appeared,
corning down from the top of the house, and singing that song which has
cheered and encouraged so many Christians—
"Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast."
When Mr. Bateman, on account of shattered health, came to England, he
brought his Prithu with him, and it was thus that I met the Christian
convert. So bright I thought him, so clever, so full of intelligence
and affection! I hope to meet Prithu again in his native land. The dear
boy is anxious that the Gospel should be carried to his loved country;
and he "wants me to see his mother."
And now, what lesson shall be gleaned from the story of Prithu the
Brahmin boy? Dear readers, great is the need that Christian men and
women should go to that dark dark land to tell the poor heathen, who
worship wood and stone, of a Father in Heaven, and a Saviour who pities
and loves them.
Let it first make us more zealous to help the cause of missions. Whilst
I am writing this, the fields of England are bright with the golden
harvest, sheaves are ready to be carried into the garner. Would it
not be grievous if hands were wanting for the work, if no sickle were
gleaming in the sunshine, if man looked on it with folded arms, till
the overripe corn should rot on the stems, or be destroyed by the
frosts of winter?
And India is a part of God's harvest field, a part many times larger
than our isle. There are more than "two hundred millions" of souls in
India! Oh! How vast a harvest, and the labourers how few, how very few!
I have heard that there is but one European missionary to "five hundred
thousand" natives! Oh! Pray, earnestly pray to the Lord of the harvest,
that He may send forth more labourers into His harvest!
Pray that amongst the natives themselves many teachers may arise; even
children may speak to children. The lips of a boy, young as Prithu, may
be opened to tell former playmates of that loving Lord who hath said,
"Suffer the little children to come unto Me."
And pray for the English labourers already there, and those who are
going forth to help them. How few we are, and how weak! Think of the
difficulties before us, remember our need of help from above,—of
courage, wisdom, patience, and love.
But why should we ask the prayers of those who perhaps have never once
in their lives really prayed for themselves? The young Brahmin will,
I fear, rise up in the judgment to condemn many who have had an open
Bible before them from the time when they first could read it, those
whose parents, unlike Prithu's, have tried to teach them to know the
Saviour. Prithu, in face of opposition, turned from his idol to serve
the living God. Reader! Will you turn away from God to serve your idol?
"We have no idols in Britain," perhaps you reply.
O Reader! Search your own heart; do not flinch from the duty. Ask
yourself; "Has God the first place in my heart?" If not, some idol is
there. It may be pride, or selfishness, or love of money; whatever it
be, if it be what we will not give up at our Lord's command, it is
as much an idol to us as is a bit of carved wood to the heathen. St.
John's warning is for "all"—"Little children, keep yourselves from
idols!"
Remember the sprig in the ear of Prithu, the sign that he had given
himself to serve the Lord, and Him only. How often during his months of
trial must the boy have felt tempted to take out that sprig, to give
up the hard struggle, and go back to his heathen state! How often in
such moments of temptation did God's Word sound in his heart, BE THOU
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH, AND I WILL GIVE THEE A CROWN OF LIFE! Do you know
anything of such a struggle, are you seeking for, or caring for the
crown of life? Think what it must be "to win;" and oh! think what it
would be "to lose it!"
Dear Reader, I earnestly entreat you, "seek the Lord whilst He may be
found, call upon Him whilst He is near." "Choose you this day whom ye
will serve," and if your choice be made to serve your Master in Heaven,
like Prithu, be faithful and firm, keep not the sprig in the ear, but
the love in the heart. And oh! by the grace of God's Holy Spirit, may
we be kept from falling away; and when our trial time is over, may we
receive a welcome from the Master whose blood has bought and whose
Spirit has led us! May we hear from His blessed lips the gracious
words, "Well done, good and faithful servants, enter ye into the joy of
your Lord!"
_FINIS._
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