The Mirror and The Bracelet, or, Little Bullets from Batala, by A. L. O. E. │ Project Gutenberg

Courage and strength were taxed to the utmost.
The Mirror and the Bracelet

THE MIRROR

AND

THE BRACELET

   THE fanciful title of my little volume is given advisedly, as descriptive of what I desire its contents to be. In this heathen land of India, hundreds of thousands of natives have been receiving an education from Government, one from which religion is excluded, but which enables them to be reached by means of the Press. Those engaged, like myself, in Mission work, desire to give the Hindus books—cheap, in order that they may be bought; and amusing, in order that they may be read. If tales like the following appear to the English reader fanciful and childish, our object is the more likely to be gained. Natives delight in allegory, and stories are to them as the sweetmeats that form so large a part of their feasts. Valuable commentaries and controversial works are like heavy artillery brought up to assail the bulwarks of idolatry, but in our missionary warfare, small bullets also are needed. The story in this volume entitled "A Son of Healing," has been constructed so as to divide into twelve minute books, to be sold at less than a mite each! These are small shot indeed! Yet, if God vouchsafe His blessing, each may hit its own mark.

   I have had the advantage of the criticism of a highly-educated native, himself a converted Hindu; one too sensible not to suggest, and too polite to praise. He can judge better than most Europeans can, what is likely to strike his countrymen. Though I have been more than three years in India, were I to treble the time, I should feel my own ignorance still.

   Instead of encumbering my story with long footnotes, it seemed better to place under separate headings a little information regarding Goru Nanak, the founder of the Sikh religion, &c., which may be new to some English readers. I am indebted for this information to a small history of the Punjab, written by a native, in a simple, amusing style and for the translations from the Granth to Dr. Trumpp's large and valuable work.

   In conclusion, I would earnestly ask the reader to join in a prayer that the time may speedily come when such childish tales as "THE MIRROR AND THE BRACELET" may be as little needed in India as in our own favoured land. It is possible that the earnestness of the prayer may be increased by the glimpse given in the following pages of the degrading thraldom in which millions of our fellow-creatures, our fellow-subjects, are held by Satan, the father of lies!

A. L. O. E.,
Hon. Missionary of Batála, Punjab.

THE MIRROR AND THE BRACELET.

CHAPTER I.

HEAR ye the story of the adventures and misfortunes of Bandhu. O Hindu reader! Perhaps you will find that he is one well-known unto you.

The mother of Bandhu went on a pilgrimage, and took her son with her. He was then seven years of age. The pilgrimage was a long one, the woman was poor; the flour which she carried with her was little for one, and quite insufficient for two.

Bandhu fell grievously sick; sores spread over his body; he had no strength to walk. His mother lifted him up, and carried him a short distance; but she was tired, hungry, and sad, and soon laid him down on the ground. Bandhu grew worse and worse; he moaned aloud in his pain; then his senses left him, and he lay on the earth as one dead.

The mother wailed aloud and cried, "What an unlucky day is this! What wretch's face did I happen to see early this morning? Hae! Hae! What shall I do? If I stay here, I shall perish with hunger, or some wild beast will devour me! The boy is dying; I cannot save him; why should I perish with him?"

So the mother of Bandhu did what many who go on long pilgrimages are constrained to do, she left the one who was dearest to her upon earth to die alone! Bandhu, happily for him, knew not that his mother was departing. He saw not her form disappearing behind the tall bamboos; he heard not the sound of her wailing. He lay quite alone, sick and senseless, a poor helpless object, from which a stranger might have turned in disgust.

But when the sun went down, there was a stirring in the bamboos. The bushes parted on either side. Had Bandhu awoke from his trance, he would have seen the huge head, the glaring eyes, the mouth with its terrible fangs, of a large yellow-striped tiger. The tread of the beast made no sound; he saw his prey lying before him. Crouching like a cat, the tiger drew nearer and nearer; it seemed certain that the deserted boy would be torn to pieces, and devoured by the forest monster.

But whilst the tiger crept forward from the left hand, some one was approaching from the right. This was a tall, noble-looking man, richly dressed, from whose mien the truth might be guessed that his rank was that of a king. Never had a grander trodden the earth. He had just conquered that land; all that he surveyed was his own, and won by his prowess. Enemies might hate the king, but they could not withstand his victorious sword; they laid down their arms, they brought tribute, and crouched submissive before his feet.

The king had ridden forth that day to hunt, with a numerous suite of attendants; but because he was better mounted than any of them, he had outstripped them all, and now he rode alone. There was not so much as a syce to hold his golden stirrup. The king's horse at last falling lame, his rider had dismounted, and after tying his bridle to a tree, had determined to rejoin his attendants on foot. It was then that the king came on the place where Bandhu lay stretched on the earth, within reach of the tiger's spring.

Perhaps out of a million men there would have been but one who would not have left the wretched, diseased child to his fate. Of all princes there would have been but one who would not have thought, "To save so worthless a life I never will risk my own. I am of lofty degree, he is some wretched beggar; better that a host of such should die than a hair of my head should suffer."

But the mighty king was that exceptional one. His heart was a treasury of compassion, and every one of his subjects, even those of this newly-conquered land, was dear in his sight. Silently the king drew his sword from its jewelled scabbard, and rushing across the space which divided him from the tiger, he wounded the creature deeply, as he was in the act to spring on the child.

Then followed such a conflict between the king and the wild beast as would have terrified any beholder. The king was of mighty strength and great courage, but courage and strength were taxed to the utmost. The tiger fixed claws and teeth in the flesh of the man, he tore, he struggled, he pulled down his brave assailant, he rolled him in the dust; the wild beast growled and roared till the jungle echoed with the sound. The king, though in peril and agony, never lost his presence of mind. He wounded the tiger again and again. The monarch's arm was strong and his sword was sharp, and after a terrible conflict, he succeeded in winning the victory. The savage tiger, like the king's other enemies, felt himself conquered. Howling, he limped off to the jungle, leaving a track of blood-drops behind him.

The king was sorely hurt, and felt faint after the struggle. From many wounds blood was flowing; never throughout his life would he lose the marks of the fangs of the terrible beast. Yet his first thought was for the poor boy whose preservation had cost him so dear. When the king's astonished attendants rode up to the spot, and one, kneeling, offered to the weary prince water from a cup of gold, the king, with his own bleeding hands, poured the refreshing draught into the fever-dried mouth of the boy.

O Reader! Was there ever such love? Was there anything in that wretched, loathsome object to draw it forth? No; it welled up freely from the heart of the king even as the pure fountain gusheth forth and reviveth even the parched weed, and giveth drink to the humbled reptile. Yet hath there been seen on earth love greater even than this.

CHAPTER II.

THE king ordered that every care should be taken of the wretched Bandhu, who was not even conscious of the danger from which he had been saved; whose eyes and senses were closed so that he saw not his preserver.

"I have purchased him with my blood," said the king. "From this day forth I adopt him as my own child."

Bandhu could not, however, remain in the king's immediate presence. The monarch was bound for distant provinces, and the child was in no state to travel. By the king's kindness, arrangements were made for his comfort. The monarch who ruled over a thousand provinces, and whose command mighty armies obeyed, could deign to give thought and care to a sick beggar-child found in a jungle.

The chief sirdar of the conquered land was ordered to take charge of the boy, as having the character of being a kind and respectable man.

"I will send monthly a sum sufficient to provide my adopted child with every comfort," said the king. "When he has recovered his health, look to his education, let him have the best masters. It may be long ere I call him to my court, but it is my will that he be prepared to dwell there. Now let his sores be looked to; feed him well, take off his rags, and let him be dressed as befits the adopted son of a king."

"To hear is to obey, O Protector of the Universe!" said he who had received the command.

The king was not content with doing thus much for his boy. He endowed him with two valuable gifts, such as none but himself could bestow. The one was a small mirror in a frame of the purest gold. This was such a marvellous mirror that, whatever might be the present need of its possessor, suitable words of counsel, comfort, or warning flashed forth from its frame, while the glass reflected every object with faultless accuracy and distinctness.

The other gift was a bracelet of very high value; but this value was less from the jewels with which it was studded, than from a marvellous property which it possessed. When any danger approached the wearer, it pressed his wrist with greater or less force, according to the degree of the danger.

Then having done so much for the boy who had never thanked nor even known him, the boy who had cost him so much danger and pain, the great king took his departure. How Bandhu fared after his benefactor had left him will be seen in the following chapter.

CHAPTER III.

THE sirdar in whose hands little Bandhu was left was a mild but indolent man. He soon made over his charge to Farebwala, a villain who, by wicked arts, had risen into power, and who was full of covetousness, cruelty, and deceit. But the prevailing motive that influenced Farebwala was deep hatred to the king, and a determination to thwart his wishes in all things. As he dared not do so openly, he resolved to succeed by guile.

"I care not to destroy this wretched boy," he said to himself; "it will suit me better month by month to enjoy nine-tenths of the money sent for his use by the king. What does this beggar want with education? If it be possible, I will keep him with me always, and when he grows up to be a man, I will make him my slave. I dare not altogether deprive him of his mirror and bracelet, but he shall never have any use of them, for if he be warned against falsehood and sin, he will soon escape from my power. I will fasten up the king's gifts in the black bag of Ignorance, and hang them as a charm round the neck of Bandhu. I will persuade the boy that ruin will overtake him if he ever open that bag."

When Farebwala received Bandhu, the child was partly cured of his sores, and likely to turn out an intelligent boy. Farebwala, feared that should Bandhu ever hear the story of his own deliverance from the tiger, and the wondrous kindness of the king, the boy would love his benefactor, and wish to join him. Farebwala, therefore, with great art, took every care that Bandhu should hear nothing of what had passed when he lay unconscious in the jungle.

Nor was this sufficient to satisfy the malice of this great evil-doer; he could not prevent the poor boy's knowing of the existence of a powerful king, but he did everything in his power to misrepresent and slander the virtuous monarch, so that the child might dread to go near him. Farebwala told Bandhu that all the nobles at the court were monsters of evil, each more vile than the other, and that the king let them riot in evil unchecked. The cruel Farebwala succeeded but too well in not only defrauding the poor boy of his rights, and making the gifts of his king useless, but also in poisoning his mind.

Years passed. Bandhu was increasing fast both in height and intelligence, and sometimes asked questions which showed that he was able to reflect. Farebwala became alarmed lest he should lose his slave and the income derived from robbing him. Several letters and messages, as well as the regular supply of rupees, had come from the absent king, but care was taken by Farebwala that they should never reach the poor boy. Farebwala still feared that by some chance a letter might come into the hands of Bandhu, or that he might possibly at last open his bag, and so be enlightened by the mirror or warned by the bracelet.

Farebwala had a noxious drug whose effect is gradually to weaken the mind without hindering the growth or lessening the strength of the body. This vile drug is called Superstition; it grows in unwholesome marshes, and its fruit only ripens in darkness. Farebwala secretly mingled this drug with the poor boy's food. The effect was but too soon apparent. Bandhu seemed almost to lose the power to distinguish between right and wrong. He believed every lie that was spoken by Farebwala; his heart was hardened, his mind was darkened. As for opening the bag in which the king's precious gifts lay useless, he would as soon have thought of eating it for food.

Oh, Reader! Was there ever cruelty like that of Farebwala? He was not content with robbing a poor boy of his rights; he must dull his mind and corrupt his heart. Reader, beware! One worse than Farebwala is still in the world. He, too, is seeking slaves, and making them wretched. Beware, lest as the venomous serpent stealthily approaches its victim, he be not at this moment drawing nigh unto you.

CHAPTER IV.

AFTER Bandhu had eaten of the vile drug Superstition, he was more ready than before to fall into every species of evil. Also, like one whose natural thirst is increased by fever, Bandhu became more anxious than ever to obtain an honour for which he had longed for years. This honour was that of wearing a janeo. There had been nothing on the child, when found in the jungle, to denote to what caste he belonged; he had been almost destitute of clothing.

* The janeo is a cord which the two highest castes of Hindus, the Brahmins (priest) and Chhatri (warrior), are entitled to wear. It is generally, with some ceremonies, given to boys at the age of eight or nine. "This janeo has the two ends joined, goes over the right shoulder, and comes down to the waist on the left side. The time when the janeo is given is an important period in the life of a Brahmin; before this period he is considered a mere child, and as possessed of no religion, and he can eat without bathing, or performing puja or worship."—From Ishuree Dás's "Domestic Manners and Customs."

When Bandhu recovered from his illness, he remembered little of what had happened to him before it; of his native village he could only say that its name ended in pur; of his home, that there was a tall date-tree outside it, and some brazen vessels within. Bandhu recollected also that goats browsed near the place, and that sometimes a string of camels passed by. But one idea was rooted in the boy's mind; and that was, that his father had a janeo. This would, of course, give his son a right to wear the janeo also. But, for a long time, Farebwala kept the hopes of being invested with the coveted string before Bandhu as a prize is held before the scholar, or a reward before the soldier.

When Bandhu was almost fourteen, and therefore long past the age at which boys of the two highest castes usually receive the sacred cord, the lad could no longer endure to be fed only with hopes. Farebwala was about to go on a journey, and a fear arose in his mind that during his absence some message might reach his poor victim from the merciful king.

"Nothing will be more likely to keep Bandhu in my service," thought the tyrant, "than to invest him with the janeo. No one is suffered to wear such a thing at the court of the king; and if the weak-witted boy be suffered in this manner to have his own way, he will be more likely to be submissive to me in others."

So a Brahmin was consulted on the difficult question of Bandhu's caste. The Brahmin was the creature of Farebwala, and for a few rupees was ready to tell any amount of lies. After fasting and using arts of divination, the old man declared that the secret had been revealed to him. Bandhu was the son of a Chhatri, and as such might be invested with the holy string. The ceremony, accordingly, took place with all accustomed forms.

Farebwala took another precaution to prevent any chance of Bandhu's receiving a message from the king. He made the Brahmin recommend the young Chhatri to undertake a pilgrimage to some holy place about eighty miles distant. This would be at once a proof of his piety and of his manhood. Bandhu, whose head was almost turned by the dignity of wearing a string, and the effect of the tyrant's drug, would have agreed to the pilgrimage had he had to crawl on his chest all the way. It was therefore settled that on the day after that on which Farebwala should depart on his journey, the young pilgrim should start on his, going alone as far as a village some sixteen miles distant, where he would join a party, bound, like himself, for the holy place.

Soon after this arrangement was made, Farebwala set off to do mischief in some other place, for he never ceased from evil. As naturally as the king sought to make men happy, so naturally Farebwala tried to make them wretched. There are no means so certain to gain this end as that of leading men into sin.

CHAPTER V.

FAREBWALA had gone, though but for a time. It was morning; Bandhu had bathed, and holding water in his hands had offered it to the sun. He had then resumed his upper garments, which were of a very shabby description, for Farebwala spent very little of the boy's own money upon him. Bandhu stretched himself on the ground, listening to the songs of some wild young companions near, songs which I could not write down without blotting my pages. The janeo was to the weak-minded Bandhu what a new toy is to a child; he was perpetually feeling for the end of the string to be sure that he actually wore it.

Presently the songs ceased, and a voice from another quarter, exquisitely sweet, began to recite the following verses of the renowned Goru Nanak:—

"Kindness, the cotton; Contentment, the thread; Truth, the twist,—this be the sacred cord of the creature; thou O Pandit! put it on. This does not break, nor doth filth stick to it, nor is it burnt, nor does it go off. Blessed is that man, O Nanak, who departs, having put this on his neck."

Bandhu turned his head to see who was the reciter of the verses, and beheld a fair youth, simply dressed, but in pure white garments, and with a face most pleasant to look on, for kindness and love were written upon it.

One of them exclaimed, "You a messenger from the king! Where are your credentials?"

"I have such credentials to show," replied Prem Chand, "as will infallibly prove me to be a messenger from the lord of a thousand realms." He took a roll from his bosom, but not one of his hearers could read.

"I come on your account," was the reply; "if you be, as I suppose, Bandhu, he whom my sovereign saved from destruction, he for whose welfare the king has so tenderly cared."

"My name is Bandhu, and I know that there is a king," said he of the janeo, "but as for his saving or caring for me, of that I know nothing at all. I am an attendant of the great Farebwala, and what I require he provides."

An expression first of indignation, then of deep sadness, passed over the face of Prem Chand. He could not speak quite so freely as he would otherwise have done, because of Bandhu's companions, who continued to throng around, some from curiosity, some to find some theme for mocking.

"My lord the king hath sent me to call you to himself," said the messenger gently; "he offers to his adopted son a welcome and a home."

Farebwala had so poisoned the mind of the wretched Bandhu, that he regarded his royal benefactor with some fear, but nothing like love. The lad had not the slightest wish to appear before the king, and with some impatience, he exclaimed, "Even were your message true, which I do not believe, I could not possibly go to the court now, as I start on a pilgrimage to a holy place to-morrow."

"About as holy as the songs which you were singing just now," observed Prem Chand.

"What! See you no merit in pilgrimage!" exclaimed Bandhu, with mingled surprise and displeasure. "You will next say that there is no merit in bathing in holy rivers, or in the austerities of the Jogi." *

"If by wandering about naked union † be obtained,
Then every deer of the forest will become emancipated.
If by shaving the head perfection is obtained,
The sheep is emancipated, no one is lost.
Who perform ablution in the evening, and at dawn
They become like frogs in the water."

* Men who, to acquire fancied merit, put themselves to various tortures; some holding up an arm till it withers, or clenching a hand till its nails grow into the flesh.

† Union—that is absorption into the Divine nature, which leaves no individual sense of existence. "When by thousands of meritorious acts through a great many successive births, a man becomes perfectly holy, he becomes one with the Supreme Being, just as a drop becomes one with the ocean by falling into it."—Rev. Ishuree Dás's "Domestic Manners and Customs."

The young men around burst out laughing; Bandhu looking perplexed. His mind, drugged with superstition, was too dull to take in at once the wit of the ancient poet of Hindustan. But a Brahmin had approached the spot whilst Prem Chand was speaking, and had listened with a countenance darkened by anger. This was the same Brahmin as he who had pretended to find out by divination that Bandhu was a Chhatri; while the real truth was that the boy's father was a herdsman, and that the string which his fancy had turned into a janeo, was in fact only one used for tying up goats. The wise Brahmin knew nothing of this, and merely said, for the sake of a few rupees, what Farebwala told him to say. For the bribe of a hundred rupees, he would have declared the herdsman's child to be the son of a rajah.

"Who are you, O ass, and son of an ass, who would pour contempt on holy devotees!" cried the angry Brahmin.

The youths around, easily moved to mirth or to mockery—as the chaff is whirled round by a light puff of wind—joined in the insulting Cry, "O ass, and son of an ass!"

Prem Chand kept his temper, and waited till the noise had sunk into silence, before he made reply to the Brahmin.

"I came for a day's hospitality, I came with a message from the king," he began.

But the Brahmin cut him short with the words, "We want neither you nor your message! The jackal who sneaks into the camp, finds there nothing to eat, but blows. Go to him who sent you, and come near us no more!"

"Go back to him who sent you!" echoed the youths; and one of them, picking up a handful of dust, threw it over the messenger's pure white garments.

"Is this your treatment of strangers who seek your hospitality?" said Prem Chand. "Is it not written in the Rájneet, 'Even towards an enemy going to our house the offices of hospitality must be exercised, as the tree impedes not even the woodcutter who stands under its shade.'"

The mild manner in which insult had been borne, and the graceful proverb so aptly quoted, were not without some effect. Prem Chand was suffered to retire without further molestation. The hospitality denied to him by Bandhu and his companions, the king's messenger found in the tent of a poor shepherd.

Prem Chand, though baffled in his first attempt to deliver his message, had by no means lost hope.

"I must not go to Bandhu when he is surrounded by his gay associates," said Prem Chand to himself, "nor when that old Brahmin is near. I will return in a few hours, in the heat of the day, when he may be resting alone. I have that to tell Bandhu which must stir his heart, if any heart beat in his bosom. From his shabby appearance, I can see that he has been cruelly cheated, and from his conversation I learn that he has been grossly deceived. Bandhu has doubtless been kept ignorant in order that he may safely be robbed. Any labour I shall count light, any insult I shall readily bear, if I can but rescue this poor victim from Farebwala, and bring him in safety to his merciful king."

CHAPTER VI.

BANDHU had spent the morning in gambling with his idle companions; as the day grew hot, they separated to smoke the hookah, or doze away the languid hours in some shady place. In a garden-house lay Bandhu stretched on the ground alone, lazily watching the movements of a lizard on the wall. So still was the sultry air, that not even a leaf quivered on the branches of the peepul tree.

Presently some object came between Bandhu and the daylight. Turning his head a little, Bandhu saw Prem Chand, who courteously greeted the lad.

"Are you now at leisure, O brother!" the king's messenger said. "To hear the story of a sick boy rescued from the fangs of a tiger? The story cannot fail to interest you, as it concerns yourself."

"I have no dislike to hearing stories," replied Bandhu, carelessly; "if it be a good one, it will amuse me, if dull, it will lull me to sleep."

Prem Chand sat down on the ground beside Bandhu, and in simple touching words gave the story of the poor boy deserted in the jungle, telling of his preservation by the king, and the monarch's generous adoption of the child whom he had saved.

It may have been from coldness of heart, or from the effect of the drug given by Farebwala, but whatever the cause may be, Bandhu listened to the tale with little concern. He seemed to be more interested in watching whether the lizard would catch a fly, or in noticing any trifling peculiarity in the dress of the stranger, than in hearing of the deadly struggle on the result of which his own life had hung.

Prem Chand again and again felt inclined to stop in his story, for it pained him to have such a careless listener. Was ever hearer so dull? Yes, reader, I have witnessed such dulness when the story told was of far deeper interest than the tale of the rescued child!

When the tale was concluded, seeing that Bandhu had latterly been listening with a little more attention, Prem Chand thus spake:

"And now, O Bandhu, have you paid it? Do you not know that you yourself are the helpless sick child, saved from the jaws of the tiger?"

"I don't believe your story, not a word of it!" cried Bandhu. "I never lay in a jungle covered with sores. I am a Chhatri, a twice-born; I was never in danger from any wild beast."

"Farebwala, for his own purposes, has concealed the truth from you," answered Prem Chand; "but you have a simple way of finding out whether he or I have spoken falsehood. Where is the truth-telling mirror, where the precious bracelet given to you by the king?"

Bandhu answered by a stupid stare. He did not at first even understand what was meant by the stranger.

"I mean the mirror which reflects with perfect accuracy, and on whose golden frame words appear which, in every varying case, every difficulty, every danger, show us what we should do."

"And have you never worn the bracelet that, by pressure on the wrist, gives warning when anything approaches to harm?"

"I see a black bag hung round your neck, what may it contain?" asked Prem Chand.

"Search and see!" cried Prem Chand, whose quick eye, through the covering of ignorance, detected the shape of the mirror, and even, though dimly, its brightness.

"I will never open the bag," said Bandhu, with petulance; "why should you come and trouble me thus, why meddle with things which do not concern you?"

"Because I am bound to obey the command of the king," replied the faithful messenger; "besides, I am moved with pity for a youth whom I see to be wronged and deceived. Had the king's plans been carried out, and the money sent by him been applied to its proper use, you would never have been dressed in such coarse, soiled garments as those which you wear. You would have received the education fit for the adopted son of a king, instead of wasting your time in idleness or something worse. You must feel, O Bandhu, that you are not prepared to stand in the presence of our great king."

"What! Not to make one of the honoured band who, in goodly raiment, surround his throne, and find their delight in his service! If you but knew the glories of his court—"

"I know all, I have heard everything a thousand times from Farebwala!" cried Bandhu. "I can tell you many a story of the princes and princesses who dwell at the court."

He half repented of his words, however, when he heard the stream of disgusting nonsense which flowed from the mouth of the half-besotted Bandhu. I will give but a small portion of what he, with evident relish, repeated to his shocked listener.

"There is one prince, worthy of all reverence, who is perpetually drunk. He has been known to wander about in cemeteries and places for burning the dead, smearing his body with ashes, and wearing a necklace of skulls. He has five faces and three eyes; him ever contemplate with veneration."

"Then there is a princess, Kali is her name, worthy of all reverence. With a sword in her hand she killed many giants, and danced in ecstacy over dead bodies, till she found that she was dancing on the breast of her husband. Then seeing her mistake, she put out her tongue, and—"

"Stop! Stop!" cried Prem Chand, in amazement and disgust. "Monsters such as these never existed in the court of our king!"

"My favourite princess," continued Bandhu, "she in whose service I should always desire to be, is she who delights in the offering of a human head, and sacrifice of little children. There is another—"

"I can hear no more!" exclaimed Prem Chand, rising. "With what wild dreams, like those caused by opium, has your brain been filled! Most earnestly do I assure you that in all these horrible fables there is not one atom of truth. If such fearful criminals as you have described have been ever found in the court of a virtuous king, they would assuredly have been handed over to the executioner. Crimes not to be tolerated in mean men, would not go without punishment in those of loftier ranks. Count you such beings worthy of reverence? Did such exist, they would be only worthy of detestation! O Bandhu! You must have eaten of the drug Superstition, and it is gradually destroying your mind, for it is as mould on the garment, or rust on the steel. Once more I earnestly entreat you to open the bag in which your treasures are doubtless concealed. Find from your bracelet whether to indulge such wild fancies be not sin, and from your mirror into what endless misery and ruin such sin must lead! Have mercy on yourself, O Bandhu! And let not the warning of a true friend be heard in vain!"

"Leave me! I am weary of your unasked-for counsels!" exclaimed the weak-witted Bandhu. "If I choose to believe in a prince with an elephant's head or a hundred arms, what is it to you? If I choose to do puja to a monkey or snake, why should it trouble your peace? I believe but what millions believe; I do but what multitudes do."

"And if multitudes, on a dark night, not seeing a precipice before them, fall over into the depths and miserably perish, shall I, who have light, calmly look on and not utter a word of warning?" cried Prem Chand.

But he spake as to the deaf adder. Bandhu, even when the king's messenger was uttering his earnest appeal, closed his eyes in weariness, and in a few momenta dropped asleep.

CHAPTER VII.

THE next day Bandhu started alone for the place at which he was to join the band of pilgrims. He took nothing with him but a small brass vessel for drinking, his hookah, some ready-cooked food, and his black bag of Ignorance tied round his neck. Since his last conversation with Prem Chand a little curiosity as to the contents of the bag, the mirror, and the bracelet, which by feeling he ascertained to be there, had arisen in the mind of Bandhu; but his brain was so much weakened by Superstition that he had not the courage to take his own property out of the covering of Ignorance in which Farebwala had wrapped it.

"Who knows what might happen if I did but glance into the mirror?" thought Bandhu. "And I should be afraid to put on the bracelet lest its pinching should destroy all my ease. It is pleasanter sometimes not to know when danger is near."

There are in the world many Superstition-drugged men and women, who are as cowardly and foolish as Bandhu. They are afraid of self-knowledge; they dread that opening of their blind eyes which will bring humility and wisdom.

Bandhu, when the time for mid-day rest had come, had reached a small mango-tope (grove) under the shade of which he found two men. From their appearance, he guessed them to be Chhatris, though they were no more Chhatris than he was.

The elder was still a vigorous man, though his hair was turning grey with age. An expression of great cunning marked his features. The other man was his son, and yet in the prime of life, but his face was bloated and his eyes were sunken with self-indulgence, so that he looked almost as old as his father. The name of the elder was Idolatry, that of his son was Vice.

These two sat smoking their hookahs, and Bandhu, who was tired of being alone, very willingly joined them.

The men received him with great politeness, and the three were presently chatting together as if they had been old friends. Bandhu, in reply to a question, informed the strangers whither he was going.

"We are bound thither also," said the elderly man, "to do puja at the holy place, bathe, and make our offerings. Let us all travel together."

"I desire nothing better," replied Bandhu, "it suits not my taste to travel alone."

"Besides there might be danger," suggested the younger man. "In these lonely parts there is no saying whom one might meet."

"Perhaps Dacoits or Thugs," * said the timorous Bandhu, and intuitively, he laid his hand on his bag.

* Dacoits are a kind of highwaymen who rob in gangs. Thugs were a set of professional murderers, who strangled unsuspecting travellers, under the supposed sanction of one of their demon-like goddesses. The following description of these murderers is extracted from the work of Ishuree Dás, before quoted:—

   "Thousands of these Thugs have been exterminated by the British Government, but there are some still found here and there. These Thugs will follow a traveller for days until they get an opportunity to kill him. Once a traveller, who was known to have some money with him, was followed by Thugs for more than two hundred and sixty miles; the farmer was wide-awake, and was always on his guard, never smoking their tobacco, nor being familiar with them. At last he got near home, though the Thugs did not know that; and while all were sitting in a bunniah's shop in the forenoon to get some refreshment, the man pretended to go out for a few minutes, of course with his things; but he crossed a few fields, and safely arrived at home.

   "Once a woman with her little boy and some money and jewels was pursued for some time by two women who were Thuggins. They pretended to be travellers, and always remained in company with this woman, who used to give them now and then part of her food, as dál and cakes and rice. It was observed by the boy that they ate the cake or rice that was given them, but dál (which has salt put in it at the time of being cooked) was always thrown away. He suspected they were Thuggins, and said so to his mother.

   "The dál they threw away, because they believed it would be a great sin to kill a person whose salt they had eaten. In the saráes or inns the woman used to take a separate room from the Thuggins. Once the latter thought that they had an opportunity to despatch the woman, and in the darkness of the night, one of them took a dagger and softly stole towards her; but the woman got hold of it and the Thuggin, and cried out. People instantly came to her help and secured the Thuggin."

"A wondrous mirror, as I have heard, and a jewelled bracelet," replied the incautious lad.

The two men exchanged glances with each other, but the dull-witted Bandhu never noticed the look.

For some hours these three rested in the mango-tope. The two men slept, or appeared to sleep, but the eyes of Bandhu did not close. He could not help thinking over the words which he had heard from Prem Chand.

After a while his companions raised their heads, and seating themselves on the grass, again resumed their hookahs.

"The heat is not now so great; shall we proceed on our journey?" said Bandhu, who from some undefined misgiving wished to join the larger band of pilgrims without much delay.

Idolatry, however, objected to starting at once, on the score of some evil omens that had shown him that the day was unlucky. "We shall proceed to-morrow, before daylight," he said.

Bandhu, having been drugged by Superstition, very much feared unlucky days, and was easily persuaded to stop with his new companions.

Many a tale was told to beguile the time, the supposed Chhatris were adepts in telling stories. Idolatry recounted much of the history of his own family, which to any one who had not drunk of the poison of Superstition would have appeared very horrible indeed. Many a widow in that family had been burnt alive on the funeral pile. Idolatry delighted in giving the details, and telling of the courage and devotion of the women, but he told not how many had been stupefied by bang, or how many had been really, but secretly, kept from springing from their bed of flames, by long bamboos held down by the Brahmins. Stories of shrieking babes flung by their own mothers into rivers, of poor wretches crushed beneath the ponderous wheels of an idol-car, in the vain hope of saving their souls by destroying their bodies, in tales such as these Idolatry delighted.

And his besotted hearer actually expressed approval, actually wished that he had been present when such monstrous crimes were committed! Oxen and buffaloes would have taken no delight in beholding such murders, but Superstition had sunk Bandhu to slower level than that of the brutes!

Then Vice, child of Idolatry, told his stories; but at their nature I will not even hint. Had not Bandhu been utterly debased by the drug given by Farebwala, he would have closed his ears with his hands, or quitted the place in disgust. Reader! Have your ears ever drunk in such stories, and have you ever dared to connect them in any way with the sacred name of religion?

At sunset the three pilgrims performed their devotions, and Bandhu particularly noticed how careful were his companions to perform theirs in the most orthodox way, with ablutions and many repetitions of the name of Rám.

Bandhu had brought his food ready prepared, and as his companions showed that they preferred eating alone, he took his meal a little apart.

Darkness was gathering round, which made the small fire by which the strangers prepared their meal more distinctly visible. The moon had not yet risen. Bandhu, who had been unable to sleep at noon, was just dropping asleep, when he was startled by a light touch on his arm. He was about to call out in his fear, when a low voice beside him whispered, "Silence! If you love your life, be still!"

Bandhu, looking up, in the faint light could just distinguish the form of Prem Chand bending over him.

"Fly, while there yet is time!" continued Prem Chand, in the same low but earnest tone. "Yonder men, whose names are Idolatry and Vice, are well-known Thugs."

But Bandhu's terror was not sufficient to give him wisdom. He was determined to put faith in no warning uttered by the messenger of the king. As he had said in the garden-house before, so he said now, "I do not believe one word of what you tell me!"

"Oh, most unhappy, deluded boy! How can I save you in spite of yourself!" exclaimed Prem Chand. In his exceeding anxiety to preserve the life of the youth, he made an attempt by seizing his arm, to force Bandhu to rise from the ground.

This roused the lad's anger; wrenching himself from Prem Chand's hold, Bandhu struck him twice in the face, then catching up a stone, he exclaimed as he threatened to fling it, "Oh dog! Will nothing short of stoning drive you away?"

"Vainly warned and doomed one!" cried Prem Chand. "For the third time I leave you! Your blood is not on my soul!" And again with a heavy heart and deep sigh the messenger left the wretched victim whom he had vainly endeavoured to save.

Reader! Has ever such sorrow been felt, such sighs been breathed for you? Have you been warned against Idolatry and Vice, and given no heed to warning?

CHAPTER VIII.

Assuredly Bandhu was one of the blind when he made friends with Idolatry and Vice. Yet the blind who see not danger may be saved by the friendly grasp of one who has eyes.

When a seed has been dropped into earth, he from whose hand it fell may little know that it is swelling and growing under the earth. Prem Chand thought that his advice and warnings were utterly lost upon Bandhu, that he himself had been insulted, threatened, and struck, and all to no purpose. But in this the king's messenger was mistaken.

Bandhu might wrench away his arm from the hold of his true friend, but he could not get his words out of his mind.

Scarcely had Prem Chand's form disappeared in the darkness before Bandhu began to think over what he had heard.

Bandhu looked at the face of Idolatry, dimly seen by the red firelight, and thought that, notwithstanding all his ablutions and prayers, he looked wondrously like a demon. As for Vice, no one could behold him at that moment without seeing evil stamped on his face.

"Shall I fly?" thought Bandhu. He hesitated, he doubted, he was equally afraid of going or staying. His mind was in a miserable state of indecision. Sometimes he succeeded in persuading himself that Prem Chand must be in the wrong, sometimes his own trembling heart assured him that Prem Chand must be in the right.

The fire completely died out; but behold! A soft silver light was seen behind the trees, for the moon was rising. Bandhu glanced uneasily towards the fireplace, but saw nothing of the supposed Chhatris.

"If I but knew the real truth, if I could set my mind at rest, what a relief it would be!" muttered the poor frightened boy.

Again he thought of the treasures hidden in the bag of Ignorance, they at least could give him knowledge of the truth, if there were any foundation for what Prem Chand had told him about these gifts from the king. Bandhu had always foolishly dreaded opening the bag, but a yet greater dread was upon him now, that of being murdered by Thugs.

With a trembling hand Bandhu unloosened the string which fastened the bag round his neck, and first took out the bracelet, which he slipped on his arm. There was no difficulty in doing this; but the next moment Bandhu could hardly suppress a cry of pain, for the bracelet grasped his wrist tightly, as if it would cut into the flesh, even to the bone! Here indeed was a warning against Idolatry and Vice, surely danger—great danger must be near!

In terror Bandhu pulled forth his mirror, dropping as he did so the black bag of Ignorance in which it so long had lain hidden. He gazed by the moonlight upon the mirror; from the frame flashed forth in red light the word "Beware!" And behold! In the glass Bandhu saw reflected not only his own frightened face, but almost close behind him the horrible countenances of the two Thugs, stealing up with the deadly noose in their grasp! Had he not seen them in the mirror, in another minute or two the poor boy would have been a corpse under their murderous hands!

Bandhu rushed off in terror, as the fawn flies from the cheetah, trampling Ignorance under his flying feet. But the two Thugs were determined not to lose their victim. They knew that if he escaped, he would give information against them. As the cheetah by successive springs gains on the fawn, so the Thugs gained upon Bandhu. The poor boy stumbled over the roots of a tree in his haste, and they were upon him at once.

Happily for Bandhu help was near. Prem Chand had lingered still near the lad who had insulted and struck him, and seeing the chase, now rushed with a shout to the rescue. A sudden blow from a large stick held by Prem Chand laid Idolatry bleeding and stunned on the ground. Vice, hearing the shout, and seeing his father fall, fled like a coward as he is.

Poor rescued Bandhu, thus a second time saved from a terrible fate, sobbed like a frightened child in the arms of his brave preserver.

CHAPTER IX.

THE first care of Prem Chand was to bind Idolatry hand and foot, so that should the Thug revive, he might not be able to rise. His own noose, and the pugri which he wore, served to supply his bonds.

Bandhu was in a most distressing state. His fright seemed to have taken from him all the little sense that Superstition had left. His bracelet squeezed him like a vice, till he was half maddened by the pain. The poor boy wept; he rolled himself in the dust, and moaned out, "I am lost! I am lost!"

Prem Chand was perplexed as to what course to pursue, till he bethought himself of the mirror which Bandhu had dropped in his flight. It lay gleaming like a silver jewel in the clear light of the moon. Prem Chand raised it, and from the frame the words "Leaves of healing" shone forth. The thought struck Prem Chand that the mirror might thus be guiding him to a cure for his poor sick companion.

Some low plants grew in the shadow of the mango-tope, and Prem recognised one which he knew to be often used as medicine. He let the reflection of its leaves fall on the mirror, and immediately from the frame glimmered forth the word "Peace."

Very joyful at having thus discovered a cure for poor Bandhu, Prem Chand quickly gathered the leaves, and with them in one hand, and the mirror in the other, he hastened back to the groaning lad. It needed some persuasion to induce the sufferer to eat the healing plant; but almost the only sign of sense remaining in him was trust in his faithful friend, the messenger of the king. Bandhu could not long refuse anything offered to him by Prem Chand.

The effect of the medicine was wondrous. At once the iron-like clasp of the bracelet relaxed; the precious gift appeared as a jewel, not as a fetter. The wild beating of Bandhu's heart was stilled, and his moaning ceased. Nor was this all; the poison of Superstition, given long before by Farebwala, began gradually to give way to the strong antidote which Bandhu had taken. The lad became as one who had long sat in darkness, but upon whom daylight begins to glimmer; first, a faint streak in the east, then gradually upward rays appear, till the sun himself rises above the horizon. But an entire change was the work of time.

After giving the medicine to his companion, Prem Chand's next thought was, "What shall I do regarding this Thug, who seems to be reviving from the effects of the blow which I gave? Behold! He is struggling now to release himself from his bonds. Confederates may be near, and if they come to his help, Bandhu and I have not many minutes to live."

What a relief it was to both the friends when the trampling of hoofs was heard, and a party of mounted police appeared at daybreak. An officer on a white horse rode at their head.

When they came near to the spot, Prem Chand, advancing, made his salam to the officer, and pointing to the Thug Idolatry, he briefly related the murderous attack made by him and his son upon Bandhu. The facts were corroborated by Bandhu himself.

The officer attentively listened, then instantly rode to the place where Idolatry lay on the ground, trying to wrench his limbs from their bonds. The police had gathered around him, and recognised him.

"This is the very Thug of whom we have long been in search," said one to his officer. "Your honour knows that he has more murders on his head than there are leaves on yon tree."

"Ah! Father of evil," cried another to the Thug, "thou hast grown gray in crime, but thou wilt meet with thy punishment at last. In seeking to destroy yet another victim thou hast encountered thine own fate, as saith the proverb, 'The imprudent man has with his own hand struck the axe into his foot.'"

CHAPTER X.

WHEN the Thug had been carried off by the officers of justice, Prem Chand turned to Bandhu, who was sitting on the ground, supporting himself against the trunk of a tree.

"What will you do now, O brother?" said Prem Chand. "Is it still your wish to continue your pilgrimage?"

"I am as one newly awakened from a dream!" replied Bandhu. "I see that pilgrimages are vain, that ablutions cannot wash away sin, that purity is not to be won by any act of religious austerity."

"Say, O pundit! who is pure?
Attend, O my friend! to such knowledge.
In the eyes is impurity, in the speech is impurity,
In rising and sitting impurity clings,
Impurity falls into the food."

"I have been looking into my mirror," said Bandhu with a sigh, "and when I look on my own reflection I see that 'sinner' is written below the frame."

"Again I ask, what will you do now? Will you return to the dwelling of Farebwala?"

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Bandhu fervently. "Has he not been ruining me, body and soul?"

Tears gushed into the eyes of Bandhu. Dropping his head from shame, in a low voice, he inquired, "Do you think that the king would still receive me?"

Then a great joy sprang up in the heart of Prem Chand. "The king loves and will welcome you!" he cried. "Yea, he is yearning to see you." But the messenger added gently, "Only of one thing I warn you: all marks of pride must be laid aside; you cannot go into the royal presence wearing a janeo."

The countenance of Bandhu fell. His soul still clung to the privileges of caste. He could give up ease, pleasure, wealth, any other thing, sooner than his cherished janeo. Was it not the sign of his superiority over many of his fellow-creatures; did it not entitle him to their respect? Must he with his own hands cast down the wall of division between them which so flattered his pride? With a heavy sigh, Bandhu replied, "With my janeo I never can part!"

Prem Chand felt that not at once can all prejudices be conquered. The tree shakes not in a day all the dry leaves from its branches. Without making any reply, Prem Chand retired to a little distance, yet within hearing of Bandhu, and softly sang, as if to himself, the words of the poet Kabir—

"Pride should not be entertained; the bones are
     wrapt in a skin,
They who are on horseback, under an umbrella, are
     buried again in the earth.
Pride should not be entertained; if one sees that
     one's dwelling is high,
To-day or to-morrow we must lie on the ground, and
     grass will spring up.
Pride should not be entertained; a poor one should
     not be laughed at,
That boat is still on the ocean, what do ye know
     what will take place?
Pride should not be entertained; having seen that
     one's body is beautiful,
To-day or to-morrow thou wilt leave it as a snake
     his skin."

There was a strong but gentle pressure of the bracelet upon the wrist of Bandhu. He raised his mirror, so that he could see in it the reflection of his janeo, the emblem of caste. "Vanity of vanities" gleamed forth from the frame, and Bandhu saw his cherished janeo to be but a rotten thread, which life soils, and death snaps asunder!

Slowly and reluctantly Bandhu unfastened the cord which had been his pride, then bore it in his hand to his friend Prem Chand.

"I have no offering to bring to my king," said he, "for all that I possess, save this, I owe to his bounty. But as a token of my repentance, and a pledge of my loyal love, may I be permitted to lay down the badge of my caste at the feet of my king?"

The youth's desire was ere long to be fulfilled. As soon as Bandhu had recovered sufficient strength, he and Prem Chand started on their journey towards the royal city. Pleasant converse shortened the way. Bandhu's health improved day by day, and his mind became clearer. He constantly looked at his mirror, and never neglected the slightest warning given by the bracelet.

Great was the rejoicing in the palace when the travellers reached it in safety, and most gracious was the reception given by the king to both. Goodly apartments were assigned to each, and they ate daily at the royal table. Bandhu, instead of being the slave of a tyrant, or a victim of a Thug, found himself the possessor of every good gift, the companion of the pious, the friend of the pure, the adopted son of a king.

CHAPTER XI.

HAVE you not seen, O reader! Goodly trees and lofty palaces faintly reflected on some small stream, whose waters are too muddy to give back their images clearly? Yet can we say, as we gaze downwards, "There is a palace, though I see not its grandeur,—there is a tree, though its beauty I cannot behold."

My tale is even as the little troubled muddy brook in which is dimly reflected what is beauteous and grand. Listen awhile as I try to show you what are the great realities faintly imaged forth in my fable.

Mankind are as the poor helpless child left in the jungle, sick of the foul disease of sin. Even the pure-lived Nanak * was compelled by conscience to cry,—

And one more enlightened than the great Goru hath written, "All our righteousnesses are as filthy rags."

Thus lying, exposed and helpless, death—even the destruction of the soul, everlasting ruin—steals upon us, as the fearful beast drew nigh to the child. How could man, guilty and hell-deserving, be saved?

Here is the grand mystery of love which the Scriptures declare, even the avatar (incarnation) of the Divine Jesus, the Son of God. He left heaven and assumed a mortal body, that in that body He might suffer and die. He came between man and eternal destruction. The love of the king who encountered a fierce tiger to save a poor child is as nothing compared to the love of the Heavenly King, who won salvation for man by the awful struggle in which He overcame death by dying.

And who is the Farebwala (father of deceit) who seeks to keep us from the knowledge of this love, in order to rob us and make us his slaves?

Behold the spirit of evil, Satan, who would hold all mankind in bondage, and tries to hide from us the knowledge of a Saviour King who is willing to adopt us as His children. To millions of Hindus, he represents heaven as peopled with monsters of iniquity, gods and goddesses so wicked that were they human beings they would be sentenced to death for their crimes!

And what are the mirror and the bracelet hidden by Farebwala under the black cover of Ignorance?

The name of the bracelet is Conscience. It is the precious gift of God; it warns us when danger to the soul, when temptation is near. But is it not too true that the conscience of those who know not the true God has been darkened? When falsehood is spoken, when covetousness is felt, when other sins are indulged in, does the unenlightened conscience give its warning pressure? Reader! Have you not learned to do evil frequently without even knowing that it is evil?

The mirror is the Word of God, the treasure of truth, now to be procured in many of the languages of the East. * Reader! Have you looked into its pages? Let me tell you something of what you would gain by studying the Holy Scriptures with prayer.

* But alas! The people are so poor, that few comparatively ever purchase a complete Bible. In this story, as written for Hindus, I have inserted the Ten Commandments, knowing that perhaps not one in a thousand of those who read my small cheap book will be in possession of the Old Testament.

You would gain KNOWLEDGE OF GOD, what His nature is, and His will. "God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth" (John iv. 24); "God is light" (1 John i. 5); and "God is love" (1 John iv. 8).

And you would gain KNOWLEDGE OF WHAT GOD REQUIRES OF MAN. Study the commandments, thus summed up in the Gospel, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" (Matt. xxii. 37-39).

Compare the righteousness of these commandments with the impure stories which the Hindus call by the name of religion. Is it not like comparing a shining river, carrying fertility through the land, to the slimy track left by a serpent? If you see not that the space between the two religions is wider than that which divides heaven from earth, it is because the enemy of your soul has drugged you with Superstition, so that you are unable to say, "Is there not a lie in my right hand?"

It is the Bible, the Mirror of Truth, that shows us that Idolatry is the parent of Vice, and that both are murderers of the soul. It may be, O Hindu! that you are at this moment travelling in the company of these dread Thugs, that this morning you did puja to some idol of brass or stone. This tale is, then, as the warning voice of a friend, of a messenger from the Great King. Have mercy on your own soul! The fatal noose is prepared, thousands have perished by it already; be warned in time. O brother! Flee and live.

But if you be one who already wears the Bracelet of Conscience, if you be one who has gazed into the Mirror of Truth, if your heart be inclined towards your Heavenly King, there is still a word for you. Are you not halting between two opinions, believing but not confessing Christ? Is there not some pride of caste which you are as loth to part with as was Bandhu to give up his janeo? Ties of family are hard to break; do you so shrink from rending them asunder that you would rather hazard your soul than leave all and go to your King?

Ah! Listen to the words of the Lord—"He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me; and he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me. Whoever shall confess Me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven" (Matt. x. 32, 37, 38).

One other point in the parable may require explanation. What are the leaves of healing that restored peace to the troubled mind, and health to the sick soul? It is the sweet assurance of forgiveness of sins through the death of Christ. He that has found a Saviour has found peace! In the precious words of Holy Writ—"Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ—and rejoice in hope of the glory of God" (Rom. v. 1, 2).

GORU NANAK.

A FEW particulars of the life of Goru Nanak, the founder of the Sikh religion, may not be without interest and novelty to the British reader. As mentioned in the preface, they are chiefly drawn from a short history of the Punjab, and I have thought it better to give the story of a remarkable life in the rough simplicity of the original, so as not to spoil what I may call its Oriental flavour by many words of my own.

Goru Nanak, son of Kálu, a Chhatri, was born in a village of the Punjab, since called after him Nanakana, in the year 1469, when Edward IV. sat on the English throne. At his birth wonderful things were predicted of Nanak, to his father's great delight; but when the child had grown into the lad, Kálu was by no means pleased at the ascetic turn of his son's mind. It must be owned that Nanak gave his parents just cause for vexation. Kálu wished the youth to be a good man of business. Nanak was inclined to take up the life of a wandering fakir. An instance of this disposition is given in the curious little history of the Punjab.

When Nanak was fifteen years old, his father entrusted him with twenty rupees (about £2), and said to him, "O son! Go and buy some good merchandise."

Nanak, accompanied by a servant, set forth on his quest. When he had proceeded some way, he fell in with a company of fakirs (religious beggars), destitute of food and clothing. Pitying their condition, the lad bestowed upon them the twenty rupees, in spite of the expostulations of the servant.

Nanak said in reply to these expostulations, "Oh! What better merchandise can there be than giving food to saints in the name of the Lord?"

Had the money been his own, the remark would have been beautiful, but the youth had no right to be generous with money held only in trust. Nanak returned to his home, and, as might have been expected, received a good flogging from his father.

Though Nanak in due course of time married, and became the father of two sons, family ties did not prevent his adopting the life of a wandering preacher. Nanak, like Socrates and other remarkable heathen, had glimpses of truth, though obscured by a good deal of error. His character appears to have been eminently devout, gentle, and lowly.

In the Granth we find what he thought of himself, and see how in the twilight the Goru was feeling and thirsting after God.

"In what manner shall I meet with the Lord of my
   life, O Mother?
I am without beauty, without intelligence or strength,
I, the stranger, have come from afar;
I have no wealth, no brilliancy of youth,
Effect thou the union of the friendless one.
O Lord! I am wandering about, thirsting after Thy
     sight;
By the Lord, who is compassionate and merciful to
     the poor,
My burning heat was quenched,
Keep me, O my Father, my Lord!
I am without virtues, all virtues are Thine."

Nanak was certainly beyond his age; he did not reverence idols, he acknowledged but one God, and earnestly, by life and example, inculcated purity of morals. We can never place Nanak in the same category with Mahomed, the sensual, the blood-stained founder of Islamism. In speaking of the Goru we cannot, as in the case of the False Prophet, bring forth his evil character as a proof that he could not have been the honoured servant of God. We rather say to the Sikhs, "We respect your Goru; we believe that were he now on earth he would become a Christian." The remark seems to give no offence.

The influence of Nanak was great. It is recorded in his life that he once visited the house of an atrocious villain, whose crimes were aggravated by hypocrisy. This man would lure victims into his retreat, throw them into prison, and then say, "Give up your property or your lives."

Goru Nanak, who knew the character of this ruffian, boldly rebuked his sins, yet tenderly, addressing him as "brother." He told the robber that though his hypocrisy might deceive others, it could not possibly deceive God, to whom all things are known.

The rebuke of the mild Goru, it is said, touched the heart of his hearer. The robber was covered with shame, and falling down at the feet of Nanak, exclaimed, "O true Goru! I am a great sinner, an evil man, but now I repent, and will do such wickedness no more!"

Nanak, on hearing this, laid his hands on the head of the penitent robber, and said, "May God forgive thy sin."

Nanak does not appear to have vehemently opposed idolatry, but how much its power was weakened by his influence is shown in the following story.

A man of the name of Lahiná went with his family to worship a certain goddess at Kangra. Arriving at the place where Nanak happened to be, Lahiná was curious to see so noted a saint, and procured an interview with the Goru.

According to custom, he prostrated himself before Nanak, who courteously inquired his name, and whither he was going. On receiving Lahiná's reply, the Goru said, "Well, brother, go and see the goddess."

But the Hindu had already changed his purpose, and he replied, "O Goru! My heart does not wish to go farther; I care no more for goddess or god; from this time my desire is to remain at your feet."

This was no passing emotion. Lahiná became Nanak's devoted follower, and afterwards his successor to the dignity of Goruship under the new name of Angad. This office of spiritual sovereign was passed on from one leader to another by a ceremony amusing from its simplicity. The reigning Goru having chosen his successor, presented him with—no jewelled crown nor sceptre of gold, but a cocoa-nut and five coppers! He then was the first to prostrate himself before the Goru to be. The Goruship was, as we here see, not hereditary; Nanak himself set the example of preferring the claim of devoted service to the tie of blood. The circumstances which influenced his choice gave an amusing glimpse into the domestic circle of the great Goru.

Nanak had two sons, named Sirichand and Lahmidás. Whatever other good qualities Nanak may have possessed, he does not appear to have possessed wisdom and firmness to manage his children judiciously. We cannot but suspect that the worthy man had been a spoiling father.

Once on a day, so goes the story, the Goru on his travels fell into a bog. He called out to Sirichand for help to get him out of his trouble.

"O father!" replied the youth. "My clothes are very nice, and they would be spoiled; I will go and send some one else to your help."

The poor Goru, floundering in the mud, made an appeal to his younger son, and from the ungrateful lad received a similar reply.

Lahiná, seeing his master's distress, joining his hands together in sign of reverence, cried, "O true Goru! What is your command?"

Lahiná, less afraid that were the young Hindu fops of spoiling his clothes, plunged into the mud at once, and extricated his master.

Nanak never forgot this trait of affection; perhaps from that day the idea of elevating Lahiná to the Goruship entered his mind. He afterwards severely tested Lahiná's love and obedience, and found them firm in every trial. Nanak's heart was touched, and he warmly returned the love of his servant.

When asked one day why he showed more affection to Lahiná than to his own sons, his answer (freely translated) was as follows:—"Though Lahiná is not of my blood yet he never neglects my commands; but those who are called my sons never fulfil them. My love is for him who serves me, heart and soul."

One day, in the presence of an assembly of his Sikhs, Nanak placed before Lahiná the cocoa-nut and five coppers, which were the symbol of succession to the office of Goru. Nanak was then the first to prostrate himself before his disciple, after which, rising, he thus addressed the assembly:

"O brother Sikhs! From this day I give to him the office of Goru. Let every disciple of mine, prostrating himself, acknowledge him as such."

Nanak then changed the name of Lahiná, commanding that he should from thenceforth be known as Goru Angad.

Angad was thus the second of the ten Gorus who reigned in succession over the Sikhs. They were treated with such adoring reverence as man should render to the Supreme Being alone. To the Sikh his Goru stood almost in the place of his God. The first Gorus, however, appear to have been meek and gentle-spirited men.

The following anecdote is characteristic, and shows that though the sons of Goru Nanak were not permitted by their father to inherit his spiritual dignity, they were yet treated with great respect for his sake.

The fourth Goru, Rámdas, was once in the company of Sirichand, he who, in his youth, had preferred keeping his fine clothes unspotted to helping his father out of the bog. It might be expected that some jealousy would arise in the heart of Sirichand, seeing thus a third Goru in the position to which, from his birth, he might naturally have aspired. The conversation between the two men is curious.

Beholding the long beard of Goru Rámdas, the son of Nanak said, "O Rámdas Ji! Wherefore has your beard grown so long?"

Rámdas, with Oriental courtesy, replied, "O true king! It has grown long in order to wipe the dust from your feet!"

Nanak's son exclaimed, with generous admiration of the ruler's humility, "Brother, showing such love, you have obtained power to hold the Goruship, and we, who were sons, remain free from envy."

I cannot refrain from adding the story of this Rámdas's elevation to the Goruship, it being one of those pleasing anecdotes which soften the hard, dry lines of history.

At an early age Rámdas had married the little daughter of the third Goru, Amrdás. The youthful wife and her husband took pleasure in rendering any act of menial service to her father the Goru. One day her parent, seated on a chair, was performing his ablutions, his daughter pouring water over his feet, when accidently a nail of the chair ran into the poor girl's foot. Instead of starting or crying out with the sudden pain, the Goru's daughter thought to herself, "If I lift my foot, my father, seeing my blood, will forget his ablutions;" so, with rare fortitude, the young Sikh did not change her position.

The blood from her wounded foot, however, trickling from under the seat, attracted the Goru's attention. "Daughter!" he cried, "from whence does this blood come?"

In the simple words of the native narrator, "the girl, not thinking it right to tell lies, on her father's asking her again and again, told him the truth."

The father, deeply touched by his child's loving reverence, tenderly kissed her, and said, "I have nothing else now to bestow on you, but from this day forth I present you with the Goruship."

The offer tells more of parental affection than of wisdom, for a female Goru would have been somewhat analogous to a female Pope. Happily the daughter showed more sense than her parent. The young Sikh shrank back from the strange post of spiritual leadership to which her father's love would have raised her.

Joining her hands, she cried, "O true Goru, my father! Give this dignity to my husband!"

Amrdás saw the propriety of the request, and Rámdas, through this dutiful daughter and wife, was raised to the leadership of the Sikhs.

The Sikh religion is far purer than that of the Hindus, but has unhappily become much corrupted by its professors mingling with the idolaters around them. I have heard an enthusiastic Sikh complaining of the idolatry carried on even in the precincts of the famous centre of Sikh worship, the Golden Temple of Amritsar.

The Sikhs give one the impression of their being a bold, cheerful, kindly people, who would be (as we proved them to be) formidable foes in war, but frank friends in peace. In the Sikh campaigns they almost shook our Indian Empire, but not long afterwards, in the more terrible Indian Mutiny, our late foes stood faithfully by us.

I once asked an experienced missionary, "If you were in danger in a mixed crowd of Mahomedans, Hindus, and Sikhs, to which of the three would you look for help?"

"I would cling to the arm of the Sikh," was the reply; and it pleased me as showing that my friend's riper judgment coincided with my own. It appears to me that the Sikh is more friendly than the Mahomedan, more manly than the Hindu.

KABIR.

A LITTLE of Kabir's poetry having been quoted in "The Mirror and the Bracelet," a few particulars regarding the author himself may not be out of place.

Kabir, a weaver by trade, born of Mahomedan parents, lived in the fifteenth century. His poetry is therefore very much older than that of Spencer or Shakespeare. Portions of the writings of this ancient poet have been incorporated in the Granth, and from their sarcastic humour, form to an English reader one of the most attractive parts. Dr. Trumpp remarks that "Kabir the weaver is to be regarded as the author of the whole reformatory movement going on in India during the Middle Ages." There is still a sect bearing the name of this very remarkable man.

How little Kabir the weaver was influenced by either Hindu superstitions or Mahomedan traditions is shown by the following extraordinary poem, in which he ridicules alike the sacred books of both:—

"Thou shouldst ride on thy own reflection!
Thou shouldst put foot into the stirrup of tranquillity,
Apply the nose-ring, put on the bridle,
All decoration, and make (it) run about in the sky.
Go on, I will take thee to Paradise.
If thou draw back I will strike thee with the whip
of love.
Kabir says these are good riders
Who keep aloof from the Veda * and the Koran."

* The Vedas are the Scriptures of the Hindu, the Koran (or Quran) those of the Mahomedans. Kabir would have men keep clear of both.

Some other extracts from this Oriental poet appear worthy of being placed before English readers who are not likely to obtain a sight of Dr. Trumpp's voluminous and learned translation of the book so dear to the Sikhs.

"The saints have died; why should weeping be made
that they go to their home
The stars at dawn pass away, so the world passes away."

"Every one says (I am) good, good: no one considers
(himself) bad.
Kabir says, I am the worst of all; every one is good
except me.
Who considers himself in this light, he is my friend."

"On which head (thou art) arranging and fastening a
turban,
That head the bill of the crow will dress."

"To the miser wealth is given for the sake of keeping it,
The fool says 'The property is mine.'
When the staff of Zama (death) is struck on his head,
The matter is decided in a moment."

"O Mullah! why ascendest thou the minaret? The
Lord is not deaf.
For whose sake thou makest the call, behold him
even in (thy) heart."

"Some one does not obey his living father,
When he dies he causes a Shradh to be said for him.
How shall the helpless defunct fathers also obtain
   (the offering),
The crow and the dog eat it."

"Having made a Devi Deva (images) of earth,
Thou sacrificest before them an animal.
An animate being they slaughter, and worship a
   lifeless thing."

"The gardener breaks off leaves (to offer to an idol), in
   the leaves, in the leaves—life,
The stone, for the sake of which he breaks off the
   leaves, is lifeless."

May it not be desirable for the Christian missionary addressing a heathen audience, to arrest attention by an occasional apt quotation from the writings of Kabir the weaver?

A SON OF HEALING.

CHAPTER I.

SHIV DÁS was a Hindu doctor, widely famed for his skill. He knew the qualities of all manner of herbs, and the secret of cures for every sort of disease. Men afflicted with divers maladies came to him from great distances, and often returned to their villages rejoicing. Lame men from the effect of Shiv Dás's ointments sometimes threw away their crutches; women carried their sick children to his house as to the shrine of a goddess. Shiv Dás gave not only medicines, but he hung charms round the necks of his patients; he not only rubbed on ointments, but he muttered a number of spells. If he failed in making a cure, he said that the gods were not propitious; if a patient died under his care, he declared that the day had been unlucky. Shiv Dais was a clever doctor, but he was also a great liar; he had real skill, but under it lay a great deal of deceit, as under the sweet mango pulp is hidden the large hard stone.

Shiv Dás never felt any remorse or shame for his lying till he met with, and had much talk with a follower of the God of Truth. He saw a man whose character, compared to his own, was as the pure stream to the stagnant pool, a man who would not have told a lie to save his own life. Shiv Dás at first thought this man a fool, but after nearer acquaintance reverenced him as a saint. The Hindu listened as the teacher told of Christ the Great Physician, whose touch was healing, whose words were wisdom, and whose gift is life eternal. Gradually on the Hindu doctor broke the light of Truth. His intelligent mind received it long before he could resolve openly to confess that he believed the Christian's Holy Book, which he only studied in secret.

The great difficulty to Shiv Dás was simply this. "If I become a Christian, how much I shall have to give up. I am like a poor potter, or unclean maker of shoes; I have a great deal to lose. Who will come to me for cure when I shall have broken caste, and in the eyes of man incurred defilement. Will any one believe in my skill if I cease to prepare charms, and give only drugs and ointment? Shall I own to patients that my spells were but muttered lies? Does the seller of fruit ever call her own plums sour?"

Such thoughts as these for a time distressed Shiv Dás, and kept him back from confessing his faith. He continued cheating others, after he had left off cheating himself. But this struggle with conscience could not go on very long. Shiv Dás saw that the road of falsehood is the path to hell, that light and darkness, fire and water can as well agree together as the religion of the Lord Jesus with the deceit which had brought in the chief part of the doctor's gains. Shiv Dás must choose between earthly loss and disgrace, and the terrible punishment which, after death, awaits the unrepenting deceiver. He must choose between sin and a Saviour. The convert bravely made his choice.

One night, when the crescent moon faintly shone through the leaves of the peepul trees, Shiv Dás threw his charms into a well, after having, prostrate on the ground, asked forgiveness for having ever used them. He then returned to his home, and throwing himself on his charpai (bed), enjoyed sweeter rest than he had known for months. In the morning the doctor rose, went to his teacher the missionary, and asked to be admitted into the Christian Church. A few weeks later the water of baptism was poured on the convert's brow, and he who had begun a new life received a new name, Shiv Dás became Isa Dás. *

At first the doctor appeared to be ruined. He was reviled in the streets, insulted in the bazaars, more than once he was beaten. It was not easy for him to gain pice enough to satisfy hunger; he had to make his own chapattis, and of the coarsest grain. Women declared that they would as soon let their children die as be cured by drugs polluted by the touch of the Christian.

But gradually even their prejudices softened a little towards him. A time of great sickness came, and the people felt the need of a doctor. They remembered the many cures wrought by Isa Dás; they began to think that even without spells his drugs might give them relief from their pain.

A case which occurred at this time had no small influence in turning the tide of opinion.

A child, the favourite child of its Hindu mother, was smitten with sore sickness. An ignorant fakir was applied to, but notwithstanding all his charms and spells, his patient evidently grew worse and worse.

"Have done with your mutterings; my darling is dying," cried the mother in desperation at last. "Shiv Dás, or whatever he chooses now to be called, saved my boy's life once, and I will ask him to save it again, were every Brahmin in Hindustan to curse me!"

The mother took up in her arms the poor moaning child, whose every gasp seemed likely to be his last. She folded her chaddar closely around him, and with hurried steps sought the mud hut which was now the Christian doctor's abode.

"Can you save him?" she cried, laying her almost expiring child at the feet of Isa Dás.

Very earnestly did the Christian ask that blessing. Not only from pity for the mother and her suffering child, but because he saw that on his success or failure in this difficult case not only the little one's life, but (humanly speaking) his own future livelihood might depend.

Isa Dás mixed his drugs; he gave them with humble prayer, and with faith committed the result to God. After a while the child's moanings gave place to perfect stillness.

The child made a good recovery, and from that time Isa Dás had almost as many patients as before his baptism. The most prejudiced Hindu, when seriously ill, preferred to be cured by one who had broken caste, to dying in an orthodox way.

CHAPTER II.

ISA DÁS conversed much with those who came to him for advice, ever keeping in mind their spiritual profit. Sometimes he spoke directly on the subject of religion, sometimes on occurrences of the day, which he read out of a native newspaper lent to him by a friend. What the doctor's drugs were to his patient's bodies, so were his words to their souls.

One day Isa Dás told a bunniah (shopkeeper) and some others who were seated on the grass before him, smoking their hookahs, of a strange event which had occurred in Calcutta. *

* The narrative is but too true; the particulars have been taken from the newspaper account.

"Notice had been given," said he, "that a bold colonel sahib was to mount up in a balloon."

"A balloon, what may that be?" inquired a zemindar (husbandman) who had never been twenty miles from his native village.

"A balloon is a huge ball made of cloth or silk, large as a house, and filled with light gas, which causes it to rise into the clouds. A car hangs from the balloon, and in this car men have room to sit, and thus be borne aloft in the air. Many people of Calcutta gathered to see the tamasha (show), and looked with wonder at the big ball which was to carry the bold colonel into the sky."

"Wah! Wah!" cried the zemindar. "I should like to have been there to see the tamasha!"

"The colonel came with a cheerful face when all was ready," continued the doctor. "But not every one looked equally cheerful when noticing the state of the balloon.

"'There are cracks in the cloth,' observed a friend, gazing upwards at the great ball, which, inflated with gas, was kept down by ropes, till the colonel should get into the car.'

"'No matter!' cried the colonel. 'That is nothing! I have mounted in a balloon with holes in it as big as my head.'

"Bright and bold, he stepped into the car and sat down. At a given signal the men who held the ropes let go their hold. Up shot the balloon like a bird! It rises one—two—three hundred feet above the heads of the people, who gaze with eager upturned eyes. But soon, ah, too soon, the shouts of joy which had burst from the crowd, suddenly change to the silence of horror. The balloon bursts in the air; down, down it comes as fast as it rose, straight into a piece of water below! Like a huge sheet, the torn cloth lies on the tank, the unfortunate colonel beneath it!

"Can no one save him? Can no one help him? Many rush to the sahib's aid, and plunge into the tank; but how are they to find the colonel under those hundreds of yards of wet floating cloth! They try to lift the heavy mass; they tear it here; they drag it there; every minute seems long as an hour, every minute lessens the chance of finding the colonel alive! At last there's a cry, 'He's found!' And shortly afterwards something that—not a half-hour before—was a brave, strong man, is dragged from under the wide spread of cloth! Alas! The bold heart has ceased to beat! The unhappy colonel has perished!"

"And why did he perish?" cried the bunniah, who had taken his hookah out of his mouth. "Was it not because he had trusted himself to a balloon of flimsy cloth that had holes, through which the gas could escape!"

"Now, to my mind that poor colonel's death preaches a lesson to us," observed Isa Dás. "There are some who make as sure of going to happiness when they die as the colonel sahib did of rising into the clouds. Now, I like to ask my conscience,—is my hope a sure one, or is it rather like the cracked balloon?"

"I do not trouble myself with such thoughts," observed the bunniah. "I perform my religious duties, I make offerings, I feast the Brahmins,—I have nothing to fear." And, like an easygoing man of the world as he was, he resumed his hookah.

"But, my friend, do you never tell a lie, not even to make a good bargain?" asked Isa Dás.

Those around laughed, for the character of the bunniah was like that of most of his class; only the doctor was grave.

"Have you never cheated or spoken evil of one whom you hated, or flattered another whose favour you wished to gain?" pursued the Christian.

"Such things are trifles, they matter not!" said the bunniah,—and again the hubble-bubble of the hookah, interrupted for a moment, was heard.

"Ah! Friend, what you call trifles are as the cracks in the balloon!" cried Isa Dás. "Your righteousness is flimsy as the cloth of which the great ball was made. If it was rash in the colonel to trust his body to a balloon which raised him a little from earth, only to dash him down into destruction, are you not worse than rash if you trust your soul to what never can save it?"

The question made as little impression on the bunniah as it did on his hookah; but the zemindar, who was a man of a simple, teachable spirit, asked, "What is it that can save souls?"

"We need something much stronger, better, more perfect than any goodness of our own to carry us up to heaven," said Isa Dás; "and such righteousness is offered to us in the Gospel, even that of the Lord Jesus Christ!"

"He is the only Man who over lived on earth and never knew sin," was the reply, "the only perfectly holy. Even his enemies could prove nothing against Him; even His judge declared, 'I find no fault in this man.'"

Then Isa Dás, with fervour and clearness, gave to the poor man, who listened with interest, an outline of the "old, old story." He told of the Lord's Incarnation, His holy life, and His terrible death endured for sinners. And thus the Christian closed his earnest address:—

"You asked me of what use the righteousness of Christ could be to us, and this is my reply. He offers it as a royal gift to all who truly believe in Him who is at once divine and human, the Son of God and the Son of Man. Christ is 'the Lord our Righteousness' (Jer. xxxiii. 16). This is the secret of the peace which I have found in the Christian religion," continued the convert. "I do not trust in my own righteousness, I count it but as filthy rags; but I have accepted the perfect righteousness of Christ, which is strong enough to bear me upwards, even to the gates of heaven, even into the presence of God."

CHAPTER III.

AMONGST those who often listened to Isa Dás, and listened with pleasure, was Natthu the oilman. He was at last so convinced of the truth of what he heard, that he became a secret believer. But Natthu was of a timid and worldly nature; from fear of persecution, he refrained from openly confessing his faith; he never even spoke of it except to his friend Isa Dás, and then only when no one else was present to hear.

Like others of a like cowardly spirit, Natthu tried to justify himself in his own eyes, and call his timidity prudence. Isa Dás he tried to regard as an amiable enthusiast, who exposed himself to quite unnecessary trouble and distress on account of religion.

Natthu said one day to Isa Dás, "O doctor! Men abuse and hate you because you have broken caste. Why were you not content to believe and be silent? If the heart be right, what matters the confession of the mouth? One can be a Christian in secret without being baptised."

Isa Dás had more than once tried to argue this point with Natthu, but had always failed in persuading him that he who will give up nothing and dare nothing for the Saviour cannot be reckoned amongst His disciples. Now, after a few moments of reflection, he said, "O brother! Have you ever heard the story of the three caskets?" *

* The story is, of course, most familiar to English readers of Shakespeare, but would be new to most Orientals. Its adaptability to convey a religious lesson struck me; and the more we reflect on it the more deeply impressed are we with the deep knowledge of human nature which the poet possessed.

"Then," said the oilman, "be pleased to tell me this story." And squatting on the ground, he prepared to give his full attention to some Eastern tale.

"It is said," thus began Isa Dás, "that once upon a time there were three caskets placed in a palace, and proclamation was made that he who should choose the right one would find in it a beautiful picture, which should give him a right to possess great wealth, and all that his heart most desired. Men would be partly guided in their choice by an inscription on the outside of each box. The first casket was of gold, and on it was written, 'Who chooseth me shall have what many men desire.' The second was of silver, and the inscription on it was this, 'Who chooseth me shall have what he deserves.' The third was of lead, and on it appeared, 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' Had you been there, O Natthu! of the three which would you have chosen?"

"Surely the gold one!" cried Natthu, who was miserly, and whose chief joy in life was to hoard up his gains. "Who would take silver if gold were near; as for lead, no one would touch it. Besides, the inscription showed plainly what choice should be made; what do many desire but riches,—houses, riches, rich clothes, jewels, and bags of rupees!"

"But perhaps a Jogi would have chosen the silver box," observed the oilman, "for what with his pilgrimages and his fastings, his long contemplations and austerities, he gathers together such a stock of merits, that he thinks nothing too good for his deserts."

"A Jogi, and many a Brahmin would certainly be likely to choose the silver casket," said Isa Dás.

"But none would have chosen the leaden one!" exclaimed the oilman. "No one in his senses will agree to 'give and hazard all that he hath!'"

"The story goes that each of the caskets was chosen by some one," said Isa Dás. "The first man who came, like yourself, chose that which was bright to the eye, and which promised present profit."

"Within was a skull," replied Isa Dás gravely. "The meaning of this is, that earthly joys are but for a moment, the fashion of the world passeth away, and the possessor of rank and riches is soon himself the property of death."

Little did Natthu know how soon the doctor's words would in part apply to himself! He had indeed chosen the casket of gold, and was hoarding up, pice by pice, anna by anna, what he thought would be a provision for him for many a year to come.

Without, however, dwelling on the lesson intended for his profit, he proceeded to inquire, "What did the silver casket contain?"

"The likeness of a grinning idiot; and the meaning of this was, as we read in the wise king's sayings, 'He who trusteth his own heart is a fool' (Prov. xxviii. 26). If we, whose best deeds are full of sin, seek for reward instead of forgiveness, what are we but rebels, who in their king's presence come boldly forth and claim a dress of honour, instead of falling on their faces and begging for mercy!'"

"The beautiful picture must, after all, have been enclosed in the leaden casket, on which was written—'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all that he hath,'" observed the oilman.

"Is it not so with the Christian religion?" asked the doctor. "The Lord promised not to His disciples worldly riches, but said, 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth.' He promised not the praise of the world, but said, 'Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely for My sake.' He declared, 'Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be My disciple.'"

"To you, O my friend! It has a dull, repulsive look, like the leaden casket," said the Christian, "but I, who have chosen it, can tell of the treasures that lie within. There is, first, forgiveness of sin; God hath declared that 'the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin' (1 John i. 7). There is then peace with the Most High, 'We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ' (Rom. v. 1). There is the promise of the Spirit to dwell in our hearts, whose fruit is love and peace and joy. There is comfort in the hour of death, and after death 'glory, honour, and immortality,' robes of white, a crown that never shall fade, a kingdom that never shall end!" The eyes of the convert sparkled with joy as he thus spoke of the blessings bestowed on believers.

But Natthu was not one to give and hazard all that he had for any spiritual profit. If he could have at once the hope of heaven and the good things of earth, the praise of God and the praise of men, he was content to be a Christian. But if he must choose between the spiritual and temporal advantage, Natthu's choice was not present affliction. And so he went on from day to day in a downward course, living as a Hindu amongst Hindus, though convinced in his mind that the religion of the Bible is indeed the only true religion.

After a while the glimmering of truth which Natthu had received died away like a lamp which is fed with no oil. He avoided intercourse with Isa Dás, lest he should be suspected of embracing his opinions. So the heart of the Hindu became harder and harder, till he gave up altogether thinking of God and the judgment to come.

The case of Natthu is a common one in India; is it altogether unknown even in England, where the sacrifices to be made for God are so much smaller than those required of the poor Hindu? We are not called to be aliens from family, exiles from home, though from every Christian is required the spirit that is ready to give and hazard all for the Lord.

CHAPTER IV.

ONE evening, about the hour of sunset, the doctor, Isa Dás, was called in haste from his devotions to see Natthu the oilman, who was, it was said, dying of raging fever. Isa Dás hurried to the house. The entrance was through a small yard, in which a black buffalo and her calf were tied. Through the doorway Isa Dás passed into the dwelling, the lower part of which was occupied by the oil-mill; but the patient buffalo who usually turned the creaking wheel was no longer going his wearisome round. The place looked the receptacle for dirt, and every species of rubbish.

Isa Dás had never before penetrated beyond this room, but now a group of dirty children were ready to show him the way up to his patient. The narrow staircase was steep and utterly dark; Isa Dás had to feel his way, and take care that he stumbled not on a broken step. To a European newly arrived, such a dwelling might give an idea of extreme poverty, but to the zenana visitor it would appear but a common specimen of the houses of those who live by the work of their hands. Had Isa Dás had no one to show him the way, he would have been sufficiently guided by the hubbub of voices from the apartment above.

The Christian soon found himself in a room about twelve feet square. This room was literally crammed with people, men, women, and half-naked children. * All pressed forward, jostling one another, to watch the struggles of a frantic sufferer on a charpai covered with a mass of dirty rags, which gave forth a sickening odour. It was scarcely possible to breathe in that crowded place; the crowd shut out every breath of air from the sufferer, and their loud voices mingled with his cries.

* The oilman's bibi wee evidently not a purdah woman, or none of the male sex, except near relations, would have been admitted.

The doctor saw in a moment that, if this state of things continued, the patient had not a chance of life. Natthu was gasping for breath, his eyes almost starting out of his head, while he seemed, with his outstretched hands, to be trying to keep something back, which no one could see but himself.

"Back—back—all of you!" cried the doctor in a tone of authority. "Except the bibi, not one must remain in this room. I will not so much as attempt a cure unless the place be cleared!"

But it was no easy matter to clear the place. One dirty girl in particular, who was carrying a wretched baby whose eyes were covered with flies and whose head with sores, seemed to think it her right as well as her pleasure to stand and stare. It was at least five minutes before Isa Dás could clear the room of all but the patient and his wife.

He could hear people mutter, as they groped their way down the stairs, that this strange new way of treating the sick all came from Isa Dás being a Christian.

"Yes, but the three medicines which this poor fellow most requires are air, cleanliness, and quiet?" cried Isa Dás, who was feeling the pulse of his patient. "If he can have these but for one night, he may struggle through this attack; but if not—" he interrupted himself, for there was the girl with the wretched baby again trying to force herself back into the room. *

* If the sight of a zenana visitor be at all a novelty, she is likely to be followed by an escort of such children even into the zenanas of the comparatively wealthy. It is not strange to see amongst them some baby covered with small-pox.

The wife, happily, was not quite destitute of common sense. She saw that the doctor knew his business, and the life of the breadwinner for herself, her children, two widowed aunts, and a mother was too precious for her not to be anxious to do what she could to save it.

The obtrusive girl was promptly expelled in a fashion which sent her as well as the baby roaring down the staircase. A noisy hen with her brood of chickens was next turned out, and a great many dirty rags carried away. The air was able to come in tolerably freely through the square-shaped opening which might be called a window, though it had never held a pane of glass.

Poor Natthu was quite unconscious of what was passing around him, but he was sensible of the relief given by something like quiet, and bathing his brow somewhat lessened the terrible pain in his head. His wife assiduously fanned him with a small straw hand-punkah, and he drank in the fresh air almost as eagerly as he did the cooling medicine held by Isa Dás to his lips.

"What will his poor mother and aunts say when they hear of this dreadful illness?" exclaimed the wife. "He was quite well and driving the buffalo at the mill when they left here early with the children to go to the melá at P—," mentioning a village a few miles distant. "Little they knew that Piru's father * would be lying in such a state before night."

* It is considered indecorous for a wife to mention the name of her husband, or a man that of his bibi.

Thankful was Isa Dás that all these relatives had not been present to add their numbers to the crowd, and their voices to the noise. He was glad to hear from the bibi that the party intended to sleep at P—, so that the poor oilman had some chance of a quiet night. Ere long, some improvement took place; the sick man's pulse beat less wildly, and he ceased to cry out, as he had been doing in his delirium, that demons were crowding around him and smothering him to death.

"Praise be to the Most Merciful! He is better already," said the doctor. "Cheer up," he continued kindly to the wife, who was shampooing her husband's feet, "if he be but kept quiet, I hope that he may live to do many a good day's work for you yet."

The words were scarcely out of Isa Dás's lips, when he heard a sudden wild tumult below, and the sound of feet first rushing through the mill-room, then up the steep stairs, with the noise of loud weeping and wailing. There was no means, even had there been time, to fasten the door, and not even the doctor could keep out the mother, two aunts, and five children, who now burst into the room.

Natthu startled suddenly from something like sleep, sprang up into a sitting posture; wildly waving his arms, and rolling his eyes, he screamed out in terror, "Here they are again!" And then fell backwards in a fit, from which he never recovered.

Before midnight, laments for the dying gave place to wild wailing over the dead. The women, in their unreasoning fear and grief, had actually put out the spark of life which the doctor had been so anxiously trying to cherish!

Isa Dás left that house at midnight with a very heavy heart, remembering how he had vainly tried to sow the seed of Truth in the poor oilman's worldly heart. He thought, too, how many a life in Hindustan is every year lost from the folly of those who should tend the sick.

"But how can I wonder," he said to himself, "that in things regarding the body the same mistakes are made as in things regarding the soul! Superstitions crowd like the flies on the eyes of that poor child, which no one takes the trouble to drive away, though they carry disease and perhaps blindness. As cleanliness, air, and quiet are to the sick frame, so are purity, truth, and peace to the sick soul. Oh! When will these blessings be widely known and prized in my poor benighted country?"

CHAPTER V.

ISA DÁS had not always the bitter trial of seeing those for whom he had laboured and prayed living without God, and dying without hope. The work of an evangelist is specially a work of faith, and those who sow are not always permitted in this world to reap. Their harvest-joy is reserved for the blessed day when they who sow and they who reap shall rejoice together. Yet even in the hard field in which the convert's lot was cast, he was not without occasional tokens that his labour was not in vain in the Lord.

One of those in whom Isa Dás took the deepest interest was a kahar of the name of Gopal, who was slowly dying of an inward disease. The doctor knew that he could not cure the poor man, but he could sometimes relieve his pain; and attending him gave to the Christian opportunities of dropping in words that might be as seeds of light to a Hindu dying in darkness. The tall form of Isa Dás, wrapt in his old worn blanket, was therefore often seen in the cottage of Gopal.

One day Isa Dás found the kahar in very low spirits, tears flowing down his hollow cheeks. Isa Dás sat down on the sick man's charpai (bed), and gently asked him, "O brother! What sorrow is pressing on your heart?"

Then said Gopal, "It is not the pain that I cannot endure; I know that it cannot last very long. You see yon crescent moon in the sky? Before she reaches the full, I know that my funeral pile will be lighted." And he gave a heavy sigh.

"Do you ever think of what will come to your soul after death?" inquired the Christian.

"It is that which troubles me," groaned the Hindu, who could no longer refrain from pouring out his griefs. "I don't know through how many of the eight million four hundred thousand transmigrations I may already have passed. I have had no time for pilgrimages, and no disposition for contemplation. I have led an active life, and have never spent many pice on feeding Brahmins. And, what is worse than all—" he stopped and looked anxiously around, as if afraid of being overheard.

"No one else is near, you may speak freely," said Isa Dás. As Gopal remained silent, he suggested, "Perhaps you have been tempted to steal?"

"Worse than that," sighed Gopal, who, like most of his countrymen, thought little of lying. "A Jogi came to my door, and asked for alms. It was a time of scarcity. I had scarcely enough of food to keep soul and body together. The Jogi looked fat and well-fed. I told him I had nothing to spare. The Jogi sat at my door from morning till noon, with a loud voice demanding pica; and I gave him nothing—woe is me!—I gave him nothing. Then the holy man got up in a rage, and cursed me; from that day I have never been well. And now I feel sure that when I die, my soul will go into the body of an ass or a swine. I shall be punished in my next birth for the crime committed in this!" The poor superstition-enslaved Hindu groaned again at the thought.

"Oh, brother!" exclaimed Isa Dás. "If you were a Christian, you would be troubled by no such idle fears!"

"Only one new birth, a death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness. We believe in one great change, the change of heart which comes when he who knows himself to be a sinner believes from his heart in the Saviour of sinners."

Isa Dás had repeatedly spoken thus to the Hindu, but this was the first time that his words had seemed to have the slightest effect.

Gopal looked earnestly at his friend for some moments, and then said, "I know that you believe that Jesus Christ saves sinners, but I cannot see in what way."

Isa Dás had never found Gopal willing to listen to a verse from the Bible, so he thought that he would begin his explanation by an illustration from Indian history. "Have you ever heard of the love of the Emperor Babar for his son?" he inquired. "Or what he did when that son was thought sick unto death?"

"The Emperor, from great love, resolved to take his son's sickness on himself," said Isa Dás. "He solemnly walked seven times round the prince's bed, and it was God's will that the son should recover and the loving father sicken and die."

"I wish that there were any one who loved me enough to die in my stead!" said the poor Hindu.

"That is exactly what God's Son, the King of Heaven, has already done!" cried Isa Dás. "The Lord Jesus Christ saw all men lying in sin, about to die and perish for ever. The doors of heaven were closed against guilty souls. All are unholy; yes, Brahmins, the Jogi, the devotee are all under one terrible sentence, 'The soul that sinneth, it shall die' (Ezek. xviii. 20). God's Son took pity on a perishing world; He came and assumed a mortal body, * that in that body He might die. He bore our punishment as He hung on the Cross. And now, through Christ's great sacrifice, the fear of death is taken from true believers. 'There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus' (Rom. viii. 1)."

* The doctrine of the Incarnation offers no such difficulty to the Hindu's mind as it does to that of the Mahomedan.

"Are they emancipated from the eighty-four lakhs (100,000) of births?" asked the Hindu earnestly. "Are they in no danger of entering a vile body when they die?"

"These supposed transmigrations are but the wild dreams of men," replied Isa Dás. "The Word of God tells of an abode of perfect delight into which all will be admitted after death who in their lifetime believe in the Saviour."

"Yes, if the faith be that living faith, whose fruit is love and obedience," replied the Christian. "He who believes from the heart that the Son of God died for me, even me, cannot but love his Redeemer. 'We love Him, because He first loved us' (1 John iv. 19). And obedience follows on love; what faithful disciple obeys not the voice of his Goru? Our heavenly Goru hath said, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments' (John xiv. 15)."

Isa Dás said no more that day, for he saw that Gopal was too feeble to listen long. The Christian, however, left the hut of the poor kahar with a feeling of hope, which he turned into fervent prayer. It was something that Gopal should think of his own soul and its state after death. It was something that he had listened with something like attention to the story of redeeming Love. When we see the first green blade rise from the ground which we have ploughed and sown, is it not as an earnest to us of the harvest which may one day be reaped?

CHAPTER VI.

ISA DÁS much needed such encouragements to cheer him, for at this time he was in great straits as regarded temporal things. The patients who came to him for healing seldom gave him even cowries * to pay for his drugs. Few even thought of giving the Christian his due; was it not enough if they did not abuse and revile him? Isa Dás could no longer earn money by selling charms, his conscience forbade him to do so. He had to part one by one with almost everything that he possessed, even to his shawl and embroidered slippers, and the hookah which had once been his father's. The blanket which he wore was threadbare; the kurta beneath only fit for a wandering fakir.

Often the doctor went hungry to his work, and hungry and tired lay down to rest. But for four rupees which had been lent to him by his friend the missionary, the poor convert might—as it seemed—have been starved. Those rupees, though spent sparingly pice by pice for food, were gone at last.

This was a great trial of the faith of Isa Dás. He was sometimes tempted to think, "Hath my Lord forgotten me? He is my Shepherd, yet doth He not leave me to want?"

But Isa Dás's faith struggled against the secret temptation. These words were written on his heart, 'Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you' (1 Peter v. 7).

One evening, after a day of trial, when a single chapatti had formed the whole of his meal, and not a cowrie was left to buy another, Isa Dás, prostrating himself on the earth, uttered this prayer, "O Lord Jesus! Thou hast known what it is to be poor and a-hungered; Thou hast promised that Thou wilt never leave or forsake them who put their trust in Thee! I cast myself on Thy mercy and love! Give me according to Thy wisdom and my need, and whether I suffer want or abound, enable me always to glorify Thee, and say from my heart, 'Thy will be done.'"

Even as Isa Dás rose from his prostrate position, he saw a man running towards him in haste. This man was the servant of Ahmed Khán, a Mahomedan Amir.

"Can you tell me where the doctor lives?" cried the man as he reached the spot where Isa Dás was standing at the door of his mud-built hut. The messenger was panting from the speed at which he had been running.

The servant looked for a moment rather contemptuously at the half-fed, ill-dressed man before him, but his business admitted of no delay. "My master's only son has had a terrible accident," he said. "A messenger was sent on horseback for the European doctor, but he is laid up with fever, and cannot leave his bed. Therefore am I sent for you. When an elephant falls down dead, he who sat in its howdah may have to content himself with the back of an ass."

Without seeming to notice the insolent taunt, Isa Dás at once went into his hut to gather together the few means of cure which he possessed. He then followed the servant to the residence of the Amir, which was not half a cos distant (not a mile).

Can carved doors shut out sorrow, or will the embroidered pillow give ease to an aching head? The dwelling which Isa Dás entered was one of comfort and elegance, but it was now one of pain and grief. Isa Dás found the Amir's son stretched on a rich divan, with a broken limb, a body covered with bruises, and blood-stained bandages, instead of a handsome turban, bound round his head. The lad's eyes were closed; his face was deadly pale; only a little twitching of pain, and an occasional moan showed that life had not departed.

Beside his only son, grief and fear expressed in his face, stood Ahmed Khán. Behind the rich curtain which divided the room, could be heard the sound of weeping from the purdah-women beyond.

Isa Dás, after examining the poor lad's hurts, saw that the case was a difficult one, but not one without hope. Silently praying for God's blessing on his work, the doctor set the broken limb, he bathed and bound the bleeding head, he applied healing salve to the bruises. All during that night Isa Dás watched by his patient. And after resting awhile on the following day, at night, he resumed his watch.

The house was very different indeed from that in which the poor oilman had breathed his last; air was admitted in abundance, the swing of the punkah never ceased; the patient's hands were bathed in rose-water, and his thirst relieved by cool sweet sherbet.

Much courtesy was shown to Isa Dás by the Amir, who could seldom be persuaded to quit the sick-bed of his son. It a little surprised the Mahommedans at first that the converted Hindu had none of the prejudices of his race regarding food, but ate whatever was offered to him, sanctifying it by prayer.

On the third day the English doctor was able to come. He examined the patient, and pronounced him to be out of danger. The Amir devoutly thanked God, and his exclamation was echoed by the ladies behind the purdah, who had not unfrequently come in to see the sick son of one, and nephew of another, but who had hurried back to their retreat on the English doctor's arrival, fearful lest he should catch a glimpse of their faces.

"Your son has been well and skilfully treated," said the European. "Who was it who set the broken limb?"

The Amir made a sign to one of his servants, who brought to him a fine turban, and a silken bag. From this bag the Amir took out five rupees (more than 9s.) and placed them, with the turban, in the hands of Isa Dás. *

* The sum will seem very small to the English reader, but when one remembers that less than that is considered a month's pay for some of our lower servants, probably a family man, it will appear less insignificant.

"O Lord! I thank Thee! Thou hast seen my trouble; Thou hast heard my prayer!" came from the heart of the poor Christian.

No man heard that burst of thanksgiving, for the lips of Isa Dás were silent. But it was with a sense of deep pure joy that he passed forth from the Amir's dwelling to return to his own humble hut.

It was not merely that his present wants were relieved, and that his reputation was made, that caused that deep pure joy; the love of God was the fountain from which it flowed. Isa Dás had realised, as he perhaps had never so fully done before, the truth of that gracious promise, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."

CHAPTER VII.

FOR the first time for months, Isa Dás had the clear sum of five rupees in his hands. He entered his hut, and seating himself on the mud floor, began to consider what he should do with his money.

"Shall I lay in a stock of grain while it is cheap, or buy one or two brass cooking-vessels to replace those I have been obliged to part with? Nay, surely my first purchase should be a blanket, for mine is almost threadbare. Perhaps I might spare something out of these five rupees for the work of the Lord. It would be a thank offering if I sent eight annas (half a rupee) to the starving folk at Madras."

There were so many things on which Isa Dás wished to spend his money, that he could not make up his mind as to which he should choose. "I will not go to the bazaar till to-morrow," he said to himself, "there is no hurry for me to decide. I will now just read a little from God's Word, and then peacefully and thankfully go to my rest."

Isa Dás opened the Bible, as he was wont, with a short prayer for God's Spirit to guide him. The Christian usually found great refreshment from reading the Bible, but this time any one who could have watched his face would have seen that he was troubled. Isa Dás was reading the thirteenth chapter of St. Paul's epistle to the Romans, and he paused with his finger on the eighth verse, "Owe no man anything, but to love one another."

To Isa Dás had come that trouble which often meets those who have in mature years adopted a religion more pure than that of their childhood. Sunlight shows us blots and stains that we never noticed by lamplight. Until Isa Dás had become a Christian, he had never regarded remaining in debt as a sin, though he knew it to be an evil. Like many of his countrymen, he looked on a creditor as a kind of tyrant, whom it is lawful to cheat if you can. Isa Dás had often said that debt is like a chain, but he had not thought that it was one of Satan's forging; he believed it to be against man's comfort, but had not been aware that it is against the command of the Most High. *

* The prevalence of debt is one of the most terrible evils in India, a fertile cause of misery. Persons, for a wedding or funeral expenses, will burden themselves with debt, which fetters them for the rest of their lives. Interest in India is enormously high; thus debts grow fast, like plants in a damp, hot jungle. Native Christians need earnest warnings as well as heathen. It will take time to teach even them that there in a difference between a gift and a loan.

"I owe four rupees to the missionary sahib," said Isa Dás to himself, "but the thought of this has never disturbed me, for I knew that I could not pay, and that he would not press for payment. He is no grasping money-lender. But I can pay him now, though not without giving up what I greatly desired; only one rupee would be left, and no one who can help it ever thinks of paying debts. Why should I do what none of my countrymen think it needful to do?"

"Because I am a Christian," was the faithful reply given by conscience; "because I have no right to spend on myself, or even to give away to the poor what really belongs to another."

Yet Isa Dás was not fully persuaded that to repay his friend's loan was a religious duty until, prostrating himself in prayer, he had humbly said, in the words of the great apostle, "'Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?'"

Then it appeared evident to his soul that honesty required repayment of a loan, and that he who would "provide things honest in the sight of all men" must not remain in debt for a single day longer than he possibly can. Resolving, though with a sigh, to carry over the four rupees in the morning, Isa Dás fell asleep.

But when the morning came, the convert's resolution wavered a little. Even after he had started for the missionary's house, which lay at the other end of the town, Isa Dás had many doubts and misgivings. As he passed through the bazaars, Satan tempted him first by the sight of a beautiful blanket with a red border, then ranges of shining brazen vessels, then heaps of grain, and baskets of ripe, delicious fruit. At every turning Isa Dás found a new snare.

Thrice, he almost resolved to delay, at least, paying his debt. Then came the thought, "This is the first opportunity which God has given me of getting out of debt; if I delay, such an opportunity may never occur again. If I neglect my Lord's command, can I expect His blessing? Debt, like a cancer, is eating out the very life of this land; every Christian should, by his conduct, make his firm protest against it."

So, trying to avoid even looking into the tempting shops, and delaying his purchase of needful things till his return, lest he should be drawn into spending more than his single rupee, Isa Dás pursued his way. He soon left the town behind him, and came in sight of the white bungalow, with its neat compound, in which the missionary resided.

The missionary was engaged in counting out some rupees, being the results of a collection made in his church, when his servant made his salam, and announced that Isa Dás was in attendance, and desired to see his honour. The missionary turned towards a Government official who sat near him, reading the papers, and said, "This is the very convert whom I was recommending to you just now. He is one who has really lost all for the sake of religion."

"And I doubt that he expects you to make up his losses," said the officer, smiling. "I tell you again that I don't like native Christians; they are a covetous lot, always bent on getting as much as they can. Just you see now if the fellow has not come to ask you for money."

"He may, indeed, need help," replied the missionary, rather sorry that his needy convert should happen to come just at that time.

Isa Dás entered, and made his respectful salam. He then drew forth from his kamarband * four rupees, which he silently placed on the table.

"I have brought them to repay the debt which I owe your honour for what you kindly lent me some time ago."

"I gladly add them to our church collection," said the missionary, placing the rupees beside those which he had just been counting out.

"This is the very first time that I have ever known a native pay a debt without the money being forced from him!" cried the officer present, looking with interest at the thin form, so meanly clad, of the honest convert. "Christianity has done something for this man at least. You have told me," he continued, still speaking in English, so that Isa Dás did not understand him, "that he has some education, is intelligent, hardworking, and one not given to lying and cheating?"

"I want just that sort of person to accompany me in my journeys through the famine-stricken districts; one who can give me some little help in my work of dispensing Government relief." Then, addressing Isa Dás in his native tongue, the gentleman said, "Do you wish to take service?" And he briefly described what the nature of the service would be, concluding by an offer of ten rupees a month, and all travelling expenses paid.

How readily, how joyfully was the offer accepted! Isa Dás saw himself raised at once to a position of comfort and wide usefulness, one in which he could specially glorify God by helping his fellow-creatures whilst serving an earthly patron.

"You will need doubtless to make some little preparations for your journey," said the official; "some additions to a somewhat scanty wardrobe," he added in English, with a smiling glance at the missionary. "You shall have ten rupees for your outfit, so buy whatever you need, and join me here to-morrow."

With what a light, happy heart the convert retraced his steps to the town, with eleven rupees in his kamarband! With what special pleasure he wrapt himself in the blanket bordered with red, which he could now buy with an easy conscience!

"This will always serve to remind me of the day when the performance of a simple duty led to such happy results!" thought the Christian. "It will often bring to my mind the command—'Owe no man anything but to love one another.'"

It is not always that such results follow so simple an action, but there is truth in the proverb that "Honesty is the best policy." He who is known to be trustworthy is the one likely to be put into positions of trust.

CHAPTER VIII.

ISA DÁS, as has been related, had been much despised and abused after becoming a Christian; and even after the first excitement after his baptism had passed away, when prevailing sickness made even enemies avail themselves of his medical skill, it was not forgotten that he was one who had broken caste. Hindus took his medicines as if they feared pollution, and if they gave in return cowries or pice, they dropped them into the Christian's hand, avoiding oven the touch of one whom they deemed unclean.

But when the rumour spread through the town that Isa Dás was going to quit it, that he was now the confidential Munshi of a grand Government Sahib, in whose service he was sure to make heaps of rupees, a great change came over his neighbours.

"Trust my word for it, Isa Dás will make his fortune at last!" cried the woman who had been the first to bring to him her almost expiring child. "This morning I saw him walk through the bazaar, looking like a fakir, with clothes that would hardly hold together. This evening he is wearing a good turban, and a blanket with a border of red, and looks like a sardar. We did not value him enough while we had him, and now he is going away!"

"Hae! Hae!" sighed her neighbour, who had once been vociferous in abuse of the newly-made Christian. "Who will now come to us in our need? Who will ease our pain, and give back health to the sick, and watch by the dying? Alas! That Isa Dás should leave us!"

Is it not written that "When a man's ways please the Lord, He maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him"? (Prov. xvi. 7).

Isa Dás had a good many farewell visits to pay, but his time for preparation was so short that he could only go to a few. Amongst these few was Gopal, the kahar.

"We are never likely to meet again in this world; would that I had any sure hope of a meeting in the next!" said Isa Dás. "I have talked with that man, I have prayed for him, I have tried to lead him to Christ; but I sometimes fear that the seed of the Word has been with him like that sown by the wayside, which the birds of the air carried away."

When Isa Dais reached Copal's door, to his surprise and pleasure, he heard within the mud-built dwelling the familiar voice of his missionary friend. Isa Dás entered through the low doorway, and as he stood in the half-darkened room, he heard the sick man thus answer some question put by the missionary.

"O sir! It was goodness—mercy—love that drew me towards the Saviour. I remember the proverb, 'As the Goru is, so is the disciple;' as is the Deity, so is the worshipper. I thought, 'if all men should follow the examples of Khrishna and Mahadeo, the world would not be fit to live in; if all women were like the goddesses Kali and Doorga, the land would be running with blood. If theft, lying, and murder be crimes in a human being, can they be worthy of gods?'"

"The deities whom you speak of never existed; they are but the creation of men's minds, and those very wicked polluted minds," said the missionary. "He must have been deeply sunk in vice indeed who could even imagine such wickedness as your so-called religious books attribute to the false gods whom you worship."

"I only worship the one true God," replied Gopal faintly. "I cast myself, sinner as I am, at the feet of the Holy One who died for sinners."

"Has this change come from the teaching of your friend Isa Dás?" asked the missionary, who saw the Christian standing within the dwelling.

"Not so much from his teaching as from his life," replied the kahar. "He told me that his Master the Lord Jesus was holy, and I saw that the servant also is holy. He told me that the Blessed One went about doing good, and I saw that His disciple followed in His steps. He told me that the Saviour endured wrong and insult, and in dying prayed for His enemies; I saw Isa Dás bearing persecution in silence, and doing good to them who did evil to him. Then I said in my heart, 'Surely this religion is divine! It is on the good tree that good fruits grow.' From Isa Dás I have learned that from a pure faith comes a holy life, and it is therefore, O Sahib! that I wish to be baptised and confess Christ before all, ere I die."

On hearing this, Isa Dás rejoiced greatly in spirit; he saw that he had neither spoken nor suffered in vain. He knelt down by the charpai of the dying kahar, and pressed his wasted hand, while from the Christian's heart fervent thanksgiving arose that another precious soul had been drawn out of the slavery of sin, into the glorious freedom of God.

"Isa Dás, I see that you have not forgotten that word of the Lord, 'Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven,'" (Matt. v. 16), said his missionary friend.

"My light; oh, it is unworthy of the name!" exclaimed Isa Dás, shrinking more from praise than he had done from persecution. "My light is as the feeble spark in the earthen lamp, the lamp made of the clay which is in itself so worthless that men trample it under foot! What was I a year ago but a poor idolater, a worshipper of Shiv, with his mark on my forehead!" *

* Natives often draw lines on their foreheads, and from these lines being horizontal or perpendicular may be known which of the false gods they specially adore.

"And now," said his friend, "on that brow the water of baptism has been sprinkled, the sign of the cross has been made. Hereafter, through the merits of Christ, there may the crown of glory shine! God grant that both to you and this new believer may be fulfilled the promise made to Christ's redeemed, 'His servants shall serve Him, and they shall see His face, and His name shall be in their foreheads'" (Rev. xxii. 3, 4).

CHAPTER IX.

ISA DÁS started on his travels, but not before he had had the joy of seeing poor Gopal admitted by baptism into the Christian Church. The two parted, not indeed without sorrow, yet cheered by the hope of meeting again in a world where sickness and death are unknown.

Mr. Madden's duty was to travel through districts visited by famine, to start relief works, and see what else could be done for the suffering people. It was said that he carried in his camel trunks lakhs and lakhs of rupees of Government money. As around the jar of honey swarm innumerable flies, so around the Sahib came numbers, not only of the poor, but sellers of grain, sellers of rice, contractors, and all those people who pay court to the powerful and rich.

Isa Dás was Mr. Madden's confidential servant, and every one looked upon him as a door by which they could gain entrance into a treasury of favour. His recommendation could procure an audience with his master; a word from him, it was supposed, would cause extortion to be winked at, and raise the unworthy to a lucrative post. Never had Isa Dás, even before becoming a Christian, received so much honour as he did now; never had he heard so many flattering words. Instead of titles of contempt, he was now called huzur (your highness), Maharaja, and provider for the poor.

And not only low salams and compliments were offered, but rupees and many other gifts by which men try to bribe the favour of those who can aid them to make unlawful gains. Great was the amazement of greedy bunniah and cheating contractor to find that the native Christian would not so much as touch a bribe. Isa Dás steadily refused to receive any present. As he had before given up his profitable occupation of writing charms as being an acted lie, quite unworthy of a Christian, so he now prayerfully resolved never to be persuaded to accept any species of bribe.

Isa Dás was regarded as a fool by those who could not understand his motives, and by no one more so than by Fath Shah, the Sahib's Mahomedan bearer.

"It is only the blind man who tramples on the coin that lies in his path, as if it were not worth the picking up," said the bearer, who had always a sharp eye for his own interest. "Your salary is but ten rupees; if you were clever, you could make it fifty at least." *

* I had written thirty; but my more experienced native critic induced me to alter the number to fifty.

"There are some gains that prove losses in the end," said Isa Dás, "and some cleverness that turns out to be worse than folly. I do not care to follow the example of Ganesh, the seller of milk."

"What was done by Ganesh?" asked the bearer, who, as he sat smoking his hookah, was glad to listen to a story.

"Ganesh was the possessor of a rare cow, of which the milk was so rich and good that he was ordered to bring some twice every day to the palace for the special use of the Rajah's little daughter. Ganesh was well paid, yet was he not satisfied with his honest gains. He said to himself one morning, as he was carrying the milk in a brazen vessel on his head, 'I have two seers of milk on my head now; my cow gives less than she gave last week, and my profits will be less. But how easily by adding a little water I could make my two seers into three.'"

"He was the son of an owl not to have thought of that before," said Fath Shah. "Is there any seller of milk in all Hindustan so foolish as not to mix it with water?"

Isa Dás, without replying, went on with his story. "So Ganesh went on to a little stream that was flowing from a fountain near and filled up his brazen vessel with water; then, with a satisfied mind, carried his three seers' weight to the palace."

"Yours is not much of a story," said Fath Shah. "Such things happen everywhere, and on every day of the year."

"You have not yet heard the end," said the Christian. "After spending some hours in gossip, and making purchases in the bazaars with the money paid for the milk, Ganesh was returning to his home, when he was suddenly seized by the officers of justice on a charge of murder. The little princess and two of her attendants had been taken violently ill after partaking of the milk. The attendants suffered greatly; the poor little princess died."

"The wretched Ganesh was put to the torture, and in his agonies confessed that he had mixed the milk with water taken from a certain spring. The spring was examined, and a few feet higher up than the place where Ganesh had filled up his vessel was found the bloated body of a dead serpent, whose venom had mixed with and poisoned the water. The Rajah, full of anger and grief at the loss of a favourite child, put the wretched Ganesh to death."

"I do not see what your story has to do with taking dasturi, or fingering bribes," said the bearer.

"The connection is this," said the Christian. "All unrighteous gains have in them the venom of sin, and though for a while unseen, like the poison in the milk, for every ill-gotten pice we shall have one day to give an account. He whom we Christians own as our Lord once asked the solemn question, 'What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?' (Mark viii. 36-37). I value mine at far more than fifty rupees a month, nor would risk it for a crore (ten millions) of rupees."

"No fear of that," said the Christian; "it may indeed make me seem poor as regards rupees, but in reality I shall be no loser, for it is written, 'The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it'" (Proverbs x. 22).

CHAPTER X.

WHEN Isa Dás received his first month's salary from his master, he felt himself indeed a rich man. Every pice of it had been honestly earned. As he tied up the silver in his kamarband many thoughts regarding the use of money came into the mind of Isa Dás. He was truly a Christian, and, therefore, looked at the matter in a Christian point of view.

"I have now no wife or children to support, and this money is more than enough to supply my needs, unless I choose to eat richer food, wear finer clothes, and instead of using my own feet hire a tatoo (pony). Can I do nothing better with my money? My Saviour used to say 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' It is a blessing to receive a regular salary, but in spending it well, we may find a greater blessing still."

As Isa Dás went about his daily occupations, he still thought and thought, "What shall I do with my money? When I was a Hindu how much I spent on pilgrimages and melás, and feasting fat Brahmins! Going to the Hurdwan melá * cost me hundreds of rupees, and almost my life! If the Hindus make sacrifices for their religion, shall the follower of Christ do less for his? The Lord, when He left heaven to save us, 'though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor.' For us He gave up glory, happiness, yes, life itself, and shall we give up nothing for Him? O Lord! Let me count it not only my duty but my delight to lay my little offerings at Thy feet!"

Isa Dás resolved from that day, that every tenth rupee that he earned, he would regard not his own, but the Lord's; he would look upon his salary as nine rupees. This was his simple duty, he felt that he could not do less. But the Christian was not contented with this. He would not merely give that of which he would never feel the loss; he resolved to live simply and deny himself unnecessary indulgences, in order that he might have more to give away.

"But in what way shall I spend my offering?" thought Isa Dás. "I see plenty of misery around me, so much that my money seems but as a drop given to a thirsty camel. My master is engaged every day in distributing Government relief in very large sums. If I only knew of some one in need who is not likely to be found amongst the crowds of noisy beggars, if, above all, I could find some servant of Christ in want, how much better to bestow my small alms there, where every anna would tell."

Isa Dás then remembered that his missionary friend had asked him to search out a poor family of native Christians living in a village five or six miles from the town at which he was staying.

"These respectable people may be in great need," said Isa Dás to himself, "and yet held back from actual begging. I will at least go and see them, if I can get leave from my master to visit the village of Paniput, such, I remember, was the name of the place where dwells Ditu the Christian."

Isa Dás presented himself before Mr. Madden, and requested a few hours' leave of absence.

"You are quite welcome to spend the rest of the day as you please," said the Sahib. "I am myself going to take a holiday to enjoy a little shooting. I have heard that a wild elephant has been doing great mischief in the neighbourhood, so am about to take my men and beat the jungles. Would you not like to come with the party?"

Isa Dás would have liked it very much, for he had never before had a chance of seeing such sport, but he thought it better to take the present opportunity of finding out Ditu. He therefore declined the Sahib's offer, as it was not a command, but was a little hurt when he was about to start for the village to hear Fath Shah's jesting remark that the Christian was wise no doubt in choosing some safer kind of amusement than that of hunting a rogue elephant.

The feeling of annoyance soon passed away. As Isa Dás made his way over the fields, according to directions which he had received, his heart was even as a bird that on a rosebush singeth for joy.

"What am I, a poor sinner," thought he, "that God should show me such marvellous kindness! While so many want, He bestoweth on me enough and to spare! He crowneth me with loving-kindness and tender mercies! He hath shown me the path of life, and made me glad with the Gospel of mercy. Surely there is not one in this world who hath more cause to bless and praise the Lord for His goodness!"

Isa Dás reached the mud-built village before the hour of sunset. He knew that he should have bright moonshine to light him on his return, therefore there was no need to hasten back. His first object now was to find out in what part of the village dwelt the Christian family.

He saw a man by a well, driving his buffaloes round and round, while the water fell from the Persian wheel, to irrigate his little patch of ground. Approaching this man, Isa Dás was about to ask the question, "Where dwells the zemindar, Ditu?" when a sound which reached his ears made the question needless.

From a rude mud hut near, came the music of a bhajan (a kind of Hindu song), voices young and old were singing, "Jesus Christ has saved my soul?"

"I need no other guide!" thought Isa Dás. "In this poor place Christians are singing the Saviour's praises. Let me join them, they will not treat me as a stranger, for a holy tie unites all those who love the Lord Jesus."

Seating himself close to the open doorway, Isa Dás joined in the well-known bhajan. He was not long suffered to remain outside. Ditu—for the dwelling was his—made his brother in the faith come in, and Isa Dás was soon prostrating himself in worship with the only Christian family in that village.

When Ditu's simple prayer was ended, and all had risen from the posture of devotion, the zemindar asked a few questions of him who had so unexpectedly joined them. The mention of the missionary's name was enough for an introduction, had any been needed.

In a few minutes the two Christians were conversing together as freely and as pleasantly as if they had been friends of long standing. The conversation lasted while Ditu's young daughter, Tara, busied herself in preparing the evening meal.

"You have prayed with us, you will not refuse also to eat with us?" said the zemindar to Isa Dás.

Isa Dás gladly consented to remain to this the only meal of which this needy family partook through the long day, for the famine pressed heavily also on them. Isa Dás wished to see more of these Christians, for their humble home seemed to him like an oasis in the midst of a desert. Here was no separation between husband and wife, parents and children, there was neither praying apart nor eating apart. In that home the wife's subjection was that of love, and the maiden's pardah that of modesty.

The first glance of Isa Dás at the place showed him that the abode was one of poverty; the second glance that it was the abode of peace. There was unwonted cleanliness also; in this, the hut presented a great contrast to the house in which had dwelt the far wealthier oilman.

The meal was but of rice, served on plantain leaves, and hospitality to the stranger made the small portions of parents and children smaller still. Nothing was touched till Ditu had reverently thanked God for the food provided. Then, indeed, little time was lost, the younger children ate eagerly, and, all too soon, every grain of rice disappeared from the leaves.

Isa Dás left nothing on his green plate, but he took care to leave something beneath it. He smiled to himself as he hid his offering under his leaf to think what surprise and pleasure it would cause in the hut when they found that their plantain bore silver fruit!

CHAPTER XI.

ISA DÁS left the mud hut with very pleasant feelings. It was the first time that he had seen a native Christian family, for in his own town he had been the only convert. He had known Christianity in its power to sustain and comfort; he now saw how it can beautify and brighten even the humblest lot.

"However poor he may be, Ditu is a happy man," thought Isa Dás, "and he who weds the modest Tara will be a happy man too."

Isa Dás did not now at all regret having missed the sport of hunting for the wild elephant. He had heard a good deal about it at Ditu's house, for the exploits of this formidable creature formed a topic of conversation in every village in the district. It appeared that this elephant had been captured some time before, and partially tamed, but that he had apparently gone mad. He had snapped his tether, killed his mahout, and had then rushed off to the jungle. There he had since taken up his abode, a terror to the villagers around, for he not only devoured sugar-canes and trampled down crops, but he attacked every human being whom he met.

A reward had been offered by Government for the destruction of such a dangerous animal, but hitherto all attempts to kill him had failed. It was believed that several bullets were lodged in his body, but they appeared to have no effect unless that of rendering the beast more savage. It was a dangerous and difficult thing to follow him up to his haunts.

"I wonder where this fierce brute is hiding now?" thought Isa Dás. "He was last heard of three cos from this village, when he killed a poor fellow who was driving a bullock-waggon. Three cos is no great distance for an elephant to traverse. He would be an awkward customer to meet on a lonely road."

Even as the thought passed through the mind of Isa Dás, he heard a sound at some distance, as of some large animal breaking through the brushwood. The moon was at the full, and shining with a glorious radiance which made objects almost as distinctly visible as by the light of day. Looking in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, Isa Dás was startled to see the huge head and part of the back of a large elephant above the jungle which he was about to enter.

The animal was moving fast, and towards a spot not far from the place where Isa Dás was standing. The village was quite near, and the traveller's first impulse was to rush back to Ditu's house, which he had quitted not many minutes before. But he was afraid of being overtaken, and in a large mango tree close beside him Isa Dás saw a nearer place of refuge. The tree was too large for the strongest elephant to tear up by the roots. Isa Dás was an active man; he swung himself up into the tree, and in two minutes had mounted up high enough to be out of reach of the elephant's trunk.

The animal did not appear to notice Isa Dás, hidden as he was among the thick green foliage. It was a grand sight, from a place of such safety, to behold the monarch of the jungle bursting forth from his retreat!

The elephant had not seen Isa Dás, but it was clear that the animal had caught sight of some one else, for turning sharply to the right, and trumpeting loudly, he rushed towards the well which has been before mentioned as being at the entrance of the village. Isa Dás from his high position had a clear view of the well, with its silent wheel and brick parapet distinctly seen in the moonlight. A maiden had gone thither with earthen vessel on her head, to draw some water. It was she of whom the elephant had caught sight. The sudden noise startled the poor girl, she dropped her pitcher, and with a shriek of terror fled for her life. But Isa Dás saw that poor Tara—for it was she—had not a chance of escape, for the elephant gained on her at every stride!

"Shall I see her trampled to death before my eyes, without making an effort to save her!" exclaimed Isa Dás.

He shouted at the top of his voice, but the elephant did not turn. Isa Dás could do nothing for the girl, unless he could draw the wild beast's attention upon himself. But to descend from his tree would be like courting certain death. There were but few moments for thought; but in these few moments Isa Dás recalled the Saviour's words, "We ought to lay down our lives for the brethren." With another, yet louder, shout, Isa Dás dropped down from the branch on which he had mounted, and, taking up a stone, flung it with such force and good aim that it rebounded from the monster's tough hide!

The blow did not injure, but it was enough to divert the attention of the elephant to another victim. Leaving the girl, whom he had almost overtaken, the beast turned and rushed straight at Isa Dás, who had no time to mount again into his tree. He felt that he had saved the maiden's life at the cost of his own.

On came the monster at furious speed. Isa Dás's brain reeled; he was conscious of being struck to the earth; he saw the huge uplifted trunk waving above him,— the enormous head descending with deadly force! Then there was the loud report of a gun. The elephant had been struck in the vulnerable part just over the eye, and the bullet had entered the brain. With a scream of pain and rage, he rolled over on his side, and lay a helpless, quivering mass on the plain!

"Alas! I have come too late to save my poor servant!" cried a voice, which was that of Mr. Madden, who now came up with his gun. "I saw the monster strike the poor fellow to the ground!"

It was almost with the astonishment with which he would have beheld a corpse restored to life that Mr. Madden saw Isa Dás rise to his feet, bruised and shaken, indeed, but without a broken bone, or a scratch on his skin.

Isa Dás pointed to the spot where he had lain; two deep holes in the soil showed where the elephant's tusks had entered on either side of his body!

"I gave myself up for lost," said Isa Dás; "I had scarcely time to commend my soul unto God; but praised be He who can save to the uttermost both body and soul!"

CHAPTER XII.

THE first visit of Isa Dás to Ditu's home was by no means the last. The family were full of gratitude for the preservation of Tara, and he who had risked his life to save her was always sure of a welcome.

It was a great pleasure to Isa Dás to open his heart to a Christian countryman. He conversed freely with Ditu on the former events of his life, on past trials which he had, as it were, hitherto kept in a locked-up chamber. That chamber was indeed full of painful memories. I will give a brief record of the early days of Shiv Dás, the Hindu, that the reader may contrast them with those of Isa Dás, the Christian.

Shiv Dás was married when he was but seven years old. The child's wedding took place with all the ceremonies which Hindus deem suitable, and all the show in which they delight. The bridegroom's procession extended for nearly a quarter of a mile; loud was the sound of the tom-toms (drums); and enough of money was spent on feasting and fireworks to have fed the family for years. Many pice were given to beggars, many rupees were bestowed on the priests. All present declared that such a tamasha (show) had never before been seen in that town. The little bride-child was loaded with jewels, and the cost of her outfit left her father in debt to the day of his death!

And what followed the grand wedding? Even as the most brilliant fireworks leave but a few ashes, and, perhaps, an evil savour behind, so was it with the marriage of Shiv Dás. The boy and girl thus wedded never cared for each other. They had but been joined together with a gilded chain; the gilding wore off, the weight of iron remained behind.

Shiv Dás grew up a thoughtful youth with a cultivated mind; he delighted in study. Lachmi was a silly creature, with scarcely a thought beyond what finery she should wear, what jewels she should put on. But she had a sharp tongue and an evil temper. Her presence was to her husband as that of a swarm of wasps who buzz and who sting.

One little girl was born in the house when Shiv Dás was about twenty years old. The child was an object of love to her father, but was utterly neglected by Lachmi, who was grievously disappointed that she had not given birth to a boy.

About two years afterwards, Lachmi set her heart on going to the great Hurdwan melá, and bathing in the sacred Ganges.

Shiv Dás, unlike his more ignorant wife, had little faith in the holiness of the Ganges. He foresaw great trouble and expense, and possible danger, from attending the melá, Hurdwan being at a great distance from his home.

But Lachmi gave her husband no peace till she had wrung from him an unwilling consent. Shiv Dás had to leave his situation and spend all his savings to gratify the wish of his superstitious and pleasure-seeking wife. He took Lachmi and her little one, both adorned in jewels, in a covered bullock-gari to the great melá, at which many hundreds of thousands of Hindus assembled.

That time Shiv Dás could never remember without horror. At first he was dazzled by the show and the glitter, the banners, the music, and the processions, which seemed to be endless. Then Shiv Dás saw things from which his soul revolted, even though he had been brought up as a Hindu.

"Can even the Ganges wash away such sins as I see around me?" he said to himself.

Soon followed what was to Shiv Dás a grievous misfortune. He had gone a short distance to buy some sweets for his child, and a pair of gugurus (anklets, with bells) for her slender feet. What was the father's grief, on his return, to find his little one missing! Perhaps she had been lost in the crowd; perhaps murdered for the sake of her jewels!

In vain, during the rest of that miserable day and the whole of that following night, poor Shiv Dás searched for his lost one amidst that surging mass of human beings. In vain, he made offerings to idols. He never saw his darling again.

More misery was to follow. Lachmi, who felt the loss of her child far less than did her husband, pursued her design of bathing in the holy river. But the rush of thousands and thousands of pilgrims, all bent on the same object, was so terrific, that in spite of the efforts of the police, hundreds were pushed by their companions over a ravine, and miserably perished. Amongst this number was Lachmi; she had had her heart's desire, and it had cost her her life.

Shiv Dás, desolate and almost beggared, attempted to return to his home. But the frightful crowding together of multitudes of pilgrims had produced its natural effect. Disease broke out among the crowds; cholera spread. Shiv Dás, on his homeward way, was attacked by agonising pains, happily near a town, or he would have died, as so many do, uncared for and untended. Being in an hospital, and possessed of a strong constitution, Shiv struggled through the disease, and so was not numbered among the numerous victims to attendance at the great melá.

From that time Shiv Dás altogether lost all faith in the Hindu creed. "The religion which leads men to believe that bathing in a river can remove sin, and so leads to an appalling amount of disease, misery, and vice, cannot be from a good God, but from some wicked spirit, enemy of man!" he exclaimed.

A few years afterwards, as we have seen, Shiv Dás, the Hindu, became Isa Dás, the Christian.

After telling the story of his sorrows one evening to his friend Ditu, after a silent pause the convert remarked, "I had suffered so much from my first marriage that I resolved never to contract a second; and after my baptism the seeming impossibility of finding a Christian partner confirmed me in my resolution. But oh! my brother, since I have entered your home, my resolution has disappeared like dew under the rays of the sun; and I now ask from you the only blessing needed to complete my earthly happiness."

The second marriage of the convert was as unlike the first as anything could possibly be. Without any pomp or show, in a little mission church, Isa Dás was united to the zemindar's daughter. The bride's dower was her purity and piety, her ornaments "a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price" (1 Pet. iii. 4). No treasures were spent at the wedding; the bride herself was a treasure, which year by year her husband found increasing in worth. Solomon's description of a good wife might have been the description of Tara,—"Her price is far above rubies; the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness" (Prov. xxxi.).

So Isa Dás and Tara walked on their heavenly course together, happy in mutual trust and love, happy to see their little ones growing up around them. And they had deeper sources of joy even than these. They were happy because they both had received from the Saviour the pardon of sins; because they were fellow-heirs of His glorious kingdom, where all the children of God—from the north and the south, the east and the west—shall meet together and rejoice together in bliss that never shall end.

NOTE ON HURDWAN FAIR.

To show that the above description of the great Hindu melá is far from being coloured, it is only needful to give a few extracts from a description of the last one which appeared in a Calcutta paper, 24th April, 1879:—

"The multitude which came in at last baffled all calculation. It is now believed that the melá must have numbered between 750,000 and 1,000,000 of souls . . . Bathing at Hurdwan, during such a melá, may be said never to cease. All day on the 11th the police were obliged to be present up to eleven o'clock P.M. They were on the ground again at two o'clock A.M. on the 12th, and from that time till ten o'clock at night they were obliged to remain at their posts. It is said that several of the brave men who worked so hard at the melá have died . . ."

   "These mustered over 10,000 strong. During their passage over the bridge an accident, which was accompanied with serious consequences to some of themselves, occurred. Unable to restrain their enthusiasm, a large number, from 200 to 300 of them, leaped from the bridge into the main current of the canal. Most of those who could swim were taken up at the nearest bridge; but it is feared that a considerable number sank before they could reach it . . .

   "Just before this took place, another still more serious accident occurred at one of the barriers. This outer barrier stood at the end of a masonry bridge that spans a deep ravine . . . The ravine below the bridge is dry, and about thirty feet in depth . . . The crowd gathered in overwhelming numbers behind this outer barrier, and notwithstanding the efforts of the police to keep them back, kept surging to and fro, till at last the front ranks were pressed outwards through the wooden fence, and some 300 persons were driven headlong into the ravine . . .

   "But the worst was yet to come. The evening of the 12th, though it witnessed a general exodus from Hurdwan of many who had bathed in the morning, yet witnessed among those who remained a fresh outbreak of cholera . . . Many died during the night . . . The disease did not stop there, and I fear it is still following the retiring pilgrims into all parts of the country."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The mirror and the bracelet

THE MIRROR

AND

THE BRACELET