CHAPTER VIII.

AT last, after a pause of silence, Bhola Náth thus spake:—"O mother and

son! Two things are on my mind; of two things I have to tell you; one

will cause you joy, the other will cause you grief. Of which shall I

speak first?"

Then replied Matrá, "Father, this is a time of rejoicing, because we

behold you again. Let your words, then, be of joy."

"Thou knowest, my son, that the debt which has pressed on thee has

lain also as a weight on my heart. When, on leaving the service, I

found myself entitled to a pension, I reasoned thus in my mind—'I am

still a strong man; I can earn my living; what need is there to me of

a pension? If I could change it for a sum large enough to pay off our

debt at once, then would we be as free men, the mortgage would be off

our land, and no money-lender could devour its produce year by year."

Sibbi and Matrá listened with intense interest.

"After turning over this matter much in my mind, I resolved to ask the

advice of my colonel, and find from him if such a thing could be. The

Colonel Bahadar * had shown me much favour since I had had the good

fortune to save him from an enemy's sword. I went to his quarters, and

made my salám, and told him of all our trouble."

* A title of respect.

"What said the Sahib Bahadar?" asked Matrá.

"He muttered to himself, 'Debt, debt; it is always the same story. Debt

is the cancer that eats into the very life of this people.' Then said

the sahib to me, 'How much does your family owe?'

"I replied, 'O my lord! The debt altogether is 500 rupees. It has been

paid over and over again, but we could never clear off all at once; and

where interest is fifty per cent.—'

"'Fifty per cent.!' exclaimed the sahib, looking more angry than I had

ever seen him look before. 'This India is full of rogues, and their

senseless victims, the zamindars!'

"So he strode several times up and down the room, as is the colonel's

way when he is thinking. Then, after a while, he stopped straight

before me.

"'Bhola Náth,' said he, 'you are a brave fellow and an honest man, and

have done me a great service. I am loth that you should be all your

life like a man with a halter round his neck. I will myself pay off

your debt at once, but upon one condition.'"

Sibbi uttered a cry of delight, and Matrá eagerly said, "What was that

one condition?" He feared that some very difficult thing, some lifelong

task would be named.

"The one condition was, that neither I nor my son should ever go to a

money-lender again."

"I would as lief go into the den of a hungry tiger!" exclaimed Matrá

with vehemence. "Never, never again will I plunge into the bog of debt!"

The news just given by Bhola Náth caused great delight to his hearers.

Matrá, remembered the words of Karim, which had seemed to him at the

time like a mocking of his hopeless trouble—"How would you feel if you

knew that your debt would be cleared off at once, and you be restored

to your father, with peace and plenty before you?"

"And now perhaps it is better that I should tell you at once of what

you will deem my evil tidings," said Bhola Náth.

"There can be no evil tidings for us now!" exclaimed the rejoicing

Matrá.

"You are just reunited to a long-lost father. Would it be no sorrow to

you to be separated from him again, and perhaps for ever?"

"Nothing shall separate us!" exclaimed Matrá.

"Nothing—but death," murmured old Sibbi.

"What if all the world should despise me, and abuse me, and cast me

off?"

"Father! I would stand by you against all the world!" exclaimed the

young zamindar.

"Then hear the truth at once," said Bhola Náth. "After three years

of thinking, reading, praying, I have resolved to be baptised as a

Christian!"

He looked as a brave man might do tied to a gun, when the match is

brought to blow him to pieces. But there was not the loud explosion of

grief and anger which he expected. Matrá looked on his father in mute

surprise.

Sibbi muttered to herself, "Then I can keep my vow."

"What vow? What do you mean?" asked her son.

"When I prayed to the Christian's God to bring you back, I vowed

that if He heard me, I would—" she dropped her voice to a faint

whisper—"that I would throw our idol into the river!"

"Well done, brave mother!" exclaimed Bhola Náth, with an unutterable

sense of relief, for he had dreaded more than anything else the grief

and opposition of his parent. "And you, my son," he continued, turning

towards Matrá, "will you despise me for changing a false religion for

the only true one?"

"Father," replied the young zamindar, "I as yet know nothing of the

Christian religion but a little which I have heard from a man at the

station, who was a Mahomedan once. But you will teach me more. If I

once saw my way to getting clear of the debt of sin as we are getting

clear of the mortgage, let the Brahmins say what they may, I will never

again worship any god but the God who has redeemed me from evil."

WE will not follow closely the events of the following days, weeks, and

months. Bhola Náth sought out the native pastor of Banda, and had many

interviews with him, as well as with his son's Christian friend, Karim.

It was principally from the latter that Matrá received instruction, and

from reading the New Testament with his father, when the work was done.

When it became known in the village that the sepoy had come back

with new strange notions, that he no longer did pujá to the gods,

nor feasted Brahmins, nor shouted "Rám! Rám!" bitter opposition was

raised against him. Matrá and Sibbi came in for their full share of

persecution. Their neighbours would not eat nor barter with them; the

family were driven from the well; they were even pelted and beaten.

But blows and insults were not arguments, and the more Matrá

contrasted the spirit of Hinduism with that of Christianity, the more

he felt convinced that Karim and his father had found the true way

of salvation. After the lapse of some months, the whole family—aged

grandmother, brave father, and stalwart son—were baptised in a tank.

Crowds of Hindus assembled to witness the baptism; some mocked, some

abused the new converts, but in the hearts of many arose the thought,

"Perhaps these honest Hindus have some good reason for changing their

religion. Perhaps there is some truth in the Bible."

The family of Matrá were not long to be the only Christians in their

village. As one torch lights another, so by their means gradually

spread the knowledge of the Gospel.

Sibbi did not long survive her baptism. Receiving the Gospel simply,

as a little child might do, she dropped peacefully asleep as her Missy

Baba had done, feeling that she had a Heavenly Father, and that she was

going to Him. The aged woman's body was not burned, but buried; it was

laid like a seed in the ground, to rise again, even as the seed which

the husbandman lays in the soil.

Matrá said, what he had never said when standing by a heathen's funeral

pile, "We shall see her again in glory. Thanks to Him who died for

sinners, we shall meet once more, never to be parted, in the presence

of the God who is Love!"

THE VILLAGE AND THE CITY.

[Illustration]

ACHHRUMAL, the bunniah, came from Kashi (Benares) to visit his kinsman,

Nand Lál, who dwelt in a little village about twenty kos distant. The

home of Nand Lál was close by a jungle, and in a lonely part of the

country. Achhru had never visited the place before, and, with some

contempt, contrasted the mud-built village with the tall buildings, the

grand pagodas, the wide "ghats" (bathing-places) of his own large and

beautiful city.

On the first morning after Achhru's arrival, Nand Lál asked him how he

had slept during the night.

"How could I sleep, O brother!" cried Achhru. "The horrid noises which

I heard so distracted me that I could scarcely close my eyes!"

"What noises?" inquired his cousin.

"First there was such a croaking of frogs from yon pond, that one might

have thought that all the frogs in Bengal had come on pilgrimage to

a sacred tank, and were crying 'Rám! Rám!' together. Then, as I was

beginning to drop asleep, wild wailing yells came from the jungle, as

if the place were haunted by demons!"

"Only the jackals," observed Nand Lál; "we so often hear the noise that

we hardly heed it."

"That was not all," continued his cousin. "As I lay awake, listening to

the yells of the jackals, I heard another horrible sound, which made my

heart almost stand still. It was between a howl and a laugh!"

"A hyena has been prowling about," said Nand Lál. "Three kids were

taken by it last week."

"When that horrible sound ceased," cried Achhru, "and the jackals had

stopped their yelling, I was more troubled than ever, for my ear caught

a sound which was, I am sure, the hissing of a serpent."

"There are many hereabouts," observed Nand Lál; "our people are often

bitten by snakes when they go out in the jungle."

"I shall certainly not stay long in this dreadful place," thought the

timid-hearted Achhru. And he suddenly remembered that there was to be

a festival in honour of the goddess Lachmi, in Kashi, which he must

certainly attend. He would therefore go back on that very day to the

city.

Poor Nand Lál looked mortified and disappointed. "Why, brother!" he

cried. "Thou hast had no time to take rest. Thou hast scarcely partaken

of food in my house. After an absence of years, I had looked for a long

visit, I had hoped that we should have passed weeks together!"

"We shall pass weeks, and months, too, if you will," cried Achhru, "but

not in this noisy village. Come back with me to Kashi. You have never

yet seen the holy city, or visited its thousands of shrines. Come and

bathe in the sacred Ganges, and delight thy soul with such sights as

have never met thine eyes before."

Nand Lál did not need much pressing, for he had often felt curiosity to

visit Kashi, and bathe in the Ganges. His preparations were few, and

speedily made. Nand Lál fastened up his cooking vessels in a little

bundle, wrapped his blanket about him, put some "annas" into his

hamarband, and told his wife to expect him back in a fortnight. Then he

departed with his cousin.

Before the fortnight was over, however, Nand Lál found his way back

to his secluded village beside the jungle. His wife welcomed him with

gladness, for he was a good and gentle husband, and had never been

known to beat her. Quickly she prepared the evening meal, and brought

the hookah to refresh the weary traveller.

Neighbours, impelled by curiosity, came to visit Nand Lál; his wife

asked him why he had returned before the appointed time.

"I could not stand the noises," replied Nand Lál, with a smile; "like

my cousin Achhru, I did not like the croaking of frogs, the yelling of

jackals, the howling of hyenas, the hissing of snakes."

"Why, surely Kashi is not like our jungle!" cried one of his friends.

"Not like our jungle, but a thousand times worse!" exclaimed Nand Lál.

"Explain your meaning," said his friend.

"O Nattu! The sounds of a large city are worse than any made by wild

beasts," replied Nand Lál. "I have heard murmurs and complaining, the

groanings of the poor, the grumbles of the rich that they are not

richer. The voices of discontent are to me as the croaking of myriads

of frogs."

"And your jackals, what are they?" asked Nattu, who began to see the

meaning of his companion.

"I witnessed quarrelling and heard disputes. There were sellers and

buyers in the bazaars abusing each other for a matter of a few pice,

or even cowries, reviling each other's mothers, wives, and daughters,

pouring out curses and threats; and I said to myself, 'The city has its

jackals and hyenas as well as the jungle, to yell over their carrion

prey.'"

"And your hissing serpents?" asked his friend. "Did you find them too

in the city?"

"In the city—here—everywhere—for is there a spot in all Hindostan where

the liar is not to be found? Speak not our children lies almost as

soon as they can utter the name of father? But I had deemed that in a

holy city I might find some who would speak the truth. Alas! The very

air seemed filled with the hissing of falsehood. The bunniah lies, the

beggar lies, the courtier lies, and the priest at the shrine tells the

greatest lies of all. My heart grew sad, and I said to myself, 'If

I could but hear of one man who keeps his lips pure from murmuring,

abuse, and lying, I would go a hundred kos to prostrate myself before

him, and put his foot on my head."

"Was there ever such a man?" said Nattu.

"Such was my thought," continued Nand Lál. "When passing through the

bazaar one day I saw a crowd gathered together, and went up to the

place in hope of seeing some 'tamasha' (show). In the midst of that

crowd stood an earnest-looking man, with a book in his hand, who was

addressing the people. I stood with the rest to listen, and I heard the

preacher tell of One who 'did no sin, neither was guile found in His

mouth, who when He was reviled, reviled not again, when He suffered,

He threatened not' (1 Pet. ii. 22, 23). I exclaimed to myself, 'Here

must have been a perfect man He who thus governed His lips, He who was

free from all guile, must have been a saint indeed! Such a one would I

choose for my Goru!'"

"But perhaps the preacher was himself telling lies when he described

such a Goru," observed one of the peasants.

"He spoke as one who believes what he teaches," was the reply of

Nand Lál, "and I had occasion to see that, in one thing at least,

he followed the example of his Master. Some of the crowd abused the

preacher; some even pelted him with dust; but he spake not an angry

word. Then I said to myself, 'As is Goru, so is disciple.' Since he is

like the Holy One whom he preaches, in having on his tongue the law of

kindness, so also he must surely be like Him in having lips free from

guile."

"Perhaps the man was a 'Karáni'" (Christian), observed Nattu.

"He certainly is a follower of Him whom he called the Lord Jesus

Christ," said Nand Lál. "He spake so much of his Master's purity,

goodness, and gentleness, that my heart was melted within me. I desired

to hear some of the gracious words which, as the preacher said, came

from the Holy One's lips. I had my desire gratified. The man with

the book, looking earnestly round at the crowd, repeated to them the

invitation given, as he said, by his Master,—'Come to me, all ye

that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest' (Matt. xi.

28). O brothers! These words were to me as the note of the 'bul-bul'

(nightingale) after the howling and cries and wild yells of the jungle!

Discord seemed changed to music, tumult to peace. I listened as if I

could listen for ever!"

"I would that I too had heard the preacher," said Nattu.

"Close to him was a lad selling books," continued Nand Lál. "After the

preacher had finished his discourse, he advised the hearers to buy the

Holy Gospels, which would tell them about the Heavenly Goru. The books

cost but an 'anna' each [less than 1 ½ d.]. Even I was able to buy one,

and I have it here in my bosom."

"Thou art something of a scholar, Nattu; thou wilt read it to us after

the day's work is done," said one of his companions.

And so the first ray of light fell on the little mud-built village

beside the jungle. The Gospel was read and re-read, till the pages

of the little book would hardly hold together. A whole Testament was

afterwards with some difficulty procured, through a peasant going

to Kashi. What had been mocked at in the city was listened to with

gladness by simple zamindars. And one of the first effects of receiving

the Gospel of salvation was to be noticed in the conversation of those

who had learned something of Him who had no guile in His mouth. Still

round the village were the noises which had so disturbed Achhru Mal:

the frogs croaked from the pond, the jackals yelled in the jungle, the

serpents hissed in the long rank grass; but the tongues of peasants,

and even the lips of their children, now spake the truth, and had

learned, as it were, a new song, words of prayer and praise to God,

words of kindness and love to man.

[Illustration]

THE STRAIT GATE.

[Illustration]

MANY hundred years ago, a king built a palace which was a miracle of

beauty. The treasures stored up within were greater than man could

count. The interior of the building was inlaid with jewels, and beside

it the glories of the Taj Mahal would grow pale. The king did not wish

so to shroud himself in his grandeur that his subjects should not have

free access to him. He gave command that a door of his palace should

be left constantly open, so that all, whether rich or poor, might be

able to enter his presence. There was no bell placed on that door, no

bar placed across, and no guard of sepoys denied admittance: a single

porter waited within. But the door was exceedingly small, its height

was as that of a child but seven years old.

But to that door came a noble of high rank, who proudly traced back his

lineage to kings of old. He came mounted on an elephant in a howdah of

carved sandal-wood, and the gilded trappings of the elephant glittered

in the sunshine.

[Illustration: "I will not descend from my elephant, and put myself on

a level with the low and the mean!" cried the noble.]

"How shall I enter the king's palace?" he said to one of his

attendants. From his lofty height he had not even noticed the little

door.

Then answered the porter from within, "This is the way, O descendant of

monarchs! Your honour must descend from your howdah, and even, as doth

the son of the humblest peasant, enter in by this door."

"I will not descend from my elephant, and put myself on a level with

the low and the mean!" cried the noble. "There should be a loftier,

more worthy door for those in whose veins runs the blood of princes!"

So, full of the pride of rank, he departed, never to enter the palace,

or behold the glories within.

Then came a man bearing a large bundle of valuable goods, through which

he hoped to become the most wealthy man in the city. He was so fearful

of losing his treasure that he would entrust it to no one, lest some

precious thing should be lost. But he desired to see the palace, and

prostrate himself before the king.

Then said the porter within, "Lay down your burden, or give it to

others, and enter in by this door."

The rich merchant looked at the door, then at the bundle, which he

prized as much as his life. He shook his head, and, proud of his

riches, turned away. He was never to enter the palace, or behold the

glories within.

Then came a learned pundit, reading in a book as he walked along.

He too intended to enter the presence of the king, and he believed

himself, by reason of his learning, to be entitled to a high place at

court. He was so buried in his book that when he reached the little

door, he did not observe it, nor hear the invitation of the porter

within.

Full of the pride of talent, he passed on, never to enter the palace,

or to behold the glories within.

Then came a religious devotee, a very tall man, wrapped in a blanket.

Many had been his austerities, terrible the penances which he had

performed. He was believed to be a great saint; the people sought his

blessing and dreaded his curse. He looked upon himself as the chosen of

Heaven. The tall devotee walked up to the door and then paused. Said

he, "How can I possibly pass through so low an entrance as this?"

"Thou who carriest thy head so high must stoop low," cried the porter

within.

"What! I—deeply read in the mysteries of religion, I whose life is

spent in holy meditation, bow down my head so low as to be of but the

stature of a child! Let the wide doors of ivory be thrown open for me,

or I care not to cross the threshold."

So, full of the pride of self-righteousness, the devotee passed on. He

was never to enter the palace, or behold the glories within.

Then came a youth mounted on a white horse, and wearing a mantle stiff

with gold. When he rode up to the door, he somewhat marvelled to see

it so low, but he dismounted and approached it. The youth was as tall

as the devotee, and though he stooped low and lower, he but struck his

head in the attempt to pass through.

"The rich mantle hampers your movements," said the porter inside.

It had indeed caught on a nail, and was so thoroughly entangled that no

efforts of the youth could release it.

He now hesitated, but only for a moment. Undoing the clasp which

fastened the mantle round his neck, he left it behind, then falling on

his knees, and so humbling himself to the stature of a child, in the

attitude of a suppliant the youth entered the palace, and beheld the

glories within.

The palace, O reader! is the religion taught by the Lord Jesus Christ.

To the true believers who enter in, it presents treasures of grace, of

joy, of glory, such as no pen can write, or tongue can speak, or mind

conceive.

What are some of its treasures?

Free forgiveness of every sin, full acceptance with God, purity of

life, gladness of heart, comfort in this world, and eternal joy

hereafter.

But he who would enter must lay aside "pride," whether of birth,

wealth, or talent. Above all, he must lay aside the pride of

self-righteousness. The first step towards heaven is the knowledge of

sinfulness. We must go down on our knees and pray,—

"God be merciful to me a sinner! Create in me a pure heart, O God! and

renew a right spirit within me!"

The Christian religion exalts God and humbles man. The Mahomedan trusts

to enter paradise by the favour of his Prophet, and his own good works.

He says, "Have I not observed the fasts, and prayed five times a day?"

The Hindu religion fosters pride in the Brahmin, and makes the favour

of the gods an accident of birth. In his view, how can the Sudra or the

Chumar enter like him the state of absorption which he tries to regard

as bliss?

The Christian exalts God, for it shows Him to be perfectly holy,

merciful, and just. And while God is exalted, the pride of man is

humbled.

Is he puffed up because of lofty birth? Thus saith the Scriptures,

"Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return" (Gen. iii. 19).

Is he proud of his wealth? "We brought nothing into the world, and

certainly we shall carry nothing out" (1 Tim. vi. 7).

Is he vain of his learning? "The wisdom of man is foolishness with God"

(1 Cor. iii. 19).

Is he proud of his holiness and his good works? "The heart is deceitful

above all things, and desperately wicked" (Jer. xvii. 9). "By the works

of the law shall no man living be justified" (Gal. ii. 16).

If a man be saved from the just punishment of his sin, it is because

our Substitute, Christ, hath borne that punishment on the cross. If a

man be accounted righteous, it is because the Holy One hath clothed him

in the robe of His own merits. If a man be admitted into heaven, it is

because the Son of God hath purchased admittance for him by shedding

His own precious blood. If a man be called to wear a crown of glory, it

is because his Saviour wore a crown of thorns. Everything that is good

in a Christian comes from the gift of God's Holy Spirit; his only plea

for mercy is the spotless sacrifice—Christ; his only hope of acceptance

with a holy God is that the Saviour died for sinners!

Therefore, O proud man! descend from thy height, and humble thyself in

the dust. It is on thy knees, stooping to be as a little child, that

thou mayst enter the spiritual palace, and behold the glories within.

"Pride goeth before destruction, and a lofty spirit before a fall."

"Before destruction the heart of man is haughty, and before honour is

humility" (Prov. xviii. 12).

[Illustration]

AN HOUR OF PERIL.

[Illustration]

FAZL DE, a merchant, was travelling towards the city of Delhi with

camels and asses laden with various goods. After the day's stage was

over, his attendants pitched his tent under a clump of mango trees,

and unlading his beasts of burden, suffered them to graze. The place

was not far from a village. The hour was sunset. Many of the peasants

returning from field-work drew near; to them the merchant spoke with

kindness. Then, opening one of his bales, Fazl De disposed amongst

them, at cheap rates, of such of his goods as suited the needs of

peasants.

More and more people now gathered around, pleased both with the

traveller's goods and with his gracious speech. After a while, when

business was over, seated outside his tent with a circle of listeners

around him, the merchant thus addressed them:—

"I bring you, O my friends! something better than anything contained in

my bales; and that, which is most valuable, you may have without money

and without price. That I may better explain to you my meaning, I will

tell you of an adventure which happened to myself some three years ago."

The crowd listened in perfect silence.

"I had business that took me from Jhelum to Pind Dadar Khán. I had no

goods with me then, but I travelled alone and on horseback. I came to a

village, where I stayed for more than an hour. I expressed my intention

of going on as soon as my horse should have rested a little, for my

business required urgent haste.

"Then said the villagers, 'The road is not safe for your honour. Rain

has been falling for three days, and the way is now over an almost

impassable bog.'

"I was not a man to be easily daunted, and I replied, 'I know that many

persons travel by this road.'

"'It is perfectly safe in dry weather,' said the peasants; 'but now,

even with a guide, it is not safe to cross the morass.'

"I thought this a cunning attempt to make me stop longer at the serai

(inn). I determined to press on. I, however, took the precaution of

engaging a guide. Then again I mounted my horse and rode on.

"I proceeded on my way, deep in thought, for many things pressed on

my mind at that time. I was a seeker after truth. I had heard much

of the Gospel, and I admired greatly the purity of its teaching. But

one doctrine in it offended the pride of my heart—the doctrine that

man cannot be saved by any good works, by alms-giving, fasting, or

pilgrimages; that he can only be saved by faith in Jesus Christ, a

crucified Saviour. I was a man bearing a good character, and I thought

that by strenuous efforts I could certainly reach heaven at last.

Turning these things over in my mind, I rode to the edge of the bog,

and then looked round for my guide. The cowardly fellow had failed me;

he was nowhere to be seen.

"'It matters not,' I said to myself, 'my horse is a good one, and

neither he nor his rider mind floundering through a little soft mud. I

shall soon reach firm ground on the farther side.'

"Now mark me, my friends," continued the merchant, "I have always

looked on that day's adventure as a kind of parable of my own state. I

trusted my body's safety to my good horse, just as I trusted my soul's

safety to my good works, and in both cases I played the part of a

fool. I rode on some way with difficulty indeed, but no great danger.

At last, I found that at every step my horse's feet sank up to the

fetlocks, to go even a few yards cost him such exertion that he was

soon as thoroughly wet as if he had been hunting all day. But I was

too proud to go back. I spurred and whipped my poor horse, and tried

to encourage him by my voice. 'I will soon reach the farther side,'

thought I; 'I see good firm ground before me.'

"But that good firm ground I was never to reach by any efforts of my

horse, though desperate were the efforts which he made. I felt him

sinking deeper and deeper under me, till he could no longer get on; his

ears were turned back with terror, he sank to his knees, then down,

down to the girths of the saddle!

"'His weight and mine are sinking him!' thought I. 'My only chance is

to abandon the poor brute to his fate. I am comparatively light, and

am not clogged with mud as he is. By going with springing step, I may

manage to reach firm ground.'

"But, O my friends! I felt mine to be but a desperate chance. I would

have given all that I possessed to have been fairly out of that

terrible bog.

"What gave me some hope, however, was to see a mounted camel before me

at a place where the bog evidently ended, for the ground was a little

raised, and there were some bushes upon it. I called out loudly to the

man on the camel, and he halloed back to me. I knew, however, that no

man would ride a heavy camel into the bog. The man would only be a

witness of my terrible end.

"For I felt that the end was at hand. I was no more able to reach

safety without my horse, than I had been when in the saddle. In vain I

tried to lift my legs, it seemed as if some cruel enemy from beneath

were pulling me down! Then I thought of my sins as I had never thought

before. Then I dreaded to meet an angry God. Then the terrors of

judgment rose up before me. My good works were as the poor perishing

brute behind me. I longed, oh! How I longed for a Saviour then!

"In my perplexity, floundering and struggling, I had not marked the

movements of the man in front. Through the merciful providence of God,

the camel had been laden with tent ropes and poles; the former the man

was, as rapidly as he could, unwinding, and preparing to throw out to

me. At last, I perceived his aim; but my impatience grew to agony when

I saw the difficulty which my kind friend experienced in making the

rope reach me. He threw it again and again, but had to draw it back, it

was quite beyond reach of my hand.

"I had by this time sunk up to my waist! I saw the man look anxiously

around, as if seeking for other means of saving me; at last, he seized

on a long tent-pole. The man then, holding with one hand the end of the

rope, of which he had fastened the other end to the camel, placed the

pole on the bog before him. I was now in the mud up to my arm-pits. Ten

more minutes and I knew that I must be suffocated and perish. I saw

the man step cautiously on the tent-pole, but could it, even for a few

minutes, support his weight? My senses became confused with terror, I

hardly knew what was passing before my eyes till I heard a loud voice

cry, 'Grasp it, and hold fast!'

"Then I saw the rope which my preserver, stepping along the slippery

half-sinking pole, had risked his life to throw, I saw it just within

reach of my hand! I grasped it, poor perishing wretch that I was, how

tightly I grasped it! It was my one hope for life. It was hard to hold

on—the strain of my weight, all mud-clogged as I was, was so great!

Still I never for an instant let go, till the camel, impelled by his

master, drew me out of the bog!"

"That moment was doubtless the happiest of your honour's life, when

you stood again on firm ground," observed one of the peasants, who had

listened with interest to the story.

"No, I had a happier moment still," observed the merchant, "and that

was when I found firm ground for my soul to rest on. I told you that

my adventure is to me as a parable, now I will unfold to you the

lesson which it taught me. The bog is like the everlasting punishment

inflicted by a just God for sin. I thought that, mounted, as it were,

on my good works, I had nothing to fear from it. I nearly lost my soul

through my error. The rope thrown to me is the emblem of salvation

freely offered to all who will 'grasp it and hold fast.'"

"Who throws the rope?" asked one of the hearers.

"The Lord Jesus Christ," was the reply; "He who watched from heaven

the vain struggles of poor sinners, even as my preserver mine from the

farther side of the swamp. Christ descended from heaven to earth and

assumed the form and nature of man that He might deliver sinners from

the endless pangs of hell. He gave His life a ransom for many, and by

His perfect obedience, even unto death, He saved believers from the

just punishment of their disobedience to the law of a holy God."

These were new words to the peasants, who wondered at the, to them,

strange doctrine taught by the merchant.

"Notice, my friends, that I had nothing to do with procuring the rope,

nothing to do with throwing the rope; all that I could do was to grasp

it and hold it fast. And so when I found that without any desert of my

own, free salvation was offered to me by another, I accepted that free

offer of mercy, I grasped and held fast the blessed hope of eternal

life given to us in the Saviour Jesus Christ. I believed that Christ

could save me, I believed that He was willing to save me. I was, all

clogged with the mire of sin, helpless and perishing, dragged, as it

were, by the cord of love to the firm ground of salvation. And there

I stand now, rejoicing in hope of eternal glory, washed from my sins,

cleansed, and made an heir of the kingdom of heaven. It is that you may

reach this safe ground, it is that you too may receive this blessing,

that we Christians now preach the Gospel amongst you. Being saved

ourselves, we are not willing that others should perish. The rope is

held out to all; it only needs faith in Christ to receive it. To you I

now call in the words of my kind preserver—Grasp it, and hold it fast!"

[Illustration]

THE GENEROUS BENEFACTOR.

[Illustration]

THE beautiful young Gangi went to gather flowers for the shrine of

the goddess Durga. Gangi was not a widow, and yet she dressed in the

garb of a widow. There were no bracelets on her arms, no ornament on

her slender ankles. Her unbraided hair fell on her shoulders, and her

form drooped like a creeper that is torn from the stem around which

it had twined. Gangi's young husband had become a Christian; he had

broken caste, and henceforth was to all whom he loved as one dead and

forgotten, or remembered only to be cursed.

But Gangi could neither curse nor forget, though she feared that her

husband had done some very horrible thing. She could hardly believe

that her kind, gentle Charu Dás was wicked, but she knew that she

herself was wretched. Gangi dared not speak of Charu Dás, though he

was constantly in her thoughts. Oh! Could she but win him back by

austerities! Gladly would she have wasted away her flesh by fasting, or

have walked, with bare and bleeding feet, all the way to Kashi. Gangi

was possessed with the same spirit of loving devotion which, in former

days, made the Satí burn herself on the funeral pyre of her husband.

Gangi was bending over a tank to gather some beautiful lotus blossoms,

when she started, as if she had seen a snake in the water below. It was

the reflection of some one standing behind her, one whom she knew well,

but from whom she had deemed herself parted for ever. With a faint cry,

Gangi started from her stooping position, and fled a few steps; then

she paused, for a familiar voice entreated her to stop, a voice which

she had never yet disobeyed.

"I am an outcast from all my family; dost thou desert me also, O Gangi!

Light of my soul?" said the husband of the youthful Hindu.

Gangi stood trembling, and the tears fell fast from her eyes.

"I am not changed towards thee, O Gangi! Is not my form the same, my

voice the same, the love in my heart the same? Yea, greater than ever!

We were so happy together!"

"And cannot we be happy again?" exclaimed Gangi suddenly, as a hope

flashed across her soul. "The Brahmins may be won * to receive you back

by large offerings, and great penances. I will give everything that I

possess; oh! would that I had more to give! Your father, brothers, will

strip themselves of their property—"

* This receiving back is not so difficult a matter to accomplish as

it was formerly. As more converts from Hinduism are drawn into the

Christian fold, the Brahmins are opening their eyes to the fact that

it is more for their own interests to tempt them back, than to bar and

bolt the door against them.

"Never, never will I cease to be a Christian!" said Charu Dás firmly.

The sudden blaze of hope in the heart of Gangi as suddenly died out,

like the fire which consumes a light muslin veil. With bitterness, she

said, "I do not know what is meant by being a Christian, but I have

heard that my lord has broken caste, thrown away his janeo, no more

does pujá to our gods, and eats with those of low caste, or Christians,

who have no caste at all."

"Didst thou also hear why I broke caste?" asked her husband.

"I have not heard much, save that my lord was beguiled—led astray by

the juggling arts * of the wicked Christians," said Gangi sadly.

* The natives are ready to imagine that missionaries practise some kind

of enchantment. At Batála it has been said that the Rev. F. B— puts his

hand on the head of a Hindu, in consequence of which charm the man on

returning towards the city, "beholds it in flames," and dares not go on!

"Hear, then, my story, beloved one, and judge for thyself whether in

breaking caste I committed a sin so great as to deserve the hatred of

my family and wife."

Gangi listened, leaning against the trunk of a tree, at a little

distance from her husband.

"I went to Agra, as thou knowest, and was detained there for a long

time on business. Whilst there, O Gangi! I found myself in a terrible

position. Thy husband was a criminal, and under sentence of death."

Gangi started in horror. "Under sentence of death!" she exclaimed.

"Then he was falsely accused, cruelly condemned."

"Not falsely accused,—but justly condemned," replied Charu Dás. "I

could plead nothing in my own defence; I knew myself to have deserved

any punishment that might be inflicted."

"But how is my lord free now?" asked Gangi, drawing a step nearer in

her eagerness to hear the reply.

"I had a Friend, not a Brahmin, not one of my race, but One of high

rank and the most exalted character," replied Charu Dás. "This man

loved me with a love as great, yea, even greater than mine for thee, O

wife of my youth! When all other hope failed me, He gave the greatest

proof of love that a friend could give—He offered to die in my stead!"

Gangi clasped her hands and drew nearer still, for her whole soul was

absorbed in listening.

"And my Friend 'did die,'" continued Charu Dás, dropping his voice

almost to a whisper. "For me the guilty one, He, the innocent, died; it

is through His mortal agony that I now am free."

"Oh! What love," faltered Gangi.

"Before undergoing a shameful and most painful death, my deliverer made

a dying request that I would come, and in His company, share a meal

with His chosen companions. Gangi, I could not do so without breaking

my caste; I could not do so without forfeiting my privileges as a

Brahmin. What choice should I make? I hesitated long. If I consented, I

should become an outcast; if I refused my Benefactor's dying request,

should I not be the most ungrateful of men?"

Gangi bowed her head in silence.

"Now tell me, joy of my soul, hadst thou been in my place, wouldst thou

have turned a deaf ear to a dying Saviour, or wouldst thou have broken

thy caste?"

Gangi was now so near to her husband that he could catch the faintly

whispered words, "I think—I believe, that I should have broken my

caste."

"Then, O Gangi! How canst thou condemn me?" exclaimed Charu Dás.

"But what sin had my lord committed that he should be counted worthy

of death?" asked Gangi, to whom the first part of her husband's story

appeared hardly credible.

"Not one sin only, but a thousand," was Charu Dás's reply. "O Gangi!

Every man and woman in this world has broken again and again the

commands of a holy God, and is by His law justly sentenced to eternal

death. How can a sinner be justified before his Maker? We Hindus

pictured our deities themselves full of every vice, and therefore

we regarded not vice with horror; but the true religion reveals to

us a Being whose very nature is perfection. How dare the polluted

sinner approach Him! Man could find no way, though he sought it by

pilgrimages, penances, prayers.

"God Himself found a way. He sent His beloved Son to earth, and His Son

was willing to leave heaven to save us. This Friend, whose love exceeds

that of a brother, became incarnate, assumed a mortal body, that He

might offer up that pure body as a sacrifice for our sin. O Gangi! The

Lord Jesus Christ offered Himself to stand in our place. He underwent

the punishment which we had deserved. He humbled Himself unto death, a

painful shameful death, that we might receive eternal life.

"And, O Gangi! What a gift was that which Christ purchased for us!

The highest bliss which we aim at is absorption into deity, which

leaves the soul no separate existence; it is a bliss which resembles

annihilation. The Christian's heaven is a place of pure unmixed

delight, where the redeemed of the Lord meet around Him as one large

family, shining in His light, rejoicing in His love, washed in His

blood from every stain.

"Gangi! When I believed that God's Son had died for me, when I received

from Him the gift of pardon and peace, and the hope of eternal life,

what could I do but give myself up, body and soul, to Him who loved and

gave Himself for me?"

"Hark!" exclaimed Gangi suddenly. "I hear the sound of steps! Fly, fly!

If my kindred find you here, they may kill you."

Before the sentence was completed, Charu Dás had disappeared in the

jungle.

But the deep impression made by his words remained in the mind of his

youthful wife. Gangi said little, but she thought much. She ceased to

weep for her lost husband—her relatives thought that she was learning

to forget—but silently and secretly a resolve was gaining strength in

her mind, which was soon to bear fruit in action.

Charu Dás, according to the law, appealed to the magistrate for

permission to have an interview with his wife before they should be

separated for ever. The young Hindu, under Government protection, would

be allowed to make her final choice as to whether she would remain

amongst her own people, or break caste and cut herself off from them by

following her husband. It was a time to Charu Dás of terrible anxiety,

but he tried to cast his burden of care upon God, and trust to Him to

incline the heart of Gangi towards the husband whom she had certainly

at one time loved.

The Hindus felt little uneasiness as to the result of the meeting.

Gangi was a Brahminee, brought up from infancy amidst those who

professed her religion, and they believed that she would as soon be

trampled under foot by elephants, as break caste and become an outcast.

But they knew not the strength of a woman's love, nor were they aware

that a gleam of heavenly light had fallen on the soul of Gangi. Closely

shrouded, the young wife went to what all her relatives believed to be

her last meeting with the despised Christian. In shrinking modesty she

stood before the magistrate. Gangi dared not raise her eyes to meet the

anxious gaze of Charu Dás.

The grave magistrate then gave her her choice, that choice which would

affect the whole of her future life.

To the surprise of all present, except one, Gangi, with trembling

voice, said she would go with her husband.

The anger of her relatives was great; threats and entreaties were

alike used to move her from her purpose, but Gangi, though trembling

and weeping, kept firm. But for the presence of the magistrate, the

poor young girl would have been dragged away by violence, and never

suffered to see again him whom she loved best upon earth. But force was

forbidden by the law. The Hindu wife must be allowed a free choice. In

the midst of uproar, but full of thankfulness and joy, the convert bore

away his rescued treasure.

The rest of the story is soon told. The young Brahminee learned ere

long to believe what Charu Dás believed, and to serve the God whom he

served. When once reproached by a former companion for her change of

religion, Gangi meekly replied, "How can we refuse to give our lives to

the generous Benefactor who gave His for us? I have learned to say from

my heart, 'We love Him, because He first loved us'" (1 John iv. 19).

[Illustration]

THE DESECRATED TEMPLE.

[Illustration]

MANY hundred years ago, a beautiful temple was built, of pure white

marble, for the worship of the great God, the Creator of all. On the

walls of the building were inscribed, in letters formed of diamonds,

emeralds, and rubies, the words HOLINESS, HAPPINESS, PEACE. As guardian

of the temple, a strong watchman was placed, whose name was Conscience.

He was to keep the holy place clean, and take care that nothing

defiling should enter.

For awhile all was well, until an enemy, full of the greed of spoil,

determined to possess himself of the jewels in the white marble temple.

He had no power to do so by force. The door was strong, the watchman

who kept the keys was always at his post, and he had a bell by which

he could bring powerful help whenever needed. The enemy saw no means

of accomplishing his purpose but by deceiving or bribing the watchman.

Night, also, was the only time when he could do so unobserved by the

rest of the world.

One dark and windy night the enemy came and knocked at the door of the

temple.

"Who art thou?" cried the watcher within, without opening the

strongly-barred door.

"I am a pilgrim who has come from a great distance, and with very large

offerings," replied the deceiver. "I know no one in the neighbourhood,

the night is stormy, and I fear to remain without, lest I should be

robbed of my treasures. Only see what I have brought with me."

"It is against rules to admit any one at night," said the porter.

"But every rule has exceptions. Mine is a peculiar case. I have brought

gifts, also, for you," said the robber.

The watchman, in his folly, believed the word of the stranger;

curiosity and covetousness overpowered his caution. In an evil hour, he

unbarred the strong door, and let the enemy in.

The deceiver entered, bringing with him what he called his treasures,

which were carefully enclosed in many wrappings, and secured by seals.

Entrance had thus been effected, but as long as Conscience remained

awake, the enemy could do but little. The bell might at any moment be

rung, he be overpowered, and thrust out, or handed over to justice. The

robber was indeed within the walls, but his every movement was watched

by one stronger than he.

Deferring opening out his pretended treasures till the morning,

the intruder produced from his wallet some fruit, cakes, and

delicious-looking sweetmeats, and prepared to refresh himself after his

long journey by a meal, of which he asked the watchman to partake.

"It is against rules to eat in the temple," said the watchman; "go

outside and eat your meal in peace."

The deceiver pleaded the roughness of the night, and the length of

his journey. "There can be no harm," said he, "in breaking a rule for

once, and no one will know that you have done so." He spread out the

tempting food on the floor, and used such artful persuasion, that the

watchman not only permitted him to sit down and eat, but after awhile

was induced to sit down also and partake of a few sweetmeats which wore

of a most tempting appearance.

The sweetmeats were drugged, and in the midst of his forbidden meal,

the faithless guardian of the temple fell into a deep sleep.

Then, indeed, the enemy had it all his own way. Quickly unwrapping

what he had called his treasures, he produced instruments suited to

accomplish his wicked designs. With dexterity the robber extracted

the jewels from the walls. It was a work of time, for they had been

well and firmly set. But first the word HOLINESS was effaced, then

HAPPINESS, and then PEACE. Only a rude broken outline was left to show

where they once had been. Hours and hours went by, and all this time

the watchman slept.

The enemy's object was not only to despoil, but to defile the once

beautiful temple. There were a number of little idols with him, and

these he placed in niches in every direction. There was one called

Falsehood, an idol representing a woman, with snakes instead of hair

curling around her brow; there was Covetousness, with many hands;

Cruelty, with a necklace of skulls; Impurity, with an animal's head.

What was beautiful had been destroyed, what was hideous was put in its

place; the once pure white temple was pure no longer, and still the

guardian slept!

How long he might have slept none can tell, had not what may be called

a trifling incident occurred. Just when the work of destruction was

almost completed, and the first gleam of dawn appeared in the sky, a

little bird flew through a small opening in the temple, and struck the

sleeper with its wing as it passed.

Startled, Conscience awoke, but, dizzy from the effects of the drug,

was at first hardly able to understand what had happened. The lamps in

the temple were still burning, and the faint light of morn was stealing

in. Conscience looked round and perceived hideous idols in the niches.

He saw that the jewels had been torn from their places, and beheld the

enemy going on with his work of destruction,—soiling, marring, defiling

the temple raised to the One pure God. Conscience, through the effects

of the drug, had lost power to overcome the enemy. His strength had

become as weakness, but he was still able to pull the rope which was

attached to the bell.

[Illustration: "With all his might he pulled it, startling the enemy by

the sudden clang above his head."]

With all his might he pulled it, startling the enemy by the sudden

clang above his head. Knowing that many would rush to the spot on

hearing the sound of the alarm bell, the robber hastily rushed out from

the temple, dropping, in his flight, the jewels which he had plundered.

Measures were taken as quickly as possible to repair the sore

mischief done. The idols Covetousness, Cruelty, Falsehood were, one

after another, thrown down. The place received a thorough cleansing.

Gradually, though not without much difficulty, the jewels were put back

in their places, and HOLINESS, HAPPINESS, and PEACE again glittered on

the wall. But it was long ere Conscience recovered his health, or the

confidence of his superior, and never without shame and grief could he

remember the night when he threw open the door to a traitor, and let

the spoiler enter and pollute the temple of God.

Reader! The temple of God is the human heart, first formed by its Maker

pure and clean, with holiness, happiness, and peace within it. How

Satan, the enemy, first gained entrance, how he stained, robbed, and

despoiled it, is written in the Word of God, and alas! its effects are

seen in the world around us.

And what is meant by the watchman Conscience?

Conscience is that power to distinguish between good and evil which God

has placed as a guard on the human heart. It is Conscience that tells

us that to kill, to rob, and to lie is sin, and that sin is hateful to

a holy God, and must be punished by Him.

But the enemy, Satan, has had power to drug Conscience, to put it

to sleep, so that its voice has been silent. Look at Hindostan, and

see how deep has been the slumber of Conscience! Murder is sin of

the blackest dye; yet widows have been burnt alive, innocent babes

killed by their own parents, thugs have strangled travellers, without

Conscience being awakened to cry out, "O wretches! You will be called

to a fearful account for crimes such as these! God's wrath is upon your

heads!"

Where is Conscience in the heart of the deceit, the midnight thief,

or the bold robber who rejoices over his ill-gotten spoils! Where is

Conscience in the hearts of millions who utter lies as they swallow in

air, quite unconscious that the path of falsehood leads to destruction!

It is asleep, drugged and senseless! Conscience says nothing when man

is robbed of happiness and God is robbed of honour. The once holy

temple of God becomes a harbour for idols, for Covetousness, Hatred,

Pride, and every other sin, and the watchman Conscience is silent and

asleep!

Asleep, indeed, but not dead. Sometimes what seems an accident may

awaken it from its dangerous repose. Even a little book, such as this,

like the flap from the wing of a bird, may rouse Conscience, and open

the watchman's eyes to the peril of the soul. Ask yourself these

questions, O reader! "Is the temple of my heart clean; are purity,

happiness, and peace within it? Do I abhor all sin, and give to none a

place in my soul? Do I harbour no covetousness, hatred, or pride? Do I

refuse all unlawful gains? Are my lips clean from lying and slandering?"

If these questions are honestly asked, and a voice within you answers

"No!" that is the voice of awakening Conscience.

If, then, in anguish of soul you exclaim, "How can I escape from sin,

and the dreadful punishment of sin?" know that the watchman has sprung

to his feet, he is ringing the alarm bell for help.

God is ready to grant that help, to send His cleansing Spirit into your

heart, to give back to it all that it has lost. The Christian religion

not only tells of Satan's entering the world to despoil the temple

of God, but it tells of the Conqueror of Satan entering the world to

restore what had been polluted and spoiled. The temple may become

fairer than ever before, for the blood of the Lamb of God was shed to

cleanse it from sin. Conscience, made more watchful and faithful, may

once more be trusted to keep guard against the entrance of evil, and

happiness, holiness, and peace be again inscribed in shining letters

within the temple of the heart.

[Illustration]

THE TWENTY-FOUR PIECES OF SILVER.

[Illustration]

A MERCHANT bade his servant Kesho go into the bazaar, and buy such

things as he required. The merchant counted out twenty-four pieces of

silver, and regarding their expenditure, gave the following directions

to Kesho:—

"Take this money, and with it buy seven pillows, at the cost of one

rupee each. Lay out, at least, eight on working tools, and see that

they be thoroughly good. Thou must also buy food, and various other

things which thou knowest to be required. But first of all, go to the

railway station, where there are three parcels of value waiting to be

called for. Pay what is requisite for them, and bring them to me with

the utmost care. Be diligent and obedient, and show thyself worthy of

trust."

Kesho salaamed and departed, having wrapped up the twenty-four rupees

in the scarf which he wore round his waist.

My story, O reader! is a parable. In Kesho we behold an emblem of every

man and woman now in this world. To each is entrusted the treasure of

Time, the twenty-four hours of each day. Seven may be spent on the

pillows of sleep; eight should be given to honest work, whether in the

fields or the bazaar, whether in the school or in the office. They who

have not to earn their own bread must be diligent still. Let them work

freely for the good of others, spending their time in labours for God,

caring for the poor, teaching the ignorant, pleading the cause of the

widow. No one without guilt, and consequent punishment, can waste the

twenty-four hours committed every day to his charge by his Maker.

And the three precious parcels which are first of all to be redeemed

are—Prayer to God, Praise of the Most High, and Reading of the Holy

Scriptures. These offer to us the noblest employment of time, and bring

the richest profit.

Now hear what Kesho did with the rupees entrusted to his care.

Kesho took with him a mule to carry his purchases, and in the evening

again appeared before his master. A very high but not very heavy burden

made the mule's back appear almost as lofty as that of a camel.

"My lord, I bring the goods on the purchase of which I have expended my

twenty-four rupees," said Kesho to the merchant, after a humble salaam.

"'Thy' rupees, forsooth!" muttered the merchant, knitting his brow

in displeasure. Then, advancing to examine the mule's burden, he

exclaimed, "O thou most dull of soul! I told thee to expend seven

rupees on seven pillows, and behold thou bast brought to me twelve!

What idle waste of my money. Doubtless thou hast spent on pillows for

sleep five of the silver pieces that were meant for a nobler purpose.

Where are the good working tools which I ordered?"

Kesho was slowly and lazily unpacking the mule. He now produced, one by

one, put up carelessly between the pillows, the tools which were needed

for work. The merchant examined each closely.

"These are too few in number, and not thoroughly good of their kind,"

he said, angrily laying one down. "Thou hast taken no pains in their

choice, and hast doubtless spent too little upon them. What else hast

thou bought with my money?"

Kesho produced a supply of food.

"More silver rupees have been spent on this than was required,"

observed the merchant; "your greatest expenditure seems to have been on

eating and sleeping. But I see that thou hast still many things to show

me. What are in those two bags slung across the back of the mule?"

Kesho did not appear to be in any haste to open them. Looking rather

sullen, he poured out the contents of one upon the ground; it showed a

hookah,* and a heap of worthless rattles.

* The hookah is the Eastern representative of pipes and cigars. Women

smoke it as well as men.

"Are you a child or an idiot that you have spent rupees on such trash

as this?" cried the merchant, spurning the rattles with his foot. "I

hope that my three valuable parcels are safe in the other bag. Show me

its contents directly."

Kesho was more unwilling than before, but he had no option. He first

took out a box, which he held in his hand, and then emptied the bag on

the ground. Out came packs of dirty playing-cards,—mingled with dice!

So many had been bought by the faithless servant with his master's

rupees, that the merchant saw that Kesho must have spent on them at

least half of the money that should have gone for the tools, perhaps a

good deal more than half!

Exceedingly wrathful was the merchant. The two heaps before him showed

how utterly unworthy was his servant to be entrusted with the money

of time. But even worse was to come. Hoping that his master might not

notice the movement, Kesho was trying to hide the box which he held

behind the pile of cushions. But the merchant's eye was keen, and he

detected the attempt in a moment.

"Slave! What art thou attempting to conceal?" he exclaimed in a voice

of thunder. "Open that box, and show me upon what worse than trash thou

hast been wasting my money!"

Most unwillingly, and with a trembling hand, Kesho obeyed. Scarcely had

he raised the cover of the box when a number of hideous black scorpions

were crawling about in every direction.

The merchant was more wrathful than ever. "Wretch! Worthy of a thousand

stripes!" he exclaimed. "Is that what thou hast to show for my

entrusted money? And where are the three parcels which I charged thee

first of all to redeem?"

Prostrating himself in the dust, the servant faltered forth, "I forgot

them!"

"Then thou hast injured thyself only!" said the merchant sternly.

"Those parcels contained gifts for thee which are now lost to thee for

ever!"

Scarcely had the words fallen on the ear of Kesho, when he sprang up

from his prostrate position screaming with pain, for three of the

scorpions had fastened on his leg!

Terrible was the effect of the stings of those scorpions, and still

more terrible the scourging inflicted by the merchant upon his

worthless servant. Kesho never forgot either the stings or the dreadful

punishment to the end of his days.

O reader! Art thou like unto Kesho? Or hast thou learned to make a

better use of the treasure of time? Review the way in which yesterday

was spent; deceive not thyself, for thou canst not deceive Him who

entrusted to thee those twenty-four hours which thou canst never

recall. How many were lost in lazy sloth? How many were given to

unnecessary spinning out the time employed in eating and drinking? How

many were spent in that idle gossip which is worthless as the rattle of

a child? Were any thrown away in those games of chance which have been

the ruin of many? Oh! Search thy heart, and answer the solemn question

truly, have any of thy hours been spent in such deeds of evil as are

more poisonous than scorpions, deeds which thou wouldst gladly hide?

Seriously consider these questions, and let thy conscience give answer.

If it be silent now, at the last Day it will most assuredly speak.

After reviewing but "one" day of the many of thy life, dost thou not

tremble and cast thyself in the dust, exclaiming to thy great Master,

"'Lord! be merciful to me a sinner.' I have forgotten, or carelessly

performed the duties of Prayer, Praise, and Perusal of Thy Word; I

have indulged in sloth, in idle-speaking, in sinful pleasures, perhaps

in acts of which I should be ashamed. And that not for one day only,

but for weeks—for months—for years! Thousands on thousands of precious

hours have been wasted, squandered, lost for ever!"

And now, O Reader! How can the past be redeemed? Thou canst not tell

how many hours remain to be spent; make the best use of the one now

before thee. And first, I would earnestly urge upon thee to search the

Scriptures. Reading them carefully, prayerfully, thou wilt find a means

of escaping both from the scourge and the scorpions, the punishment

here and hereafter, which thou hast justly deserved. And there are to

be found directions for redeeming the time in future, for laying out to

the best advantage such hours as may be left to thee yet. We may count

the treasures of time, but the treasures of Eternity cannot be counted.

The one are as silver rupees in the girdle, the others, if blissful,

will be as mountains of gold. On the way in which time is spent here,

eternity will depend. Oh! May God bestow His Spirit upon thee, and make

thee what all of His servants are commanded to be, "not slothful in

business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord"! (Rom. xii. 11).

[Illustration]

THE BAD BARGAIN.

[Illustration]

TRUTHFULNESS is as the Koh-i-nur, the gem without a flaw, which shines

in the crown of a monarch. If you would know what comes of falsehood,

hear ye the story of Shibbu.

In the island of Ceylon dwelt Lachman Dás, who, above all other men,

was skilled in the art of making false jewels. He used to provide such

for those men who go to ships arriving from England, to cheat unwary

passengers by selling the false under the name of the true. Those who

knew Lachman Dás best called him by the title of Father "Jhuth Muth"

(Falsehood).

One of the customers who most often came to the dwelling of Lachman

Dás was a man of the name of Shibbu, who had amassed some hundreds of

rupees by cheating the English by selling false gems. One day he came

to Lachman's house with a look of great eagerness on his face.

"What hast thou ready, O Father?" he cried. "The smoke of a large

steamer is now to be seen in the sky, passengers will soon be arriving,

and I have not so much as a bit of glass bottle left with which to

tempt them!"

Lachman Dás did not answer at once; he was putting the last finishing

touch to a beautiful ornament made of false rubies. But presently he

relieved the impatience of Shibbu by drawing forth from a secret place

a basket containing many more, each more splendid-looking than the

other. Shibbu was dazzled by their beauty, and eager to buy.

"How many are there altogether?" he cried.

"Twenty-four choice ornaments," replied Lachman Dás, after counting

them slowly.

"I do not mind taking the whole lot,—four annas * each, six rupees for

them all," said Shibbu, trying to look as if he were indifferent to

gain, and rather bestowing a favour on the maker.

* An anna is less than three half-pence.

"Four annas each!" cried Lachman Dás indignantly. "Wert thou born

without eyes! Seest thou not that the worst of these is fit for the

wear of a rajah!"

"If it were real," said Shibbu. "But come, you are an old friend of

mine, I will give you—say five annas each."

"I will not let them go for one pie under a rupee each," said Lachman

Dás with decision.

"A rupee each! Would you ruin a poor man with five children?" cried

Shibbu. "Come, come, I am an old customer, let us say six annas

a-piece."

"A rupee each, not a pie less. I shall find many who will purchase my

jewels at that rate; go then elsewhere and buy," said the maker of

false gems, beginning to put his gaudy trash back again into the basket.

"Do not be hard on an old friend. You have made many rupees by me, O

Father!" cried Shibbu, in a pleading tone.

Lachman Dás considered for several moments; he appeared to be counting

the false emeralds in a ring which he held in his hand. At last, he

said, "I am willing to make a bargain with thee, O Shibbu! Thou shalt

have, if thou wilt, the whole lot on the following terms. For the first

ornament thou shalt give but one pie." *

* Less than a "mite." A rupee is now worth about 1s. 8d.

"'One pie!'" exclaimed the delighted Shibbu, scarcely able to believe

his own ears.

"For the second 'two' pies, for the third 'four,' so to go on doubling

till the whole twenty-four be paid for."

Shibbu was not clever at counting, but he soon made out that all the

first four ornaments would cost him but a mere trifle. Was ever bargain

so good! Shibbu began to think that the cunning old cheat before him

must have grown crazy from age to sell his jewels for a few pice! He

eagerly closed with the bargain, if Lachman Dás would but wait for

payment until the false jewels should be sold.

"Enough," said Lachman Dás, with twinkling eyes. "Thou shalt sign an

agreement before witnesses that if thou pay me not, not merely shall

thy property be mine, but thou thyself shalt be my bondsman to the end

of thy days."

Shibbu, eager to gain more rupees by lying and cheating, willingly put

his mark to the paper which was drawn up for him to sign. He could

hardly bear waiting till the business was over, so much afraid was he

that some other seller of gems should get the start of him, and cheat

the strangers out of their rupees before he had time to display before

them his beautiful but worthless ware.

But Shibbu had no need for such haste. Not only did he reach the quay

before the passengers landed, but his false gems were so superior to

those of any other seller, that he disposed of the whole twenty-four,

and made three hundred rupees!

"I never had such a catch in my life!" thought the exulting teller of

lies. "It will break old Lachman's heart when he finds what a wretched

bargain he has made. If he had stuck to his demand for rupees, I should

have given in at last. Now he must content himself with his pice!" And

Shibbu laughed to himself at the mortification of the covetous old man.

But Shibbu did anything but laugh when standing by the maker of false

jewels, with many witnesses around, he heard the beginning of the

calculation made as to the real amount of his debt. He kept silent at

first, though growing graver and graver, till he found that though

the first jewel cost him but one pie, the twelfth was rated at "ten

rupees," "ten minas," and "eight pies."

"Stop! Stop!" he cried. "There is some jugglery here. They never can

come to so much!"

"Go on," said the maker of jewels to the accountant who, pen in hand,

was making up the sum.

Now poor Shibbu was like a wretch undergoing the torture. As the

doubled price of each ornament was named, he first groaned, then

actually shrieked, as if a twisted rope were being drawn tighter and

tighter around him. Long before the price of the twentieth jewel was

reached, he was a ruined man; and when the twenty-fourth was named as

worth upwards of "forty thousand" rupees, Shibbu threw himself on the

ground, beat his breast, tore his hair, and cast dust on his beard.

"Oh! Have mercy—mercy on me!" he cried.

He might as well have asked mercy from the stones as from the wicked

Lachman Dás.

Shibbu saw himself stript at once not only of his ill-gotten three

hundred rupees, but of his house, everything that he possessed,—yes,

even of his very freedom! Lachman Dás kept him to his agreement, and

the fruit of Shibbu's successful, lying and cheating was poverty,

misery, and bondage to the end of his wretched days.

Reader! Have you ever made anything by lying or cheating? Then are you

in as evil a condition as Shibbu? You have a hard creditor in Satan,

the evil spirit, and every pie that you have gained by his means is

"set down," to be accounted for hereafter. You may now, like Shibbu,

be exulting in your success. Perhaps you are a bunniah, rich from

what you have wrung from the poor. Perhaps a Government official,

whose hands are not clean from bribes. Perhaps a contractor, who has

amassed thousands of rupees by dishonest bargains. In whatever way the

ill-gotten money has come, be sure that the reckoning day is near.

Do you know what, in the Word of God, is written about the fate of the

liar? Hear it, O sinner! and tremble—"All liars shall have their part

in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second

death" (Rev. xxi. 8). You have sold yourself as bondsman to him who is

indeed the father of lies, one who is more cruel than Lachman Dás. Man

can but hurt the body, but the evil one destroys the soul. Poor lost

one! Dost thou boast of thy successful lies and thy clever bargains?

See what they will bring thee to in the end. Thou hast heaped up a debt

beyond what thou canst count, and every pie must be paid.

Yet even thou needst not despair; if thou, O lost one! repent and

forsake thy sin, there is a way by which even your enormous debt can be

paid—The Son of Man is come to save that which is lost (Matt. xviii.

11). The Christian religion offers pardon to the sinful, freedom to the

bound, and life to the dying.

What would have been the feelings of Shibbu, when grovelling on the

ground, groaning and despairing, had some prince come forward and said,

"Fear not, I will pay all thy debt; my treasury is full, and were thy

debt even to empty it, thou shouldst go free." Would not Shibbu have

sprung up from the dust, then thrown himself at the prince's feet, and

wept for joy? Even this act of mercy hath the Lord Jesus, God's Son,

performed for thee, if thou believe. From the treasures of His grace

He pays all thy debt, so that Satan hath no power to ruin thee. Christ

came from heaven to pay it; He shed His own blood to pay it; there is

freedom and life and joy for those who trust in His name!

[Illustration]

THE ILL-FAVOURED BRIDE.

[Illustration]

TO the wise and virtuous Hossein was born a son whom he called Shádia

Shah (Prince of Pleasure) in the gladness of his heart. But the son

at whose birth had been many rejoicings, grew up to be a care and

sorrow to his parents. As the son of a wealthy man, Shádia fell into

temptations which assail the rich more than the poor. He thought that,

having no need to labour for his bread, he was not required to labour

at all.

Shádia was placed at a Government school, but scarcely attended one day

out of three. He fell amongst evil companions, who led him into habits

of gambling. From morn till night the youth would sit in worse than

idleness, rattling the dice or shuffling the cards. In vain his father

reproved him, in vain his mother entreated. Shádia constantly incurred

debts which his father paid with sorrow and shame.

"Alas!" said the neighbours. "That so wise a man should have so foolish

a son!"

One evening Shádia, having partaken of a plentiful meal, stretched

himself on his charpai, wrapped his rich coverlet around him, and

closed his eyes as if to sleep. His father and a friend named Mihr Dád,

sat at a little distance smoking their hookahs. Then after a while, the

bubbling sound of the hookahs ceased, and the two friends engaged in

the following conversation:—

"Is it not time," asked Mihr Dád, "that your honour should make some

arrangement for the marriage of your son?"

"Arrangements are already in progress," was the reply.

This was to Shádia startling and interesting intelligence. * He

noiselessly turned round on his charpai, and raised his head a little

that he might listen the better.

* But not as astounding as it would have been to a European. In the

East, relatives arrange marriages, the bride and bridegroom are not

supposed to meddle in the matter.

"No doubt your honour has chosen for Shádia the daughter of some

highly-esteemed man of excellent family," said Mihr Dád.

"I cannot say that," replied Hossein. "The bride's father is not a

respectable man, but one of mean and grasping character, and of very

low birth. He is, moreover, exceedingly ugly."

"That sounds not well," said the friend. "But perhaps the good

qualities of the bride's mother counterbalance the evil ones of the

father."

"Oh! The mother is mad!" replied Hossein.

Poor Shádia became very uneasy as he listened, and raised his head a

little higher, hoping that he was unnoticed, as he lay in the shadow of

a pillar.

"It is to be hoped that the girl does not resemble her parents,"

observed Mihr Dád.

"She is said to be more ugly than her father, and more mad than her

mother," was Hossein's reply.

The poor intended bridegroom could hardly refrain from an exclamation

of disgust. What could his father mean by making so horrible a marriage

for his only son and heir!

"I suppose that the money arrangements at least will be satisfactory,"

said Mihr Dád after a pause; "the girl will bring great wealth to the

house of her future lord."

"Anything but wealth," replied Hossein with a sigh. "Her father makes

many promises indeed, but he is pretty certain never to fulfil them. On

the other hand, Shádia's friends must settle on his bride all that he

now possesses, or may inherit at my death. I believe that the result of

the union will be to bring him to beggary at last."

Shádia could listen in silence no longer. He sprang from his charpai,

and with flashing eyes and quivering lips suddenly appeared before his

father.

"I will never make such a marriage!" he exclaimed. "Why have you chosen

for me so hateful a bride?"

"I have not chosen her for thee, O my son!" Hossein mildly replied.

"Thou hast chosen her for thyself. I would have wedded thee unto

Wisdom, thou hast given thyself unto Gambling."

The youth looked somewhat perplexed.

"Sit down beside us," said the father, "and hear the meaning of my

parable, and profit by it, my son."

Shádia took his place on the mat, and listened in silence while Hossein

went on. "Gambling is the daughter of Covetousness, and her mother is

the mad Love of Pleasure. She inherits the evil qualities of both her

parents. She brings the rich to poverty, and the honourable unto shame.

Didst thou ever know a gambler who rose to distinction by honest,

persevering industry? Didst thou ever know a gambler who was blessed by

his family, or who left a good name behind him?"

Shádia hung his head as one ashamed.

"Oh! My son, it is in youth that unions are formed on which the

happiness or misery of the whole life may depend. You are now

contracting habits which, if confirmed, will prove your ruin. The wild

mirth of your associates is like the festivities and fireworks at a

marriage, where the bridegroom is a victim, and the bride a fiend in

disguise. For is it not the natural effect of the vice of gambling to

destroy all that is noble in the character of man? If the parents of

Gambling be Covetousness and the mad Love of Pleasure, what are her

children? Idleness, Selfishness, Neglect of Duty, Poverty, Misery, and

at length Despair."

Shádia took to heart the words of his father, and resolved from that

day to break from the evil habit which was ruining his prospects and

corrupting his heart.

And now, O reader! There is another kind of gambling against which

I would warn you, Gambling daily practised by many who never touch

a dice or a card. It is playing at the game of chance, at which the

immortal soul is the stake. You may have been born among Hindus or

Mahomedans, Sikhs or Christians; you may have learned from childhood

to streak your forehead with the mark of Shiv, or to say, "There is

one God, and Mahomed is His prophet," or to honour Goru Nanak, or to

reverence the name of Christ. You go on doing these things, but as

a matter of custom. Your common sense tells you that amongst many

differing religions not all can be right—that if God be One, so Truth

must be one; many paths lead to Hell, only one can lead to Heaven. Why

do you not search and inquire, to be certain which is the right one?

Why read you not Shastra and Grundth, Qurán and Bible, and compare them

together, with earnest prayer to God for guidance? Because you shrink

from labour, because you are willing to stake your soul on a "chance!"

Consider what is the stake. If you saw a royal gambler who should cry

as he rattled the dice—"If I throw anything but six, I am content to

forfeit my crown, come down from my throne, and take my place amongst

the beggars who throng my gates!" Would you praise that king for

wisdom? Would you not say, "Alas! He is mad!"

Or if you saw a youth seated at play, and heard him exclaim with

a solemn oath—"If I lose this game of chance, I will throw myself

into yon well a thousand feet deep, and make my life the forfeit of

failure!" Would you praise that youth for wisdom; would you not rather

cry, "Put him at once into confinement; it is not safe to leave him to

himself!"

But he who stakes his soul, stakes more than a crown, stakes more than

his earthly existence. He stakes future happiness, more precious than

kingdoms; he risks the loss of bliss through millions and millions of

ages. He risks it on the "chance" that his forefathers were right, and

seeks no proof that they were so. Is this conduct the conduct of the

wise? If the Mahomedan religion be from God, what will become of the

Hindu? If the Christian Faith be indeed the true one, what will be the

fate of those who, refusing to examine its proofs, reject it?

O reader! Gamble not with your own soul; become a patient, earnest,

prayerful inquirer after truth. Examine the foundations of various

religions, especially of that which fears no test. Mahomed himself

declared the Tauret of Moses, the Books of the Prophets, and the Gospel

to be the Word of God, yet willed not that his followers should read

them! Has Wisdom no answer to the question "'Why' was he unwilling that

men should search the Scriptures, though Christ, whom he knew to be a

Prophet, commanded that men should search them?" Was it not that he had

reason to dread the light that would pour in on the soul from reading

the inspired books?

To seek for the truth—this is wisdom. To search and examine whether

the foundation on which we build our hopes of heaven be firm and

sure—this also is wisdom. To pray to the unseen God to guide us in our

search—this is wisdom; and having found truth, to embrace and hold it

fast to the end—this is wisdom indeed!

[Illustration]

THE LADDER OF LIFE.

[Illustration]

LOOK on the shadow of great realities shown forth in a dream! I beheld

as it were a mighty Cross, the top of which I could not see, for it was

hidden in a bright cloud; and the arms spread from East to West, as if

to embrace all the world. Against this Cross, resting upon it, was a

wondrous ladder with poles of gold, and seven rounds of various tints,

each different from the other.

The first round of the ladder was of the hue of ashes, and on it was

written these words from Scripture—"I acknowledge my transgressions,

and my sin is ever before me: what shall I do that I may be saved?" The

name of this round was Repentance.

The second round was blue and bright as the summer sky. On it was

written these words—"God so loved the world that He gave His only

begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but

have everlasting life." The name of this round was Faith.

The third round was of glowing crimson hue, richer and more beauteous

than that of rubies. On it was written these words—"We love Him because

He first loved us." The name of this round was Love.

The fourth round was green as emeralds sparkling in the light of the

noonday sun. Even to look on it gladdened the heart, and ever and anon

flowers appeared to blossom upon it, as roses bloom on the green earth.

The name of this round was Joy. On it was written—"In whom believing,

ye rejoice with joy unspeakable, and full of glory."

The fifth round was very marvellous to look on. Its colour was pale

violet, and on it appeared in gold the semblance of an eye, an ear, a

mouth, a hand, a heart, and other objects. The name of this round was

Service, and on it was written—"I beseech you, by the mercies of God,

that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto

God, which is your reasonable service."

The sixth round was of spotless whiteness, compared to which the pearl

is without beauty, and the new-fallen snow without brightness. The name

of the round was Holiness, and on it was written, "Holiness—without

which no man shall see the Lord."

The seventh round appeared to be formed of golden light, but it dazzled

my eyes so much, that I could not see it distinctly. The name of that

round was Glory. On it was written, though I scarcely could read, on

account of the excessive brightness—"To them who by patient continuance

in well-doing seek for glory, and honour, and immortality, eternal

life."

When I looked upon the ladder, I rejoiced, but when I looked from it

to the earth I trembled. In the distance I saw red flames, as of a

vast conflagration, and though yet afar off, minute by minute they

drew nearer and nearer. I knew that a fiery deluge of destruction was

spreading over the land, and was conscious that at last there would be

no means of escape but by the way of the ladder that was resting upon

the Cross.

On the first round of the ladder, Repentance, I saw several women

seated, and all appeared to be in trouble, looking ever and anon to

the fire at a distance. I heard first one, then another, repeat with

weeping the words inscribed on the round. These were women whose hearts

were touched with a sense of their sins.

"Oh! What must I do to be saved?" cried one.

A Brahmin in a long dhoti, and with painted lines on his forehead,

and a string of beads in his hand, stood near. He heard the woman's

exclamation and replied, "Go on pilgrimage to Kashi, bathe in the

sacred Ganges, do pujá at the shrines, give offerings to the priests,

and possibly even thou mayst obtain emancipation."

A turbaned Mahomedan Moulvie on the other side, with a copy of the

Qurán in his hand, cried aloud, "There is but one God, and Mahomet is

his prophet. Keep the fasts, pray five times a day, observe all the

laws of Islam; even for women a place in Paradise may be found; saith

not the prophet, that God will lead the believers of both sexes to the

gardens of delight?"

Some of the women descended from their place on the round, and followed

the one or the other speaker. I know not whether their hearts had found

rest, but as they were now standing on the doomed earth, I feared that

none were really in safety. Their eyes were fixed on that earth, and

they turned their backs upon the Cross.

Two youthful sisters remained on the round of Repentance, nor listened

to Brahmin nor Moulvie. Their gaze was anxiously fixed on the second

round of the ladder, a round which was very high, and therefore hard

to climb. At last, one of the sisters raised her hand, grasped firmly

the round of Faith, and by her companion's aid got a footing upon it.

The uppermost climber then helped the other up. Trembling from the

exertions which they had made, both the young women stood trembling

upon the round.

Then loudly from those below arose the cry, "Come down!" mingled with

angry threats and curses. And suddenly a tremendous wind began to blow,

increasing to a hurricane. It could not shake the ladder indeed, but it

greatly harassed and frightened the girls who were clinging to it.

"I cannot stop here!" cried the elder. "I cannot endure this storm!" I

could see in my dream that every limb was trembling from the blast of

"persecution."

"Hold on! Oh! Hold on, my sister!" cried the younger. "A voice is

sounding even through the storm, 'Whosoever shall confess Me before

men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven.'"

"Oh! This is terrible!" exclaimed the elder. "I can endure no more!" As

she uttered the words she let go her hold, and dropped to the ground,

sorely bruising herself against the round of Repentance as she fell.

A cry of anguish burst from her sister; but still notwithstanding the

furious storm, and the fiercer cries of those beneath, she maintained

her grasp, and only clung the harder, the louder the tempest of

persecution blew.

She not only clung, but she climbed. It seemed as if the very blast

helped to bear her upward, so quickly did the brave girl reach the

third round, the ruby round of Love. It appeared as if there she would

find some rest; from thence she could look down on the crowd, and less

heed their hooting and upbraiding. I thought in my dream that I heard

her say, "Perfect love casteth out fear."

Upward and upward still, struggling, clinging, climbing, the girl has

reached the round of Joy. Then suddenly the wind went down, as if a

voice had commanded it to be still, and as I looked on the climber, I

beheld her face lighted up with exceeding delight. A song of joy burst

from her lips, "My soul doth, magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath

rejoiced in God my Saviour!" Methinks there is no happiness on earth

like the happiness which fills the heart of those who have risen from

Faith and Love to Joy!

But there were other heights to be reached, and the climber was soon

upon the round of Service. The ruby light of Love, the emerald radiance

of Joy were about her still, as if she carried them with her. Her happy

song did not cease; Service was evidently to the climber a post of

honour and pleasure. To devote heart and eye, lips and hand, all that

we have, and all that we are to Him who gave Himself for us, this is

not the task of the slave, this is the adopted child's privilege and

delight.

But still, even when on the round of Service, the girl's eyes were

fixed on the round of Holiness above her, the beauteous pearly round.

She stretched her hand upwards, longing to reach it, but it seemed

too high for her even to touch. "Oh! Create in me a clean heart!" she

cried. "And renew a right spirit within me!"

As the climber stretched upwards with wistful gaze, I saw an angel

with snowy wings and starry crown suddenly swoop down from the sky. He

caught the weary one in his strong arms, and in a moment placed her on

the round of Holiness, and then onwards—upwards to Glory!

The crowd below cried, "The Christian is dead!" I knew that she had

but entered into heavenly rest. They saw in the winged messenger the

terrible form of Death, I beheld in him a ministering angel sent by the

Lord of Life. Blessed are they whom He finds on the round of Service,

still shining with Faith, and Love, and Joy!

Reader! This is a parable for all who have learned that they are

sinners, who have heard of the love of a Saviour! If you have read this

book, the Ladder of Life is before you, it remains with you whether

or not you will resolve to climb it. At the last Great Day you cannot

plead, "No one warned me of coming judgment, no one showed me a way to

escape." Have you reached even the first round of the ladder? Has the

cry ever burst from your heart, "God be merciful to me a sinner! What

must I do to be saved?"

If, as is possible, though you yet be called a Hindu, you have reached

the second round of the ladder, think not that it is possible to rest

securely on the bare belief that Christ died for sinners, without the

Love which can raise you above the fear of man. The devils believe, but

do not love; their dead faith can never save them. If you, like too

many, are content to think as a Christian, but live like a heathen,

you are in fearful danger of a fall. Oh! Climb upward, struggling and

praying, and be assured that it is Love that leads to Joy, and to that

ready glad Service which shows to all that true faith inevitably leads

to a useful, devoted life.

Do you long for Holiness, never fully attained on earth, yet aimed at

by every sincere Christian? Hear the words of the Saviour— "Blessed

are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be

filled. We know that when He shall appear we shall be like Him, for we

shall see Him as He is." To be with Him, and like Him for ever, this is

glory indeed!

Once more look at the rounds of the Ladder of Life, and as you look,

ask your own heart, "Do I desire to climb it?" And if you find the

desire, oh! Turn it into a prayer—"Lord! By the help of Thy Holy

Spirit, give me strength to climb it, for the sake of Thy blessed Son."

A. L. O. E. would suggest to kind young friends eager to help

Missionaries, how very acceptable would be copies of this Ladder made

in cardboard, with bright colours and gilding. She has herself made

several, and few things are so useful to her in Zenanas as the one

which she has reserved for herself. A friend greatly added to its value

by putting a little figure of a man upon it, who, by being drawn up by

means of a string at the back, mounts from round to round. Children in

Mahomedan schools have readily learned by heart the precious verses

attached to Repentance, Faith, &c. Nothing should be written on the

Ladder except the names of the rounds and references to suitable

verses. Each Missionary should learn to repeat these verses in the

language of the people she visits.

Ladder of Life.

GLORY WITH CHRIST.

LIKENESS TO CHRIST.

SERVICE FOR CHRIST.

JOY IN CHRIST.

LOVE TOWARDS CHRIST.

FAITH IN CHRIST.

REPENTANCE FOR SIN.

THE BRAHMIN BOY.

[Illustration]

PRITHU was the eldest son of a "Brahmin" (one of the highest "caste"

or class in India, who think themselves twice-born, and so entitled to

look down on their fellow-men). Little Prithu would probably at one

time have almost rather starved than have eaten food which had been

touched by one of low caste, or by a Christian, or have cut off the

tuft of hair at the top of his head, which was a sign of his being a

Brahmin. Prithu has cut away the precious tuft, and now sits down at

the Christian's table, and gives thanks to the Christian's God. But the

Brahmin boy had a hard struggle to go through before he left father and

mother, country and friends, for the sake of the Gospel.

Prithu's home was in Narowal, which is in the large province called

the Punjab. Narowal is a heathen place, but in it is a school, which

was watched over by Mr. Bateman, an English missionary. Earnestly had

Mr. Bateman been trying to win souls for Christ in Narowal and the

country around. His was not an easy work, nor always a safe one. On

one occasion some villagers were so angry with Mr. Bateman for having

been the means of drawing a boy to the Saviour, that they threatened to

drown the missionary the next time that he should cross their ferry.

"I am not easily drowned," was Mr. Bateman's good-humoured reply.

The natives dared not drown the English gentleman, however willing

they were to do so, but they showed their spite by trying to drown his

camels. When the large heavy beasts had to cross the ferry, a villager

led them into a quicksand, where they had no safe footing. Down went

the poor camels and Mr. Bateman's luggage into the water. The heathen

around refused to bring a boat, or to help the poor struggling beasts.

But let us return to our Brahmin.

Prithu's father placed his boy at the Narowal school, hoping to make

him a clever man, but certainly "not" a Christian; he wished his son

to gain knowledge, but not that knowledge which is more precious than

all besides. But Prithu was thus within hearing of God's Word, and

with him it did not fall like seed by the wayside. The boy listened,

attended, and learned to love the Gospel, Prithu did not read his Bible

as carelessly as do many so-called Christian boys. The truth was taking

root in his heart, and the young Brahmin believed that Christ died for

sinners, and felt that he must love Him who had given so great a proof

of His love for mankind.

Great was the vexation of Prithu's father when he found that his son

wished to become a Christian. He took his boy from Narowal, and placed

him in a school at Lahore. But though no longer with his friend the

missionary, Prithu did not forget his teachings. The seed of truth went

on growing, Prithu's faith and love increased. In the spring, Prithu

returned to Narowal, and spent a fortnight there, studying the Gospel,

and trying to encourage a fellow-scholar who, like himself, believed

the truth, and had to suffer persecution for righteousness' sake.

You must not suppose that Prithu was a boy without faults; he had to

fight against sin within, as well as bear opposition from without. The

Brahmin lad had been brought up in a land where sins of the tongue,

evil-speaking, and lying, are fearfully common. On one occasion, he

insulted his friend the missionary.

Mr. Bateman was engaged in writing, when Prithu asked him a question.

The reply did not please the young Brahmin, who uttered a rude word to

express that he did not believe that what the clergyman had told him

was true.

The missionary rebuked the insolent lad. "Do you take me for a Hindoo

or a Mahometan," said he, "that you think that I should lightly tell

you a lie?" And turning round, the missionary went on with his writing.

Mild as was the reproof, it cut the boy to the heart. As Mr. Bateman

described it, "he shrivelled up like the branch of a sensitive plant."

Prithu felt how unjust, how ungrateful it had been to give the lie to

one whom he so well knew to be speaking the truth in love.

For about half-an-hour Mr. Bateman went on with his writing, leaving

the boy to reflect over his fault. Then the missionary, looking at the

silent humbled Prithu, asked him of what he was thinking.

"I was thinking that if God were to cut out my unworthy tongue, it

would be better for me," was the poor young Brahmin's reply.

Surely the "idle word" thus repented of was forgiven both by the master

on earth and the Master in Heaven.

Thus has been described the peace and joy which came to Prithu when

shown how he could overcome the sins of the tongue.

No burst of Sunshine on that April day made any landscape brighter than

was his face when God's light broke through the cloud which hung over

his heart, and he found the true remedy for his fault as he learned to

pray, "Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth, and keep the door of my

lips, that I offend not with my tongue." How many of my British readers

have from the heart uttered this prayer, and if they have never yet

done so, is it "because they do not need it?"

Brightly and more brightly the light of truth shone upon the Brahmin

boy. He received Christ as his Saviour, he was willing to leave all,

and take up his cross to follow Christ. But oh! what a heavy cross it

was to the tender loving heart of Prithu!

We who have been born of Christian parents, and brought up in Christian

homes, know little of the agony to be borne by the convert who stands

alone in his family, the one Christian amongst many heathen. The more

tender the heart, the more sharp is the pain.

Prithu had the courage to ask for baptism, but Mr. Bateman thought him,

under the circumstances, too young yet to receive it. Prithu was then

not fifteen years old; he must count the cost before he gave up all

for Christ; he must not hastily take a step which might divide him for

ever from those whom he fondly loved. Prithu returned to Lahore without

having had the water of baptism on his brow, but he carried with him

the grace of God in his heart. Unlike many lads in Britain who dread

even the scoff or laugh from ungodly companions which might follow

their showing that they care for religion, unlike those who are ashamed

even to be seen engaged in prayer, Prithu boldly confessed his faith in

Christ.

The Brahmin father took his boy from the school in Lahore, and placed

him in another, where he heard wicked blasphemous words uttered against

Christ. Prithu was sorely distressed. He was like a light shining in a

dark place; the wind of opposition was blowing round it; would it not

flicker, would it not go out? Could a boy not yet fifteen years old

hold fast his faith to the end?

Mr. Bateman was anxious about Prithu, and consulted a magistrate

regarding the case of the boy. By the magistrate's advice, the

missionary had a serious conversation with the father of his young

friend. Mr. Bateman told the Brahmin that in three months more Prithu

would be old enough to judge for himself which God he would serve, and

that if, after that time, the lad still wished to be a Christian, the

missionary would no longer refuse to baptise him. But during those

three months of trial Prithu must go home with his father; that father

might do all that he could to draw him back to the Hindoo religion,

every means might be taken to work upon the boy's love or fear, his

desire of praise, his dread of shame, and his pride of caste.

It was just and fair that the father should be given those three months

during which he might try to win back his boy; it was honourable in

the missionary to do nothing, even for the sake of converting a soul,

in a deceitful underhand way. But it was a bitter trial to Mr. Bateman

thus to part with his beloved young convert; he could not but dread the

effect which those terrible three months might have upon the courage

and faith of Prithu. Could the lad, with no Christian friend beside

him, resist the arguments of his father, the tears of his own dear

mother, the taunts or entreaties of those whom he had known from his

childhood? Doubtless Mr. Bateman was very earnest in prayer for his

poor Brahmin boy, but he felt like Darius when giving up Daniel to be

thrown into the den of lions!

Prithu had indeed a trying time before him, his faith and perseverance

had to endure a very sharp test. He was carried off into the land of

Cashmir, which does not belong to our Queen, that he might be quite

beyond reach of Christian friends. He was washed in so-called sacred

springs; he was talked to by famous Brahmins; he was made to sit day

after day before one of the hideous idols whom the heathen worship.

Those around him tried to stir up the pride of the youthful Brahmin.

"Alas!" said one. "That you should trouble so holy a man as your

father, and disgrace so great a family by becoming a Christian!"

"If I am the son of a great and good man, why should I not put out my

hand to take a great and good thing?" was Prithu's reply.

Prithu had indeed put out his hand to grasp the Christian's hope; but

would he have strength to hold it fast? The poor boy's comfort and

strength was found in prayer. Even when forced to crouch before a

hateful idol, the young convert was lifting up his heart to his Lord.

Prithu was specially comforted by the Saviour's promise, "BE THOU

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH, AND I WILL GIVE THEE A CROWN OF LIFE."

Prithu had no opportunity of writing to Mr. Bateman, and yet he

contrived to send a message to him. The way in which the poor lad did

this is one of the most interesting parts of his story.

Before Prithu had been forced to leave his Christian friend, the two

had studied together a part of the Bible which to some of my readers

may be little known. In the law of Moses it is written that a freed

slave might have the choice of serving his master still, if he loved

that master so well as to resolve never to leave him till death. In

sign of such earnest, devoted love, the freed slave had his ear bored,

such was the token appointed by Moses. Now Prithu had resolved to take

the Lord Jesus as his Master for ever, and he thought that he would

have a sign like that of the freed slave. There was no need to bore

Prithu's ear, for it was already pierced for rings, after the custom of

the East, where boys as well as girls wear jewels. Prithu, as a token

of his love for his Master in Heaven, had put a little sprig of wood

into the hole in his ear, and had told Mr. Bateman that if ever he,

Prithu, should take that sprig out, it would be because he had given up

serving Christ as his Master.

Often must the missionary have anxiously thought of his tempted boy,

and have asked himself the question, "Does my poor Prithu still wear

the sprig in his ear, or has he thrown it away, and with it cast away

his faith in Christ, and his hope of heaven?"

Mr. Bateman was not to be left in doubt. One day a letter from Prithu's

father reached the missionary. I do not know what the letter contained,

most likely words of reproach, perhaps of abuse. But it was not on the

letter itself but on the yellow envelope which had held it that the

eyes of Mr. Bateman were fixed with eager interest.

I have seen that yellow envelope in the missionary's album, there kept

amongst his treasures; and why is it thus preserved and valued? It is

certainly a very common-place thing to look at, and its neatness is not

improved by having on it an odd little sketch of a head in profile,

a head not so large as a pea, and roughly drawn, as if by the hand

of a child. Out of the head something appears to be sticking, such a

very small thing that when I saw it first it scarcely attracted my

notice. But that tiny head with something sticking out of it, had not

only attracted the missionary's notice, but had filled his heart with

thankful delight. Not the finest painting in the world could have given

Mr. Bateman such joy as did the rude sketch on the yellow envelope. He

knew that Prithu, his brave noble boy, must have drawn it on the cover

of his father's letter; and was sure that the small line, which to a

stranger would have no meaning, must represent "the sprig in the bored

ear!" The tried, tempted Prithu in that sketch had sent a token that he

was still resolved to serve the Lord.

Mr. Bateman described his feelings on seeing the tiny picture as like

those of King Darius when he heard the voice of the living Daniel

coming from the lions' den, "My God hath sent His angel, and stopped

the lions' mouths, that they should not hurt me."

It wanted but one day to the end of the three months of trial, when the

Brahmin father brought back Prithu to Mr. Bateman. There was a little

disappointment felt by the missionary at that meeting; for though

Prithu said that his faith was firm, yet he did not ask yet to be

baptised. Perhaps the lad's courage failed him a little before he took

so decisive a step; perhaps he shrank from cutting himself off from

family and friends. Prithu may have been suffered to feel natural fear,

that he might know the better that all his former strength had been

given by God. But if Prithu wavered a little, it was not for long, his

mind soon was made up, and soon the Brahmin convert was baptised in the

Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, thus openly confessing

his faith, and devoting himself, boy and soul, to the service of his

Redeemer.

You may think that Prithu had now passed through his trials, but they

were not quite over yet. The boy was dear to his family, and even after

his baptism they would have taken him back to their home and their

hearts, had he consented to deny his Lord. But neither entreaties nor

taunts moved Prithu to give up Christ.

The first time that Prithu's father came to see him after his baptism

was a painfully anxious time for Mr. Bateman. The Brahmin took his boy

alone with him to the top of the house; what passed between them I know

not, but the time was one of great anxiety to Mr. Bateman, who remained

below. The private conversation lasted so long, that the missionary

grew very uneasy. Great was his relief when Prithu at last appeared,

corning down from the top of the house, and singing that song which has

cheered and encouraged so many Christians—

"Safe in the arms of Jesus,

Safe on His gentle breast."

When Mr. Bateman, on account of shattered health, came to England, he

brought his Prithu with him, and it was thus that I met the Christian

convert. So bright I thought him, so clever, so full of intelligence

and affection! I hope to meet Prithu again in his native land. The dear

boy is anxious that the Gospel should be carried to his loved country;

and he "wants me to see his mother."

And now, what lesson shall be gleaned from the story of Prithu the

Brahmin boy? Dear readers, great is the need that Christian men and

women should go to that dark dark land to tell the poor heathen, who

worship wood and stone, of a Father in Heaven, and a Saviour who pities

and loves them.

Let it first make us more zealous to help the cause of missions. Whilst

I am writing this, the fields of England are bright with the golden

harvest, sheaves are ready to be carried into the garner. Would it

not be grievous if hands were wanting for the work, if no sickle were

gleaming in the sunshine, if man looked on it with folded arms, till

the overripe corn should rot on the stems, or be destroyed by the

frosts of winter?

And India is a part of God's harvest field, a part many times larger

than our isle. There are more than "two hundred millions" of souls in

India! Oh! How vast a harvest, and the labourers how few, how very few!

I have heard that there is but one European missionary to "five hundred

thousand" natives! Oh! Pray, earnestly pray to the Lord of the harvest,

that He may send forth more labourers into His harvest!

Pray that amongst the natives themselves many teachers may arise; even

children may speak to children. The lips of a boy, young as Prithu, may

be opened to tell former playmates of that loving Lord who hath said,

"Suffer the little children to come unto Me."

And pray for the English labourers already there, and those who are

going forth to help them. How few we are, and how weak! Think of the

difficulties before us, remember our need of help from above,—of

courage, wisdom, patience, and love.

But why should we ask the prayers of those who perhaps have never once

in their lives really prayed for themselves? The young Brahmin will,

I fear, rise up in the judgment to condemn many who have had an open

Bible before them from the time when they first could read it, those

whose parents, unlike Prithu's, have tried to teach them to know the

Saviour. Prithu, in face of opposition, turned from his idol to serve

the living God. Reader! Will you turn away from God to serve your idol?

"We have no idols in Britain," perhaps you reply.

O Reader! Search your own heart; do not flinch from the duty. Ask

yourself; "Has God the first place in my heart?" If not, some idol is

there. It may be pride, or selfishness, or love of money; whatever it

be, if it be what we will not give up at our Lord's command, it is

as much an idol to us as is a bit of carved wood to the heathen. St.

John's warning is for "all"—"Little children, keep yourselves from

idols!"

Remember the sprig in the ear of Prithu, the sign that he had given

himself to serve the Lord, and Him only. How often during his months of

trial must the boy have felt tempted to take out that sprig, to give

up the hard struggle, and go back to his heathen state! How often in

such moments of temptation did God's Word sound in his heart, BE THOU

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH, AND I WILL GIVE THEE A CROWN OF LIFE! Do you know

anything of such a struggle, are you seeking for, or caring for the

crown of life? Think what it must be "to win;" and oh! think what it

would be "to lose it!"

Dear Reader, I earnestly entreat you, "seek the Lord whilst He may be

found, call upon Him whilst He is near." "Choose you this day whom ye

will serve," and if your choice be made to serve your Master in Heaven,

like Prithu, be faithful and firm, keep not the sprig in the ear, but

the love in the heart. And oh! by the grace of God's Holy Spirit, may

we be kept from falling away; and when our trial time is over, may we

receive a welcome from the Master whose blood has bought and whose

Spirit has led us! May we hear from His blessed lips the gracious

words, "Well done, good and faithful servants, enter ye into the joy of

your Lord!"

_FINIS._