It is a miserable thing to be a Hindoo lady. While she is a very little
girl, she is allowed to play about, but when she comes to be ten or
twelve years old, she is shut up in the back rooms of the house till she
is married; and when she is married she is shut up still. She may indeed
walk in the garden at the back of the house, but nowhere else.
Hindoo ladies are not taught even those trifling accomplishments which
Chinese ladies learn: they can neither paint, nor play music; much less
can they read and write. They amuse themselves by putting on their
ornaments, or by making curries and sweetmeats to please their husbands:
but most of their time they spend in idleness, sauntering about and
chattering nonsense. As rich Hindoos have several wives, the ladies are
not alone; and being so much together, they quarrel a great deal.
Some English ladies once visited the house of a rich Hindoo. They were
led into the court at the back of the house, and shown into a little
chamber. One by one some women came in, all looking very shy and afraid
to speak; yet dressed very fine in muslin sarees, worked with gold and
silver flowers, and they were adorned with pearls and diamonds. At last
they ventured to admire the clothes of their visitors, and even to touch
them. Then they asked the English ladies to come and see their jewels;
and they took them into a little dark chamber with gratings for windows,
and displayed their treasures. They talked very loud, and all together
and so foolishly, that the ladies reproved them. The poor creatures
replied, "We should like to learn to read and work like the English
ladies; but we have nothing to do, and so we are accustomed to be idle,
and to talk foolishly. Do come again, and bring us books, and pictures,
and dolls."
You see what useless, wearisome lives the Hindoo _ladies_ lead. Now hear
what hard and wretched lives the _poor_ women lead. The wife of a poor
man rises from her mat before it is day, and by the light of a lamp spins
cotton for the family clothing. Next she feeds the children, and sweeps
the house and yard, and cleans the brass and stone vessels. Then she
washes the rice, bruises, and boils it. By this time it is ten o'clock,
when she goes with some other women to bathe in the river, or if there be
no river near, in a great tank of rain-water. While there, she often
makes a clay image of her god, and worships it with prayers, and bowings,
and offerings of fruit and flowers, for nearly an hour. On her return
home she prepares the curry for dinner: her kitchen is a clay furnace in
the yard, and there she boils the rice. When dinner is ready, she dares
not sit down with her husband to eat it: no, she places it respectfully
before his mat, and then retires to the yard. Her little boys eat with
their father; but her little girls dine with her upon the food that is
left.
It is not the busy life she leads that makes a poor woman unhappy: it is
the ill-treatment she endures. A kind word is seldom spoken to her: but a
hard blow is often given. Her own boys are encouraged to insult her
because she is only a woman. She is taught to worship her husband as a
god, however bad he may be. There is a proverb which shows how much women
are despised in India. "How can you place the black rice-pot beside the
golden spice-box!" By the rice-box a woman is meant: by the spice-box a
man: and the meaning of the proverb is that a wife is unworthy to sit at
the same table with her husband.
In this manner a _wife_ is treated: a _widow_ is still more despised.
However young she may be, she is not allowed to marry again; but is
obliged to live in her father's house, or (if she has no father) in her
brother's house, to do the hardest work, and never to eat more than one
meal a day, and that meal of the coarsest food. Widows used to burn
themselves in a great fire with their husbands' dead bodies; but the
English government has forbidden them to do so any more; but their
hard-hearted relations make them as miserable as possible.
MISSIONARIES.--There are hundreds of missionaries in India; but not
nearly enough for so many millions of people. The Hindoos call them
Padri-Sahibs, which means "Father-Gentlemen," and they give them this
name to show their love, as well as respect.
Once a missionary who had been long in India was going back to England
for a little while. It was from Calcutta that he set sail. The Christian
Hindoos stood in crowds by the river-side to bid him farewell. Among the
rest was a little girl with her parents. She was a gracious child, who
had turned from idols to serve the living God. The missionary said to
her, "Well, my child, you know I am going to England. What shall I bring
you from that country?"
"I do not want anything," she modestly replied. "I have my parents, and
my brother, and the Padri-Sahibs, and my books, what can I want more?"
"But," said the missionary, "you are only a little girl, and surely you
would like something from England. Shall I bring you some playthings?"
"No, thank you," said the child; "I do not want playthings--I am learning
to read."
"Come, come," said the missionary, "shall I bring you a playfellow, a
white child from England!"
"No, no," answered the little girl, "it would be taking her from her
parents."
"Well then," said her friend, "is there nothing I can bring you?"
"Well, if you are so kind as to insist on bringing me something, ask the
Christians in England to send me a Bible-book and more PADRI-SAHIBS."
[Illustration: MISSIONARY'S HOUSE.]
This was a good request indeed, but to get Padri-Sahibs is a hard thing
to do. Who can tell how much good they have done already! There are many
Christian villages in India, and they are as different from heathen
villages as a dove's nest is different from a tiger's den.
Some very wicked men have been converted. You have heard of those proud
and hateful beggars, the Sunnyasees and the Fakirs.
One day a missionary, who had gone for his health to the Himalaya
Mountains, was walking in the verandah of his house, when he was
surprised by a man suddenly throwing himself down at his feet, and
embracing his knees. The missionary could not tell who this man was, for
a dark blanket covered the man's head and face. But soon the covering was
lifted up, and a swarthy and withered countenance was shown; the
missionary knew it to be that of an old Fakir he once had known, as the
chief priest of a gang of robbers, but now the Mahomedan was become a
Christian; and he had travelled six hundred miles, hoping to see once
more the face of his teacher; and lo! he had seen it at last.
SCHOOLS.--The Hindoos have schools of their own, but only for boys. The
scholars sit in a shed, cross-legged upon mats, and learn to scratch
letters with iron pins upon large leaves. But what can they learn from
Brahmin teachers but foolish tales about false gods?
Missionaries have far better schools, where the Bible is taught; and
missionaries' wives have schools for girls; and sometimes they take pity
on poor orphans, and receive them into their houses.
One evening as a Christian lady was returning home, she saw a Hindoo
woman lying on the ground, and a little boy sitting by her side. The lady
spoke kindly to the sick woman, and then the little boy looked up and
said, with tears in his eyes, "My mother is sick, and has nothing to eat;
I fear she will die." The lady had compassion on the mother and the
child, and hastening home, she sent her servant to fetch them both. They
were soon put to rest on a nice clean mat, with a blanket to cover them;
but the mother died next morning. The little boy was left an orphan, but
not forlorn, nor friendless, for the Christian lady took care of him. He
was five years old, thin and delicate, and much fairer than most Hindoo
children. He had many winning ways; but he had a proud heart. He was
proud of his name, "Ramchunda," because it was the name of a great false
god: but when he had learned about the true God, he asked for a new name,
and was called "John." His wishing to change his name was a good sign:
and there were other good signs in this little orphan; and before he
died,--for he died soon,--he showed plainly that he had not a new _name_
only, but a new _nature_.
Little Phebe was another child received by a missionary's wife. She was
not an orphan, yet she was as much to be pitied as an orphan; for her
mother told the missionaries that if they did not take the child, she
would throw her to the jackals. It was a happy exchange for the infant to
leave so cruel a mother to be reared by a Christian lady, who, instead of
throwing her to jackals, brought her to Jesus.
She died when only five years old by an accident: when washing her hands
in the great tank she fell in, and was drowned.
But some Hindoo children, though carefully instructed, do not grow gentle
and loving, like John and Phebe.
The tents of some English soldiers were pitched in a lonely part of
India; and the night was dark, when an officer's lady thought she heard
the sound of a child crying. The lady sent her servants out to look, and
at last they brought in a little girl of four years old. And where do you
think they had found her? Buried up to her throat in a bog, her little
head alone peeping out. And who do you think had put her there? Her
cruel mother. Yes, she had left her there to die.
This child gave a great deal of trouble to the kind lady who had saved
her, nor did she show her any love in return for her kindness; and after
keeping her about two years, the lady sent her to a missionary's school.
You see how cruelly mothers in India sometimes treat their children.
Their religion teaches them to be cruel.
A mother is taught to believe that if her babe is sick, an evil spirit is
angry. To please this evil spirit, she will put her babe in a basket, and
hang it up in a tree for three days. She goes then to look at it, and if
it be alive, she takes it home. But how seldom does she find it alive!
Either the ants or the vultures have eaten it, or it is starved to death.
When there is a famine in the land, many mothers will sell their children
for sixpence each: and if they cannot sell them, they will leave them to
perish.
One missionary received fifty-one poor starving children into his house:
they were always crying, "Sahib, roti, roti;" that is, "Master, bread,
bread." But the bread came to late too save their lives; for all died
except one.
Yet these sick children were very wicked.
One of them stole a brass basin, and sold it for sweetmeats. Though very
kindly treated, some of them wished to escape; and to prevent it, the
missionary tied them together in strings of fifteen;
There is a tribe in India called Khunds; and they sprinkle their fields
with children's blood, and they say this is the way to make the corn
grow. The English government once rescued eighty poor children from the
Khunds, and sent them to a Christian school. What miserable little
creatures they were when they arrived! but they were soon clothed and
comforted; and taught to hold a needle, and to know their letters; and,
better still, to pronounce the name of Jesus. Like these poor little
captives, we were all condemned to die, till Jesus rescued us, and
promised everlasting life to those who believe.