Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Courage and strength were taxed to the utmost.
_The Mirror and the Bracelet_]
THE MIRROR
AND
THE BRACELET
Or, Little Bullets from Batala
BY
A. L. O. E.
(MISS C. M. TUCKER)
AUTHOR OF "THE WHITE BEAR'S DEN," "NED FRANKS,"
"THE HARTLEY BROTHERS,"
ETC.
———————
ILLUSTRATED.
———————
London:
GALL & INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
_AND EDINBURGH._
PREFACE.
[Illustration]
THE fanciful title of my little volume is given advisedly, as
descriptive of what I desire its contents to be. In this heathen land
of India, hundreds of thousands of natives have been receiving an
education from Government, one from which religion is excluded, but
which enables them to be reached by means of the Press. Those engaged,
like myself, in Mission work, desire to give the Hindus books—cheap,
in order that they may be bought; and amusing, in order that they may
be read. If tales like the following appear to the English reader
fanciful and childish, our object is the more likely to be gained.
Natives delight in allegory, and stories are to them as the sweetmeats
that form so large a part of their feasts. Valuable commentaries and
controversial works are like heavy artillery brought up to assail the
bulwarks of idolatry, but in our missionary warfare, small bullets also
are needed. The story in this volume entitled "A Son of Healing," has
been constructed so as to divide into twelve minute books, to be sold
at less than a mite each! These are small shot indeed! Yet, if God
vouchsafe His blessing, each may hit its own mark.
I have had the advantage of the criticism of a highly-educated native,
himself a converted Hindu; one too sensible not to suggest, and too
polite to praise. He can judge better than most Europeans can, what
is likely to strike his countrymen. Though I have been more than
three years in India, were I to treble the time, I should feel my own
ignorance still.
Instead of encumbering my story with long footnotes, it seemed better
to place under separate headings a little information regarding Goru
Nanak, the founder of the Sikh religion, &c., which may be new to some
English readers. I am indebted for this information to a small history
of the Punjab, written by a native, in a simple, amusing style and for
the translations from the Granth to Dr. Trumpp's large and valuable
work.
In conclusion, I would earnestly ask the reader to join in a prayer
that the time may speedily come when such childish tales as "THE
MIRROR AND THE BRACELET" may be as little needed in India as in our
own favoured land. It is possible that the earnestness of the prayer
may be increased by the glimpse given in the following pages of the
degrading thraldom in which millions of our fellow-creatures, our
fellow-subjects, are held by Satan, the father of lies!
A. L. O. E.,
_Hon. Missionary of Batála, Punjab._
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
THE MIRROR AND THE BRACELET
CHAPTER I. THE TIGER
CHAPTER II. THE ROYAL GIFTS
CHAPTER III. THE TYRANT AND SLAVE
CHAPTER IV. THE JANEO
CHAPTER V. THE MESSENGER
CHAPTER VI. WILD DREAMS
CHAPTER VII. ON PILGRIMAGE
CHAPTER VIII. THE WARNING
CHAPTER IX. HEALING
CHAPTER X. THE SACRIFICE OF PRIDE
CHAPTER XI. THE PARABLE EXPLAINED
GORU NANAK
KABIR
A SON OF HEALING
CHAPTER I. THE DOCTOR'S CHARMS
CHAPTER II. THE BALLOON
CHAPTER III. THE THREE CASKETS
CHAPTER IV. KILLING WITH KINDNESS
CHAPTER V. DYING FOR A FRIEND
CHAPTER VI. HELP IN NEED
CHAPTER VII. DOING HIS DUTY
CHAPTER VIII. A LITTLE LAMP
CHAPTER IX. GANESH THE MILKMAN
CHAPTER X. AN ACCEPTABLE OFFERING
CHAPTER XI. THE WILD ELEPHANT
CHAPTER XII. TWO MARRIAGES
NOTE ON HURDWAN FAIR
THE MIRROR AND THE BRACELET.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE TIGER.
HEAR ye the story of the adventures and misfortunes of Bandhu. O Hindu
reader! Perhaps you will find that he is one well-known unto you.
The mother of Bandhu went on a pilgrimage, and took her son with her.
He was then seven years of age. The pilgrimage was a long one, the
woman was poor; the flour which she carried with her was little for
one, and quite insufficient for two.
Bandhu fell grievously sick; sores spread over his body; he had no
strength to walk. His mother lifted him up, and carried him a short
distance; but she was tired, hungry, and sad, and soon laid him down on
the ground. Bandhu grew worse and worse; he moaned aloud in his pain;
then his senses left him, and he lay on the earth as one dead.
The mother wailed aloud and cried, "What an unlucky day is this! What
wretch's face did I happen to see early this morning? Hae! Hae! What
shall I do? If I stay here, I shall perish with hunger, or some wild
beast will devour me! The boy is dying; I cannot save him; why should I
perish with him?"
So the mother of Bandhu did what many who go on long pilgrimages are
constrained to do, she left the one who was dearest to her upon earth
to die alone! Bandhu, happily for him, knew not that his mother was
departing. He saw not her form disappearing behind the tall bamboos;
he heard not the sound of her wailing. He lay quite alone, sick and
senseless, a poor helpless object, from which a stranger might have
turned in disgust.
But when the sun went down, there was a stirring in the bamboos. The
bushes parted on either side. Had Bandhu awoke from his trance, he
would have seen the huge head, the glaring eyes, the mouth with its
terrible fangs, of a large yellow-striped tiger. The tread of the beast
made no sound; he saw his prey lying before him. Crouching like a cat,
the tiger drew nearer and nearer; it seemed certain that the deserted
boy would be torn to pieces, and devoured by the forest monster.
But whilst the tiger crept forward from the left hand, some one was
approaching from the right. This was a tall, noble-looking man, richly
dressed, from whose mien the truth might be guessed that his rank was
that of a king. Never had a grander trodden the earth. He had just
conquered that land; all that he surveyed was his own, and won by his
prowess. Enemies might hate the king, but they could not withstand his
victorious sword; they laid down their arms, they brought tribute, and
crouched submissive before his feet.
The king had ridden forth that day to hunt, with a numerous suite of
attendants; but because he was better mounted than any of them, he had
outstripped them all, and now he rode alone. There was not so much as a
syce to hold his golden stirrup. The king's horse at last falling lame,
his rider had dismounted, and after tying his bridle to a tree, had
determined to rejoin his attendants on foot. It was then that the king
came on the place where Bandhu lay stretched on the earth, within reach
of the tiger's spring.
Perhaps out of a million men there would have been but one who would
not have left the wretched, diseased child to his fate. Of all princes
there would have been but one who would not have thought, "To save so
worthless a life I never will risk my own. I am of lofty degree, he is
some wretched beggar; better that a host of such should die than a hair
of my head should suffer."
But the mighty king was that exceptional one. His heart was a treasury
of compassion, and every one of his subjects, even those of this
newly-conquered land, was dear in his sight. Silently the king drew his
sword from its jewelled scabbard, and rushing across the space which
divided him from the tiger, he wounded the creature deeply, as he was
in the act to spring on the child.
Then followed such a conflict between the king and the wild beast as
would have terrified any beholder. The king was of mighty strength
and great courage, but courage and strength were taxed to the utmost.
The tiger fixed claws and teeth in the flesh of the man, he tore, he
struggled, he pulled down his brave assailant, he rolled him in the
dust; the wild beast growled and roared till the jungle echoed with the
sound. The king, though in peril and agony, never lost his presence
of mind. He wounded the tiger again and again. The monarch's arm was
strong and his sword was sharp, and after a terrible conflict, he
succeeded in winning the victory. The savage tiger, like the king's
other enemies, felt himself conquered. Howling, he limped off to the
jungle, leaving a track of blood-drops behind him.
The king was sorely hurt, and felt faint after the struggle. From many
wounds blood was flowing; never throughout his life would he lose the
marks of the fangs of the terrible beast. Yet his first thought was for
the poor boy whose preservation had cost him so dear. When the king's
astonished attendants rode up to the spot, and one, kneeling, offered
to the weary prince water from a cup of gold, the king, with his own
bleeding hands, poured the refreshing draught into the fever-dried
mouth of the boy.
O Reader! Was there ever such love? Was there anything in that
wretched, loathsome object to draw it forth? No; it welled up freely
from the heart of the king even as the pure fountain gusheth forth
and reviveth even the parched weed, and giveth drink to the humbled
reptile. Yet hath there been seen on earth love greater even than this.
CHAPTER II.
THE ROYAL GIFTS.
THE king ordered that every care should be taken of the wretched
Bandhu, who was not even conscious of the danger from which he had
been saved; whose eyes and senses were closed so that he saw not his
preserver.
"I have purchased him with my blood," said the king. "From this day
forth I adopt him as my own child."
Bandhu could not, however, remain in the king's immediate presence.
The monarch was bound for distant provinces, and the child was in no
state to travel. By the king's kindness, arrangements were made for his
comfort. The monarch who ruled over a thousand provinces, and whose
command mighty armies obeyed, could deign to give thought and care to a
sick beggar-child found in a jungle.
The chief sirdar of the conquered land was ordered to take charge of
the boy, as having the character of being a kind and respectable man.
"I will send monthly a sum sufficient to provide my adopted child with
every comfort," said the king. "When he has recovered his health, look
to his education, let him have the best masters. It may be long ere I
call him to my court, but it is my will that he be prepared to dwell
there. Now let his sores be looked to; feed him well, take off his
rags, and let him be dressed as befits the adopted son of a king."
"To hear is to obey, O Protector of the Universe!" said he who had
received the command.
The king was not content with doing thus much for his boy. He endowed
him with two valuable gifts, such as none but himself could bestow. The
one was a small mirror in a frame of the purest gold. This was such
a marvellous mirror that, whatever might be the present need of its
possessor, suitable words of counsel, comfort, or warning flashed forth
from its frame, while the glass reflected every object with faultless
accuracy and distinctness.
The other gift was a bracelet of very high value; but this value was
less from the jewels with which it was studded, than from a marvellous
property which it possessed. When any danger approached the wearer, it
pressed his wrist with greater or less force, according to the degree
of the danger.
Then having done so much for the boy who had never thanked nor even
known him, the boy who had cost him so much danger and pain, the great
king took his departure. How Bandhu fared after his benefactor had left
him will be seen in the following chapter.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
THE TYRANT AND SLAVE.
THE sirdar in whose hands little Bandhu was left was a mild but
indolent man. He soon made over his charge to Farebwala, a villain who,
by wicked arts, had risen into power, and who was full of covetousness,
cruelty, and deceit. But the prevailing motive that influenced
Farebwala was deep hatred to the king, and a determination to thwart
his wishes in all things. As he dared not do so openly, he resolved to
succeed by guile.
"I care not to destroy this wretched boy," he said to himself; "it will
suit me better month by month to enjoy nine-tenths of the money sent
for his use by the king. What does this beggar want with education? If
it be possible, I will keep him with me always, and when he grows up to
be a man, I will make him my slave. I dare not altogether deprive him
of his mirror and bracelet, but he shall never have any use of them,
for if he be warned against falsehood and sin, he will soon escape
from my power. I will fasten up the king's gifts in the black bag of
Ignorance, and hang them as a charm round the neck of Bandhu. I will
persuade the boy that ruin will overtake him if he ever open that bag."
When Farebwala received Bandhu, the child was partly cured of his
sores, and likely to turn out an intelligent boy. Farebwala, feared
that should Bandhu ever hear the story of his own deliverance from the
tiger, and the wondrous kindness of the king, the boy would love his
benefactor, and wish to join him. Farebwala, therefore, with great art,
took every care that Bandhu should hear nothing of what had passed when
he lay unconscious in the jungle.
Nor was this sufficient to satisfy the malice of this great evil-doer;
he could not prevent the poor boy's knowing of the existence of a
powerful king, but he did everything in his power to misrepresent and
slander the virtuous monarch, so that the child might dread to go
near him. Farebwala told Bandhu that all the nobles at the court were
monsters of evil, each more vile than the other, and that the king let
them riot in evil unchecked. The cruel Farebwala succeeded but too well
in not only defrauding the poor boy of his rights, and making the gifts
of his king useless, but also in poisoning his mind.
Years passed. Bandhu was increasing fast both in height and
intelligence, and sometimes asked questions which showed that he was
able to reflect. Farebwala became alarmed lest he should lose his slave
and the income derived from robbing him. Several letters and messages,
as well as the regular supply of rupees, had come from the absent king,
but care was taken by Farebwala that they should never reach the poor
boy. Farebwala still feared that by some chance a letter might come
into the hands of Bandhu, or that he might possibly at last open his
bag, and so be enlightened by the mirror or warned by the bracelet.
Farebwala had a noxious drug whose effect is gradually to weaken the
mind without hindering the growth or lessening the strength of the
body. This vile drug is called Superstition; it grows in unwholesome
marshes, and its fruit only ripens in darkness. Farebwala secretly
mingled this drug with the poor boy's food. The effect was but too soon
apparent. Bandhu seemed almost to lose the power to distinguish between
right and wrong. He believed every lie that was spoken by Farebwala;
his heart was hardened, his mind was darkened. As for opening the bag
in which the king's precious gifts lay useless, he would as soon have
thought of eating it for food.
Oh, Reader! Was there ever cruelty like that of Farebwala? He was
not content with robbing a poor boy of his rights; he must dull his
mind and corrupt his heart. Reader, beware! One worse than Farebwala
is still in the world. He, too, is seeking slaves, and making them
wretched. Beware, lest as the venomous serpent stealthily approaches
its victim, he be not at this moment drawing nigh unto you.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
THE JANEO. *
AFTER Bandhu had eaten of the vile drug Superstition, he was more ready
than before to fall into every species of evil. Also, like one whose
natural thirst is increased by fever, Bandhu became more anxious than
ever to obtain an honour for which he had longed for years. This honour
was that of wearing a janeo. There had been nothing on the child, when
found in the jungle, to denote to what caste he belonged; he had been
almost destitute of clothing.
* The janeo is a cord which the two highest castes of Hindus, the
Brahmins (priest) and Chhatri (warrior), are entitled to wear. It is
generally, with some ceremonies, given to boys at the age of eight
or nine. "This janeo has the two ends joined, goes over the right
shoulder, and comes down to the waist on the left side. The time when
the janeo is given is an important period in the life of a Brahmin;
before this period he is considered a mere child, and as possessed of
no religion, and he can eat without bathing, or performing puja or
worship."—From Ishuree Dás's "Domestic Manners and Customs."
When Bandhu recovered from his illness, he remembered little of
what had happened to him before it; of his native village he could
only say that its name ended in pur; of his home, that there was a
tall date-tree outside it, and some brazen vessels within. Bandhu
recollected also that goats browsed near the place, and that sometimes
a string of camels passed by. But one idea was rooted in the boy's
mind; and that was, that his father had a janeo. This would, of course,
give his son a right to wear the janeo also. But, for a long time,
Farebwala kept the hopes of being invested with the coveted string
before Bandhu as a prize is held before the scholar, or a reward before
the soldier.
When Bandhu was almost fourteen, and therefore long past the age at
which boys of the two highest castes usually receive the sacred cord,
the lad could no longer endure to be fed only with hopes. Farebwala was
about to go on a journey, and a fear arose in his mind that during his
absence some message might reach his poor victim from the merciful king.
"Nothing will be more likely to keep Bandhu in my service," thought the
tyrant, "than to invest him with the janeo. No one is suffered to wear
such a thing at the court of the king; and if the weak-witted boy be
suffered in this manner to have his own way, he will be more likely to
be submissive to me in others."
So a Brahmin was consulted on the difficult question of Bandhu's caste.
The Brahmin was the creature of Farebwala, and for a few rupees was
ready to tell any amount of lies. After fasting and using arts of
divination, the old man declared that the secret had been revealed to
him. Bandhu was the son of a Chhatri, and as such might be invested
with the holy string. The ceremony, accordingly, took place with all
accustomed forms.
Farebwala took another precaution to prevent any chance of Bandhu's
receiving a message from the king. He made the Brahmin recommend the
young Chhatri to undertake a pilgrimage to some holy place about eighty
miles distant. This would be at once a proof of his piety and of his
manhood. Bandhu, whose head was almost turned by the dignity of wearing
a string, and the effect of the tyrant's drug, would have agreed to
the pilgrimage had he had to crawl on his chest all the way. It was
therefore settled that on the day after that on which Farebwala should
depart on his journey, the young pilgrim should start on his, going
alone as far as a village some sixteen miles distant, where he would
join a party, bound, like himself, for the holy place.
Soon after this arrangement was made, Farebwala set off to do mischief
in some other place, for he never ceased from evil. As naturally as the
king sought to make men happy, so naturally Farebwala tried to make
them wretched. There are no means so certain to gain this end as that
of leading men into sin.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
THE MESSENGER.
FAREBWALA had gone, though but for a time. It was morning; Bandhu had
bathed, and holding water in his hands had offered it to the sun.
He had then resumed his upper garments, which were of a very shabby
description, for Farebwala spent very little of the boy's own money
upon him. Bandhu stretched himself on the ground, listening to the
songs of some wild young companions near, songs which I could not write
down without blotting my pages. The janeo was to the weak-minded Bandhu
what a new toy is to a child; he was perpetually feeling for the end of
the string to be sure that he actually wore it.
Presently the songs ceased, and a voice from another quarter,
exquisitely sweet, began to recite the following verses of the renowned
Goru Nanak:—
"Kindness, the cotton; Contentment, the thread; Truth, the twist,—this
be the sacred cord of the creature; thou O Pandit! put it on. This does
not break, nor doth filth stick to it, nor is it burnt, nor does it go
off. Blessed is that man, O Nanak, who departs, having put this on his
neck."
Bandhu turned his head to see who was the reciter of the verses, and
beheld a fair youth, simply dressed, but in pure white garments, and
with a face most pleasant to look on, for kindness and love were
written upon it.
"Who are you? Your countenance is new to me," said Bandhu to the
stranger.
"My name is Prem Chand, and I am a messenger from the king," was the
reply.
The words drew around the young stranger Bandhu's companions.
One of them exclaimed, "You a messenger from the king! Where are your
credentials?"
"I have such credentials to show," replied Prem Chand, "as will
infallibly prove me to be a messenger from the lord of a thousand
realms." He took a roll from his bosom, but not one of his hearers
could read.
"Wherefore come you?" asked Bandhu.
"I come on your account," was the reply; "if you be, as I suppose,
Bandhu, he whom my sovereign saved from destruction, he for whose
welfare the king has so tenderly cared."
"My name is Bandhu, and I know that there is a king," said he of the
janeo, "but as for his saving or caring for me, of that I know nothing
at all. I am an attendant of the great Farebwala, and what I require he
provides."
An expression first of indignation, then of deep sadness, passed over
the face of Prem Chand. He could not speak quite so freely as he would
otherwise have done, because of Bandhu's companions, who continued to
throng around, some from curiosity, some to find some theme for mocking.
"My lord the king hath sent me to call you to himself," said the
messenger gently; "he offers to his adopted son a welcome and a home."
Farebwala had so poisoned the mind of the wretched Bandhu, that he
regarded his royal benefactor with some fear, but nothing like love.
The lad had not the slightest wish to appear before the king, and with
some impatience, he exclaimed, "Even were your message true, which I do
not believe, I could not possibly go to the court now, as I start on a
pilgrimage to a holy place to-morrow."
"Yes," cried his companions together, "Bandhu is going on holy
pilgrimage."
"About as holy as the songs which you were singing just now," observed
Prem Chand.
"What! See you no merit in pilgrimage!" exclaimed Bandhu, with mingled
surprise and displeasure. "You will next say that there is no merit in
bathing in holy rivers, or in the austerities of the Jogi." *
Prem Chand replied in the words of the sage Kabir—
"If by wandering about naked union † be obtained,
Then every deer of the forest will become emancipated.
If by shaving the head perfection is obtained,
The sheep is emancipated, no one is lost.
Who perform ablution in the evening, and at dawn
They become like frogs in the water."
* Men who, to acquire fancied merit, put themselves to various
tortures; some holding up an arm till it withers, or clenching a hand
till its nails grow into the flesh.
† Union—that is absorption into the Divine nature, which leaves no
individual sense of existence. "When by thousands of meritorious acts
through a great many successive births, a man becomes perfectly holy,
he becomes one with the Supreme Being, just as a drop becomes one with
the ocean by falling into it."—Rev. Ishuree Dás's "Domestic Manners and
Customs."
The young men around burst out laughing; Bandhu looking perplexed. His
mind, drugged with superstition, was too dull to take in at once the
wit of the ancient poet of Hindustan. But a Brahmin had approached
the spot whilst Prem Chand was speaking, and had listened with a
countenance darkened by anger. This was the same Brahmin as he who had
pretended to find out by divination that Bandhu was a Chhatri; while
the real truth was that the boy's father was a herdsman, and that the
string which his fancy had turned into a janeo, was in fact only one
used for tying up goats. The wise Brahmin knew nothing of this, and
merely said, for the sake of a few rupees, what Farebwala told him to
say. For the bribe of a hundred rupees, he would have declared the
herdsman's child to be the son of a rajah.
"Who are you, O ass, and son of an ass, who would pour contempt on holy
devotees!" cried the angry Brahmin.
The youths around, easily moved to mirth or to mockery—as the chaff is
whirled round by a light puff of wind—joined in the insulting Cry, "O
ass, and son of an ass!"
Prem Chand kept his temper, and waited till the noise had sunk into
silence, before he made reply to the Brahmin.
"I came for a day's hospitality, I came with a message from the king,"
he began.
But the Brahmin cut him short with the words, "We want neither you nor
your message! The jackal who sneaks into the camp, finds there nothing
to eat, but blows. Go to him who sent you, and come near us no more!"
"Go back to him who sent you!" echoed the youths; and one of them,
picking up a handful of dust, threw it over the messenger's pure white
garments.
"Is this your treatment of strangers who seek your hospitality?" said
Prem Chand. "Is it not written in the Rájneet, 'Even towards an enemy
going to our house the offices of hospitality must be exercised, as the
tree impedes not even the woodcutter who stands under its shade.'"
The mild manner in which insult had been borne, and the graceful
proverb so aptly quoted, were not without some effect. Prem Chand was
suffered to retire without further molestation. The hospitality denied
to him by Bandhu and his companions, the king's messenger found in the
tent of a poor shepherd.
Prem Chand, though baffled in his first attempt to deliver his message,
had by no means lost hope.
"I must not go to Bandhu when he is surrounded by his gay associates,"
said Prem Chand to himself, "nor when that old Brahmin is near. I will
return in a few hours, in the heat of the day, when he may be resting
alone. I have that to tell Bandhu which must stir his heart, if any
heart beat in his bosom. From his shabby appearance, I can see that he
has been cruelly cheated, and from his conversation I learn that he
has been grossly deceived. Bandhu has doubtless been kept ignorant in
order that he may safely be robbed. Any labour I shall count light, any
insult I shall readily bear, if I can but rescue this poor victim from
Farebwala, and bring him in safety to his merciful king."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
WILD DREAMS.
BANDHU had spent the morning in gambling with his idle companions; as
the day grew hot, they separated to smoke the hookah, or doze away
the languid hours in some shady place. In a garden-house lay Bandhu
stretched on the ground alone, lazily watching the movements of a
lizard on the wall. So still was the sultry air, that not even a leaf
quivered on the branches of the peepul tree.
Presently some object came between Bandhu and the daylight. Turning his
head a little, Bandhu saw Prem Chand, who courteously greeted the lad.
"Are you now at leisure, O brother!" the king's messenger said. "To
hear the story of a sick boy rescued from the fangs of a tiger? The
story cannot fail to interest you, as it concerns yourself."
"I have no dislike to hearing stories," replied Bandhu, carelessly; "if
it be a good one, it will amuse me, if dull, it will lull me to sleep."
Prem Chand sat down on the ground beside Bandhu, and in simple touching
words gave the story of the poor boy deserted in the jungle, telling of
his preservation by the king, and the monarch's generous adoption of
the child whom he had saved.
It may have been from coldness of heart, or from the effect of the drug
given by Farebwala, but whatever the cause may be, Bandhu listened
to the tale with little concern. He seemed to be more interested in
watching whether the lizard would catch a fly, or in noticing any
trifling peculiarity in the dress of the stranger, than in hearing of
the deadly struggle on the result of which his own life had hung.
Prem Chand again and again felt inclined to stop in his story, for it
pained him to have such a careless listener. Was ever hearer so dull?
Yes, reader, I have witnessed such dulness when the story told was of
far deeper interest than the tale of the rescued child!
When the tale was concluded, seeing that Bandhu had latterly been
listening with a little more attention, Prem Chand thus spake:
"Did not the rescued boy owe a deep debt of love and gratitude to the
king?"
A nod was the only reply.
"And now, O Bandhu, have you paid it? Do you not know that you yourself
are the helpless sick child, saved from the jaws of the tiger?"
"I don't believe your story, not a word of it!" cried Bandhu. "I never
lay in a jungle covered with sores. I am a Chhatri, a twice-born; I was
never in danger from any wild beast."
"Farebwala, for his own purposes, has concealed the truth from you,"
answered Prem Chand; "but you have a simple way of finding out whether
he or I have spoken falsehood. Where is the truth-telling mirror, where
the precious bracelet given to you by the king?"
Bandhu answered by a stupid stare. He did not at first even understand
what was meant by the stranger.
"I mean the mirror which reflects with perfect accuracy, and on
whose golden frame words appear which, in every varying case, every
difficulty, every danger, show us what we should do."
"I never saw such a mirror," said Bandhu.
"And have you never worn the bracelet that, by pressure on the wrist,
gives warning when anything approaches to harm?"
"I never wore it," replied the lad.
"I see a black bag hung round your neck, what may it contain?" asked
Prem Chand.
"It is a charm; I know not what is in the bag," was Bandhu's reply.
"Search and see!" cried Prem Chand, whose quick eye, through the
covering of ignorance, detected the shape of the mirror, and even,
though dimly, its brightness.
"I will never open the bag," said Bandhu, with petulance; "why should
you come and trouble me thus, why meddle with things which do not
concern you?"
"Because I am bound to obey the command of the king," replied the
faithful messenger; "besides, I am moved with pity for a youth whom I
see to be wronged and deceived. Had the king's plans been carried out,
and the money sent by him been applied to its proper use, you would
never have been dressed in such coarse, soiled garments as those which
you wear. You would have received the education fit for the adopted son
of a king, instead of wasting your time in idleness or something worse.
You must feel, O Bandhu, that you are not prepared to stand in the
presence of our great king."
"I am in no haste to go to him," said Bandhu.
"What! Not to make one of the honoured band who, in goodly raiment,
surround his throne, and find their delight in his service! If you but
knew the glories of his court—"
Bandhu would not let Prem Chand finish his sentence.
"I know all, I have heard everything a thousand times from Farebwala!"
cried Bandhu. "I can tell you many a story of the princes and
princesses who dwell at the court."
"I have told you my story," said Prem Chand, "and now am ready to hear
yours."
He half repented of his words, however, when he heard the stream of
disgusting nonsense which flowed from the mouth of the half-besotted
Bandhu. I will give but a small portion of what he, with evident
relish, repeated to his shocked listener.
"There is one prince, worthy of all reverence, who is perpetually
drunk. He has been known to wander about in cemeteries and places for
burning the dead, smearing his body with ashes, and wearing a necklace
of skulls. He has five faces and three eyes; him ever contemplate with
veneration."
"Alas!" sighed Prem Chand to himself. "This unhappy youth must be mad!"
"Then there is a princess, Kali is her name, worthy of all reverence.
With a sword in her hand she killed many giants, and danced in ecstacy
over dead bodies, till she found that she was dancing on the breast of
her husband. Then seeing her mistake, she put out her tongue, and—"
"Stop! Stop!" cried Prem Chand, in amazement and disgust. "Monsters
such as these never existed in the court of our king!"
"My favourite princess," continued Bandhu, "she in whose service I
should always desire to be, is she who delights in the offering of a
human head, and sacrifice of little children. There is another—"
"I can hear no more!" exclaimed Prem Chand, rising. "With what wild
dreams, like those caused by opium, has your brain been filled! Most
earnestly do I assure you that in all these horrible fables there is
not one atom of truth. If such fearful criminals as you have described
have been ever found in the court of a virtuous king, they would
assuredly have been handed over to the executioner. Crimes not to be
tolerated in mean men, would not go without punishment in those of
loftier ranks. Count you such beings worthy of reverence? Did such
exist, they would be only worthy of detestation! O Bandhu! You must
have eaten of the drug Superstition, and it is gradually destroying
your mind, for it is as mould on the garment, or rust on the steel.
Once more I earnestly entreat you to open the bag in which your
treasures are doubtless concealed. Find from your bracelet whether to
indulge such wild fancies be not sin, and from your mirror into what
endless misery and ruin such sin must lead! Have mercy on yourself, O
Bandhu! And let not the warning of a true friend be heard in vain!"
"Leave me! I am weary of your unasked-for counsels!" exclaimed the
weak-witted Bandhu. "If I choose to believe in a prince with an
elephant's head or a hundred arms, what is it to you? If I choose to do
puja to a monkey or snake, why should it trouble your peace? I believe
but what millions believe; I do but what multitudes do."
"And if multitudes, on a dark night, not seeing a precipice before
them, fall over into the depths and miserably perish, shall I, who have
light, calmly look on and not utter a word of warning?" cried Prem
Chand.
But he spake as to the deaf adder. Bandhu, even when the king's
messenger was uttering his earnest appeal, closed his eyes in
weariness, and in a few momenta dropped asleep.
Prem Chand, breathing a deep sigh, a second time turned from the place.
CHAPTER VII.
ON PILGRIMAGE.
THE next day Bandhu started alone for the place at which he was to join
the band of pilgrims. He took nothing with him but a small brass vessel
for drinking, his hookah, some ready-cooked food, and his black bag of
Ignorance tied round his neck. Since his last conversation with Prem
Chand a little curiosity as to the contents of the bag, the mirror,
and the bracelet, which by feeling he ascertained to be there, had
arisen in the mind of Bandhu; but his brain was so much weakened by
Superstition that he had not the courage to take his own property out
of the covering of Ignorance in which Farebwala had wrapped it.
"Who knows what might happen if I did but glance into the mirror?"
thought Bandhu. "And I should be afraid to put on the bracelet lest its
pinching should destroy all my ease. It is pleasanter sometimes not to
know when danger is near."
There are in the world many Superstition-drugged men and women, who are
as cowardly and foolish as Bandhu. They are afraid of self-knowledge;
they dread that opening of their blind eyes which will bring humility
and wisdom.
Bandhu, when the time for mid-day rest had come, had reached a small
mango-tope (grove) under the shade of which he found two men. From
their appearance, he guessed them to be Chhatris, though they were no
more Chhatris than he was.
The elder was still a vigorous man, though his hair was turning grey
with age. An expression of great cunning marked his features. The other
man was his son, and yet in the prime of life, but his face was bloated
and his eyes were sunken with self-indulgence, so that he looked almost
as old as his father. The name of the elder was Idolatry, that of his
son was Vice.
These two sat smoking their hookahs, and Bandhu, who was tired of being
alone, very willingly joined them.
The men received him with great politeness, and the three were
presently chatting together as if they had been old friends. Bandhu, in
reply to a question, informed the strangers whither he was going.
"We are bound thither also," said the elderly man, "to do puja at the
holy place, bathe, and make our offerings. Let us all travel together."
"I desire nothing better," replied Bandhu, "it suits not my taste to
travel alone."
"Besides there might be danger," suggested the younger man. "In these
lonely parts there is no saying whom one might meet."
"Perhaps Dacoits or Thugs," * said the timorous Bandhu, and
intuitively, he laid his hand on his bag.
* Dacoits are a kind of highwaymen who rob in gangs. Thugs were a set
of professional murderers, who strangled unsuspecting travellers,
under the supposed sanction of one of their demon-like goddesses. The
following description of these murderers is extracted from the work of
Ishuree Dás, before quoted:—
"Thousands of these Thugs have been exterminated by the British
Government, but there are some still found here and there. These Thugs
will follow a traveller for days until they get an opportunity to kill
him. Once a traveller, who was known to have some money with him,
was followed by Thugs for more than two hundred and sixty miles; the
farmer was wide-awake, and was always on his guard, never smoking their
tobacco, nor being familiar with them. At last he got near home, though
the Thugs did not know that; and while all were sitting in a bunniah's
shop in the forenoon to get some refreshment, the man pretended to go
out for a few minutes, of course with his things; but he crossed a few
fields, and safely arrived at home.
"Once a woman with her little boy and some money and jewels was
pursued for some time by two women who were Thuggins. They pretended
to be travellers, and always remained in company with this woman, who
used to give them now and then part of her food, as dál and cakes and
rice. It was observed by the boy that they ate the cake or rice that
was given them, but dál (which has salt put in it at the time of being
cooked) was always thrown away. He suspected they were Thuggins, and
said so to his mother.
"The dál they threw away, because they believed it would be a great sin
to kill a person whose salt they had eaten. In the saráes or inns the
woman used to take a separate room from the Thuggins. Once the latter
thought that they had an opportunity to despatch the woman, and in
the darkness of the night, one of them took a dagger and softly stole
towards her; but the woman got hold of it and the Thuggin, and cried
out. People instantly came to her help and secured the Thuggin."
"What is in that bag?" asked the old man with curiosity.
"A wondrous mirror, as I have heard, and a jewelled bracelet," replied
the incautious lad.
The two men exchanged glances with each other, but the dull-witted
Bandhu never noticed the look.
For some hours these three rested in the mango-tope. The two men slept,
or appeared to sleep, but the eyes of Bandhu did not close. He could
not help thinking over the words which he had heard from Prem Chand.
After a while his companions raised their heads, and seating themselves
on the grass, again resumed their hookahs.
"The heat is not now so great; shall we proceed on our journey?" said
Bandhu, who from some undefined misgiving wished to join the larger
band of pilgrims without much delay.
Idolatry, however, objected to starting at once, on the score of some
evil omens that had shown him that the day was unlucky. "We shall
proceed to-morrow, before daylight," he said.
Bandhu, having been drugged by Superstition, very much feared unlucky
days, and was easily persuaded to stop with his new companions.
Many a tale was told to beguile the time, the supposed Chhatris were
adepts in telling stories. Idolatry recounted much of the history of
his own family, which to any one who had not drunk of the poison of
Superstition would have appeared very horrible indeed. Many a widow
in that family had been burnt alive on the funeral pile. Idolatry
delighted in giving the details, and telling of the courage and
devotion of the women, but he told not how many had been stupefied by
bang, or how many had been really, but secretly, kept from springing
from their bed of flames, by long bamboos held down by the Brahmins.
Stories of shrieking babes flung by their own mothers into rivers, of
poor wretches crushed beneath the ponderous wheels of an idol-car, in
the vain hope of saving their souls by destroying their bodies, in
tales such as these Idolatry delighted.
And his besotted hearer actually expressed approval, actually wished
that he had been present when such monstrous crimes were committed!
Oxen and buffaloes would have taken no delight in beholding such
murders, but Superstition had sunk Bandhu to slower level than that of
the brutes!
Then Vice, child of Idolatry, told his stories; but at their nature I
will not even hint. Had not Bandhu been utterly debased by the drug
given by Farebwala, he would have closed his ears with his hands, or
quitted the place in disgust. Reader! Have your ears ever drunk in such
stories, and have you ever dared to connect them in any way with the
sacred name of religion?
At sunset the three pilgrims performed their devotions, and Bandhu
particularly noticed how careful were his companions to perform theirs
in the most orthodox way, with ablutions and many repetitions of the
name of Rám.
"How pious are these Chhatris!" thought he.
The two men made a little fireplace for themselves, and cooked their
victuals.
Bandhu had brought his food ready prepared, and as his companions
showed that they preferred eating alone, he took his meal a little
apart.
Darkness was gathering round, which made the small fire by which the
strangers prepared their meal more distinctly visible. The moon had
not yet risen. Bandhu, who had been unable to sleep at noon, was just
dropping asleep, when he was startled by a light touch on his arm.
He was about to call out in his fear, when a low voice beside him
whispered, "Silence! If you love your life, be still!"
Bandhu, looking up, in the faint light could just distinguish the form
of Prem Chand bending over him.
"Fly, while there yet is time!" continued Prem Chand, in the same low
but earnest tone. "Yonder men, whose names are Idolatry and Vice, are
well-known Thugs."
Bandhu started, and a cold perspiration broke over him at the dreaded
word.
But Bandhu's terror was not sufficient to give him wisdom. He was
determined to put faith in no warning uttered by the messenger of the
king. As he had said in the garden-house before, so he said now, "I do
not believe one word of what you tell me!"
"Oh, most unhappy, deluded boy! How can I save you in spite of
yourself!" exclaimed Prem Chand. In his exceeding anxiety to preserve
the life of the youth, he made an attempt by seizing his arm, to force
Bandhu to rise from the ground.
This roused the lad's anger; wrenching himself from Prem Chand's hold,
Bandhu struck him twice in the face, then catching up a stone, he
exclaimed as he threatened to fling it, "Oh dog! Will nothing short of
stoning drive you away?"
"Vainly warned and doomed one!" cried Prem Chand. "For the third time I
leave you! Your blood is not on my soul!" And again with a heavy heart
and deep sigh the messenger left the wretched victim whom he had vainly
endeavoured to save.
Reader! Has ever such sorrow been felt, such sighs been breathed for
you? Have you been warned against Idolatry and Vice, and given no heed
to warning?
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
THE WARNING.
"THE world is a room of lamp-black; the blind fall into it," says the
proverb.
Assuredly Bandhu was one of the blind when he made friends with
Idolatry and Vice. Yet the blind who see not danger may be saved by the
friendly grasp of one who has eyes.
When a seed has been dropped into earth, he from whose hand it fell may
little know that it is swelling and growing under the earth. Prem Chand
thought that his advice and warnings were utterly lost upon Bandhu,
that he himself had been insulted, threatened, and struck, and all to
no purpose. But in this the king's messenger was mistaken.
Bandhu might wrench away his arm from the hold of his true friend, but
he could not get his words out of his mind.
Scarcely had Prem Chand's form disappeared in the darkness before
Bandhu began to think over what he had heard.
Bandhu looked at the face of Idolatry, dimly seen by the red firelight,
and thought that, notwithstanding all his ablutions and prayers, he
looked wondrously like a demon. As for Vice, no one could behold him at
that moment without seeing evil stamped on his face.
"Shall I fly?" thought Bandhu. He hesitated, he doubted, he was
equally afraid of going or staying. His mind was in a miserable state
of indecision. Sometimes he succeeded in persuading himself that Prem
Chand must be in the wrong, sometimes his own trembling heart assured
him that Prem Chand must be in the right.
The fire completely died out; but behold! A soft silver light was seen
behind the trees, for the moon was rising. Bandhu glanced uneasily
towards the fireplace, but saw nothing of the supposed Chhatris.
"If I but knew the real truth, if I could set my mind at rest, what a
relief it would be!" muttered the poor frightened boy.
Again he thought of the treasures hidden in the bag of Ignorance, they
at least could give him knowledge of the truth, if there were any
foundation for what Prem Chand had told him about these gifts from the
king. Bandhu had always foolishly dreaded opening the bag, but a yet
greater dread was upon him now, that of being murdered by Thugs.
With a trembling hand Bandhu unloosened the string which fastened the
bag round his neck, and first took out the bracelet, which he slipped
on his arm. There was no difficulty in doing this; but the next moment
Bandhu could hardly suppress a cry of pain, for the bracelet grasped
his wrist tightly, as if it would cut into the flesh, even to the
bone! Here indeed was a warning against Idolatry and Vice, surely
danger—great danger must be near!
In terror Bandhu pulled forth his mirror, dropping as he did so the
black bag of Ignorance in which it so long had lain hidden. He gazed
by the moonlight upon the mirror; from the frame flashed forth in
red light the word "Beware!" And behold! In the glass Bandhu saw
reflected not only his own frightened face, but almost close behind
him the horrible countenances of the two Thugs, stealing up with the
deadly noose in their grasp! Had he not seen them in the mirror, in
another minute or two the poor boy would have been a corpse under their
murderous hands!
Bandhu rushed off in terror, as the fawn flies from the cheetah,
trampling Ignorance under his flying feet. But the two Thugs were
determined not to lose their victim. They knew that if he escaped,
he would give information against them. As the cheetah by successive
springs gains on the fawn, so the Thugs gained upon Bandhu. The poor
boy stumbled over the roots of a tree in his haste, and they were upon
him at once.
Happily for Bandhu help was near. Prem Chand had lingered still near
the lad who had insulted and struck him, and seeing the chase, now
rushed with a shout to the rescue. A sudden blow from a large stick
held by Prem Chand laid Idolatry bleeding and stunned on the ground.
Vice, hearing the shout, and seeing his father fall, fled like a coward
as he is.
Poor rescued Bandhu, thus a second time saved from a terrible fate,
sobbed like a frightened child in the arms of his brave preserver.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
HEALING.
THE first care of Prem Chand was to bind Idolatry hand and foot, so
that should the Thug revive, he might not be able to rise. His own
noose, and the pugri which he wore, served to supply his bonds.
Bandhu was in a most distressing state. His fright seemed to have taken
from him all the little sense that Superstition had left. His bracelet
squeezed him like a vice, till he was half maddened by the pain. The
poor boy wept; he rolled himself in the dust, and moaned out, "I am
lost! I am lost!"
Prem Chand was perplexed as to what course to pursue, till he bethought
himself of the mirror which Bandhu had dropped in his flight. It lay
gleaming like a silver jewel in the clear light of the moon. Prem Chand
raised it, and from the frame the words "Leaves of healing" shone
forth. The thought struck Prem Chand that the mirror might thus be
guiding him to a cure for his poor sick companion.
Some low plants grew in the shadow of the mango-tope, and Prem
recognised one which he knew to be often used as medicine. He let the
reflection of its leaves fall on the mirror, and immediately from the
frame glimmered forth the word "Peace."
Very joyful at having thus discovered a cure for poor Bandhu, Prem
Chand quickly gathered the leaves, and with them in one hand, and the
mirror in the other, he hastened back to the groaning lad. It needed
some persuasion to induce the sufferer to eat the healing plant;
but almost the only sign of sense remaining in him was trust in his
faithful friend, the messenger of the king. Bandhu could not long
refuse anything offered to him by Prem Chand.
The effect of the medicine was wondrous. At once the iron-like clasp of
the bracelet relaxed; the precious gift appeared as a jewel, not as a
fetter. The wild beating of Bandhu's heart was stilled, and his moaning
ceased. Nor was this all; the poison of Superstition, given long before
by Farebwala, began gradually to give way to the strong antidote which
Bandhu had taken. The lad became as one who had long sat in darkness,
but upon whom daylight begins to glimmer; first, a faint streak in the
east, then gradually upward rays appear, till the sun himself rises
above the horizon. But an entire change was the work of time.
After giving the medicine to his companion, Prem Chand's next thought
was, "What shall I do regarding this Thug, who seems to be reviving
from the effects of the blow which I gave? Behold! He is struggling now
to release himself from his bonds. Confederates may be near, and if
they come to his help, Bandhu and I have not many minutes to live."
What a relief it was to both the friends when the trampling of hoofs
was heard, and a party of mounted police appeared at daybreak. An
officer on a white horse rode at their head.
When they came near to the spot, Prem Chand, advancing, made his salam
to the officer, and pointing to the Thug Idolatry, he briefly related
the murderous attack made by him and his son upon Bandhu. The facts
were corroborated by Bandhu himself.
The officer attentively listened, then instantly rode to the place
where Idolatry lay on the ground, trying to wrench his limbs from their
bonds. The police had gathered around him, and recognised him.
"This is the very Thug of whom we have long been in search," said one
to his officer. "Your honour knows that he has more murders on his head
than there are leaves on yon tree."
"Ah! Father of evil," cried another to the Thug, "thou hast grown gray
in crime, but thou wilt meet with thy punishment at last. In seeking
to destroy yet another victim thou hast encountered thine own fate, as
saith the proverb, 'The imprudent man has with his own hand struck the
axe into his foot.'"
"Bear him away," said the officer, and the command was at once obeyed.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
THE SACRIFICE OF PRIDE.
WHEN the Thug had been carried off by the officers of justice, Prem
Chand turned to Bandhu, who was sitting on the ground, supporting
himself against the trunk of a tree.
"What will you do now, O brother?" said Prem Chand. "Is it still your
wish to continue your pilgrimage?"
"I am as one newly awakened from a dream!" replied Bandhu. "I see that
pilgrimages are vain, that ablutions cannot wash away sin, that purity
is not to be won by any act of religious austerity."
Prem Chand replied in the words of Kabir—
"Say, O pundit! who is pure?
Attend, O my friend! to such knowledge.
In the eyes is impurity, in the speech is impurity,
In rising and sitting impurity clings,
Impurity falls into the food."
"I have been looking into my mirror," said Bandhu with a sigh, "and
when I look on my own reflection I see that 'sinner' is written below
the frame."
"Again I ask, what will you do now? Will you return to the dwelling of
Farebwala?"
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Bandhu fervently. "Has he not been ruining
me, body and soul?"
"Whither, then, will you go?"
Tears gushed into the eyes of Bandhu. Dropping his head from shame,
in a low voice, he inquired, "Do you think that the king would still
receive me?"
Then a great joy sprang up in the heart of Prem Chand. "The king loves
and will welcome you!" he cried. "Yea, he is yearning to see you." But
the messenger added gently, "Only of one thing I warn you: all marks of
pride must be laid aside; you cannot go into the royal presence wearing
a janeo."
The countenance of Bandhu fell. His soul still clung to the privileges
of caste. He could give up ease, pleasure, wealth, any other thing,
sooner than his cherished janeo. Was it not the sign of his superiority
over many of his fellow-creatures; did it not entitle him to their
respect? Must he with his own hands cast down the wall of division
between them which so flattered his pride? With a heavy sigh, Bandhu
replied, "With my janeo I never can part!"
Prem Chand felt that not at once can all prejudices be conquered. The
tree shakes not in a day all the dry leaves from its branches. Without
making any reply, Prem Chand retired to a little distance, yet within
hearing of Bandhu, and softly sang, as if to himself, the words of the
poet Kabir—
"Pride should not be entertained; the bones are
wrapt in a skin,
They who are on horseback, under an umbrella, are
buried again in the earth.
Pride should not be entertained; if one sees that
one's dwelling is high,
To-day or to-morrow we must lie on the ground, and
grass will spring up.
Pride should not be entertained; a poor one should
not be laughed at,
That boat is still on the ocean, what do ye know
what will take place?
Pride should not be entertained; having seen that
one's body is beautiful,
To-day or to-morrow thou wilt leave it as a snake
his skin."
There was a strong but gentle pressure of the bracelet upon the wrist
of Bandhu. He raised his mirror, so that he could see in it the
reflection of his janeo, the emblem of caste. "Vanity of vanities"
gleamed forth from the frame, and Bandhu saw his cherished janeo to be
but a rotten thread, which life soils, and death snaps asunder!
Slowly and reluctantly Bandhu unfastened the cord which had been his
pride, then bore it in his hand to his friend Prem Chand.
"I have no offering to bring to my king," said he, "for all that
I possess, save this, I owe to his bounty. But as a token of my
repentance, and a pledge of my loyal love, may I be permitted to lay
down the badge of my caste at the feet of my king?"
The youth's desire was ere long to be fulfilled. As soon as Bandhu
had recovered sufficient strength, he and Prem Chand started on their
journey towards the royal city. Pleasant converse shortened the way.
Bandhu's health improved day by day, and his mind became clearer. He
constantly looked at his mirror, and never neglected the slightest
warning given by the bracelet.
Great was the rejoicing in the palace when the travellers reached it
in safety, and most gracious was the reception given by the king to
both. Goodly apartments were assigned to each, and they ate daily at
the royal table. Bandhu, instead of being the slave of a tyrant, or a
victim of a Thug, found himself the possessor of every good gift, the
companion of the pious, the friend of the pure, the adopted son of a
king.
CHAPTER XI.
THE PARABLE EXPLAINED.
HAVE you not seen, O reader! Goodly trees and lofty palaces faintly
reflected on some small stream, whose waters are too muddy to give back
their images clearly? Yet can we say, as we gaze downwards, "There is
a palace, though I see not its grandeur,—there is a tree, though its
beauty I cannot behold."
My tale is even as the little troubled muddy brook in which is dimly
reflected what is beauteous and grand. Listen awhile as I try to show
you what are the great realities faintly imaged forth in my fable.
Mankind are as the poor helpless child left in the jungle, sick of
the foul disease of sin. Even the pure-lived Nanak * was compelled by
conscience to cry,—
"Keep me, O my Father, my Lord!
I am without virtues; all virtues are Thine!"
* For accounts of Goru (teacher) Nanak, and the poet Kabir, see
further on.
And one more enlightened than the great Goru hath written, "All our
righteousnesses are as filthy rags."
Thus lying, exposed and helpless, death—even the destruction of the
soul, everlasting ruin—steals upon us, as the fearful beast drew nigh
to the child. How could man, guilty and hell-deserving, be saved?
Here is the grand mystery of love which the Scriptures declare, even
the avatar (incarnation) of the Divine Jesus, the Son of God. He left
heaven and assumed a mortal body, that in that body He might suffer
and die. He came between man and eternal destruction. The love of the
king who encountered a fierce tiger to save a poor child is as nothing
compared to the love of the Heavenly King, who won salvation for man by
the awful struggle in which He overcame death by dying.
And who is the Farebwala (father of deceit) who seeks to keep us from
the knowledge of this love, in order to rob us and make us his slaves?
Behold the spirit of evil, Satan, who would hold all mankind in
bondage, and tries to hide from us the knowledge of a Saviour King
who is willing to adopt us as His children. To millions of Hindus,
he represents heaven as peopled with monsters of iniquity, gods and
goddesses so wicked that were they human beings they would be sentenced
to death for their crimes!
And what are the mirror and the bracelet hidden by Farebwala under the
black cover of Ignorance?
The name of the bracelet is Conscience. It is the precious gift of God;
it warns us when danger to the soul, when temptation is near. But is
it not too true that the conscience of those who know not the true God
has been darkened? When falsehood is spoken, when covetousness is felt,
when other sins are indulged in, does the unenlightened conscience
give its warning pressure? Reader! Have you not learned to do evil
frequently without even knowing that it is evil?
The mirror is the Word of God, the treasure of truth, now to be
procured in many of the languages of the East. * Reader! Have you
looked into its pages? Let me tell you something of what you would gain
by studying the Holy Scriptures with prayer.
* But alas! The people are so poor, that few comparatively ever
purchase a complete Bible. In this story, as written for Hindus, I
have inserted the Ten Commandments, knowing that perhaps not one in a
thousand of those who read my small cheap book will be in possession of
the Old Testament.
You would gain KNOWLEDGE OF GOD, what His nature is, and His will.
"God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit
and in truth" (John iv. 24); "God is light" (1 John i. 5); and "God is
love" (1 John iv. 8).
And you would gain KNOWLEDGE OF WHAT GOD REQUIRES OF MAN. Study the
commandments, thus summed up in the Gospel, "Thou shalt love the Lord
thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy
mind, and thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" (Matt. xxii. 37-39).
Compare the righteousness of these commandments with the impure stories
which the Hindus call by the name of religion. Is it not like comparing
a shining river, carrying fertility through the land, to the slimy
track left by a serpent? If you see not that the space between the two
religions is wider than that which divides heaven from earth, it is
because the enemy of your soul has drugged you with Superstition, so
that you are unable to say, "Is there not a lie in my right hand?"
It is the Bible, the Mirror of Truth, that shows us that Idolatry is
the parent of Vice, and that both are murderers of the soul. It may
be, O Hindu! that you are at this moment travelling in the company of
these dread Thugs, that this morning you did puja to some idol of brass
or stone. This tale is, then, as the warning voice of a friend, of a
messenger from the Great King. Have mercy on your own soul! The fatal
noose is prepared, thousands have perished by it already; be warned in
time. O brother! Flee and live.
But if you be one who already wears the Bracelet of Conscience, if
you be one who has gazed into the Mirror of Truth, if your heart be
inclined towards your Heavenly King, there is still a word for you.
Are you not halting between two opinions, believing but not confessing
Christ? Is there not some pride of caste which you are as loth to part
with as was Bandhu to give up his janeo? Ties of family are hard to
break; do you so shrink from rending them asunder that you would rather
hazard your soul than leave all and go to your King?
Ah! Listen to the words of the Lord—"He that loveth father or mother
more than Me is not worthy of Me; and he that taketh not his cross,
and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me. Whoever shall confess
Me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in
heaven" (Matt. x. 32, 37, 38).
One other point in the parable may require explanation. What are the
leaves of healing that restored peace to the troubled mind, and health
to the sick soul? It is the sweet assurance of forgiveness of sins
through the death of Christ. He that has found a Saviour has found
peace! In the precious words of Holy Writ—"Therefore being justified by
faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ—and rejoice
in hope of the glory of God" (Rom. v. 1, 2).
[Illustration]
GORU NANAK.
[Illustration]
A FEW particulars of the life of Goru Nanak, the founder of the Sikh
religion, may not be without interest and novelty to the British
reader. As mentioned in the preface, they are chiefly drawn from a
short history of the Punjab, and I have thought it better to give the
story of a remarkable life in the rough simplicity of the original, so
as not to spoil what I may call its Oriental flavour by many words of
my own.
Goru Nanak, son of Kálu, a Chhatri, was born in a village of the
Punjab, since called after him Nanakana, in the year 1469, when Edward
IV. sat on the English throne. At his birth wonderful things were
predicted of Nanak, to his father's great delight; but when the child
had grown into the lad, Kálu was by no means pleased at the ascetic
turn of his son's mind. It must be owned that Nanak gave his parents
just cause for vexation. Kálu wished the youth to be a good man of
business. Nanak was inclined to take up the life of a wandering fakir.
An instance of this disposition is given in the curious little history
of the Punjab.
When Nanak was fifteen years old, his father entrusted him with twenty
rupees (about £2), and said to him, "O son! Go and buy some good
merchandise."
Nanak, accompanied by a servant, set forth on his quest. When he had
proceeded some way, he fell in with a company of fakirs (religious
beggars), destitute of food and clothing. Pitying their condition,
the lad bestowed upon them the twenty rupees, in spite of the
expostulations of the servant.
Nanak said in reply to these expostulations, "Oh! What better
merchandise can there be than giving food to saints in the name of the
Lord?"
Had the money been his own, the remark would have been beautiful, but
the youth had no right to be generous with money held only in trust.
Nanak returned to his home, and, as might have been expected, received
a good flogging from his father.
Though Nanak in due course of time married, and became the father
of two sons, family ties did not prevent his adopting the life of a
wandering preacher. Nanak, like Socrates and other remarkable heathen,
had glimpses of truth, though obscured by a good deal of error. His
character appears to have been eminently devout, gentle, and lowly.
In the Granth we find what he thought of himself, and see how in the
twilight the Goru was feeling and thirsting after God.
"In what manner shall I meet with the Lord of my
life, O Mother?
I am without beauty, without intelligence or strength,
I, the stranger, have come from afar;
I have no wealth, no brilliancy of youth,
Effect thou the union of the friendless one.
O Lord! I am wandering about, thirsting after Thy
sight;
By the Lord, who is compassionate and merciful to
the poor,
My burning heat was quenched,
Keep me, O my Father, my Lord!
I am without virtues, all virtues are Thine."
Nanak was certainly beyond his age; he did not reverence idols,
he acknowledged but one God, and earnestly, by life and example,
inculcated purity of morals. We can never place Nanak in the same
category with Mahomed, the sensual, the blood-stained founder of
Islamism. In speaking of the Goru we cannot, as in the case of the
False Prophet, bring forth his evil character as a proof that he could
not have been the honoured servant of God. We rather say to the Sikhs,
"We respect your Goru; we believe that were he now on earth he would
become a Christian." The remark seems to give no offence.
The influence of Nanak was great. It is recorded in his life that he
once visited the house of an atrocious villain, whose crimes were
aggravated by hypocrisy. This man would lure victims into his retreat,
throw them into prison, and then say, "Give up your property or your
lives."
Goru Nanak, who knew the character of this ruffian, boldly rebuked his
sins, yet tenderly, addressing him as "brother." He told the robber
that though his hypocrisy might deceive others, it could not possibly
deceive God, to whom all things are known.
The rebuke of the mild Goru, it is said, touched the heart of his
hearer. The robber was covered with shame, and falling down at the feet
of Nanak, exclaimed, "O true Goru! I am a great sinner, an evil man,
but now I repent, and will do such wickedness no more!"
Nanak, on hearing this, laid his hands on the head of the penitent
robber, and said, "May God forgive thy sin."
Nanak does not appear to have vehemently opposed idolatry, but how much
its power was weakened by his influence is shown in the following story.
A man of the name of Lahiná went with his family to worship a certain
goddess at Kangra. Arriving at the place where Nanak happened to be,
Lahiná was curious to see so noted a saint, and procured an interview
with the Goru.
According to custom, he prostrated himself before Nanak, who
courteously inquired his name, and whither he was going. On receiving
Lahiná's reply, the Goru said, "Well, brother, go and see the goddess."
But the Hindu had already changed his purpose, and he replied, "O Goru!
My heart does not wish to go farther; I care no more for goddess or
god; from this time my desire is to remain at your feet."
This was no passing emotion. Lahiná became Nanak's devoted follower,
and afterwards his successor to the dignity of Goruship under the
new name of Angad. This office of spiritual sovereign was passed on
from one leader to another by a ceremony amusing from its simplicity.
The reigning Goru having chosen his successor, presented him with—no
jewelled crown nor sceptre of gold, but a cocoa-nut and five coppers!
He then was the first to prostrate himself before the Goru to be. The
Goruship was, as we here see, not hereditary; Nanak himself set the
example of preferring the claim of devoted service to the tie of blood.
The circumstances which influenced his choice gave an amusing glimpse
into the domestic circle of the great Goru.
Nanak had two sons, named Sirichand and Lahmidás. Whatever other
good qualities Nanak may have possessed, he does not appear to have
possessed wisdom and firmness to manage his children judiciously. We
cannot but suspect that the worthy man had been a spoiling father.
Once on a day, so goes the story, the Goru on his travels fell into a
bog. He called out to Sirichand for help to get him out of his trouble.
"O father!" replied the youth. "My clothes are very nice, and they
would be spoiled; I will go and send some one else to your help."
The poor Goru, floundering in the mud, made an appeal to his younger
son, and from the ungrateful lad received a similar reply.
Lahiná, seeing his master's distress, joining his hands together in
sign of reverence, cried, "O true Goru! What is your command?"
"To be taken out of this bog," answered Nanak.
Lahiná, less afraid that were the young Hindu fops of spoiling his
clothes, plunged into the mud at once, and extricated his master.
Nanak never forgot this trait of affection; perhaps from that day
the idea of elevating Lahiná to the Goruship entered his mind. He
afterwards severely tested Lahiná's love and obedience, and found them
firm in every trial. Nanak's heart was touched, and he warmly returned
the love of his servant.
When asked one day why he showed more affection to Lahiná than to his
own sons, his answer (freely translated) was as follows:—"Though Lahiná
is not of my blood yet he never neglects my commands; but those who are
called my sons never fulfil them. My love is for him who serves me,
heart and soul."
One day, in the presence of an assembly of his Sikhs, Nanak placed
before Lahiná the cocoa-nut and five coppers, which were the symbol of
succession to the office of Goru. Nanak was then the first to prostrate
himself before his disciple, after which, rising, he thus addressed the
assembly:
"O brother Sikhs! From this day I give to him the office of Goru. Let
every disciple of mine, prostrating himself, acknowledge him as such."
Nanak then changed the name of Lahiná, commanding that he should from
thenceforth be known as Goru Angad.
Angad was thus the second of the ten Gorus who reigned in succession
over the Sikhs. They were treated with such adoring reverence as man
should render to the Supreme Being alone. To the Sikh his Goru stood
almost in the place of his God. The first Gorus, however, appear to
have been meek and gentle-spirited men.
The following anecdote is characteristic, and shows that though the
sons of Goru Nanak were not permitted by their father to inherit his
spiritual dignity, they were yet treated with great respect for his
sake.
The fourth Goru, Rámdas, was once in the company of Sirichand, he
who, in his youth, had preferred keeping his fine clothes unspotted
to helping his father out of the bog. It might be expected that some
jealousy would arise in the heart of Sirichand, seeing thus a third
Goru in the position to which, from his birth, he might naturally have
aspired. The conversation between the two men is curious.
Beholding the long beard of Goru Rámdas, the son of Nanak said, "O
Rámdas Ji! Wherefore has your beard grown so long?"
Rámdas, with Oriental courtesy, replied, "O true king! It has grown
long in order to wipe the dust from your feet!"
Nanak's son exclaimed, with generous admiration of the ruler's
humility, "Brother, showing such love, you have obtained power to hold
the Goruship, and we, who were sons, remain free from envy."
I cannot refrain from adding the story of this Rámdas's elevation to
the Goruship, it being one of those pleasing anecdotes which soften the
hard, dry lines of history.
At an early age Rámdas had married the little daughter of the third
Goru, Amrdás. The youthful wife and her husband took pleasure in
rendering any act of menial service to her father the Goru. One day her
parent, seated on a chair, was performing his ablutions, his daughter
pouring water over his feet, when accidently a nail of the chair ran
into the poor girl's foot. Instead of starting or crying out with the
sudden pain, the Goru's daughter thought to herself, "If I lift my
foot, my father, seeing my blood, will forget his ablutions;" so, with
rare fortitude, the young Sikh did not change her position.
The blood from her wounded foot, however, trickling from under the
seat, attracted the Goru's attention. "Daughter!" he cried, "from
whence does this blood come?"
In the simple words of the native narrator, "the girl, not thinking it
right to tell lies, on her father's asking her again and again, told
him the truth."
The father, deeply touched by his child's loving reverence, tenderly
kissed her, and said, "I have nothing else now to bestow on you, but
from this day forth I present you with the Goruship."
The offer tells more of parental affection than of wisdom, for a female
Goru would have been somewhat analogous to a female Pope. Happily the
daughter showed more sense than her parent. The young Sikh shrank back
from the strange post of spiritual leadership to which her father's
love would have raised her.
Joining her hands, she cried, "O true Goru, my father! Give this
dignity to my husband!"
Amrdás saw the propriety of the request, and Rámdas, through this
dutiful daughter and wife, was raised to the leadership of the Sikhs.
The Sikh religion is far purer than that of the Hindus, but has
unhappily become much corrupted by its professors mingling with the
idolaters around them. I have heard an enthusiastic Sikh complaining of
the idolatry carried on even in the precincts of the famous centre of
Sikh worship, the Golden Temple of Amritsar.
The Sikhs give one the impression of their being a bold, cheerful,
kindly people, who would be (as we proved them to be) formidable foes
in war, but frank friends in peace. In the Sikh campaigns they almost
shook our Indian Empire, but not long afterwards, in the more terrible
Indian Mutiny, our late foes stood faithfully by us.
I once asked an experienced missionary, "If you were in danger in a
mixed crowd of Mahomedans, Hindus, and Sikhs, to which of the three
would you look for help?"
"I would cling to the arm of the Sikh," was the reply; and it pleased
me as showing that my friend's riper judgment coincided with my own. It
appears to me that the Sikh is more friendly than the Mahomedan, more
manly than the Hindu.
[Illustration]
KABIR.
[Illustration]
A LITTLE of Kabir's poetry having been quoted in "The Mirror and the
Bracelet," a few particulars regarding the author himself may not be
out of place.
Kabir, a weaver by trade, born of Mahomedan parents, lived in the
fifteenth century. His poetry is therefore very much older than that of
Spencer or Shakespeare. Portions of the writings of this ancient poet
have been incorporated in the Granth, and from their sarcastic humour,
form to an English reader one of the most attractive parts. Dr. Trumpp
remarks that "Kabir the weaver is to be regarded as the author of the
whole reformatory movement going on in India during the Middle Ages."
There is still a sect bearing the name of this very remarkable man.
How little Kabir the weaver was influenced by either Hindu
superstitions or Mahomedan traditions is shown by the following
extraordinary poem, in which he ridicules alike the sacred books of
both:—
"Thou shouldst ride on thy own reflection!
Thou shouldst put foot into the stirrup of tranquillity,
Apply the nose-ring, put on the bridle,
All decoration, and make (it) run about in the sky.
Go on, I will take thee to Paradise.
If thou draw back I will strike thee with the whip
of love.
Kabir says these are good riders
Who keep aloof from the Veda * and the Koran."
* The Vedas are the Scriptures of the Hindu, the Koran (or Quran) those
of the Mahomedans. Kabir would have men keep clear of both.
Some other extracts from this Oriental poet appear worthy of being
placed before English readers who are not likely to obtain a sight of
Dr. Trumpp's voluminous and learned translation of the book so dear to
the Sikhs.
In most quaint language Kabir thus expresses a very deep truth:—
"By the saints the butter is eaten, the world drinks the buttermilk."
A Christian might have written the following verse:—
"The saints have died; why should weeping be made
that they go to their home
The stars at dawn pass away, so the world passes away."
Like Goru Nanak, in his writings the gifted weaver expresses deep
humility:—
"Every one says (I am) good, good: no one considers
(himself) bad.
Kabir says, I am the worst of all; every one is good
except me.
Who considers himself in this light, he is my friend."
With playful irony the poet says to some Oriental fop:—
"On which head (thou art) arranging and fastening a
turban,
That head the bill of the crow will dress."
Then the light but keen edge of his wit strikes the hoarder of wealth:—
"To the miser wealth is given for the sake of keeping it,
The fool says 'The property is mine.'
When the staff of Zama (death) is struck on his head,
The matter is decided in a moment."
Thus Kabir writes of the Mahomedan's loud formal call to prayer:—
"O Mullah! why ascendest thou the minaret? The
Lord is not deaf.
For whose sake thou makest the call, behold him
even in (thy) heart."
Superstition and idolatry are boldly rebuked by Kabir:—
"Some one does not obey his living father,
When he dies he causes a Shradh to be said for him.
How shall the helpless defunct fathers also obtain
(the offering),
The crow and the dog eat it."
"Having made a Devi Deva (images) of earth,
Thou sacrificest before them an animal.
An animate being they slaughter, and worship a
lifeless thing."
"The gardener breaks off leaves (to offer to an idol), in
the leaves, in the leaves—life,
The stone, for the sake of which he breaks off the
leaves, is lifeless."
May it not be desirable for the Christian missionary addressing a
heathen audience, to arrest attention by an occasional apt quotation
from the writings of Kabir the weaver?
[Illustration]
A SON OF HEALING.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE DOCTOR'S CHARMS.
SHIV DÁS was a Hindu doctor, widely famed for his skill. He knew the
qualities of all manner of herbs, and the secret of cures for every
sort of disease. Men afflicted with divers maladies came to him from
great distances, and often returned to their villages rejoicing. Lame
men from the effect of Shiv Dás's ointments sometimes threw away
their crutches; women carried their sick children to his house as to
the shrine of a goddess. Shiv Dás gave not only medicines, but he
hung charms round the necks of his patients; he not only rubbed on
ointments, but he muttered a number of spells. If he failed in making
a cure, he said that the gods were not propitious; if a patient died
under his care, he declared that the day had been unlucky. Shiv Dais
was a clever doctor, but he was also a great liar; he had real skill,
but under it lay a great deal of deceit, as under the sweet mango pulp
is hidden the large hard stone.
Shiv Dás never felt any remorse or shame for his lying till he met
with, and had much talk with a follower of the God of Truth. He saw a
man whose character, compared to his own, was as the pure stream to
the stagnant pool, a man who would not have told a lie to save his
own life. Shiv Dás at first thought this man a fool, but after nearer
acquaintance reverenced him as a saint. The Hindu listened as the
teacher told of Christ the Great Physician, whose touch was healing,
whose words were wisdom, and whose gift is life eternal. Gradually
on the Hindu doctor broke the light of Truth. His intelligent mind
received it long before he could resolve openly to confess that he
believed the Christian's Holy Book, which he only studied in secret.
The great difficulty to Shiv Dás was simply this. "If I become a
Christian, how much I shall have to give up. I am like a poor potter,
or unclean maker of shoes; I have a great deal to lose. Who will come
to me for cure when I shall have broken caste, and in the eyes of
man incurred defilement. Will any one believe in my skill if I cease
to prepare charms, and give only drugs and ointment? Shall I own to
patients that my spells were but muttered lies? Does the seller of
fruit ever call her own plums sour?"
Such thoughts as these for a time distressed Shiv Dás, and kept him
back from confessing his faith. He continued cheating others, after he
had left off cheating himself. But this struggle with conscience could
not go on very long. Shiv Dás saw that the road of falsehood is the
path to hell, that light and darkness, fire and water can as well agree
together as the religion of the Lord Jesus with the deceit which had
brought in the chief part of the doctor's gains. Shiv Dás must choose
between earthly loss and disgrace, and the terrible punishment which,
after death, awaits the unrepenting deceiver. He must choose between
sin and a Saviour. The convert bravely made his choice.
One night, when the crescent moon faintly shone through the leaves of
the peepul trees, Shiv Dás threw his charms into a well, after having,
prostrate on the ground, asked forgiveness for having ever used them.
He then returned to his home, and throwing himself on his charpai
(bed), enjoyed sweeter rest than he had known for months. In the
morning the doctor rose, went to his teacher the missionary, and asked
to be admitted into the Christian Church. A few weeks later the water
of baptism was poured on the convert's brow, and he who had begun a new
life received a new name, Shiv Dás became Isa Dás. *
* Signifying "Servant of Jesus," instead of "Servant of Shiva."
At first the doctor appeared to be ruined. He was reviled in the
streets, insulted in the bazaars, more than once he was beaten. It was
not easy for him to gain pice enough to satisfy hunger; he had to make
his own chapattis, and of the coarsest grain. Women declared that they
would as soon let their children die as be cured by drugs polluted by
the touch of the Christian.
But gradually even their prejudices softened a little towards him. A
time of great sickness came, and the people felt the need of a doctor.
They remembered the many cures wrought by Isa Dás; they began to think
that even without spells his drugs might give them relief from their
pain.
A case which occurred at this time had no small influence in turning
the tide of opinion.
A child, the favourite child of its Hindu mother, was smitten with sore
sickness. An ignorant fakir was applied to, but notwithstanding all his
charms and spells, his patient evidently grew worse and worse.
"Have done with your mutterings; my darling is dying," cried the mother
in desperation at last. "Shiv Dás, or whatever he chooses now to be
called, saved my boy's life once, and I will ask him to save it again,
were every Brahmin in Hindustan to curse me!"
The mother took up in her arms the poor moaning child, whose every
gasp seemed likely to be his last. She folded her chaddar closely
around him, and with hurried steps sought the mud hut which was now the
Christian doctor's abode.
"Can you save him?" she cried, laying her almost expiring child at the
feet of Isa Dás.
"God can," was the Christian's reply.
"Have you no charm?" sobbed the trembling mother.
"My only charm is asking God's blessing on my medicines," replied Isa
Dás.
Very earnestly did the Christian ask that blessing. Not only from pity
for the mother and her suffering child, but because he saw that on his
success or failure in this difficult case not only the little one's
life, but (humanly speaking) his own future livelihood might depend.
Isa Dás mixed his drugs; he gave them with humble prayer, and with
faith committed the result to God. After a while the child's moanings
gave place to perfect stillness.
"He is dead!" exclaimed the trembling mother.
Isa Dás smiling said, "Thank God! He has dropped asleep at last!"
The child made a good recovery, and from that time Isa Dás had almost
as many patients as before his baptism. The most prejudiced Hindu, when
seriously ill, preferred to be cured by one who had broken caste, to
dying in an orthodox way.
[Illustration]