Chapter IV: Part 4

In vain Tulsí Rám strove to give comfort and hope to his younger brother; in vain he spoke of the mercy freely offered to all who repent and cast away sin. Though the poisoned part, by means of _Help from above_, had been cut away from the breast of Nihál Chand, a painful wound yet remained, nor could he forget the past.

“Oh! that I had resisted Temptation,” he cried; “oh! that I had pressed to my heart the jewels of Pardon, Purity, and Heaven; the poisonous reptile would have lost all power to injure me then.”[39]

Nihál Chand was sinking deeper and deeper into despair, when Juwalí, having arisen from sleep, advanced towards the brothers with radiant joy sparkling in her eyes.

“O my lord,” she exclaimed, addressing herself to her husband, “I have been sent in my sleep a strange and beautiful dream. Behold, I saw Temptation, the dark enemy, the robber of souls, hurrying away with the jewels of my lord’s brother in his grasp,—even the ruby, the pearl, and the diamond joined in one setting of gold. Suddenly a white dove swooped down from the sky, and caught the jewels out of the evil one’s hand, and bore them away out of sight. Then I heard a voice, sweeter than music; and these were the words which it uttered: ‘Let the penitent who sorrows for sin, let the penitent who hath put away sin, again search for his forfeited treasure, and he shall find it once more, where he sought for it at first, even at the foot of the Cross.”

The first gleam of hope that had appeared on the face of the wounded Nihál Chand brightened it as he listened to the account of the dream of his sister. Leaning heavily, very heavily, on a staff of Prayer, he struggled to his feet, and in a voice faint yet resolute he said,—“Let us go, and at once. If I, poor wounded sinner, must die, I will at least die at the foot of the Cross!”

Onwards the three Christians sped together. There was small difficulty to Tulsí Rám, with his knife, _Help from above_, in removing the earth which covered a golden casket. The Christian eagerly raised and opened it, and Juwalí uttered an exclamation of delight as she looked on its contents. There lay three splendid ornaments, each containing three matchless jewels, worth more than all the crowns of the world,—even the ruby of Pardon, the pearl of Purity, and the diamond of Heaven!

On his knees, and with head bowed down, as deeply feeling how unworthy he was of his Father’s gift, Nihál Chand received his restored treasure, and pressed it first to his lips and then to his wounded breast. But no sooner had the jewels been placed near his heart than, to his amazement as well as delight, new health and strength were poured into his frame. Nihál Chand’s wound became perfectly healed, and, springing to his feet, he again stood erect, a brave and rejoicing man; a Christian strong to wrestle against Temptation, and overcome it wherever he should meet it again.

And, like Nihál Chand, Tulsí Rám and his much loved wife, Juwalí, the faithful and meek, wore over their hearts for ever the ruby, the pearl, and the diamond, their sins all pardoned, and their lives made pure. Rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation, continuing instant in prayer, the three Christians looked forward to the glorious time when, having been faithful unto death, they should receive the crown of life which the Lord hath promised to them that love him.

* * * * *

O reader! in this story have you read anything of your own? You may have crossed the waters of baptism, you may have received the name of Christian, but have you yielded to temptation, is the venom of the reptile, besetting sin, whether pride, or falsehood, or the love of money, at this moment poisoning your soul? Oh! cut away and cast the evil from you, by means of help from above, or you will surely perish in your sin. Even for your wound there is healing, even for your guilt there is pardon; the pearl of purity may yet be yours, you may yet inherit the kingdom of heaven. _The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin_; the Holy Spirit is given in answer to prayer. But oh, delay not! for time is short, the day of grace may soon be past. It is the penitent sinner, the faithful and the persevering, who at the foot of the cross shall find the priceless treasures—the ruby, the pearl, and the diamond—Pardon, Purity and Heaven!

VII.

The Broken Fence.

On a high hill, in a mountainous part of the Punjaub, was built a house goodly and fair. In this dwelt a lady, whose name was Ashley Sahiba. In her heart was much love to God, and much love for poor little Indian children. Under the care of this lady were many girls; some of them were orphans, and some of them had parents who lived in the plains, and who wished their children to enjoy the cooler air of the hills. These parents were glad to have their daughters under the care of Ashley Sahiba, who would not only teach them to read and write and work, but who would also try to teach them to be gentle, obedient, and pious.[40] Ashley Sahiba prayed much with the children and for the children, and there was not one of the girls who had not a place in her heart.

But there was one of the girls who was a cause of much trouble and sorrow to the lady. The name of this girl was Ghuldasta. There were two things in her that occasioned this trouble and sorrow. The first thing was that Ghuldasta had a strange kind of blindness. She could see, and see well, every object that was but a few inches from her, so that she could read, and write, and sew,—and she did these things as well as any other girl in the school; but Ghuldasta could see nothing at even a foot’s distance from her eyes. The girl never saw the path before her, and therefore often stumbled over things that lay in her way, and had many painful falls; for Ghuldasta scorned a careful walk, and never asked for a guide. Ghuldasta had a little ivory box of precious ointment which had been sent to her by her Father, and which, by his command, she always carried in her bosom. “Let my child carefully anoint her eyes with this ointment,” the wise Father had said, “and she will soon see quite clearly, so that she will not so stumble and fall.” Ghuldasta had the ointment always within her reach, but, strange to say, she never cared to use it at all; she contented herself with looking at the outside of the box, on the lid of which was written the name of the ointment—_Self-examination mixed with Prayer_; whilst round the edge appeared the words, _Examine yourselves, whether ye be in the faith; prove your own selves_ (2 Cor. xiii. 5). Ghuldasta had heard that the ointment would make the eyes smart, and she never would put it on hers. “I can see quite well enough,” she would say; “no one can read the Bible better than I; why should I trouble myself with this Self-examination? It would be of no use to me; and I dislike it of all things.”

After hearing that Ghuldasta thus disobeyed her wise Father’s commands, no one can be surprised at being told the second cause of Ashley Sahiba’s sorrow concerning the girl. Ghuldasta was much under the power of two wicked spirits, whose names are Pride and Self-will.[41] She never saw them because of her blindness. If she could have seen them, she would have been frightened, for what is so hideous as sin? But Ghuldasta often heard their voices, and, alas! to her those voices were pleasant. Ashley Sahiba more than suspected that these wicked spirits had power over her young charge; for, though she could not actually see or hear them, she saw the effect which their company had on the unhappy Ghuldasta. Often did Ashley Sahiba warn all her children: “O my beloved ones! beware of Pride and Self-will, who often steal upon us to mislead and destroy. They are sent by the great Enemy, who wishes to ruin our souls.” But though so often tenderly warned, blind and foolish Ghuldasta was not in the least afraid of listening to Pride and Self-will.

I have said that the house in which the lady and children dwelt was built on the top of a high hill. The house had pleasant grounds around it, in which the children could play. All round this enclosure was a fence made of stakes of the choicest wood. This fence was very needful, as the hill was in some parts so steep as to be dangerous, and the children might often have fallen down precipices but for this protection. On every one of the stakes was inscribed in golden letters a precious text, which glittered brightly in the sun, so that the fence was an ornament to the place, as well as a safeguard to the children. The name of the fence was Duty.

Some of the children were exceedingly glad that there was this beautiful fence around the enclosure. “There are many wild beasts in the mountains,” they said; “cheetahs, and bears, and the terrible lion called Shaitán, who goeth about seeking whom he may devour. But for this fence we should never feel safe. We never wish to venture beyond it.”

But Ghuldasta was not one of these children. She had always a great desire to wander beyond this fence; and often and often did Pride and Self-will urge her to do so.

Said Pride: “You have nothing to fear. What do you care for cheetahs or lions?”

Whispered Self-will: “It is very hard to be shut up in a small enclosure like this. Outside, on the mountains, are many beautiful flowers and delicious fruits. When you are close to them, you will see and enjoy them; you will make wreaths for your hair of the flowers, you will feast at your ease on the fruits.”

Then added Pride: “Could not a brave and resolute girl such as you are manage to get through the fence?”

It is very dangerous to listen to Pride and Self-will, the black serpents that speak now as the serpent spake to Eve in the Garden of Eden. Ghuldasta began to think in her heart, “Can I not contrive to break down or pull up a little bit of the fence, just enough to let me squeeze myself through the opening?” Evil thinking soon leads to evil doing.

There was one particular spot in the enclosure, shaded from view by thick bushes, to which Ghuldasta now often wandered. She never asked any of her companions to go with her thither. “I would rather,” she said, “be alone.” Who would have guessed what the foolish and sinful girl was doing, when she spent the greater part of her leisure time in this solitary retreat? Ghuldasta was, with a knife, day by day cutting away at two of the stakes of the beautiful fence. On one of these stakes was written: _Likewise, ye younger, submit yourselves unto the elder. Yea, all of you be subject one to another, and be clothed with humility_ (1 Peter v. 5). And on the second stake was written: _Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves: for they watch for your souls, as they that must give account_ (Heb. xiii. 17). Ghuldasta did not care to read the holy words inscribed on the stakes; her only anxiety was to get rid of whatever hindered her going whither Pride and Self-will made her eager to go. And, alas! all those days during which Ghuldasta was cutting and doing her utmost to destroy the holy fence, she, with the other girls, regularly read the Bible, sang hymns, and knelt down to pray. While she was obeying Pride and Self-will, and neglecting her Father’s commands, every prayer and hymn from this girl’s lips was in itself a grievous sin.

Very early one morning, before the rest of the girls had come forth into the grounds, Ghuldasta finished her wicked work. She had cut so very deep into each of the two stakes in the fence of Duty, that she was now able to snap them off altogether, and fling them far away down the mountain. She then tried to squeeze herself through the gap which she had made, and easily enough succeeded in doing so; for, alas! wilful sinners have no difficulty in passing beyond the fence of Duty, when once they have broken the holy commands which form it.

Ghuldasta was rejoicing in the thought that now she could wander whither she would, with none to restrain her, when suddenly she felt a firm grasp on her shoulder.

“Wretched, blind girl!” exclaimed a voice behind her, “whither are you going?” The voice was that of Ashley Sahiba.

Ghuldasta could not see the look of sorrow on the face of her guardian, any more than she could behold the love and pity in her heart; the girl only heard that the sound of the voice was angry, and felt that the grasp of the hand was a tight one.

“Wrench yourself away!” cried Self-will.

“How can she speak in so harsh a tone? How dare she call you wretched and blind?” exclaimed Pride.

Ghuldasta was not strong enough to wrench herself away; but as soon as the lady had drawn her back through the gap in the fence, the girl flung herself on the ground in a terribly sulky fit. She would scarcely listen to the lady’s earnest words of warning.

“How unkind she is!” cried Self-will.

“How unjust she is!” muttered Pride.

It is sad to relate how completely these evil spirits held Ghuldasta in subjection. The girl was in a fit of ill-humour, and showed it in every way that she possibly could. She would not eat, she would not work; she behaved as if she thought that her tender friend had done her a cruel wrong in drawing her back from a perilous path. Ghuldasta was miserable herself, and tried to make all around her unhappy also. And yet this girl never looked upon herself as a grievous sinner. She had not anointed her eyes with the precious ointment contained in the ivory box.

“What shall I do?” thought Ashley Sahiba: “how shall I prevent my wilful, blind lamb from wandering in ways of destruction? She has broken down part of the fence; we cannot, with so many other children to care for, watch her night and day. I dread lest she should again attempt to escape and wander on the mountains, where there are precipices and rushing torrents, and where wild beasts roam about seeking for prey.”

After anxious thought Ashley Sahiba had the gap in the fence filled up by a quantity of sharp prickly thorns of which the name is Punishment. “Now I trust that my child will be safe,” thought she.

On the first opportunity the wilful Ghuldasta found her way back to the spot where she had broken a way through the fence; but when she attempted to pass through the gap, lo! sharp Punishment stayed her.

“Cruel, cruel Mem Sahiba!” exclaimed Ghuldasta, as she drew back her bleeding hand, which had been hurt by the thorns.

“She shall never stop you in this way!” cried Self-will.

“She finds fault with you because she does not love you as she loves the other girls,” muttered Pride. “She is hard, partial, and unjust.”

Ghuldasta resolved that even Punishment should not stop her. She remained all the rest of that day sulky and silent, revolving in her mind by what means she could still get her own way. Even during prayer-time all the thoughts of the sinful girl were turned in this direction. While the Mem Sahiba was reading the Bible aloud to her children, Ghuldasta was listening to the whispers of Pride and Self-will, which none could hear but herself.

Said Pride: “When none are near to watch you, take the thick black rug of Obstinacy and throw it right over the thorns. They may hurt you a little still, but they will not be able to stay you.”

“You will not care for a little pain, so that you get your own way,” cried Self-will.

When the house was hushed in silence,—when all the other girls were sleeping, and the weary Ashley Sahiba had closed her eyes in repose,—Ghuldasta silently arose from her bed, and felt her way to the place where hung the black rug. Bearing Obstinacy with her, and moving as stealthily as if she were a thief, the wilful girl contrived to quit the house and reach the spot to which she so often had turned her steps before. Ghuldasta flung the rug of Obstinacy over the thorns of Punishment, and found that by means of it she could manage to clamber over, though not without some pain. Ghuldasta was so much delighted at this, that almost unconsciously she began to sing, though in a tone too low to rouse any of the sleepers in the house, which was at some distance. Ghuldasta—O fearful mockery!—was actually humming a hymn when she passed beyond the fence of Duty. She had on her lips:

“There is a happy land,
Far, far away.”[42]

But she was not to have time to sing about the “saints,” whose glory, if she went on in her wilful course, she never, never would share. Ghuldasta, though she knew it not, was on the path that leadeth to destruction. She had no right to sing of that happy land, from which she was actually trying to shut herself out for ever.

I have said that Ghuldasta was apt to walk carelessly, and that she was so near-sighted that, even in the light of day, she could not see the path before her. Suddenly, to her horror, the poor girl found herself plunging down a precipice! Screaming for help, Ghuldasta caught at the bushes to save herself: they somewhat broke but they could not prevent her fall; for the twigs gave way in her hand! Down—down—down,—crashing fell the miserable child! What would she not have given to have felt the firm grasp of her Mem Sahiba! what would she not have given to have been held fast by the thorns of Punishment!—anything, anything that might have saved her from the consequences of her own blind folly!

Poor Ghuldasta was senseless before she reached the bottom. Her clothes were rent; her body bruised and bleeding; much of her hair had been left on the bushes. After a while she came to herself, in terrible pain, and with perfect darkness around her. As Ghuldasta could only see objects very, very near her, it was now to her as if she lay at the bottom of a well.

“Where am I?” faintly murmured the miserable girl. Gradually she remembered all that had happened; but memory was anguish. Her best friend, her much-wronged friend, was, she doubted not, sleeping, all unconscious of the misery and danger of the ungrateful girl whom she had warned in vain. Ghuldasta’s young companions were slumbering in peace, till the morning’s light should awaken them to begin the occupations of the day. But for her own pride and wilfulness, Ghuldasta might at that moment have been safe and happy amongst them.

Ghuldasta longed to know where she was—to be able to look around her. She thought of her ivory box of ointment, which she still carried in her bosom. Ghuldasta could not move her arm without pain, and she knew well that the ointment would make her eyes smart; but lying as she was in helplessness and darkness in a strange place, for the first time the girl wished to obey her Father’s command.

Ghuldasta anointed her eyes with the salve of _Self-examination mixed with Prayer_, and the effect of that salve was marvellous beyond all expectation. At once perfect sight appeared to be restored; Ghuldasta saw everything around her bathed in the light of a clear full moon.

But it was a terrible view that was presented to the wilful transgressor. She saw her danger—she saw her sin. Above her was a rude jagged cliff, which, even had she been unhurt by her fall, she could never have power to climb. Ghuldasta lay upon thorns more painful than the thorns of Punishment which she had thought so cruel, and from these thorns she could not wrench herself free.

“Oh! what shall I do!—what shall I do!” exclaimed the unhappy and penitent girl, after she had exhausted herself by cries for help which no one could hear. “Would that I had never listened to the voices of the tempters!—would that I had never broken through the fence of Duty, and left my safe and happy home! I chose my own way; and a way of misery I have found it. I was lifted up with pride, and now I have fallen into the depths of despair!”

Ghuldasta could distinguish objects lying at no great distance from her, which she at once recognized; for on them golden letters were faintly glimmering in the moonlight. These were the stakes from the fence of Duty which she had herself broken and flung away!

“_Likewise, ye younger, submit yourselves unto the elder_,” faintly murmured Ghuldasta, as tears flowed fast down her cheeks. “Alas! _I_ would never submit; I was never clothed in humility; I would not obey her whom my Father had placed over me; I was insolent to her in my manner, I despised her wise commands, I abused her patience, I grieved her heart. I shall never, never see her again. Oh! will she ever give a sorrowful thought to her poor Ghuldasta! No, no; she will be happy with those who love her—those who obey her. I shall soon be forgotten by all. Even in heaven they will never meet, nor even miss, the wretched Ghuldasta!” At the miserable thought, the poor girl cried as if her heart would break.

Hark! what was that fearful sound in the distance? Was it not the roar of the lion who goeth about seeking whom he may devour? Ghuldasta could not fight, and she could not flee. She was ready to faint with terror. Then in her agony the repentant sinner betook herself to prayer. Never, never had poor Ghuldasta prayed before as she prayed on that night, with clasped hands and streaming eyes! Her supplications were no mockery now—they came from a broken and contrite heart.

Ashley Sahiba, meanwhile, lay asleep on her bed; but even in sleep her mind was restless. Thoughts of her self-willed, proud Ghuldasta mixed themselves with her dreams. At last the lady suddenly awoke, for it seemed as if a voice were whispering in her ears: “O shepherdess! where is your poor lost lamb?”

Ashley Sahiba closed her tired eyes, and tried to go to sleep again, but she could not; she was so unhappy about Ghuldasta. Presently she arose, and knelt down and prayed for the child. Then softly moving along the rows of beds on which the children were sleeping, the lady sought that of Ghuldasta, and started to find it empty! Her fears were but too well-founded—Ghuldasta had fled! That moment was one of the most painful which the lady had ever known in the course of her life.

Ghuldasta, imprisoned by thorns, and sorely hurt by her fall, lay straining her eyes to catch sounds in the distance, and exhausted her little remaining strength by weeping. At last, to her exceeding terror, she saw the bushes on the cliff above her moving, as if some large animal were forcing its way down the difficult descent. She expected every moment to see the glaring eyes of a beast of prey; she became silent in the extremity of her fear. Then, from the very spot from whence Ghuldasta expected to hear a savage growl, came a dear and well-known voice: “My child! my child! where are you?” Ghuldasta, collecting all her strength, called out the name of her lady; and a glad voice answered from above. Heedless of weariness or danger, Ashley Sahiba, by help of the bushes, was clambering down the cliff from the top of which Ghuldasta had fallen. The lady was like the good shepherd seeking the straying sheep; like the woman searching for the lost piece of silver; and when at last she clasped her Ghuldasta in her arms, her cry of joy was like that of the prodigal’s father: _This my son was dead and is alive again; was lost, and is found_.

Ashley Sahiba was followed by servants whom she had roused to help in the search for Ghuldasta, and who had made their way down the hill by a longer but less dangerous path. The poor girl, clinging to her Mem Sahiba, was raised from her painful position, and carried up on a litter, for she was unable to walk.

A fever succeeded, caused by the sufferings both of mind and body endured on that night by Ghuldasta. Under careful nursing she recovered from the fever, but the poor girl carried on her to her dying day marks of her terrible fall, and the remembrance of it was never effaced from her mind. But happy was it for Ghuldasta that she had learned to anoint her eyes with the salve of _Self-examination mixed with Prayer_; happy was it for her that she could say, _Whereas I was blind, now I see_. Ghuldasta had parted company with Pride and Self-will; she became daily more meek and lowly, more like Him who, though God as well as man, deigned in His youth to be subject to a mortal mother. Ghuldasta became the joy and crown of the faithful friend to whom she so long had been a cause of trouble and sorrow. That friend taught her where alone she could find forgiveness for all her past sins, and grace to struggle against them in the future. _Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven_ (Matt. v. 4, 3).

VIII.

Shining in the Dark.

There dwelt in the Punjaub a man of the name of Bál Mukand, who was very learned and clever. He had read many hooks, Hindu, Sanscrit, and Arabic, the Vedas and the Puránas; he had also read translations of many of the writings of the English.

Bál Mukand entered the shop of Shib Das, the goldsmith, and sat down beside him. Shib Das had lost many friends because he had become a Christian, but he had not lost the friendship of Bál Mukand. “I will not quarrel with a man because he wears not on his head a pugree (turban) of the same colour as mine, or because he has not the same thoughts in his head as I have,” said the liberal-minded Punjaubi. He had read and reflected too much to act the part of a bigot.

And what were the thoughts of Bál Mukand on the subject of religion? Thus he expressed them to Shib Das as he sat in his shop.

“I will never be a Christian!” said he. “Excepting yourself, O Shib Das, I think that of all people Christians are the worst.”

“And why do you think so?” inquired Shib Das.

“I have read the Koran and the Shastras, I have read the Vedas and the Bible,” replied Bál Mukand, “and I compare the books with the people who severally profess to make such various writings the rule of their faith. The Mohammedan is commanded to fast in the Ramadan, and he fasts; he is commanded to pray five times a day, and he prays. The Hindu is told to reverence the Brahman; and lo! he is ready to drink the water in which the holy man’s feet have been washed. The Hindu makes pilgrimages and visits temples, performs ablutions, and will rather starve than eat that which he deems unclean.”

“True, O Bál Mukand,” replied Shib Das; “but why call Christians the worst of men? If they make not pilgrimages nor observe long fasts, it is because their religion does not command them to do these things.”

“But their religion does command them to do many things which they do not,” exclaimed Bál Mukand with a sneer. “I have read their Bible, and know what is in it, and very good words they are. The Bible says, _Love one another_; and how many Christians hate one another instead! The Bible says, _Thou shalt not covet_; and where is the Christian who is not greedy of gain? The Christians read in their Book that God is truth, they call themselves His children; and yet how many tell lies! The Mohammedan obeys his Koran, and the Hindu follows the rules of his Vedas; but the Christian reads his holy Book, and obeys not. When his guide bids him take the narrow path, he rushes off to the broad one. Therefore, I repeat again, Christians are the worst of all men.”[43]

“You are somewhat unjust to them,” observed Shib Das. “Not all Christians act in the manner which you describe.”

“Look at the Sahib log” (English), exclaimed Bál Mukand; “they who think that they walk in light, while all the rest of mankind lie in darkness! See the Commissioner Sahib—has he not read in his Book, _Be pitiful, be courteous_; and yet he spurns natives from him as if they were no better than dogs! Who is more fond of the world and of money than the Railway Sahib; and look how some of the English soldiers drink, though it is written in their Bible that drunkards shall not inherit the kingdom of heaven! Their religion may be pure as rain from the sky, or stream from the mountain, but wherein are they the better for it?”

Then Shib Das thoughtfully stroked his beard and made reply: “If fruit grow not on the stone, is it the fault of the rain? if the traveller stoop not to drink of the stream beside him, is it the fault of the river if he perish of thirst? I repeat again that all Christians are not so disobedient to the laws of their Book; there are some whose souls are as a well-watered garden, in which grow the fruits of holiness, truth, and love.”

“These people are very few,” muttered Bál Mukand; “I could count on my fingers all whom I have met with. As by far the greater number of Christians are evil, where is the advantage of becoming a Christian?”

Shib Das smiled and said: “O Bál Mukand, did you ever hear the tradition of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba?”

Then said Bál Mukand, “I pray you tell me the story.”

“It is said that the Queen of Sheba, who came from afar to hear the wisdom of Solomon, tried thus to put it to proof. She had flowers made by skilful workmen so like real flowers, that no man, without touching them, could tell the difference between them. The queen showed to Solomon a quantity of true and false flowers mixed together. ‘Let your wisdom,’ said she, ‘discover, without coming near them, which of the flowers have drank heaven’s dews and which have not,—which are living and which are lifeless.’”

“And what did the wise Solomon?” inquired Bál Mukand.

“He commanded all the doors to be flung wide open, so that the bees and other insects had free access to the flowers. The bees settled on the blossoms that had life, those in which heaven’s dew had turned into honey. ‘Behold, O Queen,’ cried Solomon, ‘where there is life there is sweetness also. There are many false flowers yonder, but we soon discover the true.’ Even so, O Bál Mukand, there are many that are called Christians who are not Christians at all, for in their faith there is no life; they have nothing of Christianity but the name. Would Solomon have been a wise man had he said at once, ‘All these flowers are false’? No; he put the matter to the proof. When you condemn all Christians together, you have not the wisdom of Solomon nor the discrimination of the bees. Besides,” added Shib Das, “whatever the conduct of so-called Christians may be, you acknowledge that their religion is pure, that their Book is good. Christians may be faulty, but Christ Himself is perfect.”

“One looks for the disciples to be as the Master,” observed Bál Mukand. “The Christian’s heaven may exist, and be all that the Bible describes it to be; but to me the path to it is so dark, that after all my reading, and searching, and thinking, I own that I cannot find it. I never shall be a Christian.”

Shib Das saw that there was no use in arguing with one who refused to be convinced; therefore the Christian remained silent. And soon afterwards Bál Mukand fell asleep.

Bál Mukand was before long awakened by the sound of some one speaking at the front of the shop, but he stirred not, nor opened his eyes; he remained as if sleeping still, and listened unnoticed to the discourse of Shib Das with the stranger, whose name was Karm Illahi.

There was in the shop a scimitar with a jewelled hilt, which had attracted the eyes of Karm Illahi as he passed along the narrow street. At his desire it was now placed in his hand; he examined the blade, he looked at the ornaments on the hilt. Bál Mukand also had, half an hour before, noticed and admired the scimitar, which had been, a short time previously, purchased by Shib Das from an Afghan chief.

The Mohammedan, Karm Illahi, inquired the price of the scimitar, which he greatly desired to possess.

“The price is thirty rupees,” was the reply of Shib Das.

“I thought that he would have said sixty or seventy at least,” thought the astonished Bál Mukand. “Surely the jewels in the hilt are worth much more than thirty rupees.”

Karm Illahi did not betray the joy which he really felt at hearing a much lower price asked than what he had expected. Again, slowly and carefully, he tried the blade and examined the hilt.

“Are all these jewels real?” he inquired of the seller.

“All but this sapphire in the centre,” replied Shib Das. “The imitation is so good that I myself was at first deceived. Were that jewel real, I should have asked double the price for the weapon.”

“I will give you twenty rupees,” said Karm Illahi—who had never yet bought anything without trying to lower the price. Had he been offered a hen for an anna, he would have tried to get it for eleven pies.[44]

“No,” replied Shib Das calmly; “I have but one price for the things in my shop, and that is the fair one. A year ago I should have asked you at least seventy rupees for that scimitar, and have sworn that every jewel in the hilt was real.”

“And why do you not do so now?” inquired Karm Illahi in no small surprise.

“Because I am a Christian,” was the simple reply of Shib Das.

Karm Illahi smiled a mocking smile, but he drew forth a bag of money which he carried with him, and counted out the thirty rupees. Bál Mukand heard him muttering to himself as he did so: “This Christian is a fool, for none but a fool would have said that the stone was false, or have asked less for his goods than he might have hoped to get from a stranger.”

Not such was the thought of the more enlightened Bál Mukand. “If all men dealt with such honesty and truth, this would be a happy land,” he said in his heart. “The folly of such men as this Shib Das is better than the wisdom of the worldly.”

Scarcely had the Mussulman left the place with the scimitar which he had bought, than Yuhanna, a Christian catechist, came up to the jeweller’s shop. Still Bál Mukand lay perfectly quiet and listened, whilst Yuhanna exchanged greetings with Shib Das.

Then said the jeweller: “Doubtless you have come, O Yuhanna, for the monthly subscription for the church fund and the support of the poor.”

“Yes, O brother,” replied Yuhanna. “I am going my rounds amongst the Christians, but as yet I have collected but little. The funds are low, and we have more sick to help and more widows to relieve than usual.”

Bál Mukand, where he lay, opened his eyes a little, and he could see with what a look of pleasure his friend Shib Das drew four rupees from his store, and gave them into the hand of Yuhanna.

“It is strange, O Shib Das,” observed the catechist, “that you give more to the church fund than do even baboos in government employ. You are not, I believe, a rich man. How is it that when we ask for offerings to God we never find your bag empty?”

“The reason is very simple,” was Shib Das’s cheerful reply. “I am a Christian, and I try to obey what is written in the Word of my God regarding offerings made unto Him: _Upon the first day of the week let every one of you lay by him in store, as God hath prospered him_ (1 Cor. xvi. 2). At least a tenth of the profits of my trade I look upon as the Lord’s, and not my own. Thus I ever have money at hand to give; and when I give it, I never miss it.”

“God will accept your gift, and will bless you,” said the catechist earnestly, ere he turned and went on his way.

And what was the thought of Bál Mukand as he lay, apparently asleep, in the innermost and darkest part of the shop? “If all men showed such piety and charity, this would be a happy land,” he said in his heart. “The poverty of such men as Shib Das is better than the wealth of the worldly.”

The next person who came to the shop was the bearer of a government official of rank. He carried with him a necklace which had been broken in many places. Some of the precious stones had dropped from their setting. The bearer, whose name was Parduman, showed the broken ornament to Shib Das.

“Can you mend this for the Mem Sahiba?” asked he.

Shib Das was skilful in his craft, and he said that he could certainly mend the necklace. His heart was glad, for this was the first time that the poor Christian goldsmith had been offered employment by any of the Sahib log, and it seemed to him as if God were sending prosperity to his house.

“The Mem Sahiba must have her necklace back on Monday,” said the bearer, “for she is going to a grand ball on that night.”

“I cannot finish the work so soon,” said Shib Das, after carefully examining the broken ornament. A short time before, he would have readily made a promise, whether he had hoped to be able to keep it or not; but now that Shib Das served the God of truth, he would have suffered any loss rather than have broken his word.

“You have all to-morrow to work in,” observed Parduman, the bearer.

“To-morrow is Sunday, the day set apart for worship and praise,” said Shib Das. “I have given up working on that day since I have become a Christian.”

Then Parduman waxed angry, and roughly took back the necklace.

“The Sahib and Sahiba are Christians,” he cried, “and they do their work or take their pleasure on Sundays. Dost thou, O owl, and son of an owl, set thyself up as one wiser, or holier than they?”

“Whatever others do, I have simply to obey what is written in my sacred Book,” said the Christian: “_Remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy_.”

Then Parduman, who hated all Christians, and most especially such as were real ones, burst into a torrent of abuse. Every bitter and insulting epithet that he could think of flowed from his lips, as venom from the mouth of a snake. Bál Mukand, from his dark corner, watched to see how his friend would endure the provocation which he was receiving. “Shib Das is of a fiery temper,” he said to himself; “he is also strong and bold. He will give that foul-mouthed wretch sharp words back, or something sharper than words.” Bál Mukand saw that the angry blood was rising to the cheek of Shib Das, and expected a burst of passion to follow. But the servant of Christ pressed his own lips firmly together, and returned not railing for railing. He only said, as his enemy, still pouring forth abuse, turned to depart, “It is a fortunate thing for you, O bearer, that I am a Christian.”

“There is a strange change in this Shib Das,” thought Bál Mukand. “I have known him in former days strike a man to the earth for far less provocation than this. It is assuredly not cowardice that makes him now thus calmly endure. If all men had the firmness and patience of this Shib Das, this would indeed be a happy land. The silent endurance of such men as this Christian, shows more true courage than the boldest deeds of the warrior.”

Bál Mukand had but a short time to give to such reflections, for scarcely had the bearer left the jeweller’s shop when the sound of a fearful scuffle was heard in the street. Three thieves of the city had gained information that Parduman had in his charge a necklace of inestimable value. Lurking near the goldsmith’s shop, these thieves had heard the abuse lavished by the bearer on the Christian. While revilings and curses were yet on the lips of Parduman, he was suddenly felled to the earth by a blow. Being active and strong, he struggled again to his feet, calling out loudly for help. But the three thieves were far more than a match for the bearer. A second time he was hurled bleeding to the ground, and his wicked tongue might then have been silenced for ever, had not the brave Shib Das rushed out of his shop to the help of his enemy. The jeweller had snatched up a heavy stick on hearing Parduman’s cry for help; and of this stick he made such vigorous use that the thieves were not only put to flight, but forced to leave the jewels behind them.

The care of Shib Das was then given to his wounded enemy. He offered to bind Parduman’s hurts as kindly as if he had been his brother; but the Hindu declined his aid. Shib Das then brought him water to drink; but the bearer refused to take it from his hands: he would have thought himself polluted by touching with his lips the vessel of the Christian.

Bál Mukand had watched the whole scene with keen interest. “If all men were generous and forgiving as this Christian,”—this was the thought of Bál Mukand,—“this would indeed be a happy land. Does yon bigoted Hindu fear pollution from the touch of Shib Das? Were the bearer not blinded by superstition, he would know that there is no caste so high and pure as that of the children of God.”

Parduman left the necklace for the goldsmith to repair,—perhaps from some feeling of gratitude towards his preserver, perhaps because he feared, should he keep the jewels on his own person, to be again attacked on the road. With a bruised frame and bleeding brow Parduman left the place, and, we may hope, likewise with a humbled heart, resolved that he would not again abuse a man for being a Christian, or despise him for obeying the law of his God.

Bál Mukand had risen from his reclining posture at the first sound of the struggle in the street, though he had not, like Shib Das, rushed out to the aid of the bearer. Bál Mukand now, with a countenance full of thought, advanced towards his friend.

“O Shib Das!” he exclaimed, “said I not an hour ago that the way to the Christian’s heaven was dark, and that with all my searching and reading I was not able to find it? Lo! since I entered your shop a clear light has shone on the way.”

“What is your meaning, my friend?” asked the goldsmith.

“I have discovered the difference between the false flowers and the real; between those that are lifeless and those that have drunk the rain from the sky. I have seen that what is written in your Bible is true, though the words were at first an unfathomable mystery to my soul: _If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature_ (2 Cor. v. 17). I have beheld the well-watered garden in which grow the fruits of honesty and truth, piety and obedience, meekness, forgiveness, and love.”

“O my friend!” exclaimed Shib Das, “I am in myself weak, sinful, polluted; it is only through the death of Christ my Lord that I am saved from eternal destruction. It is only through the power of His Holy Spirit that I am enabled so much as to think one good thought.”

“Having been saved, the Christian loves; and having loved, he obeys; and in obeying he glorifies God,” said Bál Mukand. “Shib Das, your _example_ has done for me what all your words cannot do: it has convinced me that the religion which produces such effects must be the true one; it has made me resolve to become a Christian also.”

The life of every true servant of the Holy Saviour is as a lamp to light others on their way, as the blessed Lord showed when He said: _Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven_ (Matt. v. 16).

IX.

The Paper Parable.

Three men sat conversing together in the evening, when the glowing sun had just dipped below the horizon. The names of these men were Lalla Rám, Hukam Chand, and Lajput Rai. Lalla Rám was the inhabitant of a village, and dwelt in a mud-built hut. Hukam Chand kept a little shop in a crowded lane of the city of Lahore. Lajput Rai had no settled place of abode; he was a sage who had travelled much, had seen much, had thought much, and his words were deemed words of wisdom.

The first one of the three who spoke was the villager, Lalla Rám. He had been revolving in his mind news that he had heard that day—namely, that the orphan daughter of a friend of his had been placed in a school. This was a cause of great displeasure to Lalla Rám.

“It is an evil thing,” said he, “that schools for girls are now being planted over our land. Who would be so foolish as to sow corn upon a pool? Who would teach letters to a cow? Hath the sheep power to acquire knowledge? Woman was made to toil and bear burdens; she was made to labour in the field, and to grind at the mill. A book placed in the hand of a girl is as an ear-ring in the ear of an ass!”

Then spake he who dwelt in Lahore—he whose wife was ever in pardah:—“I too would close all schools for girls; but not because, in my opinion, it is good for women to labour. No: let our wives and daughters keep in pardah; and if they want amusement, let them find it in decking themselves out with jewels.[45] Women are quick enough in learning mischief without sharpening their wits by books. To put knowledge within the grasp of woman, is to put an edge-tool into the hand of a fool! Woman is only happy in ignorance, and only safe in seclusion.”

“My friends,” said the sage Lajput Rai, “did you ever hear the story of the rajah and the three sheets of paper?”

“No,” cried Lalla Rám and Hukam Chand. “My lord, we pray you, tell us the story.”

“A great rajah,” began Lajput Rai, “called to him three of his servants, and committed to each of them a fair sheet of paper, upon which no letter had ever been traced. The rajah told none of the three wherefore he had given the paper, but only said, ‘Use it with wisdom.’ But he said to himself, ‘I will judge of the understanding of each of these my servants by the use to which he shall put my gift; and he who showeth most wisdom shall receive a high place in my household.’

“After a long time had passed, the rajah again called his three servants; and after they had made their saláms, thus he spake to the first: ‘To what use hast thou put that fair sheet of blank paper which I committed to thy charge, for I wish to look on it now?’

“‘I wrapped seed in it, O your highness!’ replied the first servant, ‘and carried it into the field. The paper fell on the earth, damp with the rains, and was marred; my ox placed his foot upon it; it was trampled down into the clay. It is therefore impossible that I should lay it at your majesty’s foot-stool.’

“Then said the rajah to his second servant, ‘To what use hast thou put that goodly sheet of blank paper which I committed to thy charge, for I wish to behold it again?’

“‘I put the paper to no use whatsoever, O maharajah!’ replied the man, with a profound salám. ‘I rolled it up, and put it carefully on a shelf in an inner apartment, where no man could see it. But the damp spotted and stained it, and the white ants fretted it; the paper is no longer fit to be looked upon by the eyes of your highness.’

“Then the rajah turned to his third servant, and said, ‘To what use hast thou put that fair sheet of blank paper which I committed to thy charge?’

“Then the servant, after making obeisance, took from his bosom a roll, which he then slowly unfolded before the rajah. And lo! upon the roll, in letters of scarlet, and blue, and gold, appeared a beautiful illumination, fit for the walls of a palace. And these were the words inscribed:—_Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life_ (Prov. xxxi. 10-12).

“‘O faithful and wise servant!’ cried the rajah, ‘thou alone hast made a good use of my gift, thou only hast known its worth. Thou shalt reap a rich reward; and the paper which thy diligence hath made so fair, shall be framed in gold, and have an honourable place in my palace.’

“My friends,” continued the sage, “see ye the meaning of my story? The blank sheets of paper are the minds of our young daughters; and he who hath trusted them to your care is the mighty King, to whom ye must one day render a strict account. Ignorance is as the treading down of the ox in the field, or as the mould that mars the roll on the shelf. _For the soul to be without knowledge is not good._ But happy the father who causes to be traced on the mind of his young daughter lessons of purity, wisdom, and truth! Those lessons shall shine forth as in characters of gold; and she who has learned in youth to serve and obey the great King, shall find an honourable place in that heaven which He hath prepared for them that love Him.”

X.

The Oldest Language upon Earth.

The story goes that three old men—a Mohammedan, a Jew, and a Brahmin—seated on the ground beside a well, disputed together as to which was the first language spoken upon earth. The discussion waxed so hot, the voices were raised so loudly, that the sound drew to the spot a young Englishman. The youth had been out shooting; with his gun in his hand, and his game at his feet, he now stood, leaning against a tree, listening to the discussion between the three men.

The Mohammedan, with vehement gestures, and many an oath, declared that no language could equal the Arabic.

“Is it not the language,” he cried, “in which Mohammed (blessed be his name!) received the holy Koran? Is it not that in which the Most High gave laws to the faithful? Will ye, O ye unbelievers! cast dust on the grave of the Prophet by doubting that Arabic is the oldest language on earth?”

The Jew shook his gray head, and his brow was knit into many wrinkles as he made answer: “The language which Abraham our father, which Isaac and Jacob (peace be on them!) spake, must be honoured above all other tongues. Surely it was heard in Paradise, before Eve plucked the forbidden fruit! The oldest and most sacred language assuredly is the Hebrew.”