[Transcriber's Notes: Bold is surrounded by =equal signs=. 

Italics are shown by _underscores_. ]

[Illustration: Old India. "You think you know us; you know nothing atall about us!" and the old eyes peer intently into yours, and the oldhead shakes and he smiles to himself as he moves off. Every bit of thispicture is suggestive: the closed door behind, --only a Brahman may openthat door; the mythological carving, --only a Brahman has the right tounderstand it; the three-skein cord, --only a Brahman may touch it. Eventhe ragged old cloth is suggestive. In old India nothing but Castecounts for anything, and a reigning Prince lately gave his weight ingold to the Brahmans, as part payment for ceremonies which enabled himto eat with men of this old man's social position. Look at the marks onthe baby's forehead; they are suggestive too. ]

THINGS AS THEY ARE

MISSION WORK IN SOUTHERN INDIA

BY

AMY WILSON-CARMICHAEL

_Keswick Missionary C. E. Z. M. S. _

AUTHOR OF "FROM SUNRISE LAND, " ETC. 

WITH PREFACE BY

EUGENE STOCK

[Illustration: Tamil Text: VICTORY TO JESUS' NAME!]

 LONDON: MORGAN AND SCOTT (OFFICE OF "=The Christian=") 12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E. C. _And may be ordered of any bookseller_ 1905

 FIRST EDITION _April 1903_ _Reprinted_ _August 1903_ " _January 1904_ " _November 1904_ " _January 1905_

 To the Memory of My Dear Friend, ELEANOR CARR, Whose last message to the Band, before her translation on June 16, 1901, was:

 "YOU WILL BE IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT BY THE TIME THIS REACHES YOU, [Illustration: Tamil text: THE BATTLE IS THE LORD'S!]"

Note

WITHIN a few weeks of the publication of _Things as They Are_, letterswere received from missionaries working in different parts of India, confirming its truth. But some in England doubt it. And so it wasproposed that if a fourth edition were called for, a few confirmatorynotes, written by experienced South Indian missionaries, other thanthose of the district described, would be helpful. Several such notesare appended. The Indian view of one of the chief facts set forth in thebook is expressed in the note written by one who, better than anymissionary, and surely better even than any onlooker at home, has theright to be heard in this matter--_and the right to be believed_. 

And now at His feet, who can use the least, we lay this book again; for"to the Mighty One, " as the Tamil proverb says, "even the blade of grassis a weapon. " May it be used for His Name's sake, to win more prayer forIndia--and all dark lands--the prayer that prevails. 

 AMY WILSON-CARMICHAEL, Dohnavur, Tinnevelly District, S. India. 

Confirmatory Notes

_From_ Rev. D. DOWNIE, D. D. , American Baptist Mission, Nizam'sDominions, S. India. 

I have felt for many years that we missionaries were far too prone todwell on what is called the "bright side of mission work. " That it has abright side no one can question. That it has a "dark" side some doquestion; but I for one, after thirty years of experience, know it to bejust as true as the bright side is true. I have heard Miss Carmichael'sbook denounced as "pessimistic. " Just what is meant by that I am notquite sure; but if it means that what she has written is untrue, then Iam prepared to say that it is NOT pessimistic, _for there is not a lineof it that cannot be duplicated in this Telugu Mission_. That she haspainted a dark picture of Hindu life cannot be denied, but, _since it isevery word true_, I rejoice that she had the courage to do what was somuch needed, and yet what so many of us shrank from doing, "lest itshould injure the cause. "

_From_ Rev. T. STEWART, M. A. , Secretary, United Free Church Mission, Madras. 

This book, _Things as They Are_, meets a real need--_it depicts a phaseof mission work of which, as a rule, very little is heard_. Everymissionary can tell of cases where people have been won for Christ, andmention incidents of more than passing interest. Miss Carmichael is noexception, and could tell of not a few trophies of grace. _The dangeris, lest in describing such incidents the impression should be giventhat they represent the normal state of things, the reverse being thecase. _ The people of India are not thirsting for the Gospel, nor"calling us to deliver their land from error's chain. " The night isstill one in which the "spiritual hosts of wickedness" have to beovercome before the captive can be set free. The writer has laid allinterested in the extension of the Kingdom of God under a deep debt ofobligation by such a graphic and accurate picture of the difficultiesthat have to be faced and the obstacles to be overcome. Counterparts ofthe incidents recorded can be found in other parts of South India, andthere are probably few missionaries engaged in vernacular work who couldnot illustrate some of them from their own experience. 

_From_ Dr. A. W. RUDISILL, Methodist Episcopal Press, Madras. 

In _Things as They Are_ are pictured, by camera and pen, _some_ thingsin Southern India. The pen, as faithfully as the camera, has told thetruth, and nothing but the truth. 

The early chapters bring out with vivid, striking, almost startlingreality the wayside hearers in India. One can almost see the devilplucking away the words as fast as they fall, and hear the opposers ofthe Gospel crying out against it. 

Paul did not hesitate to write things as they were of the idolaters towhom he preached, even though the picture was very dark. _It is all themore needful now, when so many are deceived and being deceived as to thetrue nature of idolatry, that people at home who give and pray should betold plainly that what Paul wrote of idolaters in Rome and Corinth isstill true of idolaters in India. _

Miss Carmichael has given only glances and glimpses, not full insights. Let those who think the picture she has drawn is too dark know that, ifthe whole truth were told, an evil spirit only could produce thepictures, and hell itself would be the only fit place in which topublish them, because in Christian lands eyes have not seen and earshave not heard of such things. 

_From_ Rev. C. W. CLARKE, M. A. , Principal, Noble College, Masulipatam. 

I have worked as Principal of a College for over seventeen years amongstthe caste people of South India, and I entirely endorse MissCarmichael's views as to the actual risks run by students and othersdesirous of breaking caste and being baptized. While the teaching of theBible and English education generally have removed a great deal ofprejudice, and greatly raised the ethical standard amongst a number ofthose who come under such influences, Hinduism as held and practised bythe vast majority of caste people remains essentially unchanged. Tobreak caste is held to be the greatest evil a person can inflict uponhimself and his community, _therefore practically any means may beresorted to to prevent such a calamity_. It is a commonplace amongstmissionaries, that when a caste man or woman shows any serious intentionof being baptized, --in any case, where caste feeling is not modified byspecial circumstances, --the most stringent precautions must be taken toprotect the inquirer from the schemes of his caste brethren. 

_From_ KRISHNA RAN, Esq. , B. A. , Editor, _Christian Patriot_, Madras(himself a convert). 

The question is often asked whether a high caste Hindu convert can livewith his own people after his baptism. _It is only those who knownothing of the conditions of life in India, and of the power of caste asit exists in this country, who raise the question. _

The convert has to be prepared for the loss of parents and their tenderaffection; of brothers and sisters, relatives and friends; of wife andchildren, if he has any; of his birthright, social position, means oflivelihood, reputation, and all the power which hides behind the magicword "caste"; of all that he is taught from his childhood to hold assacred. 

_From_ Miss READE, South Arcot, South India. 

I am not surprised that anyone unacquainted with mission work in Indiashould be staggered at the facts narrated in _Things as They Are_. Butas one who has worked for nearly thirty years in the heart ofheathenism, away from the haunts of civilisation, I can bear testimony_that the reality of things far exceeds anything that it would bepossible to put into print_. One's tongue falters to tell of what iscustom in this country. I know a case where a young girl of ten wasplaced in such a position that her choice lay between two sinful coursesof life, _no right way being open to her_. I think one of the mostdistressing things we have to meet in caste work in this country is thefact that often as soon as a soul begins to show interest in Christ _heor she disappears_, and one either hears next that he is dead, or canget no reliable information at all. 

_Extract from_ a letter to Miss CARMICHAEL on _Things as They Are_. (Thewriter is a veteran American missionary. )

_I could duplicate nearly every incident in the book_; so I know it is atrue picture, not alone because I believe your word, but because myexperience has been so similar to yours. Many times, while reading it, the memory of the old heart-break has been so vivid that I have had tolay the book down and look round the familiar room in order to convincemyself that it was you, and not I, who was agonising over one of theKing's own children who was being crowded back into darkness and hurleddown to destruction, because Satan's wrath is great as he realises thathis time is short. 

I wish the book might be read by all the Christians in the homeland. 

_From_ PANDITA RAMABAI. 

While I was reading _Things as They Are_, I fancied I was living my oldlife among Hindus over again. I can honestly corroborate everything saidin regard to the religious and social life of the Hindus. I came fromthat part of the country, and I am very glad that the book has succeededin bringing the truth to light. 

_From_ Miss L. TROTTER. 

There is hardly a phase of all the heart-suffering retold that we havenot known: page after page might have been written out here, word forword. 

Preface

THE writer of these thrilling chapters is a Keswick missionary, wellknown to many friends as the adopted daughter of Mr. Robert Wilson, themuch-respected chairman of the Keswick Convention. She worked for a timewith the Rev. Barclay Buxton in Japan; and for the last few years shehas been with the Rev. T. Walker (also a C. M. S. Missionary) inTinnevelly, and is on the staff of the Church of England Zenana Society. 

I do not think the realities of Hindu life have ever been portrayed withgreater vividness than in this book; and I know that the authoress'saccuracy can be fully relied upon. The picture is drawn withoutprejudice, with all sympathy, with full recognition of what is good, andyet with an unswerving determination to tell the truth and let the factsbe known, --that is, so far as she dares to tell them. What she says isthe truth, and nothing but the truth; but it is not the wholetruth--_that_ she could not tell. If she wrote it, it could not beprinted. If it were printed, it could not be read. But if we readbetween the lines, we do just catch glimpses of what she calls "theActual. "

It is evident that the authoress deeply felt the responsibility ofwriting such a book; and I too feel the responsibility of recommendingit. I do so with the prayer of my heart that God will use it to movemany. It is not a book to be read with a lazy kind of sentimental"interest. " It is a book to send the reader to his knees--still more to_her_ knees. 

Most of the chapters are concerned with the lives of Heathen men andwomen and children surrounded by the tremendous bars and gates of theCaste system. But one chapter, and not the least important one, tells ofnative Christians. It has long been one of my own objects to correct thecurious general impression among people at home that native Christians, as a body, are--not indeed perfect, --no one thinks that, but--earnestand consistent followers of Christ. Narratives, true narratives, of trueconverts are read, and these are supposed to be specimens of the wholebody. But (1) where there have been "mass movements" towardsChristianity, where whole villages have put themselves under Christianinstruction, mixed motives are certain; (2) where there have been two orthree generations of Christians it is unreasonable to expect thedescendants of men who may have been themselves most true converts to benecessarily like them. Hereditary Christianity in India is much likehereditary Christianity at home. The Church in Tinnevelly, of which thisbook incidentally tells a little, is marked by both these features. Whole families or even villages have "come over" at times; and the largemajority of the Christians were (so to speak) born Christians, and werebaptized in infancy. This is not in itself a result to be despised. "Christian England, " unchristian as a great part of its populationreally is, is better than Heathen India; and in the chapter now referredto, Miss Carmichael herself notices the difference between a Hindu and aChristian village. But the more widely Christianity spreads, the morewill there assuredly be of mere nominal profession. 

Is the incorrect impression I allude to caused by missionaries dwellingmostly on the brighter side of their work? Here and there in the bookthere is just a suggestion that they are wrong in doing so. But how canthey help it? What does a clergyman or an evangelist in England tell of?Does he tell of his many daily disappointments, or of his occasionalencouraging cases? The latter are the events of his life, and henaturally tells of them. The former he comprises in some generalstatement. How can he do otherwise? And what can the modern missionarydo in the short reports he is able to write? Fifty years ago missionaryjournals of immense length came home, and were duly published; and thenthe details of Hindu idolatry and cruelty and impurity, and thetremendous obstacles to the Gospel, were better known by the few regularreaders. Much that Miss Carmichael tells was then told over and overagain, though not perhaps with a skilful pen like hers. But the work hasso greatly developed in each mission, and the missions are so far morenumerous and extended, that neither can missionaries now write as theirpredecessors did, nor, if they did, could all the missionary periodicalstogether find space for their journals. 

The fault of incorrect impressions lies mainly in the want of knowledgeand want of thought of home speakers and preachers. I remember, thirtyyears ago, an eloquent Bishop in Exeter Hall triumphantly flinging inthe face of critics of missions the question, "Is Tinnevelly afiction?"--as if Tinnevelly had become a Christian country, whichapparently some people still suppose it to be, notwithstanding thewarning words to the contrary which the C. M. S. Publications have againand again uttered. Even now, there are in Tinnevelly about twentyheathen to every one Christian; and of what sort the twenty are thisbook tells. Tinnevelly is indeed "no fiction, " but in a very differentsense from that of the good Bishop's speech. Again, a few months ago, Iheard a preacher, not very favourable to the C. M. S. , say that theC. M. S. , despite its shortcomings, deserved well of the Church because ithad "converted a nation" in Uganda!--as if the nation comprised only30, 000 souls. Some day the "Actual" of Uganda will be better understood, and the inevitable shortcomings of even its Christian populationrealised, and then we shall be told that we deceived thepublic--although we have warned them over and over again. 

But the larger part of this book is a revelation--so far as ispossible--of the "Actual" of Hinduism and Caste. God grant that itsterrible facts and its burning words may sink into the hearts of itsreaders! Perhaps, when they have read it, they will at last agree thatwe have used no sensational and exaggerated language when we have saidthat the Church is only playing at missions! Service, and self-denial, and prayer, must be on a different scale indeed if we are ever--I do notsay to convert the world--but even to evangelise it. 

 EUGENE STOCK. 

Contents

 CHAPTER PAGE I. ABOUT THE BOOK 1 II. THREE AFTERNOONS OFF THE TRACK 5 III. HUMDRUM 18 IV. CORRESPONDENCES 26 V. THE PREY OF THE TERRIBLE 33 VI. MISSED ENDS 41 VII. "THE DUST OF THE ACTUAL" 57 VIII. ROOTS 71 IX. THE CLASSES AND THE MASSES 83 X. THE CREED CHASM 91 XI. CASTE VIEWED AS A DOER 96 XII. PETRA 105 XIII. DEATH BY DISUSE 111 XIV. WHAT HAPPENED 118 XV. "SIMPLY MURDERED" 124 XVI. WANTED, VOLUNTEERS 132 XVII. IF IT IS SO VERY IMPORTANT. . . ? 141 XVIII. THE CALL INTENSIFIED 145 XIX. "ATTRACTED BY THE INFLUENCE" 160 XX. THE ELF 171 XXI. DEIFIED DEVILRY 188 XXII. BEHIND THE DOOR 194 XXIII. "PAN, PAN IS DEAD" 203 XXIV. "MARRIED TO THE GOD" 217 XXV. SKIRTING THE ABYSS 223 XXVI. FROM A HINDU POINT OF VIEW 236 XXVII. THOUGH YE KNOW HIM NOT 249 XXVIII. HOW LONG? 256 XXIX. WHAT DO WE COUNT THEM WORTH? 262 XXX. TWO SAFE 273 XXXI. THREE OBJECTIONS 277 XXXII. "SHOW ME THY GLORY!" 289 APPENDIX. SOME INDIAN SAINTS 303

 Illustrations

 AN OLD BRAHMAN _Frontispiece_ BANDY CROSSING A POOL _Facing page 5_ A YOUNG TAMIL GIRL 11 A POTTER AT HIS WHEEL 24 A DEVOTEE OF SIVA 26 THE RED LAKE VILLAGE 28 DEATH SCENE 51 WAILING 53 THREE CEREMONIAL MOURNERS 54 CEREMONIAL BATHING 56 AN ANCIENT PARIAH 58 VELLALA WIDOW 66 TYPICAL OLD WIDOW 73 HINDU SCHOOLMASTER AND BOYS 87 SHANAR MOTHER AND CHILD 91 COOKING IN A SHANAR HOUSE 98 FAIRLY TYPICAL VELLALAR 105 CHRISTIAN WIDOW 112 BRAHMAN GIRL 118 THREE TYPES OF BRAHMANHOOD-- KEEN 132 THOUGHTFUL 134 DULL 138 AN OLD WOMAN AND BABY 143 BRAHMAN WIDOW 145 BRAHMAN STREET 147 SHEPHERD-CASTE HOUSE 151 VELLALA CHILD 161 "UGLY DUCKLING" 178 DESIGNS IN CHALK 194 HANDMARKS ON THE DOOR 202 A "HOLY BRAHMAN" 221 WOMAN AND WATER-VESSEL 262

 Glossary

 AGNI God of Fire. 

 AIYO Alas! "Ai" runs together almost like "eye. " The word is repeated rapidly, Eye-eye Yō Eye-eye Yō!

 AMMĀ Mother! (vocative case). "A" is pronounced like "u" in "up. " The word is also used by all women in speaking to each other, and by girls in speaking to women. 

 AMMĀL Lady or woman. "A" is pronounced like "u" in "up. "

 ANNA One penny. 

 ARECA NUT Nut "eaten" by the Indians with betel leaf or lime. 

 BETEL Leaf of a creeper. 

 BANDY A bullock cart. 

 BRAHMA The first person in the Hindu Triad, regarded as the Creator. 

 BRAHMAN The highest of the Hindu Castes. 

 BRAMO SAMÂJ A sect of Hindu reformers who honour Christ as a man, but reject Him as a Saviour. 

 CHEE! Exclamation of derision, disgust, or remonstrance. 

 COMPOUND A piece of ground surrounding a house. 

 COOLIE A paid labourer. "Coolie" is the Tamil word for pay. 

 CURRY A preparation of meat or vegetables made by grinding various condiments and mixing them together. 

 FAKEER Religious beggar. 

 GURU A religious teacher. 

 IYER Title given to Brahmans and Gurus. 

 PADDY Rice in the husk. Paddy fields = rice fields. 

 PARIAH A depressed class. 

 PŪJAH Worship. "ū" is pronounced like "oo. "

 RUPEE Value 1s. 4d. 

 SAIVITE A worshipper of Siva. 

 SALAAM A salutation meaning "peace, " used in greeting and farewell, and often in the sense of "thank you. " The right hand is raised to the forehead as one says salaam. 

 SEELEY Tamil woman's dress of silk, muslin, or cotton. 

 SHANAR A Caste of Palmyra-palm climbers. 

 SIVA The third person in the Hindu Triad. The Destroyer. 

 TOM-TOM An Indian drum. 

 VAISHNAVITE A worshipper of Vishnu. 

 VELLALAR A Caste of landowners and cultivators. 

 VISHNU The second person in the Hindu Triad. The Preserver. 

THINGS AS THEY ARE

MISSION WORK IN SOUTHERN INDIA

CHAPTER I

About the Book

 "We can do nothing against the Truth, but for the Truth. " _St. Paul, Asia and Europe. _

 "There is too little desire to know what is the actual state of mission work in India, and a regard to the showy and attractive rather than to the solid and practical. I will try, however, to avoid being carried away by the tide, and to set myself the task of giving as plain and unvarnished a statement as possible of what is actually being done or not done in the great field of our foreign labour. " _Bishop French, India and Arabia. _

THREE friends sat Native fashion on the floor of an Indian verandah. Twoof the three had come out to India for a few months to see the fight asit is. And they saw it. They now proposed that the third should gathersome letters written from the hot heart of things, and make them into abook, to the intent that others should see exactly what they had seen. The third was not sure. The world has many books. Does it want another, and especially another of the kind this one would be? Brain and timeare needed for all that writing a book means. The third has not much ofeither. But the two undertook to do all the most burdensome part of thebusiness. "Give us the letters, we will make the book, " and they urgedreasons which ended in--this. 

This, the book, has tried to tell the Truth. That is all it has to sayabout itself. The quotations which head the chapters, and which aremeant to be read, not skipped, are more worthful than anything else init. They are chosen from the writings of missionaries, who saw the Truthand who told it. 

The story covers about two years. We had come from the eastern side ofthis South Indian district, to work for awhile in the south of theSouth, the farthest southern outpost of the C. M. S. In India. Chapter II. Plunges into the middle of the beginning. The Band Sisters are themembers of a small Women's Itinerating Band; the girls mentioned bytranslated names are the young convert-girls who are with us; the Iyeris Rev. T. Walker; the Ammal is Mrs. Walker; the Missie Ammal explainsitself. 

The Picture-catching Missie Ammal is the friend who proposed the book'smaking. This is her Tamil name, given because it describes her as shestruck the Tamil mind. The pictures she caught were not easy to catch. Reserved and conservative India considered the camera intrusive, and wewere often foiled in getting what we most desired. Even where we wereallowed to catch our object peaceably, it was a case of working underdifficulties which would have daunted a less ardent picture-catcher. Wherever the camera was set up, there swarms of children sprang intobeing, burrowed in and out like rabbits, and scuttled about overeverything, to the confusion of the poor artist, who had to fix focusand look after the safety of her camera legs at the same time, while thesecond Missie Ammal held an umbrella over her head, and the thirdexhorted the picture, which speedily got restive, to sit still. So muchfor the mere mechanical. 

Finally, I should explain the book's character. "Tell about things asthey actually are"; so said the Two with emphasis. I tried, but theActual eluded me. It was as if one painted smoke, and then, pointing tothe feeble blur, said, "Look at the battle! 'the smoking hell ofbattle!' There is the smoke!" The Poet's thought was not this, I know, when she coined that suggestive phrase, "The Dust of the Actual, " but ithas been the predominating thought in my mind, for it holds that whichdefines the scope and expresses the purpose of the book, and I use it asthe title of one of the chapters. It does not show the Actual. Principalities, Powers, Rulers of the Darkness, Potentialities unknownand unimagined, gathered up into one stupendous Force--we have neverseen it. How can we describe it? What we have seen and tried to describeis only an indication of Something undescribed, and is as nothing incomparison with it--as Dust in comparison with the Actual. The book'sscope, then, is bounded by this: it only touches the Dust; but itspurpose goes deeper, stretches wider, has to do with the Actual and ourrelation to it. 

But in touching the Dust we touch the outworkings of an Energy so awfulin operation that descriptive chapters are awful too. And such chaptersare best read alone in some quiet place with God. For the book is abattle-book, written from a battle-field where the fighting is notpretty play but stern reality; and almost every page looks straight fromthe place where Charles Kingsley stood when he wrote--

 "God! fight we not within a cursèd world, Whose very air teems thick with leaguèd fiends-- Each word we speak has infinite effects-- Each soul we pass must go to heaven or hell-- And this our one chance through eternity To drop and die, like dead leaves in the brake!

 . . . . . . . 

 Be earnest, earnest, earnest; mad if thou wilt: Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven, And that thy last deed ere the judgment day. "

[Illustration: This is our bullock-bandy. The water was up to the top ofthe bank when we crossed last. The palms are cocoanuts. ]

CHAPTER II

Three Afternoons off the Track

 "They are led captive by Satan at his will in the most quiescent manner. " _David Brainerd, North America. _

 "Oh that the Lord would pour out upon them a spirit of deep concern for their souls!" _Henry Martyn, India. _

 "I ask you earnestly to pray that the Gospel may take saving and working effect. " _James Gilmour, Mongolia. _

THE Western Ghauts sweep down to the sea in curves. Dohnavur is in oneof the last of these curves. There are no proper roads running under themountains, only rough country ruts crossing the plain. We were rollingalong one of these at the rate of two miles an hour. 

Crash and tumble went the bandy, a springless construction with a matroof; bang over stones and slabs of rock, down on one side, up on theother; then both wheels were sharp aslant. But this is usual. On thatparticular First Afternoon the water was out, which is the South Indianway of saying that the tanks, great lake-like reservoirs, haveoverflowed and flooded the land. Once we went smoothly down a bank andinto a shallow swollen pool, and the water swished in at the lower endand floated our books out quietly. So we had to stop, and fish them up;and then, huddled close at the upper end we sat, somewhat damp, buthappy. 

At last we got to our destination, reached through a lane which then wasa stream with quite a swift little current of its own. Cupid's Lake theplace is called. We thought the name appropriate. Cupid's Lake ispeopled by Castes of various persuasions; we made for the Robber quarterfirst. The Robber Caste is honourable here; it furnishes our watchmenand the coolies who carry our money. There is good stuff in the RobberCaste people: a valiant people are they, and though they were notprepared for the thing that was coming towards them, they met it withfortitude. A little girl saw it first. One glance at my hat through theend of the cart, and she flew to spread the news--

"Oh! everyone come running and see! A great white man is here! Oh whatan appalling spectacle! A great white man!"

Then there was a general rush; children seemed to spring from theground, all eyes and tongues and astonishment. "She isn't a man!" "Heis!" "She isn't!" "He has got a man's turban!" "But look at her seeley!"(Tamil dress. ) A _woman_, and white--it staggered them till theassurances of the Band Sisters prevailed; and they let me into aneighbouring house, out of the sun which made that hat a necessity. Onceit was off they lost all fear, and crowded round in the friendliestfashion; but later, one of the Band was amused by hearing me describedin full: "Not a man, though great and white, and wearing a white man'sturban, too! Was it not an appalling spectacle?" And the old body whowas addressed held up both her hands amazed, and hastened off toinvestigate. 

An English magazine told us lately exactly what these poor women thinkwhen they see, for the first time in their lives, the lady missionary. They greatly admire her, the article said, and consider her fairer andmore divine than anything ever imagined before--which is very niceindeed to read; but here what they say is this: "Was it not an appallingspectacle? A great white man!"

And now that the spectacle was safe in the house, the instincts ofhospitality urged clean mats and betel. Betel (pronounced _beetle_) isthe leaf of a climbing plant, into which they roll a morsel of areca nutand lime. The whole is made up into a parcel and munched, but notswallowed. This does not sound elegant; neither is the thing. It is oneof the minor trials of life to have to sit through the process. 

We took a leaf or two, but explained that it was not our custom to eatit; and then we answered questions straight off for ten minutes. "Whatis your Caste?" "Chee!" in a tone of remonstrance, "don't you see she is_white_? Married or widow? Why no jewels? What relations? Where are theyall? Why have you left them and come here? Whatever can be your businesshere? What does the Government give you for coming here?" These lastquestions gave us the chance we were watching for, and we began toexplain. 

Now what do these people do when, for the first time, they hear the GoodTidings? They simply stare. 

In that house that day there was an old woman who seemed to understanda little what it was all about. She had probably heard before. Butnobody else understood in the least; they did not understand enough tomake remarks. They sat round us on the floor and ate betel, as everybodydoes here in all leisure moments, and they stared. 

The one old woman who seemed to understand followed us out of the house, and remarked that it was a good religion but a mistaken one, as itadvocated, or resulted in, the destruction of Caste. 

In the next house we found several girls, and tried to persuade themothers to let them learn to read. If a girl is learning regularly itgives one a sort of right of entrance to the house. One's going there isnot so much observed and one gets good chances, but to all ourpersuasions they only said it was not their custom to allow their girlsto learn. Had _they_ to do Government work? Learning was for men whowanted to do Government work. We explained a little, and mentioned themany villages where girls are learning to read. They thought it a whollyridiculous idea. Then we told them as much as we could in an hour aboutthe great love of Jesus Christ. 

I was in the middle of it, and thinking only of it and their souls, whenan old lady with fluffy white hair leaned forward and gazed at me with abeautiful, earnest gaze. She did not speak; she just listened and gazed, "drinking it all in. " And then she raised a skeleton claw, and grabbedher hair, and pointed to mine. "Are you a widow too, " she asked, "thatyou have no oil on yours?" After a few such experiences that beautifulgaze loses its charm. It really means nothing more nor less than thesweet expression sometimes observed in the eyes of a sorrowful animal. 

But her question had set the ball rolling again. "Oil! no oil! Can't youeven afford a halfpenny a month to buy good oil? It isn't your custom?Why not? Don't any white Ammals ever use oil? What sort of oil do thegirls use? Do you _never_ use castor oil for the hair? Oh, castor oil isexcellent!" And they went into many details. The first thing they dowhen a baby is born is to swing it head downwards, holding its feet, andadvise it not to sin; and the second thing is to feed it with castoroil, and put castor oil in its eyes. "Do we do none of these things?" Wesang to them. They always like that, and sometimes it touches them: butthe Tamils are not easily touched, and could never be described asunduly emotional. 

All through there were constant and various interruptions. Two bullssauntered in through the open door, and established themselves in theiraccustomed places; then a cow followed, and somebody went off to tie theanimals up. Children came in and wanted attention, babies made theirusual noises. We rarely had five consecutive quiet minutes. 

When they seemed to be getting tired of us, we said the time waspassing, to which they agreed, and, with a word about hoping to comeagain, to which they answered cordially, "Oh yes! Come to-morrow!" wewent out into the street, and finished up in the open air. There is atree at one end of the village; we stood under it and sang a chorus andtaught the children who had followed us from house to house to sing it, and this attracted some passing grown-ups, who listened while wewitnessed unto Jesus, Who had saved us and given us His joy. Nothingtells more than just this simple witness. To hear one of their ownpeople saying, with evident sincerity, "One thing I know, that whereas Iwas blind now I see, " makes them look at each other and nod their headssympathetically. This is something that appeals, something they canappreciate; many a time it arrests attention when nothing else would. 

[Illustration: We were not able to get the photo of that special girlin the blue seeley, but this girl is so like her that I put her here. She is a Vellalar. The jewels worn by a girl of this class run intothousands of rupees. They are part of the ordinary dress. This girl didnot know we were coming, she was "caught" just as she was. She had aball of pink oleander flowers in her hands and white flowers in herhair. ]

We were thoroughly tired by this time, and could neither talk nor singany more. The crowd melted--all but the children, who never melt--one byone going their respective ways, having heard, some of them, for thefirst time. What difference will it make in their lives? Did theyunderstand it? None of them seemed specially interested, none of themsaid anything interesting. The last question I heard was aboutsoap--"What sort of soap do you use to make your skin white?" Most ofthem would far prefer to be told that secret than how to get a whiteheart. 

Afternoon Number Two found us in the Village of the Temple, atumble-down little place, but a very citadel of pride and the arroganceof ignorance. We did not know that at first, of course, but we very soonfound it out. There was the usual skirmish at the sight of a live whitewoman; no one there had seen such a curiosity. But even curiosity couldnot draw the Brahmans. They live in a single straggling street, andwould not let us in. "Go!" said a fat old Brahman disdainfully; "nowhite man has ever trodden our street, and no white woman shall. As forthat low-caste child with you"--Victory looked up in her gentle way, andhe varied it to--"that child who eats with those low-caste people--sheshall not speak to one of our women. Go by the way you have come!"

This was not encouraging. We salaamed and departed, and went to ourbandy left outside ("low-caste bandies" are not allowed to drive downBrahman streets), and asked our Master to open another door. While wewere waiting, a tall, fine-looking Hindu came and said, "Will you cometo my house? I will show you the way. " So we went. 

He led us to the Vellala quarter next to the Brahmans, and we found hishouse was the great house of the place. The outer door opened into alarge square inner courtyard. A wide verandah, supported by pillarsquaintly carved, ran round it. The women's rooms, low and windowless, opened on either side; these are the rooms we rejoice to get into, andnow we were led right in. 

But first I had to talk to the men. They were regular Caste Hindus;courteous--for they have had no cause to fear the power of theGospel--yet keen and argumentative. One of them had evidently read agood deal. He quoted from their classics; knew all about Mrs. Besant andthe latest pervert to her views; and was up in the bewildering tangle ofthought known as Hindu Philosophy. "Fog-wreaths of doubt, in blindingeddies drifted"--that is what it really is, but it is very difficult toprove it so. 

One truth struck him especially--Christianity is the only religion whichprovides a way by which there is deliverance from sin _now_. There is acertain system of philosophy which professes to provide deliverance inthe future, when the soul, having passed through the first three stagesof bliss, loses its identity and becomes absorbed in God; but there isno way by which deliverance can be obtained here and now. "Sin shall nothave dominion over you"--there is no such line as this in all themillion stanzas of the Hindu classics. He admitted this freely, admittedthat this one tenet marked out Christianity as a unique religion; but hedid not go on further; he showed no desire to prove the truth of it. 

After this they let us go to the women, who had all this time beenwatching us, and discussing us with interest. 

Once safely into their inner room, we sat down on the floor in the midstof them, and began to make friends. There was a grandmother who hadheard that white people were not white all over, but piebald, so tospeak; might she examine me? There were several matronly women whowanted to know what arrangements English parents made concerning theirdaughters' marriages. There were the usual widows of a large Indianhousehold--one always looks at them with a special longing; and therewas a dear young girl, in a soft blue seeley (Tamil dress), her earsclustered about with pearls, and her neck laden with five or sixnecklets worth some hundreds of rupees. She was going to be married; andbeyond the usual gentle courtesy of a well-brought-up Tamil girl, showed no interest in us. Almost all the women had questions to ask. Onthe track it is different; they have already satisfied their lawfulcuriosity concerning Missie Ammals; but here they have not had thechance; and if we ignore their desires, we defeat our own. They may seemto listen, but they are really occupied in wondering about us. We gotthem to listen finally, and left them, cheered by warm invitations toreturn. 

Then we thought of the poor proud Brahmans, and hoping that, perhaps, inthe interval they had inquired about us, and would let us in, we went tothem again. We could see the fair faces and slender forms of the youngerBrahman women standing in the shadow behind their verandah pillars, andsome of them looked as if they would like to let us in, but the streethad not relented; and a Brahman street is like a house--you cannot go inunless you are allowed. 

There was one kind-faced, courtly old man, and he seemed to sympathisewith us, for he left the mocking group of men, and came to see us off;and then, as if to divert us from the greater topic, he pointed to oneof the mountains, a spur of the God King's mountain, famous in all SouthIndia, and volunteered to tell me its story. We were glad to makefriends with him even over so small a thing as a mountain; but he wouldspeak of nothing else, and when he left us we felt baffled and sorry, and tired with the tiredness that comes when you cannot give yourmessage; and we sat down on a rock outside the Brahman street, to waittill the Band Sisters gathered for the homeward walk. 

It was sunset time, and the sky was overcast by dull grey clouds; butjust over the Brahman quarter there was a rift in the grey, and thepent-up gold shone through. It seemed as if God were pouring out Hisbeauty upon those Brahmans, trying to make them look up, and they wouldnot. One by one we saw them go to their different courtyards, where thegolden glow could not reach them, and we heard them shut their greatheavy doors, as if they were shutting Him out. 

In there it was dark; out here, out with God, it was light. Theafter-glow, that loveliest glow of the East, was shining through therent of the clouds, and the red-tiled roofs and the scarlet flowers ofthe Flame of the Forest, and every tint and colour which would respondin any way, were aglow with the beauty of it. The Brahman quarter wasset in the deep green of shadowy trees; just behind it the mountainsrose outlined in mist, and out of the mist a waterfall gleamed whiteagainst blue. 

We spent Afternoon Number Three in the Village of the Warrior, a lonelylittle place, left all by itself on a great rough moorland--if you cancall a patch of bare land "moor" which is destitute of heather, andgrows palms and scrub in clumps instead. It took us rather a long timeto get to it, over very broken ground on a very hot day; but when we didget there we found such a good opening that we forgot about ourfeelings, and entered in rejoicing. There were some little childrenplaying at the entrance to the village, and they led us straight totheir own house, making friends in the most charming way as theytrotted along beside us. They told us their family history, and we toldthem as much of ours as was necessary, and they introduced us to theirmothers as old acquaintances. The mothers were indulgent, and let ushave a room all to ourselves in the inner courtyard, where a dozen ormore children gathered and listened with refreshing zest. _They_understood, dear little things, though so often their elders did not. 

Then the mothers got interested, and sat about the door. The girls werewith me. (We usually divide into two parties; the elder and moreexperienced Sisters go off in one direction, and the young convert-girlscome with me. ) And before long, Jewel of Victory was telling out of afull heart all about the great things God had done for her. She has avery sweet way with the women, and they listened fascinated. Then theothers spoke, and still those women listened. They were more intelligentthan our audience of yesterday; and though they did not follow nearlyall, they listened splendidly to the story-part of our message. In themeaning, as is often the case, their interest was simply nil. 

But we were sorry, and I think so were they, when a commotion outsidedisturbed us, and we were sorrier when we knew the cause. The villagepostman, who only visits these out-of-the-way places once a week, hadappeared with a letter for the head of the house. One of the men folkhad read it. It told of the death of the son in foreign parts--Madras, Ithink--and the poor old mother's one desire was to see us out of theroom. She had not liked to turn us out; but, as the news spread, morewomen gathered clamouring round the door; and the moment we left theroom empty, in they rushed, with the mother and the women who hadlistened to us, and flinging themselves on the floor, cried the Tamilcry of sorrow, full of a pathos of its own: "Ai-yō! Ai-yō!Ai-Ai-yō!"

It was sad to leave them crying so, but at that moment we were certainlybetter away. The children came with us to the well outside the village, and we sat on its wall and went on with our talk. They would hardly letus go, and begged us to come back and "teach them every day, " not theGospel--do not imagine their little hearts craved for that--but readingand writing and sums! As we drove off some of the villagers smiled andsalaamed, and the little children's last words followed us as far as wecould hear them: "Come back soon!"

Sometimes, as now, when we come to a new place, we dream a dream, dreamthat perhaps at last it may be possible to win souls peacefully. Perhapsthese courteous, kindly people will welcome the message we bring themwhen they understand it better. Perhaps homes need not be broken up, perhaps whole families will believe, or individual members believing maystill live in their own homes and witness there. Perhaps--perhaps--! Andsnatches of verse float through our dream--

 "Oh, might some sweet song Thy lips have taught us, Some glad song, and sweet, Guide amidst the mist, and through the darkness, Lost ones to Thy feet!"

It sounds so beautiful, so easy, singing souls to Jesus. And we dreamour dream. 

Till suddenly and with violence we are awakened. Someone--a mere girl, or a lad, or even a little child--has believed, has confessed, wants tobe a Christian. And the whole Caste is roused, and the whole countrysidejoins with the Caste; and the people we almost thought loved us, hateus. And till we go to the next new place we never dream that dreamagain. 

CHAPTER III

Humdrum

 "A missionary's life is more ordinary than is supposed. Plod rather than cleverness is often the best missionary equipment. " _Rev. J. Heywood Horsburgh, China. _

 "Truly to understand the facts of work for Christ in any land, we must strip it of all romance, and of everything which is unreal. " _Miss S. S. Hewlett, India. _

THERE have been times of late when I have had to hold on to one textwith all my might: "It is required in stewards that a man be found_faithful_. " Praise God, it does not say "successful. "

One evening things came to a climax. We all spent a whole afternoonwithout getting one good listener. We separated as usual, going two andtwo to the different quarters of a big sleepy straggly village. Life andI went to the potters. Life spoke most earnestly and well to anuninterested group of women. After she had finished one of them pointedto my hat (the only foreign thing about me which was visible--oh that Icould dispense with it!). "What is that?" she said. Not one bit did theycare to hear. One by one they went back to their work, and we were leftalone. 

We went to another quarter. It was just the same. At a rest-house by theway I noticed a Brahman, and went to see if he would listen. He would ifI would talk "about politics or education, but not if it was aboutreligion. " However, I did get a chance of pleading with him to considerthe question of his soul's salvation, and he took a book and said hewould read it at his leisure. And then he asked me how many persons Ihad succeeded in joining to my Way since I began to try. It was exactlythe question, only asked in another form, which the devil had beenpressing on me all the afternoon. After this he told me politely that wewere knocking our heads against a rock; we might smash our heads, but wenever would affect the rock. 

"Rock! Rock! when wilt thou open?" It is an old cry; I cried it afresh. But the Brahman only smiled, and then with a gesture expressing at oncehis sense of his own condescension in speaking with me, and his uttercontempt for the faith I held, motioned to me to go. 

Outside in the road a number of Hindus were standing; some of them werehis retainers and friends. I heard them say, as I passed through theirmidst, "Who will fall into the pit of the Christian Way!" And theylaughed, and the Brahman laughed. "As the filth of the world, theoffscouring of all things, unto this day. "

We walked along the road bordered with beautiful banyan trees. We satdown under their shade, and waited for what would come. Some littlechildren followed us, but before we could get a single idea clearly intotheir heads a man came and chased them away. "It is getting dark, " hesaid. "They are only little green things; they must not be out late. " Itwas broad daylight then, and would be for another hour. Some cooliespassing that way stopped to look at us; but before they had time to getinterested they too remarked that darkness was coming, and they must beoff, and off they went. 

We were left alone after that. Within five minutes' walk were at leastfive hundred souls, redeemed, but they don't know it; redeemed, _butthey don't want to know it_. Sometimes they seem to want to know, buthowever tenderly you tell it, the keen Hindu mind soon perceives thedrift of it all--Redemption must mean loss of Caste. One day last week Iwas visiting in the Village of the Red Lake. Standing in one of itscourtyards you see the Western Ghauts rising straight up behind. The RedLake lies at the mountain foot; we call it Derwentwater, but there arepalms and bamboos, and there is no Friar's Crag. 

That afternoon I was bound for a house in the centre of the village, when an old lady called me to come to her house, and I followed hergladly. There were six or eight women all more or less willing tolisten; among them were two who were very old. Old people in India areusually too attached to their own faith, or too utterly stupid and dull, to care to hear about another; but this old lady had been stirred tosomething almost like active thought by the recent death of a relative, and she felt that she needed something more than she had to make herready for death. She was apparently devout. Ashes were marked on herbrow and arms, and she wore a very large rosary. It is worn toaccumulate merit. I did not refer to it as I talked, but in some dim wayshe seemed to feel it did not fit with what I was saying, for, withtrembling hands, she took it off and threw it to a child. I hoped thismeant something definite, and tried to lead her to Jesus. But as soon asshe understood Who He was, she drew back. "I cannot be a disciple ofyour Guru, here, " she said; "would my relations bear such defilement?"Being a Christian really meant sooner or later leaving her home and allher people for ever. Can you wonder an old lady of perhaps seventy-fivestopped at that?

The little children in the Village of the Warrior are not allowed tolearn. The men of the place have consulted and come to the decision. Thechill of it has struck the little ones, and they do not care to run thechance of the scolding they would receive if they showed too muchinterest in us. The mothers are as friendly as ever, but indifferent. "We hear this is a religion which spoils our Caste, " they say, and thatis the end of it. In the great house of the Temple Village they listenedwell for some weeks. Then, as it gradually opened to them that there isno Caste whatever in Christianity, their interest died. 

How much one would like to tell a different story! But a made-up storyis one thing and a story of facts is another. So far we have only foundtwo genuine earnest souls here. But if those two go on--! Praise God forthe joy on before!

We went again to the potters' village and sat on the narrow verandah andtalked to a girl as she patted the pots into shape underneath where thewheel had left an open place. She listened for awhile; then she said, "If I come to your Way will you give me a new seeley and good curryevery day?" And back again we went to the very beginning of things, while the old grandfather spinning his wheel chuckled at us for ourfolly in wasting our time over potters. "As if _we_ would ever turn toyour religion!" he said. "Have you ever heard of a potter who changedhis Caste?"

Caste and religion! They are so mixed up that we do not know how tounmix them. His Caste to the potter meant his trade, the trade of hisclan for generations; it meant all the observances bound up with it; itmeant, in short, his life. It would never strike him that he could be aChristian and a potter at the same time, and very probably he could not;the feeling of the Caste would be against it. Then what else could hebe? He does not argue all this out; he does not care enough about thematter to take the trouble to think at all. He has only one concern inlife--he lives to make pots and sell them, and make more and sell them, and so eat and sleep in peace. 

But the girl had the look of more possibility; she asked questions andseemed interested, and finally suggested we should wait till she hadfinished her batch of pots, and then she would "tell us all her mind. "So we waited and watched the deft brown hands as they worked round thegaping hole till it grew together and closed; and at last she hadfinished. Then she drew us away from the group of curious children, andtold us if we would come in three days she would be prepared to join ourWay and come with us, for she had to work very hard at home, and herfood was poor and her seeley old, and she thought it would be worthrisking the wrath of her people to get all she knew we should give herif she came; and this was all her mind. 

She had touched a great perplexity. How are we to live in India withoutraising desires of this sort? It is true the Brahmans look down upon us, and the higher Castes certainly do not look up, but to the greaternumber of the people we seem rich and grand and desirable to cultivate. The Ulterior-Object-Society is a fact in South India. We may banishexpensive-looking things from our tables, and all pictures and ornamentsfrom our walls, and confine ourselves to texts. This certainly helps;there is less to distract the attention of the people when they come tosee us, and we have so many the fewer things to take care of--a verygreat advantage--but it does not go far towards disillusioning them asto what they imagine is our true position. We are still up above tothem; not on a level, not one of themselves. 

The houses we live in are airy and large, and they do not understand theneed of protection from the sun. The food we eat is abundant and good, and to them it looks luxurious, for they live on rice and vegetablecurry, at a cost of twopence a day. Our walls may be bare, but they areclean, and the texts aforesaid are not torn at the corners; so, whateverwe say, we are rich. 

Identification with the people whom we have come to win is the aim ofmany a missionary, but the difficulty always is the same--climate andcustoms are dead against it; how can we do it? George Bowen struck atEnglish life and became a true Indian, so far as he could, but even hecould not go all the way. No matter how far you may go, there is alwaysa distance you cannot cover--yards or inches it may be, but always thatfatal hiatus. We seem so undeniably up, far up above them in everything, and we want to get to the lowest step down, low enough down to lift lostsouls up. 

[Illustration: "I went down to the potter's house, and, behold, hewrought a work on the wheels. " The vessel the potters are making here isworth about a halfpenny, but it is perfect of its kind. The mouldernever lifts his hand from it from the moment he puts a lump of shapelessclay on the wheel till the moment he takes it off finished, so far asthe wheel can finish it. If it is "marred, " it is "marred _in the hand_of the potter, " and instantly he makes it again another vessel as itseems good to him. He never wastes the clay. ]

On and on, if they will let us, time after time, by text and hymn andstory, we have to explain what things really mean before they are ableto understand even a fraction of the truth. The fact that this girl hadthought enough to get her ideas into shape was encouraging, and withsuch slender cause for hope we still hoped. But when after some weeks'visiting she began to see that the question was not one of curries andseeleys but of inward invisible gifts, her interest died, and she was"out" when we went, or too busy patting her pots to have time to listento us. 

Humdrum we have called the work, and humdrum it is. There is nothingromantic about potters except in poetry, nor is there much of romanceabout missions except on platforms and in books. Yet "though it's dullat whiles, " there is joy in the doing of it, there is joy in justobeying. He said "Go, tell, " and we have come and are telling, and wemeet Him as we "go and tell. "

But, dear friends, do not, we entreat you, expect to hear of us doinggreat things, as an everyday matter of course. Our aim is great--it is_India for Christ_! and before the gods in possession here, we singsongs unto Him. But what we say to you is this: Do not expect every truestory to dovetail into some other true story and end with somemarvellous coincidence or miraculous conversion. Most days in real lifeend exactly as they began, so far as visible results are concerned. We do not find, as a rule, when we go to the houses--the literal littlemud houses, I mean, of literal heathendom--that anyone inside has beenpraying we might come. I read a missionary story "founded on fact" theother day, and the things that happened in that story on these lineswere most remarkable. They do not happen here. Practical missionary lifeis an unexciting thing. It is not sparkling all over with incident. Itis very prosaic at times. 

CHAPTER IV

Correspondences

 "It is very pleasant when you are in England, and you see souls being saved, and you see the conviction of sin, and you see the power of the Gospel to bring new life and new joy and purity to hearts. But it is still more glorious amongst the heathen to see the same things, to see the Lord there working His own work of salvation, and to see the souls convicted and the hearts broken, and to see there the new life and the new joy coming out in the faces of those who have found the Lord Jesus. " _Rev. Barclay F. Buxton, Japan. _

BEFORE putting this chapter together, I have looked long at thephotograph which fronts it. The longer one looks the more pitiful itseems. Perhaps one reads into it all that one knows of her, all one hasdone for her, how one has failed--and this makes it sadder than it maybe to other eyes. And yet can it fail to be sad? Hood's lines reverseddescribe her--

 "All that is left of her Now is not womanly. "

The day we took her photo she was returning from her morning worship atthe shrine. She had poured her libation over the idol, walked round andround it, prostrated herself before it, gone through the prayers she hadlearned off by heart, and now was on her way home. 

[Illustration: A Saivite ascetic. Siva represents the severer side ofHinduism, the Powers of Nature which destroy. But as all disintegratedthings are reintegrated in some other form, the two Powers, Destructionand Reconstruction, were united in the thought of the old Hindus, andSiva represents the double Power. The Saivite form of Hinduism is olderthan the Vaishnavite, and more widely spread over India. There are saidto be 30, 000, 000 symbols of the god Siva scattered about the land. Saivites are instantly recognised by the mark of white ashes on theirforeheads, and sometimes on the breast and arms, and often a necklet ofberries is worn. ]

We had gone to her village to take photographs, and had just got thestreet scene in the morning light. The crowd followed us, eager to seemore of the doings of the picture-catching box; and she, fearing thedefiling touch of the mixed Castes represented there, had climbed up ona granite slab by the side of the road, and stood waiting till wepassed. 

There we saw her, and there we took her, --for, to our surprise, she didnot object, --and now here she is, to show with all the force of truthhow far from ideal the real may be. We looked at her as I look at hernow, stripped of all God meant her to have when He made her, deep in themire of the lowest form of idolatry, a devotee of Siva. She had been toBenares and bathed in the sacred Ganges, and therefore she is holybeyond the reach of doubt. She has no room for any sense of the need ofChrist. She pities our ignorance when we talk to her. Is she not adevotee? Has she not been to Benares?

Often and often we meet her in the high-caste houses of the place, whereshe is always an honoured guest because of her wonderful sanctity. Shewatches keenly then lest any of the younger members of the householdshould incline to listen to us. 

One of her relatives is an English-educated lawyer, a bitter thoughcovert foe, who not long ago stirred up such opposition that we werewarned not to go near the place. Men had been hired "to fall upon us andbeat us. " This because a girl, a connection of his, read her Bibleopenly, instead of in secret as she had done before. He connected thisaction on her part with a visit we had paid to the house, and so inducedcertain of the baser sort to do this thing. We went, however, just thesame, as we had work we had promised to do, and saw the old gentlemansitting on the verandah reading his English newspaper in the mostpacific fashion. He seemed surprised to see us as we passed with asalaam; we saw nothing of the beaters, and returned with whole bones, tothe relief of the community at large. Only I remember one of our Bandwas woefully disappointed: "I thought, perhaps, we were going to bemartyrs, " she said. 

[Illustration: Street in the Red Lake Village. An ordinary typicalvillage scene, except that just then there were more people than usualbefore the picture-catching box. The only way to keep them from crowdinground it was to show them something else: this explains the group on thestones at the side. ]

And so we realise, as so often in India, the power of both extremes; theone with all the force of his education, and the other with all theforce of her superstition, each uniting with the other in repelling thecoming of the Saviour both equally need. 

As one looks at the photograph, does it not help in the effort torealise the utter hopelessness, from every human point of view, oftrying to win such a one, for example, to even care to think of Christ?There is, over and above the natural apathy common to all, an immensebarrier of accumulated merit gained by pilgrimages, austerities, andreligious observances, and the soul is perfectly satisfied, and has nodesire whatever after God. It is just this self-satisfaction which makesit so hopeless to try to do anything with it. 

And yet nothing is hopeless to God; "Set no borders to His strength, " aJapanese missionary said. We say it over and over again to ourselves, inthe face of some great hopelessness, like that photograph before us; andsometimes, as if to assure us it is so, God lifts some such soul intolight. Just now we are rejoicing in a letter from the eastern side ofthe district, telling us of the growth in the new life of one who only alittle while ago was a temple devotee. 

One has often longed to see Him work as He worked of old, healing thesick by the word of His power, raising the dead. But when we see Himgathering one--and such a one!--from among the heathen to give thanksunto His holy Name and to triumph in His praise, one feels that indeedit is a miracle of miracles, and that greater than a miracle wrought onthe body is a miracle wrought on the soul. But nothing I can write canshow you the miracle it was. In that particular case it was like seeinga soul drawn out of the hand of the Ruler of Darkness. All salvation isthat in reality, but sometimes, as in her case, when the wholeenvironment of the soul has been strongly for evil in its most dangerousphase, then it is more evidently so. 

Perhaps we should explain. We know that in its widest sense environmentsimply means "all that is. " We know that "all that is" includes theexistence of certain beings, described as "Powers" in Ephesians vi. 12. Some of us are more or less unconscious of this part of our environment. We have no conscious correspondence with it, but it is there. Others, again, seek and find such correspondence, to their certain and awfulloss. 

Such a subject can hardly bear handling in language. Thank God we knowso little about it that we do not know how to speak of it accurately. Neither, indeed, do we wish to intrude into those things which we havenot seen by any attempt at close definition; but we know there is thisunhallowed correspondence between men and demons, which in old daysdrew down, as a lightning conductor, the flash of the wrath of God. 

Here in India it exists; we often almost touch it, but not quite. Wewould not go where we knew we should see it, even if we might; so, unless we happen upon it, which is rare, we never see it at all. A yearago I saw it, and that one look made me realise, as no amount ofexplanations ever could, how absolutely out of reach of all humaninfluence such souls are. _Nothing_ can reach them, nothing but themight of the Holy Ghost. 

So I close with this one look. Will you pray for those to whom in themoonless night, at the altar by the temple, there is the sudden comingof that which they have sought--the "possession, " the "afflatus, " whichfor ever after marks them out as those whose correspondences reachbeyond mortal ken. All devotees have not received this awful baptism, but in this part of India many have. 

We were visiting in a high-caste house. The walls were decorated withmythological devices, and even the old wood-carvings were full ofidolatrous symbols. The women were listening well, asking questions andarguing, until one, an old lady, came in. Then they were silent. She satdown and discussed us. We thought we would change the subject, and webegan to sing. She listened, as they always do, interrupting only tosay, "That's true! that's true!" Till suddenly--I cannot describewhat--something seemed to come over her, and she burst into a frenzy, exclaiming, "Let me sing! let me sing!" And then she sang as I neverheard anyone sing before--the wildest, weirdest wail of a song all aboutidolatry, its uselessness and folly, its sorrow and sin. 

So far I followed her, for I knew the poem well, but she soon turned offinto regions of language and thought unreached as yet by me. Here shegot madly excited, and, swaying herself to and fro, seemed lashingherself into fury. Nearer and nearer she drew to us (we were on thefloor beside her); then she stretched out her arm with its clenchedfist, and swung it straight for my eye. Within a hair's-breadth she drewback, and struck out for Victory's; but God helped her not to flinch. 

Then I cannot tell what happened, only her form dilated, and she seemedas if she would spring upon us, but as if she were somehow held back. Wedare not move for fear of exciting her more. There we sat for I know nothow long, with this awful old woman's clenched fist circling round ourheads, or all but striking into our eyes, while without intermission shecrooned her song in that hollow hum that works upon the listener tillthe nerve of the soul is drawn out, as it were, to its very fartheststretch. It was quite dark by this time; only the yellow flicker of thewind-blown flame of the lamp made uncertain lights and shadows round theplace where we were sitting, and an eerie influence fell on us all, almost mesmeric in effect. I did not need the awestruck whispers roundme to tell me what it was. But oh! I felt, as I never felt before, thereality of the presence of unseen powers, and I knew that the Actualitself was in the room with me. 

At last she fell back exhausted, trembling in every limb. Her old headhit the wall as she fell, but I knew we must not help her; it would bepollution to her if we touched her. The people all round were toofrightened to move. So she fell and lay there quivering, her glitteringeyes still fixed on us; and she tried to speak, but could not. 

Softly we stole away, and we felt we had been very near where Satan'sseat is. 

Think of someone you love--as I did then--of someone whose hair is whitelike hers; but the face you think of has peace in it, and God's lightlightens it. Then think of her as we saw her last--the old face tornwith the fury of hell, and for light the darkness thereof. 

Oh, friends, do you care enough? Do we care enough out here? God give ushearts that can care!

CHAPTER V

The Prey of the Terrible

 "I believe we are in the midst of a great battle. We are not ourselves fighting, we are simply accepting everything that comes; but the Powers of Light are fighting against the Powers of Darkness, and they will certainly prevail. The Holy Spirit is working, but the people do not as yet know it is the Spirit. " _Hester Needham, Sumatra. _

THE devil's favourite device just now is to move interested people tofar-away places. We have had several who seemed very near to theKingdom. Then suddenly they have disappeared. 

There was Wreath, of the Village of the Temple. She used to listen inthe shadow of the door while we sat on the outside verandah. Then shegot bolder, and openly asked to see Golden, and talk with her. One day, unexpectedly, Golden was led to the Red Lake Village, and to hersurprise found Wreath there. She had been sent away from the Village ofthe Temple, and was now with some other relations, under even stricterguard. But God led Golden, all unknowingly, to go straight to the veryhouse where she was. So she heard again. 

Next time Golden went she could not see her alone, but somehow Wreathgot her to understand that if she went to a certain tree near thewomen's bathing-place, at a certain time next week, she would try tomeet her there. Golden went, and they met. Wreath told her she believedit all, but she could not then face breaking Caste and destroying herfamily's name. They had been good to her, how could she disgrace them?Still, she eagerly wanted to go on hearing, and we felt that if she did, the love of God would win. So we were full of hope. 

Next time Golden went she could find no trace of her. She has never seenher since. There is a rumour that she has been carried off over themountains, hundreds of miles away. 

In another village a bright, keen boy of seventeen listened one day whenwe taught the women, and, becoming greatly interested, openly took theGospel's part when the village elders attacked it. After some weeks hegathered courage to come and see the Iyer. He was a very intelligentboy, well known all over the countryside, because he had studied theTamil classics, and also because of his connection with one of the chieftemples of the district. 

A fortnight after his visit here, our Band went to his village. Theyheard that he was married and gone, where, no one would say. Therelations must have heard of his coming to us (of course he was urged totell them), and they rushed him through a marriage, and sent him offpost haste. So now there is another key turned, locking him intoHinduism. 

In the Village of the Wind a young girl became known as an inquirer. HerCaste passed the word along from village to village wherever its memberswere found, and all these relations and connections were speedilyleagued in a compact to keep her from hearing more. When we went to seeher, we found she had been posted off somewhere else. When we went tothe somewhere else (always freely mentioned to us, with invitations togo), we found she had been there, but had been forwarded elsewhere. Forweeks she was tossed about like this; then we traced her, and found her. But she was thoroughly cowed, and dared not show the least interest inus. It is often like that. Just at the point where the soul-poise is sodelicate that the lightest touch affects it, something, someone, pushesit roughly, and it trembles a moment, then falls--on the wrong side. 

The reason for all this alertness of opposition is, that scattered aboutthe five thousand square miles we call our field, here and there seedsare beginning to grow. Some of the sowers are in England now, and someare in heaven--sowers and reapers, English and Tamil, rejoice together!This is known everywhere, for the news spreads from town to town, andthen out to the villages, and the result is opposition. Sometimes thelittle patch of ground which looked so hopeful is trampled, and theyoung seedlings killed; sometimes they seem to be rooted up. When we goto our Master and tell Him, He explains it: "An Enemy hath done this. "But as the measure of the Enemy's activity is in direct proportion tothe measure of God's working, we take it as a sign of encouragement, however hindering it may be. Satan would not trouble to fight if he sawnothing worth attacking; he does not seem to mind the spread of a headknowledge of the Doctrine, or even a cordial appreciation of it. Oftenwe hear the people say how excellent it is, and how they never worshipidols now, but only the true God; and even a heathen mother will makeher child repeat its texts to you, and a father will tell you how ittells him Bible stories; and if you are quite new to the work you put itin the _Magazine_, and at home it sounds like conversion. All this goeson most peacefully; there is not the slightest stir, till somethinghappens to show the people that the Doctrine is not just a Creed, butcontains a living Power. And then, and not till then, there isopposition. 

This opposition is sufficiently strong in the case of a boy or young man(older Caste men and women rarely "change their religion" in this partof South India), but if a girl is in question, the Caste is touched atits most sensitive point, and the feeling is simply intense. Men anddemons seem to conspire to hold such a one in the clutch of theTerrible. 

There is a young girl in Cupid's Lake Village whose heart the Lordopened some weeks ago. She is a gentle, timid girl, and devoted to hermother. "Can it be right to break my mother's heart?" she used to ask uspitifully. We urged her to try to win her mother, but the mother wasjust furious. The moment she understood that her daughter wanted tofollow Jesus, or "join the Way, " as she would express it, she gatheredthe girl's books and burnt them, and forbade her ever to mention thesubject; and she went all round the villages trying to stop our work. 

At last things came to a crisis. The girl was told to do what she feltwould be sin against God. She refused. They tried force, sheer bruteforce. She nerved herself for the leap in the dark, and tried to escapeto us. But in the dark night she lost the way, and had to run back toher home. Next morning the village priest spread a story to the effectthat his god had appeared to him, told him of her attempt to escape, andthat she would try twice again, "but each time I will stand in the wayand turn her back, " he said. 

This naturally startled the girl. "Is his god stronger than Jesus?" sheasked in real perplexity. We told her we thought the tale was concoctedto frighten her; the priest had seen her, and made up the rest. Buttwice since then, driven by dire danger, that girl has tried to get tous, and each time she has been turned back. And now she is kept inrigorous guard, as her determination to be a Christian is well known toall in the place. 

Do you say, "Tell her to stay at home and bear it patiently"? We do tellher so, when we can see her, but we add, "till God makes a way ofescape"; and if you knew all there is to be known about a Hindu home, and what may happen in it, you would not tell her otherwise. 

But supposing there is nothing more than negative difficulty to befeared, have you ever tried in thought to change places with such agirl? Have you ever considered how impossible it is for such a one togrow? The simple grace of continuance is in danger of withering when allhelp of every sort is absolutely cut off, and the soul is, to beginwith, not deeply rooted in God. Plants, even when they have life, needwater and sunshine and air. Babes need milk. 

You find it hard enough to grow, if one may judge from the constantwails about "leanness, " and yet you are surrounded by every possiblehelp to growth. You have a whole Bible, not just a scrap of it; and youcan read it all, and understand at least most of it. You have endlessgood books, hymn-books, and spiritual papers; you have sermons everyweek, numerous meetings for edification, and perhaps an annualConvention. Now strip yourself of all this. Shut your Bible, and forgetas completely as if you had never known it all you ever read or heard, except the main facts of the Gospel. Forget all those strengtheningverses, all those beautiful hymns, all those inspiring addresses. Likewise, of course, entirely forget all the loving dealings of God withyourself and with others--a Hindu has no such memories to help her. Thengo and live in a devil's den and develop saintliness. The truth is, evenyou would find it difficult; but this Hindu girl's case is worse thanthat, a million times worse. Think of the life, and then, if you can, tell her she must be quite satisfied with it, that it is the will ofGod. You could not say that it is His will! It is the will of theTerrible, who holds on to his prey, and would rather rend it limb fromlimb than ever let it go. 

We are often asked to tell converts' stories; and certainly they wouldthrill, for the way of escape God opens sometimes is, like Peter's fromprison, miraculous; and truth is stranger than fiction, and far moreinteresting. But we who work in the Terrible's lair, and know how hefights to get back his prey, even after it has escaped from him, areafraid to tell these stories too much, and feel that silence is safest, and, strange as it may seem to some, for the present most glorifies God. 

For a certain connection has been observed between publicity and peril. And we have learned by experience to fear any attempt to photographspiritual fruit. The old Greek artist turned away the face that held toomuch for him to paint; and that turned-away face had power in it, theysay, to touch men's hearts. We turn these faces away from you; may thevery fact that we do it teach some at home to realise how much more liesin each of them than we can say, how great a need there is to pray thateach may be kept safe. The names of one and another occur, because theycame in the letters so often that I could not cross them all out withoutaltering the character of the whole; they are part of one's very life. 

But as even a passing mention may mean danger, unless a counteractinginfluence of real prayer protects them, we ask you to pray that thetender protection of God may be folded round each one of them; and thenwhen we meet where no sin can creep into the telling, and no harm canfollow it, they will tell you their stories themselves, and God willgive you your share in the joy, comrades by prayer at home! But let uspress it on you now--pray, oh, pray for the converts! Pray that they maygrow in Christ. Pray that He may see of the travail of His soul, and besatisfied with each of them. And pray that we may enter into thattravail of soul with Him. Nothing less is any good. Spiritual childrenmean travail of soul--spiritual agony. I wonder who among those who readthis will realise what I mean. Some will, I think; so I write it. It isa solemn thing to find oneself drawn out in prayer which knows no relieftill the soul it is burdened with is born. It is no less solemnafterwards, until Christ is formed in them. Converts are a responsiblejoy. 

And now we have told you a little of what is going on. There are dayswhen nothing seems to be done, and then again there are days when theTerrible seems almost visible, as he gathers up his strength, and tearsand mauls his prey. And so it is true we have to fight a separate fightfor each soul. But another view of the case is a strength to us many atime. "We are not ourselves fighting, but the Powers of Light arefighting against the Powers of Darkness, " and the coming of the victoryis only a question of time. "Shall the prey be taken from the Mighty orthe captives of the Terrible be delivered? But thus saith the Lord, =Even the captives of the Mighty shall be taken away and the prey of theTerrible shall be delivered=. "

CHAPTER VI

Missed Ends

 "If you could only know what one feels on finding oneself . . . Where the least ray of the Gospel has not penetrated! If those friends who blame . . . Could see from afar what we see, and feel what we feel, they would be the first to wonder that those redeemed by Christ should be so backward in devotion and know so little of the spirit of self-sacrifice. They would be ashamed of the hesitations that hinder us. . . . _We must remember that it was not by interceding for the world in glory that Jesus saved it. He gave Himself. Our prayers for the evangelisation of the world are but a bitter irony so long as we only give of our superfluity, and draw back before the sacrifice of ourselves. _" _M. François Coillard, Africa. _

 "Someone must go, and if no one else will go, he who hears the call must go; I hear the call, for indeed God has brought it before me on every side, and go I must. " _Rev. Henry Watson Fox, India. _

THE tom-toms thumped straight on all night, and the darkness shudderedround me like a living, feeling thing. I could not go to sleep, so I layawake and looked; and I saw, as it seemed, this:

That I stood on a grassy sward, and at my feet a precipice broke sheerdown into infinite space. I looked, but saw no bottom; only cloudshapes, black and furiously coiled, and great shadow-shrouded hollows, and unfathomable depths. Back I drew, dizzy at the depth. 

Then I saw forms of people moving single file along the grass. Theywere making for the edge. There was a woman with a baby in her arms andanother little child holding on to her dress. She was on the very verge. Then I saw that she was blind. She lifted her foot for the next step. . . It trod air. She was over, and the children over with her. Oh, the cry as they went over!

Then I saw more streams of people flowing from all quarters. All wereblind, stone blind; all made straight for the precipice edge. There wereshrieks as they suddenly knew themselves falling, and a tossing up ofhelpless arms, catching, clutching at empty air. But some went overquietly, and fell without a sound. 

Then I wondered, with a wonder that was simply agony, why no one stoppedthem at the edge. I could not. I was glued to the ground, and I couldnot call; though I strained and tried, only a whisper would come. 

Then I saw that along the edge there were sentries set at intervals. Butthe intervals were far too great; there were wide, unguarded gapsbetween. And over these gaps the people fell in their blindness, quiteunwarned; and the green grass seemed blood-red to me, and the gulfyawned like the mouth of hell. 

Then I saw, like a little picture of peace, a group of people under sometrees, with their backs turned towards the gulf. They were making daisychains. Sometimes when a piercing shriek cut the quiet air and reachedthem it disturbed them, and they thought it a rather vulgar noise. Andif one of their number started up and wanted to go and do something tohelp, then all the others would pull that one down. "Why should you getso excited about it? You must wait for a definite call to go! Youhaven't finished your daisy chains yet. It would be really selfish, "they said, "to leave us to finish the work alone. "

There was another group. It was made up of people whose great desire wasto get more sentries out; but they found that very few wanted to go, andsometimes there were no sentries set for miles and miles of the edge. 

Once a girl stood alone in her place, waving the people back; but hermother and other relations called, and reminded her that her furloughwas due; she must not break the rules. And being tired and needing achange, she had to go and rest for awhile; but no one was sent to guardher gap, and over and over the people fell, like a waterfall of souls. 

Once a child caught at a tuft of grass that grew at the very brink ofthe gulf; it clung convulsively, and it called--but nobody seemed tohear. Then the roots of the grass gave way, and with a cry the childwent over, its two little hands still holding tight to the torn-offbunch of grass. And the girl who longed to be back in her gap thoughtshe heard the little one cry, and she sprang up and wanted to go; atwhich they reproved her, reminding her that no one is necessaryanywhere; the gap would be well taken care of, they knew. And then theysang a hymn. 

Then through the hymn came another sound like the pain of a millionbroken hearts wrung out in one full drop, one sob. And a horror of greatdarkness was upon me, for I knew what it was--the Cry of the Blood. 

Then thundered a Voice, the Voice of the Lord: "=And He said, What hastthou done? The voice of thy brothers' blood crieth unto Me from theground. ="

 . . . . . . . 

The tom-toms still beat heavily, the darkness still shuddered andshivered about me; I heard the yells of the devil-dancers and the weirdwild shriek of the devil-possessed just outside the gate. 

What does it matter, after all? It has gone on for years; it will go onfor years. Why make such a fuss about it?

God forgive us! God arouse us! Shame us out of our callousness! Shame usout of our sin!

 * * * * *

One afternoon, a few weeks after that night at the precipice edge, Victory and I were visiting in the Red Lake Village, when we heard thedeath-beat of the tom-tom and the shriek of the conch shell, and we knewthat another had gone beyond our reach. One can never get accustomed tothis. We stopped for a moment and listened. 

The women we were teaching broke in with eager explanations. "Oh, he wassuch a great one! He had received the Initiation. There will be a grandceremonial, grander than ever you have!" Then they told us how thisgreat one had been initiated into the Hindu mysteries by his familypriest, and that the mystical benefits accruing from this initiationwere to be caused to revert to the priest. This Reverting of theInitiation was to be one of the ceremonies. We watched the processionpass down the street. They were going for water from a sacred streamfor the bathing of purification. When they return, said the women, theceremonies will begin. 

A little later we passed the house, and stood looking in through thedoorway. There was the usual large square courtyard, with the verandahrunning round three sides. The verandah was full of women. We longed togo in, but did not think they would let us. The courtyard was ratherconfused; men were rushing about, putting up arches and decorating them;servants were sweeping, and cooking, and shouting to one another; thewomen were talking and laughing. And all the time from within the housecame the sound of the dirge for the dead, and the laugh and the wailstruck against each other, and jarred. No one noticed us for awhile, butat last a woman saw us, and beckoned us to come. "We are all defiledto-day; you may sit with us, " they said; and yielding to the instinctsof their kindly Tamil nature, they crushed closer together to make roomfor us beside them. How I did enjoy being squeezed up there among them. But to appreciate that in the least you would have to work in acaste-bound part of old India; you can have no idea, until you try, howhard it is to refrain from touching those whom you love. 

The house door opened upon the verandah, and we could hear the moan ofthe dirge. "There is sorrow on the sea; it cannot be quiet. " There wasno quietness, only the ceaseless moan, that kept rising into a wail;there were tears in the sound of the wail, and I felt like a sort ofliving harp with all its strings drawn tight. 

But the women outside cared nothing at all. It was strange to see howcallous they were. It was not their _own_ who had died, so they chattedand laughed and watched the proceedings--the tying of the garlands roundthe arches, the arrangement of offerings for the Brahmans. It was allfull of interest to them. We tried to turn their thoughts to the Powersof the World to Come. But no. They did not care. 

Presently there was a stir. "The men are coming!" they said. "Run! thereis a shady corner under those palms on the far verandah! Run and hide!They are here!" And, even as they spoke, in streamed the men, each withhis brass water-vessel poised on his head, and they saw us standingthere. We thought they would turn us out, and were quite prepared to goat a sign from the head of the clan. But he was a friend of ours, and hesmiled as we salaamed, and pointed to a quiet corner, out of the way, where we could see it all without being too much seen. 

To understand this, which to me was a surprise, one must remember thatby nature the Indian is most courteous, and if it were not for Casterules we should be allowed to come much closer to them than is possiblenow. To-day they were all ceremonially unclean, so our presence was notconsidered polluting. Also the Indian loves a function; sad or glad, itmatters little. Life is a bubble on the water; enjoy it while you may. And they sympathised with what they thought was our desire to see theshow. This was human; they could understand it. So they let us stay; andwe stayed, hoping for a chance later on. 

Then the ceremonies began. They carried the dead man out and laid him inthe courtyard under the arch of palms. He was old and worn and thin. Onecould see the fine old face, with the marks of the Hindu trident painteddown the forehead. He had been a most earnest Hindu; all the rites wereduly performed, and morning and night for many years he had marked thosemarks on his brow. Had he ever once listened to the Truth? I do notknow. He must have heard about it, but he had not received it. He died, they told us, "not knowing what lay on the other side. "

The water-bearers laid their vessels on the ground. Each had a leafacross its mouth. The priest was crowned with a chaplet of flowers. Thencame the bathing. They threw up a shelter, and carried him there. It wasreverently done. There was a touch of refinement in the thought whichbanished the women and children before the bathing began. Tamils bathein the open air, and always clothed, but always apart. And as thewomen's verandah overlooked the screened enclosure, they were allordered off. They went and waited, silent now, awed by the presence ofthe men. While the bathing was going on the priests chanted and mutteredincantations, and now and again a bell was rung, and incense waved, andtapers lighted. Now they were causing that mysterious Something whichstill hovered round the lifeless form to leave it and return to them, and when the bathing was over they signified that all was done; theInfluence had departed, descended; the funeral ceremonies might proceed. 

And all this time, without a break, the dirge was being sung by themourners in the house. It was a sort of undernote to all the soundsoutside. Then the old man, robed in white and crowned and wreathed withflowers, was carried round to the other side; and oh, the pitifulness ofit all! St. Paul must have been thinking of some such scene when hewrote to the converts, "That ye sorrow not even as others which have nohope. " And I thought how strangely callous we were, how superficial oursympathy. The Lord's command does not stir us, the sorrow of those weneglect does not touch us; we think so much more of ourselves and ourown selfish pleasure than we think of the purpose for which we weresaved--and at such a tremendous cost! Oh for a baptism of reality andobedience to sweep over us! Oh to be true to the hymns we sing and thevows we make! _God make us true. _

Forgive all this. It was burnt into me afresh that day as I sat therewatching the things they did and listening to what they said. We hadcome too late for that old dead man, too late for most of the livingones too. Can you wonder if at such solemn times one yields oneselfafresh and for ever to obey?

Rice was prepared for the dead man's use, and balls of rice were readyto be offered to his spirit after his cremation; for the Hindus thinkthat an intermediate body must be formed and nourished, which on thethirteenth day after death is conducted to either heaven or hell, according to the deeds done on earth. The ceremonies were allcharacterised by a belief in some future state. The spirit wassomewhere--in the dark--so they tried to light the way for him. Thisreminds me of one ceremony especially suggestive. All the littlegrandchildren were brought, and lighted tapers given to them; then theyprocessioned round the bier, round and round many times, holding thetapers steadily, and looking serious and impressed. 

Then the widow came out with a woman on either side supporting her. Andshe walked round and round her husband, with the tears rolling down herface, and she wailed the widow's wail, with her very heart in it. Whyhad he gone away and left her desolate? His was the spirit of fragrancelike the scented sandal-wood; his was the arm of strength like the lockthat barred the door. Gone was the scent of the sandal, broken and openthe door; why had the bird flown and left but the empty cage? Gone! washe gone? Was he really gone? Was it certain he was dead? He who hadtossed and turned on the softest bed they could make, must he lie on thebed of his funeral pyre? Must he burn upon logs of wood? Say, was thereno way to reach him, no way to help him now? "I have searched for thee, but I find thee not. " And so the dirge moaned on. 

I could not hear all this then; Victory told it to me, and much more, afterwards. "Last time I heard it, " she said, "I was _inside_, wailingtoo. "

As the poor widow went round and round she stopped each time she got tothe feet, and embraced them fervently. Sometimes she broke through allrestraint, and clasped him in her arms. 

[Illustration: A photo rarely possible. The dead woman lies in her bier;the white on her eyes and brow is the mark of Siva's ashes. Some of themourners are so marked, as they are all Saivites. The fire is lightedfrom the pot of fire to the right. Just before it is lighted, the chiefmourner takes a vessel of water, pierces a hole in it, walks round thedead, letting the water trickle out, pierces another hole and repeatsthe walk. After the third piercing and walk, he throws the pot backwardsover his shoulder, and as it smashes the water all splashes out. This isto refresh the spirit if it should be thirsty while its body is beingburned. ]

After many ceremonies had been performed, the men all went away, and thewomen were left to bid farewell to the form soon to be carried out. Thenthe men came back and bore him across the courtyard, and paused underthe arch outside, while the women all rushed out, tearing their hair andbeating themselves and wailing wildly. As they were lifting the bier todepart the cry was, "Stop! stop! Will he not speak?" And this, chantedagain and again, would have made the coldest care. Then when all wasover, and the long procession, headed by the tom-toms and conch shells, had passed out of sight, the women pressed in again, and each first letdown her hair, and seized her nearest neighbour, and they all flungthemselves on the ground and knocked their heads against it, and then, rising to a sitting posture, they held on to one another, swayingbackwards and forwards and chanting in time to the swaying, in chorusand antiphone. All this, even to the hair-tearing and head-knocking, wascopied by the children who were present with terrible fidelity. 

We sat down among them. They took our hands and rocked us in theorthodox way. But we did not wail and we did not undo our hair. We triedto speak comforting words to those who were really in grief, but wefound it was not the time. A fortnight later we went again, and foundthe house door open because we had been with them that day. 

But we could not help them then, so we rose and were going away, when, held by the power of that dirge of theirs, I turned to look again. Thelast rays of the afternoon sun were lighting up the courtyard, andshining on the masses of black hair and grey. As I looked they got upone by one, and put their disordered dress to rights, and shook out thedust from their glossy hair, and did it up again. And one by one, without farewell of any sort, they went away. An hour later we metgroups of them coming home from bathing. They would not touch us then. Afterwards the chief mourners came out and bathed, and went all roundthe village wailing. And the last thing I saw, as the sun set over thehills and the place grew chill and dark, was the old widow, worn outnow, returning home in her wet things, wailing still. 

I write this under a sense of the solemnity of being "a servant . . . Separated unto the Gospel. " I would not write one word lightly. But oh!may I ask you to face it? Are we honest towards God? If we were, wouldthese people be left to die as they are being left to die?

We feel for them. _But feelings will not save souls; it cost God Calvaryto win us. _

_It will cost us as much as we may know of the fellowship of Hissufferings, if those for whom He died that day are ever to be won. _

 . . . . . . . 

I am writing in the midst of the sights and the sounds of life. There islife in the group of women at the well; life in the voices, in thesplash of the water, in the cry of a child, in the call of the mother;life in the flight of the parrots as they flock from tree to tree; lifein their chatter as they quarrel and scream; life, everywhere life. Howcan I think out of all this, back into death again?

But I want to, for you may live for many a year in India without beingallowed to see once what we have seen twice within two months, and itcannot be for nothing that we saw it. We must be meant to show it toyou. 

[Illustration: This needs to be looked into. Gradually the middleclears. The women are holding each other's hands preparatory to swayingbackwards and forwards as they chant the dirge for the dead. The lamp(you see its top near the vessel on the right) was lighted as soon asthe old woman died, and placed at her head on the floor. So blindly theyshow their sense of the darkness of death. The brass water vessel, withthe leaves laid across its mouth, was filled with the water ofpurification. This was poured in a circle on the floor round the body. The bits of grass are the sacred Kusa grass used in many religiousceremonies. ]

The Picture-catching Missie and I were in the Village of the TamarindTree, when for the second time I saw it. They are very friendly there, and just as in the Red Lake Village they let us look behind the curtain, so here again they pushed it back, and let us in, and went on with theirbusiness, not minding us. We crouched up close together on the onlyscrap of empty space, and watched. 

Everything was less intense; the dead was only a poor and very old widowwho had lived her life out, and was not wanted. There were no nearkindred, only relations by marriage; it was evident everyone wentthrough the form without emotion of any sort. 

The woman lay on a rough bier on the floor, and round her crowded adozen old women. At her head there was a brass vessel of water, alamp-stand, some uncooked rice, and some broken cocoanuts. Just beforewe came in they had filled a little brass vessel from the larger one. Now one of the old hags walked round the dead three times, pouring thewater out as she walked. Then another fed her--fed that poor dead mouth, stuffed it in so roughly it made us sick and faint. There were otherthings done hurriedly, carelessly; we could not follow them. The lastwas the rubbing on of ashes--she had been a worshipper of Siva--alsothey covered the closed eyes with ashes and patted them down flat. Andall the time the gabble of the women mocked at the silence of death. There was no reverence, no sense of solemnity; the ceremonial so fullof symbol to its makers, the thinkers of Védic times, was to them simplya custom, a set of customs, to be followed and got through as quickly asmight be by heedless hands. And yet they faithfully carried out everydetail they knew, and they finished their heartless work and called tothe men to come. The men were waiting outside. They came in and carriedher out. 

It seemed impossible to think of a photograph then; it was most unlikelythey would let us take one, and we hardly felt in the spirit ofpicture-catching. Yet we thought of you, and of how you certainly couldnever see it unless we could show it to you; and we wanted to show it toyou, so we asked them if we might. Of course if there had been realgrief, as in the other I had seen, we could not have asked it, it wouldhave been intrusion; but here there was none--_that_ was the pathos ofit. And they were very friendly, so they put their burden on the ground, and waited. 

There it is. To the right the barber stands with his fire-bowl hangingfrom a chain; this is to light the funeral pyre. The smoke interferedwith the photo, but then it is true to life. To the left stands the manwith the shell ready to blow. At the back, with the sacred ashes rubbedon forehead and breast and arms, stand the two nearest relatives, whoto-morrow will gather the ashes and throw them into the stream. 

The picture was caught. The man with the shell blew it, the man with thefire came in front, the bearers lifted the bier; they went away withtheir dead. 

[Illustration: These are three of the mourners, but they were onlymourning ceremonially; and so, released for the moment from their duty, they quite enjoyed themselves. ]

Then the old women, who had been pressing through the open door, rushedback in the usual way and began the usual rock and dirge. TheseComparison Songs are always full of soul. They have sprung into being intimes of deepest feeling, taken shape when hearts were as finely wroughtmoulds which left their impress upon them. And to hear them chantedwithout any soul is somehow a pitiful thing, a sort of profanation, likethe singing of sacred words for pay. 

The photograph was not easy to take, the space was so confined, themovement so continuous, the commotion so confusing. _How_ it was taken Iknow not; the women massed on the floor were not still for more than amoment. In that moment it was done. Then we persuaded three of them torisk the peril of being caught alone. They would not move farther thanthe wall of the house, and as it was in a narrow street, again therewere difficulties. But the crowning perplexity was at the water-side. Itwas windy, and our calls were blown away, so they did not hear what wewanted them to do, and they splashed too vigorously. Their only ideajust then was to get themselves and their garments ceremonially clean, defiled as they were by contact with the dead. 

But let those six whom you can partly see stand for the thousands uponthousands whom you cannot see at all. Those thousands are standing inwater to-day from the North to the uttermost South, as the last act inthe drama which they have played in the presence of the dead. 

 . . . . . . . 

The women have gone from the well. The parrots have flown to othertrees. The Tamils say the body is the sheath of the soul. I think ofthat empty sheath I saw, and wonder where the soul has flown. It hasgone--but where? Has it gone home, like the women from the well? Has itflown far, like the birds among the trees? It has gone, it has gone, that is all we know. _It has gone. _

Then I read these words from Conybeare and Howson's translation: "If thetent which is my earthly house be destroyed I have a mansion built byGod . . . Eternal in the heavens. And herein I groan with earnestlongings, desiring to cover my earthly raiment with the robes of myheavenly mansion. . . . _And He who has prepared me for this very end isGod. _"

The dead man missed his End. That old dead woman missed it too. And themillions around us still alive are missing their End to-day. "This veryEnd"--think of it--Mortality swallowed up in Life--Death only anabsence, Life for ever a presence--Present with the Lord who hasprepared us "for this very End. "

Can we enjoy it all by ourselves? Will there be no sense ofincompleteness if the many are outside, missing it all because theymissed their End? Will the glory make us glad if they are somewhere faraway from it and God? Will not heaven be almost an empty place to onewho has never tried to fill it? Yet there is room, oh so much room, forthose we are meant to bring in with us!

And there is room, oh so much room, along the edge of the precipice. There are gaps left all unguarded. Can it be that you are meant to guardone of those gaps? If so, it will always remain as it is, afalling-point for those rivers of souls, unless you come. 

Are these things truth or are they imagination? If they areimagination--then let the paper on which they are written be burnt, burnt till it curls up and the words fall into dust. But if they aretrue--then what are we going to do? Not what are we going to say orsing, or even feel or pray--_but what are we going to do?_

[Illustration: The ceremonial bathing. They are all old women, but thevery oldest old woman in India bathes most vigorously. After thisbathing is over, they are purified from the defilement contracted bygoing to the house of the dead. ]

CHAPTER VII

"The Dust of the Actual"

 "This may be counted as our richest gain, to have learned afresh one's utter impotency so completely that the past axiom of service, '_I can no more convert a soul than create a star_, ' comes to be an awful revelation, so that God alone may be exalted in that day. " _Rev. Walter Searle, Africa. _

WE have just come back from a Pariah village. Now see it all with me. Such a curious little collection of huts, thrown down anywhere; suchhalf-frightened, half-friendly faces; such a scurrying in of some andout of others; and we wonder which house we had better make for. We stopbefore one a shade cleaner than most, and larger and more open. 

"May we come in?" Chorus, "Come in! oh, come in!" and in we go. It is atiny, narrow slip of a room. At one end there is a fire burning on theground; the smoke finds its way out through the roof, and a pot of riceset on three stones is bubbling cheerfully. No fear of defilement here. They would not like us to touch their rice or to see them eating it, butthey do not mind our being in the room where it is being cooked. 

At the other end of the narrow slip there is a goat-pen, not very clean;and down one side there is a raised mud place where the familyapparently sleep. This side and the two ends are roofed by palmyrapalm. It is dry and crackles at a touch, and you touch it every time youstand up, so bits of it are constantly falling and helping to litter theopen space below. 

[Illustration: An ancient Pariah, but the baby in her arms is a son ofthe Caste of Palmyra Climbers. Both faces--the old crone's and the babyboy's--are very typical. The baby is a "Christian, " I should explain, and his parents are true Christians, otherwise the Pariah woman wouldnot have been allowed to touch him. ]

Five babies at different stages of refractoriness are sprawling about onthis strip of floor; they make noises all the time. Half a dozenimbecile-looking old women crowd in through the low door, and stare andexchange observations. Three young men with nothing particular to dolounge at the far end of the platform near the goats. A bright girl, with more jewellery on than is usual among Pariahs, is tending the fireat the end near the door; she throws a stick or two on as we enter, andhurries forward to get a mat. We sit down on the mat, and she sitsbeside us; and the usual questions are asked and answered by way ofintroduction. There is a not very clean old woman diligently devouringbetel; another with an enormous mouth, which she always holds wide open;another with a very loud voice and a shock of unspeakable hair. But theylisten fairly well till a goat creates a diversion by making a remark, and a baby--a jolly little scrap in its nice brown skin and abangle--yells, and everyone's attention concentrates upon it. 

The goat subsides, the baby is now in its mother's arms; so we go onwhere we left off, and I watch the bright young girl, and notice thatshe listens as one who understands. She looks rather superior; herrose-coloured seeley is clean, and two large gold jewels are in eachear; she has a little gold necklet round her throat, and silver banglesand toe rings. All the others are hopelessly grubby and veryunenlightened, but they listen just as most people listen in church, with a sort of patient expression. It is the proper thing to do. 

I am talking to them now, and till I am half-way through nobody saysanything, when suddenly the girl remarks, "We have ten fingers, not justone!" which is so astonishing that I stop and wonder what she can bethinking of. I was talking about the one sheep lost out of one hundred. What has that got to do with one finger and ten? She goes on to explain, "I have heard all this before. I have a sister who is a Christian, andonce I stayed with her, and I heard all about your religion, and I feltin my heart it was good. But then I was married" ("tied, " she said), "and of course I forgot about it; but now I remember, and I say if tenof our people will join and go over to your Way, that will be well, butwhat would be the use of one going? What is the use of one finger movingby itself? It takes ten to do the day's work. "

"If ten of you had cholera, and I brought you cholera medicine, wouldyou say, 'I won't take it unless nine others take it too'?" I replied. She laughs and the others laugh, but a little uneasily. They hardly likethis reference to the dreaded cholera; death of the body is so much moretremendous in prospect than death of the soul. "You would take it, andthen the others, seeing it do you good, would perhaps take it too"; andwe try to press home the point of the illustration. But a point pricks, and pricking is uncomfortable. 

The three men begin to shuffle their feet and talk about other things;the old mother-in-law proposes betel all round, and hands us somegrimy-looking leaves with a pressing invitation to partake. The variousonlookers make remarks, and the girl devotes herself to her baby. Butshe is thinking; one can see old memories are stirred. At last with asigh she gets up, looks round the little indifferent group, goes over tothe fireplace, and blows up the fire. This means we had better saysalaam; so we say it and they say it, adding the usual "Go and come. "

It will be easier to help these people out of their low levels than itwill be to help their masters of the higher walks of life. But to doanything genuine or radical among either set of people is never reallyeasy. 

"=It takes the Ideal to blow a hair's-breadth off the Dust of theActual. ="

It takes more. It takes =God=. It takes =God= to do anything anywhere. Yesterday we were visiting in one of the Caste villages, and one oldlady, who really seems to care for us, said she would greatly like totake my hand in hers; "but, " she explained, "this morning one of thechildren of the place leaned over the edge of the tank to drink, and hefell in and was drowned; so I have been to condole with his people, andI have now returned from bathing, and do not feel equal to bathingagain. " If she touched me she would have to bathe to get rid of thedefilement. Of course I assured her I quite understood, but as she satthere within two inches of me, yet so carefully preserving inviolatethose two inches of clear space, I felt what a small thing thiscaste-created distance was, the merest "Dust of the Actual" on thesurface of the system of her life; and yet, "to blow a hair's-breadthof it off, nothing less is needed than the breath of the power of God. ""Come, O Breath, and breathe!" we cry. Nothing else will do. 

Something in our talk led to a question about the character of Jesus, and, as we tried to describe a little of the loveliness of our dear Lordto her, her dark eyes kindled. "How beautiful it is!" she said; "howbeautiful He must be!" She seemed "almost persuaded, " but we knew it wasonly almost, not quite; for she does not yet know her need of a Saviour, she has no sense of sin. Sometimes, it is true, that comes later; but wefind that if the soul is to resist the tremendous opposing forces whichwill instantly be brought to bear upon it if it turns in the leasttowards Christ, there must be a _conviction_ wrought within it; nothingso superficial as a _feeling_, be it ever so appreciative or hopeful orloving, will stand that strain. 

So, though the eyes of this dear woman fill with tears as she hears ofthe price of pain He paid, and though she gladly listens as we read andtalk with her and pray, yet we know the work has not gone deep, and wemake our "petitions deep" for her, and go on. 

In India men must work among men, and women among women, but sometimes, in new places, as I have told before, we have to stop and talk with themen before they will let us pass. For example, one afternoon I waswaylaid on my way to the women by the head of the household I wasvisiting, a fine old man of the usual type, courteous but opposed. Heasked to look at my books. I had a Bible, a lyric book, and a book ofstanzas bearing upon the Truth, copied from the old Tamil classics. Hepounced upon this. Then he began to chant the stanzas in theirinimitable way, and at the sound several other old men drew round theverandah, till soon a dozen or more were listening with thatappreciative expression they seem to reserve for their own belovedpoetry. 

After the reader had chanted through a dozen or more stanzas, he stoppedabruptly and asked me if I really cared for it. Of course I said I didimmensely, and only wished I knew more, for the Tamil classics are astudy in themselves, and these beautiful ancient verses I had copied outwere only gleanings from two large volumes, full of the wisdom of theEast. 

They were all thoroughly friendly now, and we got into conversation. Oneof the group held that there are three co-eternal substances--God, theSoul, and Sin. Sin is eternally bound up in the soul, as verdigris isinherent in copper. It can be removed eventually by intense meditationupon God, and by the performance of arduous works of merit. But theseexercises they all admitted were incompatible with the ordinary life ofmost people, and generally impracticable. And so the fact is, theverdigris of sin remains. 

I remember the delight with which I discovered that Isaiah i. 25 usesthis very illustration; for the word translated "dross" in English isthe colloquial word for verdigris in Tamil; so the verse reads, "I willturn My hand to thee, and thoroughly purify thee, _so as to remove thyverdigris_. "

Most of the others held a diametrically opposite view. So far from Souland Sin being co-eternal with God they are not really existent at all. Both are illusory. There is only one existent entity. It is the DivineSpirit, and it has neither personality nor any personal qualities. Allapparent separate existences are delusive. Meditation, of the sameabsorbing type held necessary by the other, is the only way to reach thestage of enlightenment which leads to reabsorption into the Divineessence, in which we finally merge, and lose what appeared to be ourseparate identity. We are lost in God, as a drop is lost in the ocean. 

Some of the men advocated a phase of truth which reminds one ofCalvinism gone mad, and others exactly opposite are extravagantlyArminian. The Calvinists illustrate their belief by a singleilluminating word, _Cat-hold_, and the Arminians by another, _Monkey-hold_. Could you find better illustrations? The cat takes up thekitten and carries it in its mouth; the kitten is passive, the cat doeseverything. But the little monkey holds on to its mother, and clingswith might and main. Those who have watched the "cat-hold" in the house, and the "monkey-hold" out in the jungle, can appreciate the accuracy ofthese two illustrations. 

But running through every form of Hinduism, however contradictory eachto the other may be, there is the underlying thought of pure and simplePantheism. And this explains many of the aforesaid contradictions, andmany of the incongruities which are constantly cropping up andbewildering one who is trying to understand the Hindu trend of thought. So, though those men all affirmed that there is only one God, theyadmitted that they each worshipped several. They saw nothinginconsistent in this. Just as the air is in everything, so God is ineverything, therefore in the various symbols. And as our King has diversrepresentative Viceroys and Governors to rule over his dominions in hisname, so the Supreme has these sub-deities, less in power and onlyexisting by force of Himself, and He, being all-pervasive, can beworshipped under their forms. 

This argument they all unitedly pressed upon me that afternoon, andthough capital answers probably present themselves to your mind, youmight not find they satisfied the Hindu who argues along lines of logicpeculiar to the East, and subtle enough to mystify the practical Westernbrain; and then--for we are conceited as well as practical--we are aptto pity the poor Hindu for being so unlike ourselves; and if we arewholly unsympathetic, we growl that there is nothing in the argument, whereas there is a good deal in it, only we do not see it, because wehave never thought out the difficulty in question. Quite opposite, sometimes we have to meet a type of mind like that of MacDonald'sstudent of Shakespeare, who "missed a plain point from his eyes being sosharp that they looked through it without seeing it, having focussedthemselves beyond it. " Assuredly there is much to learn before one canhope to understand the winding of the thread of thought which must betraced if one would follow the working of the Hindu mind. Let no onewith a facility for untying mental knots think that his gift would bewasted in India!

The word that struck those men that afternoon was 1 John v. 11 and 12:"God hath given us eternal life, and this life is in His Son. He thathath the Son hath life, and he that hath not the Son of God hath notlife. " I was longing to get to the women, but when they began to readthose verses and ask about the meaning, I could not go without trying totell them. Oh, how one needed at that moment Christ to become to usWisdom, for it is just here one may so easily make mistakes. Put thetruth of God's relation to the soul subjectively--"He that hath the Sonhath life"--before thoughtful Hindus such as these men were, and theywill be perfectly enchanted; for the Incarnation presents no difficultyto them, as it would to a Mohammedan; and perhaps, to your suddensurprise and joy, they will say, that is exactly what they are preparedto believe. "Christ in me"--this is comprehensible. "The indwelling ofthe Spirit of God"--this is analogous to their own phrase: "Theindwelling of the Deity in the lotus of the heart. " But probably bytrading on words and expressions which are already part of the Hinduterminology, and which suggest to them materialistic ideas, we mayseriously mislead and be misled. We need to understand not only what theHindu says, but also what his words mean to himself, a very differentthing. 

That talk ended in a promise from the men that they would arrange ameeting of Hindus for the Iyer, if he would come and take it, which ofcourse he did. I should like to finish up by saying, "and several wereconverted, " but as yet that would not be true. These deep-rooted ancientand strong philosophies are formidable enough, when rightly understood, to make us feel how little we can do to overturn them; but they arejust as "Dust" in comparison with the force of the "Actual" entrenchedbehind them. Only superficial Dust; and yet, as in every other case, nothing but the Breath of God can blow this Dust away. 

[Illustration: Another widow. She was never a wife; and, moved by somesort of pity, they let her keep one jewel in each ear. She is aVellalar; her people are wealthy landowners. She was ashamed of havingyielded to the weakness of letting us take her photo; and when we wentto show it to her, she would not look at it. She has no desire whateverto hear; and she and the young girl on the step at her feet are resolutein opposing the teaching. ]

We left the old men to their books and endless disquisitions, and wenton to the women's quarter. There we saw a young child-widow, very fairand sweet and gentle, but quieter than a child should be; for she is awidow accursed. Her mind is keen--she wants to learn; but why should awidow learn, they say, why should her mind break bounds? She lives in atiny mud-built house, in a tiny mud-walled yard; she may not go outbeyond those walls, then why should she _think_ beyond? But she isbetter off than most, for she lives with her mother, who loves her, andher father makes a pet of her, and so she is sheltered more or less fromthe cruel scourge of the tongue. 

There is another in the next courtyard; she is not sheltered so. Shelives with her mother-in-law, and the world has lashed her heart foryears; it is simply callous now. There she sits with her chin in herhand, just hard. Years ago they married her, an innocent, playful littlechild, to a man who died when she was nine years old. Then they tore herjewels from her, all but two little ear-rings, which they left in pityto her; and this poor little scrap of jewellery was her one little bitof joy. She could not understand it at first, and when her prettycoloured seeleys were taken away, and she had to wear the coarse whitecloth she hated so, she cried with impotent childish wrath; and then shewas punished, and called bitter names, --the very word _widow_ meansbitterness, --and gradually she understood that there was somethingthe matter with her. She was not like other little girls. She hadbrought ill-fortune to the home. She was accursed. 

It is true that some are more gently dealt with, and many belong toCastes where the yoke of Custom lies lighter; for these the point of thecurse is blunted, there is only a dull sense of wrong. But in all theupper Castes the pressure is heavy, and there are those who feelintensely, feel to the centre of their soul, the sting of the shame ofthe curse. 

"It is fate, " says the troubled mother; "who can escape his fate?" "Itis sin, " says the mother-in-law; and the rest of the world agrees. "'Where the bull goes, there goes its rope. ' 'Deeds done in a formerbirth, in this birth burn. '"

Much of the working of the curse is hidden behind shut doors. I saw ayoung widow last week whose mind is becoming deranged in consequence ofthe severity of the penance she is compelled to perform. When, as theyput it, "the god of ill-fortune seizes her, " that is, when she becomesviolent, she is quietly "removed to another place. " No one sees what isdone to her there, but I know that part of the treatment consists inscratching her head with thorns, and then rubbing raw lime juicein--lime juice is like lemon juice, only more acid. When the paroxysmpasses she reappears, and does penance till the next fit comes. This hasbeen repeated three times within the last few months. 

I was visiting in a Hindu house for two years before I found out thatall that time a girl of seventeen was kept alone in an upper room. "Lether weep, " they said, quoting a proverb; "'though she weeps, will awidow's sorrow pass?'" Once a day, after dark, she was broughtdownstairs for a few minutes, and once a day, at noon, some coarse foodwas taken up to her. She is allowed downstairs now, but only in the backpart of the house; she never thinks of resisting this decree--it, andall it stands for, is her fate. Sometimes the glad girl-life reassertsitself, and she plays and laughs with her sister-in-law's pretty babyboy; but if she hears a man's voice she disappears upstairs. There areproverbs in the language which tell why. 

I sat on the verandah of a well-to-do Hindu house one day, and talked tothe bright-looking women in their jewels and silks. And all the time, though little I knew it, a widow was tied up in a sack in one of theinner rooms. This wrong is a hidden wrong. 

I do not think that anyone would call the Hindus distinctively cruel; incomparison with most other Asiatics their instincts are kind. A customso merciless as this custom, which punishes the innocent with sogrievous a punishment, does not seem to us to be natural to them. Itseems like a parasite custom, which has struck its roots deep into thetree of Hindu social life, but is not part of it. Think of the powerwhich must have been exerted somewhere by someone before the dispositionof a nation could be changed. 

This custom as it stands is formidable enough. Many a man, Indian andforeign, has fought it and failed. It is a huge and most rigorous systemof tyrannical oppression, a very pyramid to look at, old, immovable. But there is Something greater behind it. It is only the effect of aCause--the Dust of the Actual. 

What can alter the custom? Strong writing or speaking, agitations, Actsof Parliament? All these surely have their part. They raise thequestion, stir the Dust--but blow it off? Oh no! nothing can touch theconscience of the people, and utterly reverse their view of things, andradically alter them, but =God=. 

Yes, it is true, we may make the most of what has been done byGovernment, by missionaries and reformers, but there are times in theheart histories of all who look far enough down to see what goes onunder the surface of things, when the sorrow takes shape in theProphet's cry, "We have not wrought any deliverance in the earth!"

It is true. _We_ have not. We cannot even estimate the real weight ofthe lightest speck of the Dust that has settled on the life of thispeople. But we believe that our God, Who comprehended the dust of theearth in a measure, comprehends to the uttermost the Dust of the Actual, and we believe to see Him work, with Whom is strength and effectualworking. 

We believe to see, and believing even now we see; and when we seeanything, be it ever so little, when the Breath breathes, and even "ahair's-breadth" of that Dust is blown away, then, with an intensity Icannot describe, we feel the presence of the Lord our God among us, andlook up in the silence of joy and expectation for the coming of the Daywhen all rule, and all authority and power, yea, the power of the veryActual itself, shall be put down, that God may be all in all. 

So again and yet again we ask you to pray not less for the Reformmovement, and the Educational movement, and the Civilising movement ofIndia, but far more for the Movement of the Breath of God, and far morefor us His workers here, that we may abide in Him without Whom we can donothing. 

CHAPTER VIII

Roots

 "It is not an easy thing in England to lead an old man or woman to Christ, even though the only 'root' which holds them from Him is love of the world. As the Tamil proverb says, 'That which did not bend at five will not be bent at fifty, ' still less at sixty or seventy. When a soul in India is held down, not by one root only, but by a myriad roots, who is sufficient to deliver it? Only He who overturneth the mountains by the roots. 'This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting. '" _An Indian Missionary. _

"AMMA, you are getting old. "

"Yes (grunt), yes. "

"When we are old then death is near. "

"Yes (grunt), yes. "

"Then we must leave our bodies and go somewhere else. "

Three more grunts. 

"Amma, do you know where you are going?"

Then the old woman wakes up a little, grunts a little more, "Who knowswhere she is going?" she mumbles, and relapses into grunts. 

"I know where I am going, " the girl answers. "Amma, don't you want toknow?"

"Don't I want to know what?"

"Where you are going. "

"Why do I want to know what?"

The girl goes over it again. The old woman turns to herdaughter-in-law. "Is the rice ready?" she says. The girl tries again. The old woman agrees we all must die. Death is near to the ancient; sheis ancient, therefore death is near to her, she must go somewhere afterdeath. It would be well to know where she is going. She does not knowwhere she is going. Then she gazes and grunts. 

[Illustration: Enlargement of one of the old dames seen in chapter vi. Acapital typical face. We have a number of these keen, interesting oldpeople, but very rarely find they have any desire to "change theirreligion. " They are "rooted. "]

The girl tries on different lines. Whom is the old woman looking to, tohelp her when death comes?

"God. "

"What God?"

"The great God. " And rousing herself to express herself she declaresthat He is her constant meditation, therefore all is well. "Is the riceready?"

"No. "

"Then give me some betel leaf, " and she settles down to roll smallpieces of lime into little balls, and these balls she rolls up in abetel leaf, with a bit of areca nut for taste, and this betel leaf sheputs into her mouth--all this very slowly, and with many inarticulatesounds, which I have translated "grunts. " And this is all she does. Shedoes not want to listen or talk, she only wants to scrunch betel, andgrunt. 

This is not a touching tale. It is only true. It happened this eveningexactly as I have told it, and the girl, a distant connection of the oldwoman, who had come with me so delightedly, eager to tell the GoodTidings, had to give it up. She had begun by speaking about the love ofJesus, but that had fallen perfectly flat; so she had tried the morestartling form of address, with this result--grunts. 

I spent an afternoon not long ago with a more intelligent specimen. Hereshe is, a fine sturdy old character, one of the three you saw before. She was immensely interested with her photo, which I showed her, and shecould not understand at all how, in the one moment when she stoodagainst a wall, her face "had been caught on a piece of white paper. " Alittle explanation opened the way for the greater thing I had comeabout. We were sitting on a mud verandah, opening on to a squarecourtyard; two women pounding rice, two more grinding it, anothersweeping, a cow, some fowls, a great many children, and several babies, made it exceedingly difficult to concentrate one's attention onanything, and still more difficult to get the wandering brains of an oldwoman to concentrate on a subject in which she had no interest. She hadbeen interested in the photograph, but that was different. 

The conversation ended by her remarking that it was getting dark, oughtI not to be going home? It was not getting dark yet, but it meant thatshe had had enough, so I salaamed and went, hoping for a better chanceagain. Next time we visited the Village of the Tamarind she was nowhereto be seen; she had gone to her own village, she had only come here forthe funeral. Would she return, we asked? Not probable, they said, "shehad come and gone. " "Come and gone. " As they said it, one felt how trueit was. Come, for that one short afternoon within our reach; gone, outof it now for ever. 

In that same village there is one who more than any other drew one'sheart out in affection and longing, but so far all in vain. 

I first saw her in the evening as we were returning home. She wassitting on her verandah, giving orders to the servants as they stood inthe courtyard below. Then she turned and saw us. We were standing in thestreet, looking through the open door. The old lady, in her whitegarments, with her white hair, sat among a group of women in vividshades of red, behind her the dark wood of the pillar and door, andabove the carved verandah roof. 

The men were fresh from the fields, and stood with their rough-lookinghusbandry implements slung across their shoulders; the oxen, greatmeek-eyed beasts, were munching their straw and swishing their tails asthey stood in their places in the courtyard, where some little childrenplayed. 

The paddy-birds, which are small white storks, were flying about fromfrond to frond of the cocoanut palms that hung over the wall, and thesunset light, striking slanting up, caught the underside of their wings, and made them shine with a clear pale gold, gold birds in a darkness ofgreen. A broken mud wall ran round one end, and the sunset colourpainted it too till all the red in it glowed; and then it came softlythrough the palms, and touched the white head with a sort of sheen, andlit up the brow of the fine old face as, bending forward, she beckonedto us. "Come in! come in!" she said. 

We soon made friends with her. She was a Saivite and we heard afterwardshad received the Initiation; the golden symbol of her god had beenbranded upon her shoulder, and she was sworn to lifelong devotion toSiva; but she had found that he was vain, and she never worshipped him, she worshipped God alone, "and at night, when the household is sleeping, I go up alone to an upper room, and stretch out my hands to the God ofall, and cry with a long, loud cry. " Then she suddenly turned and facedme full. "Tell me, is that enough?" she said. "Is it all I must do forsalvation? Say!"

I did not feel she was ready for a plunge into the deep sea of fullknowledge yet, and I tried to persuade her to leave that question, telling her that if she believed what we told her of Jesus our Lord, shewould soon know Him well enough to ask Him direct what she wanted toknow, and He Himself would explain to her all that it meant to followHim. But she was determined to hear it then, and, as she insisted, Iread her a little of what He says about it Himself. She knew quiteenough to understand and take in the force of the forceful words. Shewould not consent to be led gently on. "No, I must know it now, " shesaid; and as verse by verse we read to her, her face settledsorrowfully. "So far must I follow, so far?" she said. "_I cannot followso far. _"

It was too late for much talk then, but she promised to listen if wewould come and read to her. She could not read, but she seemed to know agreat deal about the Bible. 

For some weeks one of us went once a week; sometimes the men of thehouse were in, and then we could not read to her, as they seemed toobject; but oftener no one was about, and she had her way, and we read. 

She told us her story one afternoon. She was the head of a famous oldhouse; her husband had died many years ago; she had brought up herchildren successfully, and now they were settled in life. She had aChristian relation, but she had never seen him; she thought he had a sonstudying in a large school in England--Cambridge, I knew, when I heardthe name; the father is one of our true friends. 

All her sons are greatly opposed, but one of her little girls learnt fora time, and so the mother heard the Truth, and, being convinced that itwas true, greatly desired to hear more. 

But the child was married, and went away, and she feared to ask theMissie Ammal to come again, lest people should notice it and talk. Sothe years passed emptily, "and oh, my heart was an empty place, a voidas empty as air!" And she stretched out her arms, and clasping her handsshe looked at the empty space between, and then at me with inquiringeyes, to see if I understood. 

How well one understood!

 "I am an emptiness for Thee to fill, My soul a cavern for Thy sea, . . . I have done nought for Thee, am but a Want. "

She had never heard it, but she had said it. We do not often hear itsaid, and when we do our whole heart goes out to meet the heart of theone who says it; everything that is in us yearns with a yearning thatcannot be told, to bring her to Him Who said "Come. "

We were full of hope about her, and we wrote to her Christian relative, and he wrote back with joy. It seemed so likely then that she woulddecide for Christ. 

But one day, for the first time, she did not care to read. I rememberthat day so well; it was the time of our monsoon, and the country wasone great marsh. We had promised to go that morning, but the nightbefore the rivers filled, and the pool between her and us was a lake. Wecalled the bandyman and explained the situation. He debated a little, but at last--"Well, the bulls can swim, " he said, and they swam. 

We need not have gone, she was "out. " "Out, " or "not at home to-day, " isa phrase not confined to Society circles where courtesy counts for morethan truth. "I am in, but I do not want to see you, " would have beentrue, but rude. 

This was the first chill, but she was in next time, and continued to bein, until after a long talk we had, when again the question rose and hadto be faced, "Can I be a Christian _here_?"

It was a quiet afternoon; we were alone, only the little grandchildrenwere with her--innocent, fearless, merry little creatures, running toher with their wants, and pulling at her hands and dress as babies do athome. Their grandmother took no notice of them beyond an occasional pator two, but the childish things, with their bright brown eyes and littlefat, soft, clinging hands went into the photo one's memory took, andhelped one the better to understand and sympathise in the humanness ofthe pretty home scene, that humanness which is so natural, and which Godmeant to be. I think there is nothing in all our work which so rends andtears at the heart-strings within us, as seeing the spiritual clash withthe natural, and to know that while Caste and bigotry reign it alwaysmust be so. 

We had a good long talk. "I want to be a Christian, " she said, and for amoment I hoped great things, for she as the mistress of the house wasalmost free to do as she chose. I thought of her influence over her sonsand their wives, and the little grandchildren; and I think my faceshowed the hope I had, for she said, looking very direct at me, "By aChristian I mean one who worships your God, and ceases to worship allother gods; for He alone is the Living God, the Pervader of all andProvider. This I fully believe and affirm, but I cannot break my Caste. "

"Would you continue to keep it in all ways?"

"How could I possibly break my Caste?"

"And continue to smear Siva's sign on your forehead?"

"That is indeed part of my Caste. "

More especially part of it, I knew, since she had received theInitiation. 

Then the disappointment got into my voice, and she felt it, and said, "Oh, do not be grieved! These things are external. How can mere ashesaffect the internal, the real essential, the soul?"

It was such a plausible argument, and we hear it over and over again;for history repeats itself, there is nothing new under the sun. 

I reminded her that ashes were sacred to Siva. 

"I would not serve Siva, " she answered me, "but the smearing of ashes onone's brow is the custom of my Caste, and I cannot break my Caste. "

Then she looked at me very earnestly with her searching, beautiful, keenold eyes, and she went over ground she knew I knew. She reminded me whatthe requirements of her Caste had always been, that they must befulfilled by all who live in the house, and she told me in measuredwords and slow that I knew she could not live at home if she broke thelaws of her Caste. But why make so much of trifling things? For matterand spirit are distinct, and when the hands are raised in prayer, whenthe lamp is lighted and wreathed with flowers, the outward observer maymistake and think the action is pujah to Agni, but God who reads theheart understands, and judges the thought and not the act. "Yes, my handmay smear on Siva's ashes, while at the same moment my soul may communewith God the Eternal, Who only is God. "

I turned to verse after verse to show her this sort of thing could neverbe, how it would mock at the love of Christ and nullify His sacrifice. Iurged upon her that if she were true, and the central thought of herlife were towards God, all the outworkings would correspond, creedfitting deed, and deed fitting creed without the least shade ofdiversity. But faith and practice are not to be confused, each isseparate from the other; the two may unite or the one may be divorcedfrom the other without the integrity of either being affected: this isthe unwritten Hindu code which she and hers had ever held; and now, after years of belief in it, to face round suddenly to itsopposite--this was more than she could do. She held, as it were, theTruth in her hand, and turned it round and round and round, but shealways ended where she began; she would not, _could_ not, see it asTruth, or perhaps more truly, would not accept it. It meant too much. 

There she sat, queen of her home. The sons were expected, and she hadbeen making preparations for their coming. Her little grandchildrenplayed about her, each one of them dear as the jewel of her eye. Howcould she leave it all, how could she leave them all--home, all that itstands for; children, all that they mean?

Then she looked at me again, and I shall never forget the look. Itseemed as if she were looking me through and through, and forcing theanswer to come. She spoke in little short sentences, instinct withintensity. "I _cannot_ live here and break my Caste. If I break it Imust go. I _cannot_ live here without keeping my customs. If I breakthem I must go. You know all this. I ask you, then, tell me yes or no. Can I live here and keep my Caste, and at the same time follow your God?Tell me yes or no!"

I did not tell her--how could I? But she read the answer in my eyes, andshe said, as she had said before, "I cannot follow so far--so far, _Icannot follow so far_!"

"Reverence for opinions and practice held sacred by his ancestors isingrained in every fibre of a Hindu's character, and is, so to speak, bred in the very bone of his physical and moral constitution. " So writesSir Monier Williams. It is absolutely true. 

Oh, friends, is it easy work? My heart is sore as I write, with thesoreness that filled it that day. I would have given anything to be abletruthfully to say "yes" to her question. But "across the will of natureleads on the path of God" for them; and they have to follow so very far, so very, very far!

All trees have roots. To tear up a full-grown tree by the roots, andtransplant it bodily, is never a simple process. But in India we have atree with a double system of roots. The banyan tree drops roots from itsboughs. These bough roots in time run as deep underground as theoriginal root. And the tap root and its runners, and the branch rootsand theirs, get knotted and knit into each other, till the whole formsone solid mass of roots, thousands of yards of a tangle of roots, sinuous and strong. Conceive the uprooting of such a tree, like thefamous one of North India, for instance, which sheltered an army ofseven thousand men. You cannot conceive it; it could not be done, theearthward hold is so strong. 

The old in India are like these trees; they are doubly, inextricablyrooted. There is the usual great tap root common to all human trees inall lands--faith in the creed of the race; there are the usual runningroots too--devotion to family and home. All these hold the soul down. 

But in India we have more--we have the branch-rooted system of Caste;Caste so intricate, so precise, that no Western lives who has traced itthrough its ramifications back to the bough from which it dropped in theolden days. 

This Caste, then, these holding laws, which most would rather die thanbreak, are like the branch roots of the banyan tree with their infinitestrength of grip. But the strangest thing to us is this: the people loveto have it so; they do not regard themselves as held, these roots aretheir pride and joy. Take a child of four or five, ask it a questionconcerning its Caste, and you will see how that baby tree has begun todrop branch rootlets down. Sixty years afterwards look again, and everyrootlet has grown a tree, each again sending rootlets down; and so thesystem spreads. 

But we look up from the banyan tree. God! what are these roots to Thee?These Caste-root systems are nothing to Thee! India is not too hard forThee! O God, come!

CHAPTER IX

The Classes and the Masses

 "We speak of work done against the force of gravitation. If the magnitude of a force can be estimated in any sense by the resistance which it has to overcome, then verily there is no land under the sun more calculated than India to display the Grand Forces of God's Omnipotent Grace. For here it has to face and overcome the _combined resistances_ of the Caste system, entrenched heathenism, and deeply subtle philosophies. Praise God! it can and will be done. Thou, who alone doest wondrous things, work on. 'So will we sing and praise Thy power. '" _Rev. T. Walker, India. _

PERHAPS it would help towards the better understanding of these lettersif we stopped and explained things a little. Some may have beenwondering, as they read, how it is that while the South Indian fieldsare constantly quoted as among the most fruitful in the world, we seemto be dealing with a class where fruit is very rare, and so subject toblighting influences after it has appeared, that we hardly like to speakof it till it is ripe and reaped and safe in the heavenly garner. Ithink it will be easier to understand all this if we view Hindu TamilSouth India (with which alone this book deals) from the outside, and letit fall into two divisions the Classes and the Masses. There is, ofcourse, the border line between, crossed over on either side by some whobelong to the Classes but are almost of the Masses, and by some whobelong to the Masses but are almost of the Classes. Broadly speaking, however, there is a distinct difference between the two. As to theirattitude towards the Gospel, the Classes and the Masses unite; they arewholly indifferent to it. 

In a paper read at the Student Volunteers' Conference in 1900, a SouthIndian missionary summed up the matter in a comprehensive sentence:"Shut in for millenniums by the gigantic wall of the Himalayas on theNorth, and by the impassable ocean on the South, they have lived inseclusion from the rest of the world, and have developed socialinstitutions and conceptions of the universe, and of right and wrong, quite their own. Their own religion and traditionary customs areaccepted as sufficiently meeting their needs, and they are not consciousof needing any teaching from foreigners. They will always listencourteously to what we say, and this constitutes an open door for theGospel, but of conscious need and hungering for the Gospel there islittle or none. So long as it is only a matter of preaching, there arein the world no more patient listeners than the Hindus. But as soon as acase arises of one of their number abandoning the Caste customs andtraditionary worship, all their hostility is aroused, and the wholecommunity feels it a duty of patriotism to do its utmost to deprive thatindividual of liberty of action, and to defend the vested rights ofHinduism. "

For the true Hindu is fervently Hindu. His religion "may be described asbound up in the bundle of his everyday existence. " His intense belief init, and in his Caste, which is part of it, gives edge to the blade withwhich he fights the entrance of a new religion to his home. This newreligion he conceives of as something inherently antagonistic to hisCaste, and as Caste is at every point connected with Hinduism, a thinginterwoven with it, as if Hinduism were the warp and Caste the woof ofthe fabric of Indian life, we cannot say he is mistaken in regardingChristianity as a foe to be fought if he would continue a Caste Hindu. So far, in South Indian religious history, we have no example on a largescale of anything approaching the Bramo Samâj of the North. In the moreconservative South there is almost no compromise with, and littleassimilation of, the doctrine which makes all men one in Christ. 

To return to the division--Classes and Masses--the Classes comprisemembers of what are known as the higher Castes, and in speaking of townsand villages where these dwell, and of converts from among them, theprefix "Caste" is sometimes used. Among the Classes we find women ofmuch tenderness of feeling and a culture of their own, but their mindsare narrowed by the petty lives they live, lives in many instancesbounded by no wider horizon than thoughts concerning their husbands andchildren and jewels and curries, and always their next-door neighbour'ssquabbles and the gossip of the place. Much of this gossip deals withmatters which are not of an elevating character. It takes us years tounderstand it, because most of the conversation is carried on inallusion or innuendo. But it is understood by the children. One of ourconverts told me that she often prays for power to forget the words sheheard, and the things she saw, and the games she played, when she was alittle child in her mother's room. 

[Illustration: This old man is the Hindu village schoolmaster. The boyswrite on a strip of palm leaf with an iron style. These little lads cometo us every Sunday afternoon. Will some one remember them?]

The young girls belonging to the higher Castes are kept in strictseclusion. During these formative years they are shut up within thecourtyard walls to the dwarfing life within, and as a result they getdwarfed, and lose in resourcefulness and independence of mind, and aboveall in courage; and this tells terribly in our work, making it sodifficult to persuade such a one to think for herself or dare to decideto believe. Such seclusion is not felt as imprisonment; a girl istrained to regard it as the proper thing, and we never find any desireamong those so secluded to break bounds and rush out into the free, openair. They do not feel it cramped as we should; it is their custom. 

It is this custom which makes work among girls exceedingly slow andunresultful. They have to be reached one by one, and it takes manymonths of teaching before the mind opens enough to understand that itmay be free. The reaction of the physical upon the mental is never moreclearly illustrated than in such cases. Sometimes it seems as if themind _could_ not go out beyond the cramping walls; but when it has, byGod's illumination, received light enough to see into the darkness ofthe soul, and the glory that waits to shine in on it, conceive of thetremendous upheaval, the shock of finding solid ground sink, asgradually or suddenly the conviction comes upon such a one that if sheacts upon this new knowledge there is no place for her at home. She mustgive everything up--_everything_!

Do you wonder that few are found willing to "follow so far"? Do youwonder that our hearts nearly break sometimes, as we realize the costfor them? Do you wonder that, knowing how each is set as a target forthe archer who shoots at souls, we fear to say much about them, lest weshould set the targets clearer in his sight?

The men and boys of the Classes live a more liberal life, and here youfind all varying shades of refinement. There is education, too, and agreat respect for learning, and reverence for their classic literatureand language, a language so ancient that we find certain Tamil words inthe Hebrew Scriptures, and so rich, that while "nearly all thevernaculars of India have been greatly enriched from the Sanscrit, Sanscrit has borrowed from Tamil. " Almost every Caste village has itsown little school, and every town has many, where the boys are taughtreading, writing, poetry, and mental arithmetic. 

There is not much education among the Masses. Here and there a manstands out who has fought his way through the ignorance of centuries, upinto the light of the knowledge of books. Such a man is greatlyrespected by the whole community. The women have the same kindly natureas the women of the Classes, and there is surprising responsivenesssometimes, where one would least expect it. We have known a Tamil woman, distinctly of the Masses, never secluded in her girlhood, but left tobloom as a wild flower in the field, as sensitive in spirit as any ladyborn. The people are rough and rustic in their ways, but there arecertain laws observed which show a spirit of refinement latent amongthem; there are customs which compare favourably with the customs of themasses at home. As a whole, they are like the masses of other lands, with good points and bad points in strong relief, and just the samesouls to be saved. 

Converts from among the Masses, as a general rule, are able to live athome. There is persecution, but they are not turned out of village, street, or house. Often they come in groups, two or three familiestogether perhaps, or a whole village led by its headman comes over. There is less of the single one-by-one conversion and confession, thoughthere is an increasing number of such, and they are the best we have. 

It is easy to understand how much more rapidly Christianity spreadsunder such conditions than among those prevailing among the Classes; wesee it illustrated over and over again. For example, in a certainhigh-caste Hindu town some miles distant from our station on the Easternside, a young man heard the Gospel preached at an open-air meeting; hebelieved, and confessed in baptism, thus breaking Caste and becoming analien to his own people. He has never been able to live at home since, and so there has been no witness borne, no chance to let the life showout the love of God. The men of that household doubtless know somethingof the truth; they know enough, at least, to make them responsible forrefusing it; but what can the women know? Only that the son of the househas disgraced his house and name; only that he has destroyed his Casteand broken his mother's heart. "Shame upon him, " they cry with onevoice, "and curses on the cause of the shame, the 'Way' of JesusChrist!" It is useless to say they are merely women, and do not count;they _do_ count. Their influence counts for a very great deal. Theoretically, women in India are nothing where religion is concerned;practically, they are the heart of the Hindu religion, as the men areits sinew and brain. There has never been a convert in that town sincethat young man was banished from it, out-casted by his Caste. 

But in a village only a few miles from that town a heathen lad believed, and was baptised, and returned home, not so welcome as before, but notconsidered too defiled to be reckoned a son of the household still. Hisfather is dead, his mother is a bitter opponent, but his brother hascome since, and within a stone's-throw another; and so it goes on: thelife has a chance to tell. Almost every time we have gone to thatvillage we have found some ready for baptism, and though none of themothers have been won, they witness to the change in the life of theirsons. "My boy's heart is as white as milk now, " said one, who had stoodby and seen that boy tied up and flogged for Christ's sake. They rarely"change their religion, " these staunch old souls; "let me go where myhusband is; he would have none of it!" said one, and nothing seems tomove them; but they let their boys live at home, and perhaps, even yet, the love will break down their resistance. They are giving it a chance. 

I think this one illustration explains more than many words would thedifference between work among the Classes and the Masses, and why it isthat one form of work is so much more fruitful than the other. 

The Masses must not be understood as a vast casteless Mass, out-castedby the Classes, for the Caste system runs down to the very loweststratum, but their Caste rules allow of freer intercourse with others. We may visit in their houses more freely, enter more freely into theirthoughts, share more freely in the interests of their lives. We are lessoutside, as it were. But the main difference between the one set ofpeople and the other lies deeper; it is a difference underground. Itworks out, however, into something all can see. Among the Masses, "massmovements" are of common occurrence; among the Classes, with rareexceptions, each one must come out alone. 

[Illustration: A village woman of the Shanar Caste. The photo shows thebaby's ears being prepared for the jewels her mother hopes will fillthem by and by. Holes are made first and filled with cotton wool, graduated leaden weights are added till the lobes are long enough. ]

This is often forgotten by observers of the Indian Field from the homeside. There are parts of that field where the labourers seem to bealways binding up sheaves and singing harvest songs; and from otherparts come fewer songs, for the sheaves are fewer there, or it may bethere are none at all, only a few poor ears of corn, and they had to begathered one by one, and they do not show in the field. 

CHAPTER X

The Creed Chasm

 "I have had to deal in the same afternoon's work, on the one hand with men of keen powers of intellect, whose subtle reasoning made one look to the foundations of one's own faith; and on the other hand with ignorant crowds, whose conception of sin was that of a cubit measure, and to whom the terms 'faith' and 'love' were as absolutely unknown as though they had been born and bred in some undeveloped race of Anthropoids. " _Rev. T. Walker, India. _

IN writing about the Classes and the Masses of South India, one greatdifference which does not exist at home should be explained. In Englanda prince and a peasant may be divided by outward things--socialposition, style of life, and the duty of life--but in all inward thingsthey may be one--one in faith, one in purpose, one in hope. Thedifference which divides them is only accidental, external; and thepeasant, perhaps being in advance of the prince in these verities ofexistence, may be regarded by the prince as nobler than himself: thereis no spiritual chasm between them. It is the same in the realm ofscholarship. All true Christians, however learned or however unlearned, hold one and the same faith. But in India it is not so. The scholarwould smile at the faith of the simple villagers, he would even teachthem to believe that which he did not believe himself, holding that itwas more suitable for them, and he would marvel at your ignorance ifyou confounded his creed with theirs; and yet in name both he and theyare Hindus. 

Sir Monier Williams explains the existence of this difference bydescribing the receptivity and all-comprehensiveness of Hinduism. "Ithas something to offer which is suited to all minds, its very strengthlies in its infinite adaptability to the infinite diversity of humancharacters and human tendencies. It has its highly spiritual andabstract side, suited to the metaphysical philosopher; its practical andconcrete side, suited to the man of affairs and the man of the world;its æsthetic and ceremonial side, suited to the man of poetic feelingand imagination; its quiescent and contemplative side, suited to the manof peace and lover of seclusion. Nay, it holds out the right hand ofbrotherhood to nature worshippers, demon worshippers, animalworshippers, tree worshippers, fetich worshippers. It does not scrupleto permit the most grotesque forms of idolatry and the most degradingvarieties of superstition, and it is to this latter fact that yetanother remarkable peculiarity of Hinduism is mainly due--_namely, thatin no other System of the world is the chasm more vast which separatesthe religion of the higher, cultured, and thoughtful Classes, from thatof the lower, uncultured, and unthinking Masses_. "

Naturally, therefore, work among them is different; one almost needs adifferent vocabulary for each, and certainly one needs a different setof ideas. I remember how, in one afternoon's work, we saw the two typesmost perfectly. In thinking of it, it is as if one saw again the quietface of the old scholar against a background of confusion, the clearcalm features carved as in ivory, and set with a light upon it; chaoticdarkness behind. We were visiting his wife, when he came out from theinner room, and asked if he might talk with us. Usually to such aquestion I say no; we have come to the women, who are far the moreneedy, the men can easily hear if they will. But he was such an old man, I felt I could not refuse; so he began to tell me what he held as truth, which was, in brief, that there are two sets of attachment, one outer, one inner; that deliverance from these, and from Self, the Ego, whichregards itself as the doer, constitutes Holiness; that is, that one mustbe completely disentangled and completely self-less. This attained, thenext is Bliss, which is progressive. First comes existence in the sameplace as God. Second, nearness to God. Third, likeness to God. Fourth, identity with God. Then he quoted from a classic beloved by all the oldTamil school, stanza after stanza, to prove the truth of the above, ending with one which Dr. Pope has thus translated--

 "_Cling thou to that which He to Whom nought clings hath bid thee cling, Cling to that bond, to get thee free from every clinging thing. _"

He knew Sanscrit, and read me strange-sounding passages from a hugeancient book, and then, in return for a booklet, he gave me one of Mrs. Besant's translations from the _Bhagavad Gita_. 

The talk ended in my quoting what he could not deny was the trueheart-cry of one of his greatest poets. "I know nothing! nothing! I amin darkness! Lord, is there no light for me?" And another, from thepoem he had quoted, which asks the question, "What is the use ofknowledge, mere knowledge, if one does not draw near to the All-knowing, All-pure One?" And this led into what he would not listen to at first, alittle reading from the Book of books, before whose light even thesewonderful books pale as tapers in clear sunshine. The marvel of ourBible never shows more marvellous than at such times, when you see it indeed and in truth the Sword of the Spirit, and it _cuts_. 

The old man asked me to come again, and I did, as the Iyer was away. Heoften got out of my depth, and I longed to know more; but I always foundthe Bible had the very word he needed, if he would only take it. So faras I know, he did not, and I left him--to quote his own words, thoughnot spoken of himself, alas!--"bewildered by numerous thoughts, meshedin the web of delusion. "

As we left our old scholar, we came upon a thing wholly foolish andbrainless, animalism in force. It was the difference between the Classesand the Masses once for all painted in glare. A huge procession wastearing along the streets and roads, with all the usual uproar. Theystopped when they got to a big thorn bush, and then danced round it, carrying their idols raised on platforms, and borne by two or threedozen to each. We passed, singing as hard as ever we could "Victory toJesus' Name! Victory!" and when we got rather out of the stream, stopped, and sang most vigorously, till quite a little crowd gathered, and we had a chance to witness. 

It was dark, and the flaming torches lit up the wildest, most barbaricbit of heathenism I have seen for a long time. The great black movingmass seemed like some hellish sea which had burst its bounds, and thehundreds of red-fire torches moving up and down upon it like lights ininfernal fishermen's boats, luring lost souls to their doom. 

As we waited and spoke to those who would hear, a sudden rush from thecentre of things warned us to go; but before we could get out of theway, a rough lad with a thorn-branch torch stuck it right into thebandy, and all but set fire to us. He ran on with a laugh, and anotherfollowed with an idol, a hideous creature, red and white, which he alsopushed in upon us. Our bullocks trotted as fast as they could, and wesoon got out of it all, and looking back saw the great square of thedevil temple blazing with torches and firebrands, and heard thedrummings and clangings and yells which announced the arrival of theprocession. 

All that night the riotous drumming continued, and, as one lay awake andlistened, one pictured the old scholar sitting in the cool night air onhis verandah, reading his ancient palm-leaf books by the light of thelittle lamp in the niche of his cottage wall. 

CHAPTER XI

Caste viewed as a Doer

 "It is matter for especial notice that in every department of applied science we have to deal with the unseen. All forces, whether in physics, mechanics, or electricity, are invisible. " _Alexander Mackay, Africa. _

THE division of the Tamil people, over fifteen million strong, intoClasses and Masses, though convenient and simple, is far too simple tobe of value in giving an accurate idea of the matter as it is understoodfrom within. As we said, it is only an outside view of things. A studyof Caste from an Indian point of view is a study from which you risebewildered. 

What is Caste? What is electricity? Lord Kelvin said, on the occasion ofhis jubilee, that he knew no more of electric and magnetic force . . . Than he knew and tried to teach his students of natural philosophy fiftyyears ago in his first session as Professor. We know that electricityexists, we are conscious of its presence in the phenomena of light, heat, sound; but we do not know what it is. 

Nothing could more perfectly illustrate Caste. You cannot live long in aconservative part of India, in close contact with its people, withoutbeing conscious of its presence; if you come into conflict with it, itmanifests itself in a flash of opposition, hot rage of persecution, theroar of the tumult of the crowd. But try to define it, and you find youcannot do it. It is not merely birth, class, a code of rules, though itincludes all these. It is a force, an energy; there is spirit in it, essence, hidden as the invisible essence which we call electricity. 

Look at what it does. A few months ago a boy of twelve resolved to be aChristian. His clan, eight thousand strong, were enraged. There was ariot in the streets; in one house the poison cup was ready. Better deaththan loss of Caste. 

In another town a boy took his stand, and was baptised, thus crossingthe line that divides secret belief from open confession. His Caste mengot hold of him afterwards; next time he was seen he was a ravinglunatic. The Caste was avenged. 

It may be someone will wonder if these things are confined to one partof the field, so I quote from another, working in a neighbouring field, Tamil, but not "ours. "

She tells of a poor low-caste woman who learned in her home, andbelieved. Her husband also believed, and both thought of becomingChristians. The village soothsayer warned them that their father's godwould be angry; they did not heed him, but went on, and suddenly theirbaby died. This was too much for their faith then, and they both wentback to idolatry. 

A few years afterwards their eldest child began to learn to read, andthe mother's faith revived. The soothsayer and her husband reminded herof the infant's fate, but she was brave, and let her child learn. Thenher cow suddenly died. "Did we not tell you so?" they said, and for themoment she was staggered; but she rallied, and only became more earnestin faith. So the soothsayer threatened worse. 

[Illustration: Cooking in a house of the Shanar Caste, always the mostaccessible of all Castes here, but this is a specially friendly house, or we should not have been allowed to take the photo. The small girl whois grinding curry stuff on the stone is the "Imp" of chapter xx. ]

Then a Caste meeting was called to determine what could be done withthis woman. The husband attended the meeting, and was treated to somerice and curry; before he reached home he was taken violently ill, andin three days he died. The relatives denounced the woman as the cause ofher husband's death, took her only son from her, and entreated her toreturn to her father's gods before they should all be annihilated. Theygave her "two weeks to fast and mourn for her husband, then finding hermind as firmly fixed on Christ as before, they sent her to Burmah. "

This happened recently. It is told without any effort to appeal to thesympathies of anyone, simply as a fact; a witness, every line of it, tothe power of Caste as a Doer. But there is something in the tale, toldso terribly quietly, that makes one's heart burn with indignation at theunrelenting cruelty which would hound a poor woman down, and send her, bereft of all she loved, into exile, such as a foreign land would be toone who knew only her own little village. And when you remember theCaste was "low, " which they took such infinite pains to guard, you canjudge, perhaps, what the hate would be, the concentration of scorn andhate, if the Caste were higher or high. 

But look at Caste in another way, in its power in the commonplace phasesof life. For example, take a kitchen and cooking, and see how Casterules there. For cooking is not vulgar work, or _infra dig. _ in anysense, in India; all Caste women in good orthodox Hindu familieseither do their own or superintend the doing of it by younger members ofthe same family or servants of the same Caste. "We Europeans cannotunderstand the extent to which culinary operations may be associatedwith religion. The kitchen in every Indian household is a kind ofsanctuary or holy ground. . . . The mere glance of a man of inferiorCaste makes the greatest delicacies uneatable, and if such a glancehappens to fall on the family supplies during the cooking operations, when the ceremonial purity of the water used is a matter of almost lifeand death to every member of the household, the whole repast has to bethrown away as if poisoned. The family is for that day dinnerless. Foodthus contaminated would, if eaten, communicate a taint to the souls aswell as bodies of the eaters, a taint which could only be removed bylong and painful expiation. " Thus far Sir Monier Williams (quoted as agreater authority than any mere missionary!). Think of the defilementwhich would be contracted if a member of the household who had brokenCaste in baptism took any part in the cooking. It would never beallowed. Such a woman could take no share in the family life. Herpresence, her shadow, above all her touch, would be simply pollution. Therefore, and for many other reasons, her life at home is impossible, and the Hindu, without arguing about it, regards it as impossible. Itdoes not enter into the scheme of life as laid down by the rules of hisCaste. He never, if he is orthodox, contemplates it for a moment as athing to be even desired. 

Cooking and kitchen work may seem small (though it would not be easy foreven the greatest to live without reference to it), so let us look outon the world of trade, and see Caste again as a Doer there. If amerchant becomes a Christian, no one will buy his goods; if he is aweaver, no one will buy his cloth; if he is a dyer, no one will buy histhread; if he is a jeweller, no one will employ him. If it is rememberedthat every particular occupation in life represents a particular Caste, it will be easily understood how matters are complicated where convertsfrom the great Trades Unions are concerned. Hence the need of IndustrialMissions, and the fact that they exist. 

A man wants to become a Christian, say, from the blacksmith or carpenterCaste. As a Christian he loses his trade, and he has been trained to noother. His forefathers worked in iron or wood, and he cannot attempt tolearn other work. Let the Christians employ him, you say. Some do; butthe question involves other questions far too involved for discussionhere. And even if we discussed it, we should probably end where webegan--facing a practical problem which no one can hope to solve whileCaste is what it is. 

Just now this system is in full operation in the case of a lad of thebrassworker Caste. He is a thoughtful boy, and he has come to theconclusion that Christianity is the true religion; he would like to be aChristian; if the conditions were a little easier he would be enrolledas an inquirer to-morrow. But here is the difficulty. His father is notstrong, his mother and little sisters and brothers are his care; if hewere a Christian he could not support them; no one would sell him brass, no one would buy the vessels he makes. He knows only his inheritedtrade. He can make fine water-pots, lamps, vases, and vessels of allsorts, nothing else. He is too old to learn any other trade; butsupposing such an arrangement could be made, who would support thefamily in the meantime? Perhaps we might do it; we certainly could notlet them starve; but it would not do to tell him so, or to hold outhopes of earthly help, till we know beyond a doubt that he is true. Thisis what is holding him back. He reads over and over again, "He thatloveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me, " and then helooks at his father and mother and the little children; and he reads theverse again, and he looks at them again. It is too hard. 

It is easy enough to tell him that God would take care of them if heobeys. We do tell him so, but can we wonder at the boy for hesitating totake a step which will, so far as he can see, take house and food andall they need from his mother and those little children?

These are some of the things which make work in India what is simplycalled difficult. We do not want to exaggerate. We know all lands havetheir difficulties, but when being a Christian means all this, over andabove what it means elsewhere, then the bonds which bind souls arevisibly strengthened, and the work can never be described as other thanvery difficult. 

Or take the power of Caste in another direction--its callous cruelty. Igive one illustration from last year's life. 

I was visiting in the house where the old lady lives upon whom theafflatus fell. The first time we went there we saw a little lad of threeor four, who seemed to be suffering with his eyes. He lay in a swingingbag hung from the roof, and cried piteously all the time we were there. Now, two months afterwards, there he lay crying still, only his crieswere so weary he had hardly strength to cry. 

They lifted him out. I should not have known the child--the pretty facedrawn and full of pain, the little hands pressed over the burning eyes. Only one who has had it knows the agony of ophthalmia. They told me hehad not slept, "not even the measure of a rape-seed, " for three months. Night and day he cried and cried; "but he does not make much noise now, "they added. He couldn't, poor little lad!

I begged them to take him to the hospital, twenty-five miles away, butthey said to go to a hospital was against their Caste. The child laymoaning so pitifully it wrung my heart, and I pleaded and pleaded withthem to let me take him if they would not. Even if his sight could notbe saved, something could be done to ease the pain, I knew. But no, hemight die away from home, and that would disgrace their Caste. 

"Then he is to suffer till he is blind or dead?" and I felt half wildwith the cold cruelty of it. 

"What can we do?" they asked; "can we destroy our Caste?"

Oh, I did blaze out for a moment! I really could not help it. And then Iknelt down among them all, just broken with the pity of it, and prayedwith all my heart and soul that the Good Shepherd would come and gatherthe lamb in His arms!

I wonder if you can bear to read it? I can hardly bear to write it. Butyou have not seen the little wasted hands pressed over the eyes, andthen falling helplessly, too tired to hold up any longer; and you havenot heard those weak little wails--and to think it need not have been!

But we could do nothing. We were leaving the place next day, and even ifwe could have helped him, they would not have let us. They had their owndoctor, they said; the case was in his hands. As we came away theyexplained that one of the boy's distant relatives had died two yearsago, and that this was what prevented any of them leaving the house, assome obscure Caste rule would be broken if they did; otherwise, _perhaps_ they might have been able to take him somewhere for change oftreatment. So there that child must lie in his pain, one more littleliving sacrifice on the altar of Caste. 

The last thing I heard them say as we left the house was, "Cry softly, or we'll put more medicine in!" And the last thing I saw was thetightening of the little hands over the poor shut eyes, as he tried tostifle his sobs and "cry softly. " _This told one what the "medicine"meant to him. _ One of the things they had put in was raw pepper mixedwith alum. 

Is not Caste a cruel thing? Those women were not heartless, but theywould rather see that baby die in torture by inches, than dim with onebreath the lustre of their brazen escutcheon of Caste!

[Illustration: "I determined not to laugh!" That was what she said whenshe saw it, and she was fairly satisfied with the result of her efforts. The jewels are gold, the seeley a rich red. A woman of this type makes afine picture, --the strong intelligent face, the perfect arms and hands, the glistening gold on the clear brown, and the graceful dressharmonising so perfectly with the colour of eyes and hair. The onedeformity is the ear, cut so as to hold the jewels, which are so heavythat one wonders the stretched lobes do not break. ]

This is one glimpse of one phase of a power which is only a name athome. It is its weakest phase; for the hold of Caste upon the body is asnothing to the hold it has upon the mind and soul. It yields to thetouch of pain sometimes, as our medical missionaries know; but ittightens again too often when the need for relief is past. It isunspeakably strong, unmercifully cruel, and yet it would seem as thoughthe very blood of the people ran red with it. _It is in them_, part oftheir very being. 

This, then, is Caste viewed as a Doer. It does strange things, hardthings, things most cruel. It is, all who fight it are agreed, thestrongest foe to the Gospel of Christ on the Hindu fields of SouthIndia. 

CHAPTER XII

Petra

 "This work in India . . . Is one of the most crucial tests the Church of Christ has ever been put to. The people you think to measure your forces against are such as the giant races of Canaan are nothing to. " _Bishop French, India and Arabia. _

IT was very hot, and we were tired, and the friendly voice calling "Comein! come in! Oh, come and rest!" was a welcome sound, and we went in. 

She was a dear old friend of mine, the only real friend I have in thatancient Hindu town. Her house is always open to us, the upper roomalways empty--or said to be so--when we are needing a rest. But she is aHindu of the Hindus, and though so enlightened that for love's sake shetouches us freely, taking our hands in hers, and even kissing us, afterwe go there is a general purification; every scrap of clothing wornwhile we were in the house is carefully washed before sunset. 

She insisted now upon feeding us, called for plantains and sugar, brokeup the plantains, dabbed the pulp in the sugar, and commanded us to eat. Then she sat down satisfied, and was photographed. 

This town, a little ancient Hindu town, is two hours journey fromDohnavur. There are thirty-eight stone temples and shrines in and aroundit, and five hundred altars. No one has counted the number of idols;there are two hundred under a single tree near one of the smallershrines. Each of the larger temples has its attendant temple-women;there are two hundred recognised Servants of the gods, and two hundredannual festivals. 

Wonderful sums are being worked just now concerning the progress ofChristianity in India. A favourite sum is stated thus: the number ofChristians has increased during the last decade at a certain ratio. Given the continuance of this uniform rate of increase, it will followthat within a computable period India will be a Christian land. One flawin this method of calculation is that it takes for granted thatBrahmans, high-caste Hindus, and Mohammedans will be Christianised atthe same rate of progress as prevails at present among the depressedclasses. 

There are sums less frequently stated. Here in the heart of this Hindutown they come with force; one such sum worked out carefully shows that, according to the present rate of advance, it will be more than twentythousand years before the Hindu towns of this district are evennominally Christian. Another still more startling gives us this result:according to the laws which govern statistics, thirteen hundred thousandyears must pass before the Brahmans in this one South Indian districtare Christianised. And if the sum is worked so as to cover all India, the result is quite as staggering to faith based on statistics. 

Praise God, this is not His arithmetic! It is a purely human invention. We believe in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of Life; we believe inGod, even God Who calleth the things that are not as though they were:therefore these sums prove nothing. But if such sums are worked at all, they ought to be worked on both sides, and not only on the side whichyields the most encouraging results. 

Two of us spent a morning in the Brahman street. In these old Hindutowns the Brahman street is built round the temple, and in large townsthis street is a thoroughfare, and we are allowed in. The women stood inthe shadow of the cool little dark verandahs, and we stood out in thesun and tried to make friends with them. Then some Mission College boyssaw us and felt ashamed that we should stand in that blazing heat, andthey offered us a verandah; but the women instantly cleared off, and themen came, and the boys besought us under their breath to say nothingabout our religion. 

We spoke for a few minutes, throwing our whole soul into the chance. Wefelt that our words were as feathers floating against rocks; but wewitnessed, and they listened till, as one of them remarked, it was timeto go for their noontide bathe, and we knew they wished us to go. Wewent then, and found a wall at the head of the Brahman street, and westood in its shadow and tried again. Crowds of men and lads gatheredabout us, but our College boys stood by our side and helped to quietthem. "Now you see, " they said to us, as they walked with us down theouter street, "how quite impossible for us is Christianity. "

It is good sometimes to take time to take in the might of the foe wefight. That evening two of us had a quiet few minutes under the templewalls. Those great walls, reaching so high above us, stretching so farbeyond us, seemed a type of the wall Satan has built round these souls. 

We could touch this visible wall, press against it, feel its solidstrength. Run hard against it, and you would be hurt, you might fallback bleeding; it would not have yielded one inch. 

And the other invisible wall? Oh, we can touch it too! Spirit-touch is areal thing. And so is spirit-pain. But the wall, it still stands strong. 

It was moonlight. We had walked all round the great temple square, downthe silent Brahman streets, and we had stood in the pillared hall, andlooked across to the open door, and seen the light on the shrine. 

Now we were out in God's clean light, looking up at the mass of thetower, as it rose pitch-black against the sky. And we felt how small wewere. 

Then the influences of the place began to take hold of us. It was notonly masonry; it was mystery. "The Sovereigns of this present Darkness"were there. 

How futile all of earth seemed then, against those tremendous forces andpowers. What toy-swords seemed all weapons of the flesh. Praise God forthe Holy Ghost!

While we were sitting there a Brahman came to see what we were doing, and we told him some of our thoughts. He asked us then if we would careto hear his. We told him, gladly. He pointed up to the temple tower. "That is my first step to God. " We listened, and he unfolded, thought bythought, that strange old Védic philosophy, which holds that God, beingomnipresent, reveals Himself in various ways, in visible forms inincarnations, or in spirit. The visible-form method of revelation isthe lowest; it is only, as it were, the first of a series of steps whichlead up to the highest, intelligent adoration of and absorption into theOne Supreme Spirit. "We are only little children yet. We take this smallfirst step, it crumbles beneath us as we rise to the next, and so stepby step we rise from the visible to the invisible, from matter tospirit--to God. But, " he added courteously, "as my faith is good for me, so, doubtless, you find yours for you. "

Next morning we went down to the river and had talks with the people whopassed on their way to the town. It was all so pretty in the earlymorning light. Men were washing their bullocks, and children werescampering in and out of the water. Farther downstream the women werebathing their babies and polishing their brass water-vessels. Trees metoverhead, but the light broke through in places and made yellow patcheson the water. Out in one of those reaches of yellow a girl stood bendingto fill her vessel; she wore the common crimson of the South, but thelight struck it, and struck the shining brass as she swung it up underher arm, and made her into a picture as she stood in her clinging wetred things against the brown and green of water and wood. Everywhere welooked there was something beautiful to look at, and all about us wasthe sound of voices and laughter, and the musical splashing of water;then, as we enjoyed it all, we saw this:

Under an ancient tree fifteen men were walking slowly round and round, following the course of the sun. Under the tree there were numbers ofidols, and piles of oleander and jessamin wreaths, brought fresh thatmorning. The men were elderly, fine-looking men; they were whollyengrossed in what they were doing. It was no foolish farce to them; itwas reality. 

There is something in the sight of this ordinary, evident dethronementof our God which stirs one to one's inmost soul. We could not look atit. 

Again and again we have gone to that town, but to-day those men go roundthat tree, and to-day that town is a fort unwon. 

Petra, I have called it; the word stands for many a town walled in asthat one is. In Keith's _Evidence of Prophecy_ there is a map of Petra, the old strong city of Edom, and in studying it a light fell uponDavid's question concerning it, and his own triumphant answer, "Who willlead me into the strong city? Who will bring me into Edom? Wilt notThou, O God?" for the map shows the mountains all round except at theEast, where they break into a single narrow passage, the one way in. There was only one way in, but there _was_ that one way in!

Here is a town walled up to heaven by walls of Caste and bigotry, butthere must be one way in. Here is a soul walled all round by utterindifference and pride, but there must be one way in. 

"Who will lead me into the strong city? Who will bring me into Edom?=Wilt not Thou, O God?="

CHAPTER XIII

Death by Disuse

 "There is a strong tendency to look upon the Atonement of Christ as possessing some quality by virtue of which God can excuse and overlook sin in the Christian, a readiness to look upon sinning as the inevitable accompaniment of human nature 'until death do us part, ' and to look upon Christianity as a substitute for rather than a cause of personal holiness of life. " _Rev. I. W. Charlton, India. _

 "From many things I have heard I fancy many at home think of the mission as a sort of little heaven upon earth, but when one looks under the surface there is much to sadden one. . . . Oh, friends, much prayer is needed! Many of the agents know apparently nothing about conversion. 

 "You may not like my writing so plainly, but sometimes it seems as if only the bright side were given, and one feels that if God's praying people at home understood things more as they really are . . . More prayer for an outpouring of the Holy Spirit on our agents and converts would ascend to God. . . . We do long to see all our pastors and agents really converted men, men of prayer and faith, who, knowing that they themselves are saved, long with a great longing to see the heathen round them brought out of darkness into His light, and the Christians who form their congregations, earnest converted men and women. " _A. J. Carr, India. _

 "Fifty added to the Church sounds fine at home, but if only five of them are genuine what will it profit in the Great Day?" _David Livingstone, Africa. _

 "Oh for the Fire to set the whole alight, and melt us all into one mighty Holy-Ghost Church!" _Minnie Apperson, China. _

THE lamps were being lighted, the drums beaten, the cymbals struck, andthe horns blown for evening pujah in all the larger temples and shrinesof the "Strong City, " when we turned out of it, and, crossing thestream that divides the two places, went to the Christian hamlet, whichby contrast at that moment seemed like a little corner of the garden ofthe Lord. Behind was the heathenish clash and clang of every possiblediscord, and here the steady ringing of the bell for evening service;behind was all that ever was meant by the "mystery of iniquity, " andhere the purity and peace of Christianity. This is how it struck me atfirst; and even now, after a spell of work in the heart of heathendom, Christendom, or the bit of it lying alongside, is beautiful by contrast. There you have naked death, death unadorned, the corpse exhibited; here, if there is a corpse, at least it is decently dressed. And yet thatevening it was forced upon me that death is death wherever found andhowever carefully covered. 

[Illustration: "I do feel so shy!" she was just on the point of sayingto me, by the way of appeal to be released, when the camera clicked andshe was caught. Widows do not wear jewels, as a rule, among the Hindusof the higher Castes, but Christians do as they like. She is a villagewoman of fairly good position. ]

The first of the Christians to welcome us was a bright-lookingwidow--this is her photograph. We soon made friends. She told us she hadbeen "born in the Way"; her grandfather joined it, and none of thefamily had gone back, so she was sure that all was right. We were not sosure, and we tried to find out if she knew the difference betweenjoining the Way and coming to Christ. This was only a poor littlecountry hamlet, but everywhere we have travelled, among educated anduneducated alike, we have found much confusion of thought upon thissubject. 

"God knows my heart, " she said, "God hears my prayers. If I see a baddream in the night, I pray to God, and putting a Bible under my head, Isleep in perfect peace. " Could anything be more conclusive?

There were numbers of other proofs forthcoming: If your grandfather gavesix lamps to the church, value three and a half rupees each (thelamps are hanging to-day, and bear witness to the fact); if your fathernever failed to pay his yearly dues, besides regular Sunday collections(his name is in the church report, and how much he gave is printed); ifyou freely help the poor, and give them paddy on Christmas Day (quite asackful of it); if you never offer to demons (no, not when your childrenare sick, and the other faithless Christians advise you); if you nevertie on the cylinder (a charm frequently though covertly worn by purelynominal Christians); and finally, if you have been baptised andconfirmed, and "without a break join the Night-supper, " surely no onecan reasonably doubt that you are a Christian of a very proper sort? Asto questions about change of heart, and chronic indulgence in sins, suchas lying--who in this wicked world lives without lying? And when itpleases God to do it He will change your heart. 

We took the evening meeting for the villagers, who meanwhile hadgathered and were listening with approval. Privacy, as we understand it, is a thing unknown in India. "That is right, " they remarked cheerfully;"give her plenty of good advice!" And we all trooped into theprayer-room. 

Once in there, everyone put on a sort of church expression, and each onetook his or her accustomed seat in decorous silence. The littleschool-children sat in rows in front on the mats with arms demurelyfolded, and sparkling eyes fixed solemnly; the grown-up people sat ontheir mats on either side behind, and we sat on ours facing them. Webegan with a chorus, which the children picked up quickly and shoutedlustily, the grown-ups joining in with more reserve; and then we got towork. 

Blessing spoke. She had once been a nominal Christian, and she knewexactly where these people were, and how they looked at things. Herheart was greatly moved as she spoke, and the tears were in her eyes, for she knew none of these friends had the joy of conscious salvation, and she told me afterwards she had thirst and hunger for them. But theylistened unimpressed. Then we had prayer and a quiet time; sometimes theSpirit works most in quiet, and we rose expectantly; but there was nosign of life. 

After the meeting was over they gathered round us again. They are alwaysso loving and friendly in these little villages; but they could notunderstand what it was that troubled us. Were they not all _Christians_?

Shortly afterwards they came, as their kindly custom is, to bring usfruit and wreaths of flowers on New Year's Day. I missed my first friendof that evening, and asked for her. "That widow you talked to?" said theold catechist, "three days ago fever seized her, and"--He broke off andlooked up. Then I longed to hear how she had died, but no one could tellme anything. Oh, the curtain of silence that covers the passing ofsouls!

We went soon afterwards to the village, sure that at last the peoplewould be stirred; for she had been a leader among the women, and hercall, even in this land of sudden calls, had been very sudden. But wedid not find it had affected anyone. They all referred to her in thechastened tone adopted upon such occasions, and, sighing, reminded eachother that God was merciful, and she had always been, up to the measureof her ability, a very good woman. 

We felt as if we were standing with each one of those people separately, in the one little standing space we were sure of, before that curtain, and we spoke with them as you speak with those whom you know you maynever see again on this side of it. But they looked at us, and wonderedwhat was the matter with us. Were they not _Christians_? Did they notbelieve in God? Did they not pray regularly night and morning forforgiveness, protection, and blessing? So they could not understand. 

Was it that the power to understand had been withered up within them?Was the soul God gave them dead--"sentenced to death by disuse"? Deadthey are in apathy and ignorance and putrefying customs, and the falsesecurity that comes from adherence to the Christian creed without vitalconnection with Christ. These poor Christians are dead. 

"Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you that God shouldraise the dead?" Lord, it is not a thing incredible. Thou hast done itbefore. Oh, do it again. Do it soon!

I have told you how much we need your help for the work among theheathen; but often we feel we need it almost as much for the work amongthe Christians. Over and over again it is told, but still it is hardlyunderstood, that the Christians need to be converted; that the vastmajority are not converted; that statistics may mislead, and do notstand for Eternity work; that many a pastor, catechist, teacher, has aname to live, but is dead; that the Church is very dead as awhole--thank God for every exception. We do not say this thoughtlessly;the words are a grief to write. We humble ourselves that it is so, andtake to ourselves the blame. It is true that the corpse of the deadChurch is dressed, just as it is at home, only here it is even moredressed; and because the spirit of the land is intensely religious, itsgrave-clothes are vestments. But dressed death is still death. 

This will come as a shock to those who have read stories of this or thatnative Christian, and generalising from these stories, picture theChurch as a company of saints. God has His saints in India, [1] men andwomen hidden away in quiet places out of sight, and some few out in thefront; but the cry of our hearts is for more. So we tell you the truthabout things as they are, though we know it will not be acceptable, forthe best is the thing that is best liked at home; so the best is mostfrequently written. 

This may seem to cross out what was said before, about the darker sideof the truth being often told. It does not cross it out: read throughthe magazines and reports, and you will find truth-revealing sentences, which show facts to those who have eyes to see; but though this is so, all will admit that the sanguine view, as it is called, is by far themost in evidence, for the sanguine man is by far the most popularwriter, and so is more pressed to write. "People will read what isbuoyant and bright; the more of that sort we have the better, " wrote aMission secretary out in the field not long ago, to a missionary who didnot feel free to write in quite that way. Those who, to quote anothersecretary, "are afraid of writing at all, for fear of tellinglies"--excuse the energetic language; I am quoting, notinventing--naturally write much less, and so the best gets known. 

This is nobody's fault exactly. The home authorities print for the mostpart what is sent to them. They even call attention sometimes to theless cheerful view of things; and if, yielding occasionally to thepressure which is brought to bear upon them by a public which loves tohear what it likes, they take the sting out of some strong paragraph byadding an editorial "Nevertheless, " is it very astonishing?

Do you think we are writing like this because we are discouraged? No, weare not discouraged, except when sometimes we fear lest you should growweary in prayer before the answer comes. This India is God's India. Thiswork is His. Oh, join with us then, as we join with all our dear Indianbrothers and sisters who are alive in the Lord, in waiting upon Him inthat intensest form of waiting _which waits on till the answer comes_;join with us as we pray to the mighty God of revivals, "O Lord, reviveThy work! Revive Thy work in the midst of the years! In the midst of theyears make known!"

FOOTNOTE:

[1] See Appendix, p. 303. 

CHAPTER XIV

What Happened

 "Some years ago England was stirred through and through by revelations which were made as to the 'Bitter Cry' of wronged womanhood. In India the bitter cry is far more bitter, but it is stifled and smothered by the cruel gag of Caste. Orthodox Hindus would rather see their girls betrayed, tortured, murdered, than suffer them to break through the trammels of Caste. " _Rev. T. Walker, India. _

THERE is another ancient town near Dohnavur, and in that town anothertemple, and round the temple the usual Brahman square. In one of thestreets of this square we saw the girl whose face looks out at you. Itstruck us as a typical face, not beautiful as many are, butcharacteristic in the latent power of eyes and brow, a face full ofpossibilities. 

[Illustration: Here is one who might be a queen. What she _may_ be isvery different. She is a Brahman girl; all her people are Hindus. Shehas never even felt a desire, or seen any one in her town who felt adesire, to "fall into the pit of Christianity. "]

We were rarely able to get anything we specially wanted, but we gotthis. I look at it now, and wonder how it will develop as the soulbehind it shapes and grows. That child is enfolded in influences whichward off the touch of the grace of life. 

We saw numbers of women that day, but only at the distance of a streetbreadth; they would not come nearer, for the town is still a Petra tous, we are waiting to be led in. 

But if we were able to get in enough to take a photograph, surely wewere "in" enough to preach the Gospel? Why not stop and there speakof more important matters? What was to hinder _then_?

Only this: in that town they have heard of converts coming out, andbreaking Caste in baptism, and they have made a law that we (with whomthey know some of these converts are) shall never be allowed to speak toany of their women. That hindered us there. But even supposing we hadbeen free to speak, as we trust we shall be soon, and supposing she hadwanted to hear, the barriers which lie between such a child andconfession of Christ are so many and so great that when, as now, onewants to tell you about them, one hardly knows how to do it. Words seemlike little feeble shadows of some grim rock, like little feeble shadowsof the grasses growing on it, rather than of _it_, in its solidity; or, to revert to the old thought, all one can say is just pointing to theDust as evidence of the Actual. 

"What is to hinder high-caste women from being baptised, and living asChristians in their own homes?" The question was asked by an Englishman, a winter visitor, who, being interested in Missions, was gatheringimpressions. We told him no high-caste woman would be allowed to live asan open Christian in her own home; and we told him of some who, onlybecause they were suspected of inclining towards Christianity, had beencaused to disappear. "What do you suppose happened to them?" he asked, and we told him. 

We were talking in the pleasant drawing-room of an Indian Hotel. Ourfriend smiled, and assured us we must be mistaken. We were under theEnglish Government; such things could not be possible. We looked roundthe quiet room, with its air of English comfort and English safety; welooked at the quiet faces, faces that had never looked at fear, and wehardly wondered that they could not understand. 

Then in a moment, even as they talked, we were far away in another room, looking at other faces, faces unquiet, very full of fear. We knew thatall round us, for streets and streets, there were only the foes of ourLord; we knew that a cry that was raised for help would be drowned longbefore it could escape through those many streets to the great Englishhouse outside. There were policemen, you say. But policemen in India arenot as at home. _Policemen can be bribed. _

And now we are looking in again. There is a very dark inner room, nowindow, one small door; the walls are solid, so is the door. If youcried in there, who would hear?

And now we are listening--someone is speaking: "Once there was one; shecared for your God. She was buried into the wall in there, and that wasthe end of her. " . . . 

But we are back in the drawing-room, hearing them tell us these thingscould never be. . . . Three years passed, and a girl came for refuge tous. She loved her people well; she would never have come to us had theylet her live as a Christian at home. But no, "Rather than that she shallburn, " they said. We were doubtful about her age, and we feared weshould have to give her up if the case came on in the courts. And if wehad to give her up? We looked at the gentle, trustful face, and we couldnot bear the thought; and yet, according to our friends, the Governmentmade all safe. 

About that time a paper came to the house; names, dates, means ofidentification, all were given. This was the story in brief. A youngBrahman girl in another South Indian town wanted to be a Christian, andconfessed Christ at home. She earnestly wished to be baptised, but shewas too young then, and waited, learning steadily and continuingfaithful, though everything was done that could be done to turn her fromher purpose. She was betrothed against her will to her cousin, andforbidden to have anything to do with the Christians. "She was neverallowed to go out alone, and was practically a prisoner. "

For three years that child held on, witnessing steadfastly at home, andletting it be clearly known that she was and would be a Christian. AHindu ceremony of importance in the family was held in her grandfather'shouse, and she refused to go. This brought things to a crisis. Herpeople appointed a council of five to investigate the matter. "Shemaintained a glorious witness before them all, " says the missionary;"declared boldly that she was a Christian, and intended to join us; andwhen challenged about the Bible, she held it out, and read it to theassembled people. "

For a time it seemed as if she had won the day, but fresh attempts weremade upon her constancy by certain religious bigots of the town. Theyoffered her jewels--that failed; tried to get her to turn Mussulman, that being less disgraceful than to be a Christian; and last and worst, tried to stain that white soul black--but, thank God! still they failed. 

At last the waiting time was over; she was of age to be baptised, andshe wrote to tell her missionary friend about it. He sent her books toread, and promised to let her know within two days what he could arrangeto do. "Her letter was dated from her grandfather's house, " themissionary writes, "to which she said she had been sent, and put in aroom alone. On the following day, hearing a rumour of her death, I wentto N. 's house, and there found her body, outside the door. I caused itto be seized by the police, and the post-mortem has revealed the factthat the poor child was poisoned by arsenic. Bribes have been freelyused and atrocious lies have been told, and the net result of all thepolice inquiries, so far, is that no charge can be brought againstanyone. "

Last year we met one of the missionaries from this Mission, on thehills, and we asked him if anyone had been convicted. He said no one hadbeen convicted, "the Caste had seen to that. "

Here, then, is a statement of facts, divested of all emotion orsensationalism. A child is shut up in a room alone, and poisoned; whenshe is dead, her body is thrown outside the door. It was found. _Therehave been bodies which have not been found_; but we are under theBritish Government--nothing can have happened to them!

The British Government does much, but it cannot do everything. It isnotorious in India that false witnesses can be bought at so much a head, according to the nature of witness required. Bribery and corruption arenot mere names here, but facts, most difficult for any straightforwardofficial to trace and track and deal with. We know, and everyone knows, that the White Man's Government, though strong enough to win and rulethis million-peopled Empire, is weak as a white child when it standsoutside the door of an Indian house, and wants to know what has gone oninside, or proposes to regulate what shall go on. It cannot do it. Thethought is vain. 

"Why not have her put under surveillance?" asked a friend, a militaryman, about a certain girl who wanted to be a Christian; as if suchsurveillance were practicable, or ever could be, under such conditionsas obtain in high-caste Hindu and Mohammedan circles, except in placesdirectly under the eye of Government. We know there are houses where, atan hour's notice, any kind and any strength of poison can be preparedand administered: quick poison to kill within a few minutes; slowpoisons that undermine the constitution, and do their work so safelythat no one can find it out; brain poisons, worse than either, andperhaps more commonly used, as they are as effective and much lessdangerous. But we could not prove what we know, and knowledge withoutproof is, legally speaking, valueless. 

And yet we know these things, we have heard "a cry of tears, " we haveheard "a cry of blood"--

 "Tears and blood have a cry that pierces heaven Through all its hallelujah swells of mirth; God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yet He doth not forget. "

CHAPTER XV

"Simply Murdered"

 "'Agonia'--that word so often on St. Paul's lips, what did it mean? Did it not just mean the thousand wearinesses . . . And deeper, the strivings, the travailings, the bitter disappointments, the 'deaths oft' of a missionary's life?" _Rev. Robert Stewart, China. _

THERE are worse things than martyrdom. There are some who are "simplymurdered. " There is one who belongs to a Caste which more than any otheris considered tolerant and safe. Men converts from this Caste can liveat home, and if a husband and wife believe, they may continue living intheir own house, among the heathen. And yet this is what happened to agirl because it was known that she wanted to be a Christian. 

First persecution. Treasure, as her name may be translated, had learntas a child in the little mission school, and when we went to her villageshe responded, and took her stand. She refused to take part in a Hinduceremony. She was beaten, at first slightly, then severely. This failed, so they sent her out of our reach to a heathen village miles away. Thisalso failed, and she was brought home, and for some months went steadilyon, reading and learning when she could, and all the time brightlywitnessing. She was a joy to us. 

She was very anxious to come out and be baptised, but her age was thedifficulty. When a convert comes, the first thing to be done is to letthe police authorities know. They send a constable, who takes down theconvert's deposition, which is then forwarded to headquarters. One ofthe first questions concerns age. In some cases a medical certificate isdemanded, and the girl's fate turns on that; if we can get one for oversixteen we are safe from prosecution in the Criminal Courts, buteighteen is the safest age, as the Civil Courts, if the case were toproceed, would force us to give her up if she were under eighteen. Thedifficulty of proving the age, unless the girl is evidently well overit, is very serious. The medical certificate usually takes off a yearfrom what we have every reason to believe is the true age. 

One other proof remains--the horoscope. This is a Hindu document writtenon a palm leaf at the birth of the child; but it is always carefullykept by the head of the family, and so, as a rule, unobtainable. When acase comes on in Court a false horoscope may be produced by therelatives; this was done in a recent case tried in our Courts, so wecannot count upon that. In this girl's case we got the Governmentregisters searched for birth-records of her village, but all suchregisters we found had been destroyed; none were kept of births sixteenyears back. So, though she believed herself to be, and we believed herto be, and the Christians who had known her all her life were sure shewas, "about sixteen, " we knew it could not be proved. She was a veryslight girl, delicate and small for her age. This was against her, andthere were other reasons against her coming just then. She had to wait. 

I shall never forget the day I had to tell her so. She could notunderstand it. She knew that all the higher Castes had threatened tocombine, and back up her father in a lawsuit, if she became a Christian;but she thought it would be quite enough if she stood up before thejudge, and said she knew she was of age, and she wanted to come to us. "I will not be afraid of the people, " she pleaded, "I will stand upstraight before them all, and speak without any fear!"

I remember how the tears filled her eyes as I explained things; it wasso hard for her to understand that we had no power whatever to protecther. It would be worse for her if she came and had to be given up. Shewas fully sensible of this, but "Would God let them take me away? WouldHe not take care of me?" she asked. 

I suppose it is right to obey the laws. They are, on whole, righteouslaws, made in the defence of these very girls. It would never do ifanyone could decoy away a mere child from her parents or naturalguardians. But the unrighteous thing, as it seems to us, is that thewhole burden of proof lies upon us, and that in these country villagesno facilities such as Government registers of birth are to be had, bywhich we could hope legally to prove a point about which we are morallysure. We feel that as the burden of proof rests upon us, surelyfacilities should be obtainable by which we could find out a girl's agebefore she comes, so that we might know whether or not we might legallyprotect her. Still more strongly we feel it is strange justice whichdecrees that though a child of twelve may be legally held competent toundertake the responsibilities of wifehood, six years more must passbefore she may be legally held free to obey her conscience. Free! She isnever legally free! A widow may be legally free; a wife in India, never!Hardly a single Caste wife in all this Empire would be found in thelittle band of open Christians to-day, if the missionary concerned hadnot risked more than can be told here, and put God's law before man's. But oh, the number who have been turned back!

One stops, forces the words down--they come too hot and fast. There arereasons. As I write, a young wife dear to us is lying bruised andunconscious on the floor of the inner room of a Hindu house. Herhusband, encouraged by her own mother, set himself to make her conformto a certain Caste custom. It was idolatrous. She refused. He beat herthen, blow upon blow, till she fell senseless. They brought her roundand began again. There is no satisfactory redress. She is his wife. Sheis not free to be a Christian. He knows it. Her relations know it. Sheknows it, poor child. 

O God, forgive us if we are too hot, too sore at heart, for easypleasantness! And, God, raise up in India Christian statesmen who willinquire into this matter, and refuse to be blindfolded and deceived. Hislaws and ours clash somewhere; the question is, where?

To return to Treasure, we left her waiting to come. A Christian teacherlived next door, and Treasure used to slip in sometimes, as the twocourtyards adjoined. We had put up a text on the wall for her: "Fearnot: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou artMine. " This was her special text, and she looked at it now; and then shegrew braver, and promised to be patient and try to win her mother, whowas bitterly opposed. 

But oh, how I remember the wistfulness of her face as I went out; andone's very heart can feel again the stab of pain, like a knife cuttingdeep, as I left her--to her fate. 

You have seen a tree standing stark and bare, a bleak black thing, on asunny day against a sky of blue. You have looked at it, fascinated bythe silent horror of it, a distorted cinder, not a tree, and someonetells you it was struck in the last great thunderstorm. 

Next time we saw Treasure she was like that. What happened between, sofar as it is known, was this. They tried to persuade her, they tried tocoerce her; she witnessed to Jesus, and never faltered, though once theydragged her out of the house by her hair, and holding her down againstthe wall, struck her hard with a leather strap. One of the Christianssaw it, and heard the poor tortured child cry out, "I do not fear! I donot fear! It will only send me to Jesus!"

Then they tried threats. "We will take you out to the lake at night, andcut you in little pieces, and throw you into it. " She fully believedthem, but even so, we hear she did not flinch. 

Then they did their worst to her. 

It was a Sunday morning. The Saturday evening before she had managed tosee the teacher. She told her hurriedly how one had come, "a bridegroom"she called him, a student from a Mission College; he was telling herall sorts of things--that Christianity was an exploded religion; and howa great and learned woman (Mrs. Besant) had exposed the missionaries andtheir ways, so that no thinking people had any excuse for being deceivedby them. 

Then she added earnestly, "It is the devil. Do pray for me. They want meto marry him secretly! Oh, I must go to the Missie Ammal!" And if we hadonly known, we would have risked anything, any breach of the law of theland, to save her from a breach of the law of heaven! For all this talk, between an Indian girl of good repute and her prospective husband, isutterly foreign to what is considered right in Old India. It in itselfmeant danger. But we knew nothing, and next day, all that Sunday, shewas shut up, and no one knows what happened to her. On Monday she wasseen again; but changed, so utterly changed!

We heard nothing of this till the following Wednesday. The Christianswere honestly concerned, but the Tamil is ever casual, and they saw noreason for distressing us with bad news sooner than could be helped. 

As soon as we heard, I sent two of the Sisters who knew her best, to tryand see her if possible. They managed to see her for two or threeminutes, but found her hopelessly hard. Every bit of care was gone. Shelaughed in a queer, strained way, they said. It was no use my trying tosee her. But I determined to see her. I cannot go over it all again, itis like tearing the skin off a wound; so the letter written at the timemay tell the rest of it. 

"On Saturday I went. I went straight to the teacher's house, and sentoff the bandy at once, and by God's special arrangement got inunnoticed. For hours we sat in the little inner room, waiting; we couldhear her voice in the courtyard outside--a hard, changed voice. Theteacher tried to get her in, but no, she would not come. Oh, how we heldon to God! I could not bear to go till I had seen her. 

"At last we had to go. The cart came back for us, thus proclaiming wherewe were, and the last human chance was gone. And then, just then, likeone walking in a dream, Treasure wandered in and stood, startled. 

"She did not know we were there. We were kneeling with our backs to thedoor. I turned and saw her. 

"I cannot write about the next five minutes; I thought I realisedsomething of what Satan could do in this land, but I knew nothing aboutit. Oh, when will Jesus come and end it all?

"Just once it seemed as if the spell were broken. My arms were roundher, though she had shrunk away at first, and tried to push me from her;she was quiet now, and seemed to understand a little how one cared. Sheknelt down with me, and covered her eyes as if in prayer, while I pouredout my soul for her, and then we were all very still, and the Lordseemed very near. But she rose, unmoved, and looked at us. We were allquite broken down, and she smiled in a strange, hard, foolish way--thatwas all. 

"The cause no one knows. There are only two possible explanations. One ispoison. There is some sort of mind-bewildering medicine which it isknown is given in such cases. This is the view held by the Christianson the spot. One of them says her cousin was dealt with in this way. Hewas keen to be a Christian, and was shut up for a day, and cameout--dead. Dead, she means, to all which before had been life to him. 

"The other, and worse, is sin. Has she been forced into some sin whichto one so enlightened as she is must mean an awful darkness, the hidingof God's face?

"I cannot tell you how bright this dear child was. Up till that Saturdayevening her faith never wavered; she was a living sign to all the townthat the Lord is God. The heathen are triumphant now. "

I have told you plainly what has happened. God's Truth needs nopainting. I leave it with you. Do you believe it is perfectly true? Thenwhat are you going to do?

CHAPTER XVI

Wanted, Volunteers

 "We have a great and imposing War Office, but a very small army. . . . While vast continents are shrouded in almost utter darkness, and hundreds of millions suffer the horrors of heathenism or of Islam, the burden of proof lies upon you to show that the circumstances in which God has placed you were meant by Him to keep you out of the foreign mission field. " _Ion Keith Falconer, Arabia. _

IN one of the addresses delivered at the International StudentMissionary Conference, London, in January 1900, a South Indianmissionary spoke of the Brahman race as "the brain of India. " "Theirnumbers are comparatively small--between ten and fifteen millions--butthough numerically few--only five per cent. Of the Hindupopulation--they hold all that population in the hollow of their hand. They occupy every position of influence in the land. They are thestatesmen and politicians, the judges, magistrates, Governmentofficials, and clerks of every grade. If there is any positionconferring influence over their fellow-men, it will be held by aBrahman. Moreover, they are a sacred Caste, admitted by the people to begods upon earth--a rank supposed to have been attained by worthmaintained through many transmigrations. "

[Illustration: A typical Brahman face. It is keener than the photoshows, and has the cynical expression so many Brahman faces have. Such aman is hard to win. ]

Among the Petras of this district is a little old-fashioned countrytown, held in strength by the Brahmans. No convert has ever come fromthat town, and the town boasts that none ever shall. None of the housesare open yet to teaching, or even visiting, but we are making friends, and hope for an entrance soon. We spent a morning out in the street;they had no objection to that, and as the free young Brahmans gatheredround us, or stood for a moment against a wall to be "caught, " it wasdifficult, even for us who knew it, to realise how bound they were. "Bound, who should conquer; slaves, who should be kings. " Bound, bodyand soul, in a bondage perfectly incomprehensible to the English mind. 

Afterwards, when we saw the photographs, we recalled one and anotherwho, while they were young students like these, dared to desire toescape from their bondage; but back they were dragged, and the chainswere riveted faster than ever, and every link was tested again, andhammered down hard. 

We wanted to be sure of our facts about each of them, that these factsmay further answer that smile which assures us things are not as weimagine; so the Iyer wrote to a brother missionary who had known theselads well, and asked him to tell what happened to each of them. Thismorning the answer to that letter came, and was handed to me with "Ihardly like to give it to you, but it tells the truth about what goeson. " These boys were students in our C. M. S. College. 

The first one mentioned in the letter is a young Brahman who confessedChrist in baptism, and bravely withstood the tremendous oppositionraised by his friends, who came in crowds for many weeks, and tried byevery argument to persuade him to return to Hinduism; but he preachedChrist to them. They brought his young wife, and she tore her hair andwailed, and besought him not to condemn her to the shame of a widow'slife. This was the hardest of all to withstand; he turned to themissionary and said, "Oh my father, take her away! She is tearing out myheart!"

[Illustration: A typical Brahman student. The marks on the forehead aremade of bright red, yellow, and white paste, and represents thefootprint of the god Vishnu. These Brahmans are Vaishnavites. ]

Then came the baptism day of another Brahman student, his friend, whoprevious to this had been seized by his relatives, shut up and starved, and then fed with poisoned food; but the poison was not strong enough tokill, and he had escaped, and was now safe and ready for baptism. 

It was remembered afterwards how the friend of the newly baptised stoodand rejoiced, and praised God. Then, the baptism over, fearing no dangerin open day, he went to the tank to bathe. He was never seen again. 

What happened exactly no one knows. It is thought that men hired towatch him seized their opportunity, and carried him off. What they didthen has never been told. Contradictory reports about the boy havereached the missionaries. One, that he is still holding on, another thathe is now a priest in one of the great Saivite temples of South India. Which is true, God knows. 

But we are under the English Government. Could nothing be done? One ofhis near relatives is the present Judge of the High Court of one of ourIndian cities. And among the crowd of Brahmans who came during thoseweeks, there were influential men, graduates of colleges, members of thelegal profession--a favourite profession in India. And yet this thingwas done. 

There was another; the means used to get hold of him cannot be writtenhere. That is the difficulty which fronts us when we try to tell thetruth as it really is. It simply cannot be told. The Dust may beshown--or a little of it; the whole of the Actual, never. 

There were others near the Kingdom, but it is the same story over again. They were all spirited away from the college; the missionary writes, "_it makes one's heart sick to think of them, and the hellish meansinvented to turn them from Christ_. " These are not the words ofsentimental imagination. They are the words of a man who gives evidenceas a witness. But even a witness may _feel_. 

He tells us of one, a bright, happy fellow, he says he was, whosefriends made no objection to his returning home after his baptism, andhe returned, thinking he would be able to live as a Christian with hiswife. They drugged his food, then what they did has to be covered withsilence again. . . . They did their worst. . . . When he awoke from thatnightmare of sin, he sought out his missionary friend. Some of theHindus even, "ashamed of the vile means used" to entice him and destroyhim, would have wished him to be received again as a Christian, but hisspirit was broken. He said he could not disgrace the cause of Christ bycoming back; he would go away where he would not be known. He left hiswife, and went. He has never been heard of since. 

Our comrade tells of another, and again, in telling it, we have to leaveit half untold. This one was eager to confess Christ in baptism; he wasa student at college then, and very keen. His father knew of his son'sdesire, and he did what few Hindu fathers would do, _he turned his homeinto a hell, in order to ruin his boy_. The infernal plot succeeded. Godonly knows how far the soul is responsible when the mind is dazed andthen inflamed by those fearful drugs. But we do know that the soul Hemeant should rise and shine, sinks, weighted down by the unspeakableshame of some awful memory darkened, as by some dark dye that hasstained it through and through. 

I think of others as I write: one was a boy we knew well, a splendid, earnest lad, keen to witness for Christ. He told us one evening how hehad been delivered from those who were plotting his destruction. Forseveral months after his decision to be a Christian, he lived at homeand tried to win his people; but they were incensed against him for eventhinking of breaking Caste, and would not listen to him. Still hewaited, and witnessed to them, not fearing anything. Then one day, suddenly some men rushed into the room where he was sitting, seized andbound and gagged him. They forced something into his mouth as he lay onthe floor at their mercy; he feared it was a drug, but it was only somedisgusting stuff which, to a Hindu, meant unutterable defilement. Thenthey left him bound alone, and at night he managed to escape. A fewmonths after he told us this, we heard he had been seized again, andthis time "drugged and done for. "

In South India baptism does not prevent the Caste from using everypossible means to get the convert back; once back, certain ceremoniesare performed, after which he is regarded as purified, and reinstated inhis Caste. The policy of the whole Caste confederation is this: get himback unbaptised if you can, but anyhow _get him back_. Two Brahman ladsbelonging to different parts of this district decided for Christ, wentthrough all that is involved in open confession, and were baptised. Oneof the two was sent North for safety; his people traced him, followedhim, turned up unexpectedly at a wayside station in Central India, andforced him back to his home in the South. Once there, they took theirown measures to keep him. The other lad was sent to Madras. The Brahmansfound out where he was, broke into the house at night, overpowered theboy's protectors, and carried him off. They too did what seemed good tothem there, and they too succeeded. No one outside could interfere. TheCaste guards its own concerns. 

"O Lord Jesus Christ!" wrote one, a Hindu still, "who knowest us to beplaced in such danger that it is as if we were within some magicalcircle drawn round us, and Satan standing with his wand without, keepingus in terror, break the spell of Satan, and set us free to serve Thee!"

All this may be easy reading to those who are far away from the placewhere it happened. Distance has a way of softening too distinct anoutline; but it is not easy to write, it comes so close to us. Why writeit, then? We write it because it seems to us it should be more fullyknown, so that men and women who know our God, and the secret of how tolay hold upon Him, should lay hold, and hold on for the winning of theCastes for Christ. 

[Illustration: Another Brahman, much duller than the last. This and thetwo preceding photographs are perfect as a study of three types ofBrahmanhood as we have it in Southern India--keen, thoughtful, dull. ]

Surely the very hardness of an enterprise, the very fact that it is whata soldier would call a forlorn hope, is in itself a call and a claimstronger than any put forth by something easier. The soldier does notgive in because the hope is "forlorn. " It is a _hope_, be it ever sodesperate. He volunteers for it, and win or not, he fights. 

There is that in this enterprise which may mark it out as "forlorn. " Forages the race has broken one of nature's laws with blind persistency, and the result is a certain lack of moral fibre, grit, "tone. " Noseparate individual is responsible for this, harsh judgments areentirely out of place; but the fact remains that it is so, and it mustbe taken into account in dealing with the Brahmans and several of theupper Castes of India. Side by side with this element of weakness thereis, in apparent contradiction, that stubborn element of strength knownas the Caste spirit. This spirit is seen in all I have shown you of whathappens when a convert comes. It is as if all the million wills of themillion Caste men and women were condensed into one single Will, aconcentration of essence of Will not comparable with anything known athome. 

Look at this face--it is a photographed fact. Does it not show you anabsence of that "something" which nerves to endurance, stimulates todare? Then listen to this:--A Christian man lies dead. The way to thecemetery lies through the Brahman street, in the chief town of thisDistrict; there is no other way. The Brahman street is a thoroughfare, it cannot be closed to traffic, but the Brahmans refuse point blank toallow that dead man to be carried through. The Bishop expostulates. No;he was a Christian, he shall not be carried through. Time is passing. Inthe Tropics the dead must be buried quickly. The Bishop appeals to theCollector (Representative of Government here). The Collector gives anorder. The Brahmans refuse to obey. He orders out a company of soldiers. The Brahmans mass on the housetops and stone the soldiers. The order isgiven to fire. Then, and not till then, the Christians may carry outtheir dead; and later on the Brahmans carry out theirs. This happenedsome years ago, and outwardly times have changed since then in thatparticular town. But the spirit that it shows is in possession to thisday, and as small things show great, so this street scene shows thepresence of that "something" which intensifies the difficulty of winningthe Castes for Christ. Each unit is weak in itself, but in combination, strong. 

"A forlorn hope" we have called the attempt to do what we are told todo. The word is a misnomer; with our Captain as our Leader no hope isever "forlorn"! But our Leader calls for men, men like the brave of oldwho jeopardised their lives unto the death in the high places of thefield, in the day that they came to the help of the Lord, to the help ofthe Lord against the mighty. A jeopardised life may be lost. 

Christ our Captain is calling for volunteers; here are the terms:"Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake and the Gospel's the sameshall find it. " The teachers' life may seem "lost" who lives for hiscollege boys; the student's life may seem "lost" who spends hour afterhour through the long hot days in quiet talks in the house. Be it so, for it may mean that. But the life lost for His Name's sake, the sameshall be found again. 

CHAPTER XVII

If it is so very important. . . ?

 "Let us for a moment imagine what would have happened on the Galilean hillside, when our Lord fed the five thousand, if the Apostles had acted as some act now. The twelve would be going backwards, helping the first rank over and over again, and leaving the back rows unsupplied. Let us suppose one of them, say Andrew, venturing to say to his brother Simon Peter, 'Ought we all to be feeding the front row? Ought we not to divide, and some of us go to the back rows?' Then suppose Peter replying, 'Oh no; don't you see these front people are so hungry? They have not had half enough yet; besides, they are nearest to us, so we are more responsible for them. ' Then, if Andrew resumes his appeal, suppose Peter going on to say, 'Very well; you are quite right. You go and feed all those back rows; but I can't spare anyone else. I and the other ten of us have more than we can do here. '

 "Once more, suppose Andrew persuades Philip to go with him; then, perhaps, Matthew will cry out and say, 'Why, they're all going to those farther rows! Is no one to be left to these needy people in front?'

 "Let me ask the members of Congress, Do you recognise these sentences at all?" _Eugene Stock, at Shrewsbury Church Congress. _

IT was only a common thing. A girl, very ill, and in terrible pain, whoturned to us for help. We could do nothing for her. Her people resortedto heathen rites. They prepared her to meet the fierce god they thoughtwas waiting to snatch her away. 

We went again and again, but she suffered so that one could not saymuch, it did not seem any use. The last time we went, the crisis hadpassed; she would live, they told us with joy. They were eager tolisten to us now. "Tell us all about your Way!" clamoured the women, speaking together, and very loud. "Tell us the news from beginning toend!" But, alas! they could take in very little. One whole new Truth wastoo much for them. "Never mind, " they consoled us, "come every day, andthen what you say will take hold of our hearts. " And I had to tell themwe were leaving that evening, and could not come "every day. "

[Illustration: Is not the contrast good? The old woman so intelligent, the baby so inane. She made a picture sitting there, in her crimsonedged seeley, with her dark old face showing up against the darker wall. She is one of the many we have missed by coming so slowly and so late. "How can I change now?" she says. ]

The girl turned her patient face towards us. She had smiled at the Nameof Jesus, and it seemed as if down in the depths of her weakness she hadlistened when we spoke before, and tried to understand. Now she lookedpuzzled and troubled, and the women all asked, "Why?"

There, in that crowded, hot little room, a sense of the unequaldistribution of the Bread of Life came over us. The front rows of theFive Thousand are getting the loaves and the fishes over and over again, till it seems as though they have to be bribed and besought to acceptthem, while the back rows are almost forgotten. _Is it that we are sobusy with the front rows, which we can see, that we have no time for theback rows out of sight?_ But is it fair? Is it what Jesus our Masterintended? _Can it be really called fair?_

The women looked very reproachful. Then one of them said, looking up atme, "You say this is very important. If it is so very important, why didyou not come before? You say you will come back again if you can, buthow can we be sure that nothing will happen to stop you? We are, some ofus, very old; we may die before you come back. This going away is notgood. " And again and again she repeated, "_If it is so very important, why did you not come before?_"

Don't think that the question meant more than it did. It was only ahuman expression of wonder; it was not a real desire after God. But theforce of the question was stronger far than the poor old questionerknew; it appealed to our very hearts. 

The people saw we were greatly moved, and they pressed closer round usto comfort us, and one dear old grandmother put her arms round me, andstroked my face with her wrinkled old hand, and said, "Don't betroubled; we will worship your God. We will worship Him just as weworship our own. _Now_, will you go away glad?"

The dear old woman was really in earnest, she wanted so much to comfortus. But her voice seemed to mingle with voices from the homeland; andanother--we heard another--the Voice I had heard on theprecipice-edge--the voice of our brothers', our sisters' blood callingunto God from the ground. 

Friends, are these women real to you? Look at this photo of one of them. Surely it was not just a happy chance which brought out the detail soperfectly. Look at the thoughtful, fine old face. Can you look at it andsay, "Yes, I am on my way to the Light, and you are on your way to theDark. At least, this is what I profess to believe. And I am sorry foryou, but this is all I can do for you; I can be very sorry for you. Iknow that this will not show you the way from the Dark, where you are, to the Light, where I am. To show you the way I must go to you, or, perhaps, send you one whom I want for myself, or do without something Iwish to have; and this, of course, is impossible. It might be done if Iloved God enough--_but I love myself better than God or you_. "

[Illustration: A Brahman widow, the only Brahman woman who would let ustake her photo. Brahman women wear their seeleys fastened in a peculiarway, and never cut their ears. Brahman widows are always shaven, andwear no jewels. This one is a muscular character, strong and resolute, an ordinary looking woman, but there must be an under-the-surface lifewhich does not show. A widow's fate is described in one word here, "_accursed_. "]

You would not say such a thing, I know, but "Whoso hath this world'sgood, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his compassionfrom him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"

CHAPTER XVIII

The Call Intensified

 "Sometimes the men and boys will not go away and let us talk to the women; in such cases I find silent prayer the best refuge. In other places the people welcome you, but will listen to anything but the Doctrine of Jesus Christ; and this is harder to bear than anything else I know. " _Anna Gordon, China. _

 "Let the people that are at home not care only to hear about successes; we must train them that they take an interest in the struggle. " _Rev. A. Schreiber, Sumatra and India. _

 "It is a fight making its demands upon physical, mental, and spiritual powers, and there are many adversaries. The dead weight of heathenism, the little appreciation of one's object and purpose, and the actual, vigorous opposition of the powers of darkness, make it a real fight, and only men of grit, of courage, devotion, and infinite patience and perseverance, will win. 

 "_Have I painted a discouraging picture? Am I frightening good men who might have volunteered and done well? I think not. I think the right sort of men, those who ought to volunteer, will be attracted rather than repelled by the difficulties. _" _Rev. J. Lampard, India. _

WE got this photograph that day in December which we spent in thefriendly Brahman street. "There is not another woman in the town whowould stand for you like that!" said the men, as she came forward, and, without a thought of posing, stood against the wall for a moment, andlooked at the camera straight. Most of the women were afraid even toglance at it, but she was not afraid. She would not stay to talk to us, however, but marched off with the same resolute air. For Brahman widowsas a whole are by no means an approachable race. Sometimes we find onewho will open out to us, and let us tell her of the Comfort wherewith weare comforted; but oftener we find them hard, or hardening rapidly. 

[Illustration: There is nothing to say about it except what is said inthe chapter. There is nothing much to look at in a Brahman street. Butthat single simple street scene represents forces which control twohundred and seven million minds. ]

It is too soon to write about any of those who have listened during thepast few months, but we put this photo in to remind you to rememberthose who are freer than most women in India to follow the Lord JesusChrist, if only they would let His love have a chance of drawing them. We have been to the various towns in this and the upper curve of themountains, but we have not reached the lower curve towns, or half of themany villages scattered close under the mountains, and, except when wewent out in camp, we have not of course touched those farther afield. 

There are only five working afternoons in a week, for Saturday is givenup to other things, and Sunday belongs to the Christians; and when anyinterest is shown, we return again to the same village, which delays us, but is certainly worth while. Then there are interruptions--sometimes onthe Hindu side; festivals, for instance, when no woman has time to hear;and on ours, and on the weather's, so to speak, when great heat or greatrain make outdoor work impossible. Theoretically, itinerating isdelightfully rapid; but practically, as every itinerating missionaryknows, it is quite slow. There are other things to be done; thosealready brought in have to be taught and trained and mothered, andmuch time has to be spent in waiting upon God for more; so that, lookingback, we seem to have done very little for the thousands about us, andnow we must return to the eastern side of the district, for some of theboy converts are there at school, and there may be fruit to gather inafter last year's sowing. 

But I look up from my writing and see a stretch of mountain range thirtymiles long, and this range stretches unbroken for a thousand miles tothe North. I know how little is being done on the plains below, and Iwonder when God's people will awake, and understand that there is yetvery much land to be possessed, and arise and possess it. Look down thismountain strip with me; there are towns where work is being done, but itneeds supervision, and the missionaries are too few to do it thoroughly. There are towns and numbers of villages where nothing is even attempted, except that once in two years, if possible, the Men's Itinerant Bandcomes round; but that does not reach the women well, and even if it did, how much would you know of Jesus if you only heard a parable or amiracle or a few facts from His life or a few points of His doctrine_once in two years_? I do not want to write touching appeals, or to drawone worker from anywhere else, --it would be a joy to know that God usedthese letters to help to send someone to China, or anywhere where He hasneed of His workers, --but I cannot help wondering, as I look round thisbit of the field, how it is that the workers are still so few. 

We have found the people in the towns and villages willing to let us dowhat we call "verandah work" when they will not let us into theirhouses. Verandah work, like open-air preaching, is unsatisfactory asregards the women, but it is better than nothing. 

We spent an afternoon in the street this photo shows. It is athoroughfare, and so we were not forbidden; but even so, we always askpermission before we walk down it. Such an ordinary, commonplace streetit looks to you; there is no architectural grandeur to awe the beholder, and impress him with the majesty of Brahmanhood; and yet that street, and every street like it, is a very Petra to us, for it is walled roundby walls higher and stronger than the temple walls round which it isbuilt; walls built, as it seems, of some crystal rock, imperceptibletill you come up to it, and even then not visible, only recognisable assomething you cannot get through. 

Our first day there was encouraging. We began at the far end of thestreet, and after some persuasion the men agreed to move to one side, and let us have the other for any women who would come. Nothingparticular happened, but we count a day good if we get a single goodchance to speak in quietness to the women. 

Next time we went it was not so good. They had heard in the meantime allabout us, and that we had girls from the higher Castes with us, and thiswas terrible in their eyes. For the Brahman, from his lofty position ofabsolute supremacy, holds in very small account the souls of those hecalls low-caste; but if any from the middle distance (he would notdescribe them as near himself, only dangerously nearer than the others)"fall into the pit of the Christian religion, " he thinks it is time tobegin to take care that the Power which took such effect on them shouldnot have a chance to perform upon him, and, above all, upon hiswomankind. So that day we were politely informed that no one had time tolisten, and, when some women wanted to come, a muscular widow chasedthem off. We looked longingly back at those dear Brahman women, butappeal was useless, so we went. 

In one of the other Castes, the Caste represented by this row of men, wefound more friendliness; they let us sit on one end of the narrowverandah fronts, and quite a number of women clustered about on theother. They were greatly afraid of defilement there, and would not cometoo close. And they had the strangest ideas about us. They were sure wehad a powder which, if they inhaled it, would compel them to beChristians. They had heard that we went round "calling children, " thatis, beckoning them, and drawing them to follow after us, and that wewere paid so much a head for converts. It takes a whole afternoonsometimes simply to disabuse their minds of such misconceptions. 

I heard this commercial aspect of things explained by one who apparentlyknew. A kindly old Brahman woman had allowed us to sit on her doorstepout of the sun, and bit by bit we had worked our way to the end of theverandah, which was a little more shaded, where a girl was sitting alonewho seemed to want to hear. The old woman sat down behind us, and thenan old man came up, and the two began to talk. Said the old woman to theold man, "She is trying to make us join her Way. " (I had carefullyabstained from any such expression. ) The old man agreed that such wasmy probable object. "What will she get if we join? Do you know?" "Ohyes; do I not know! For one of us a thousand rupees, and for a Vellalarfive hundred. She even gets something for a low-caste child, but shegets a whole thousand for one of us!"

[Illustration: A Shepherd-Caste house of the better sort. We would givea great deal to get into this house, but so far it is closed. You cansee straight through to the back courtyard where the women are, where wemay not go. The old man is typical of his class, a thoughtful man ofrefinement of mind, but wholly indifferent to the teaching. ]

They were both very interested in this conversation, and so indeed wasI, and I thought I would further enlighten them, when the old woman gotup in a hurry and hobbled into the house. After that, whenever wepassed, she used to shake her head at us, and say, "Chee, chee!" Nopersuasions could ever induce her to let us sit on her doorstep again. We were clearly after that thousand rupees, and she would have none ofus. 

In the same village there was a little Brahman child who often tried tospeak to us, but never was allowed. One day she risked capture and itsconsequences, and ran across the narrow stream which divides the Brahmanstreet from the village, and spoke to one of our Band in a hurriedlittle whisper. "Oh, I do want to hear about Jesus!" And she told howshe had learnt at school in her own town, and then she had been sent toher mother-in-law's house in this jungle village, "that one, " pointingto a house where they never had smiles for us; but her mother-in-lawobjected to the preaching, and had threatened to throw her down the wellif she listened to us. Just then a hard voice called her, and she flew. Next time we went to that village she was shut up somewhere inside. 

Often as one passes one sees shy faces looking out from behind thelittle pillars which support the verandahs, and one longs to getnearer. But it does not do to make any advance unless one is sure ofone's ground. It only results in a sudden startled scurrying into thehouse, and you cannot follow them there. To try to do so would be morethan rude--it would be considered pollution. 

Only yesterday we were trying to get to the women who live in the greathouse of the village behind the bungalow. This photo shows you the doorwe stood facing for ten minutes or more, first waiting, and thenpleading with the old mother-in-law to let us in to the little dark roomin which you may see a woman's form hiding behind the door. 

But we could not go to them, and they could not come to us. There wereonly two narrow rooms between, but the second of the two had brasswater-vessels in it. If we had gone in, those vessels and the water inthem would have been defiled. The women were not allowed to come out, the mother-in-law saw well to that; never was one more vigilant. Shestood like a great fat hen at the door, with her white widow's skirtsoutspread like wings, and guarded her chickens effectually. "Go! go bythe way you have come!" was all she had to say to us. 

The friendly old man of the house was out. A friendly young man came inwith some rice, and began to measure it. He invited us to sit down, which we did, and he measured the rice in little iron tumblers, countingaloud as he did so in a sing-song chant. He was pleased that we shouldwatch him, and it was interesting to watch, for he did it exactly as theverse describes, pressing the rice down, shaking the iron measure, heaping up the rice till it was running over, and yet counting thisabundant tumblerful only as one; then he handed the basketful of riceto a child who stood waiting, and asked what he could do for us. We toldhim how much we wanted to see the women of the house, but he did notrelish the idea of tackling the vigorous old mother-in-law, so we gaveup the attempt, and went out. As we passed the wall at the back whichencloses the women's quarters, we saw a girl look over the wall as ifshe wanted to speak to us, but she was instantly pulled back by thattyrannical dame, and a dog came jumping over, barking most furiously, which set a dozen more yelping all about us, and so escorted we retired. 

This house is in the Village of the Merchant, not five minutes from ourgate, but the women in it are far enough from any chance of hearing. Themen let us in that day to take the photograph, and we hoped thereby tomake friends; but though there are six families living there (for thehouse is large; the photograph only shows one end of the verandah whichruns down its whole length), we have never been once allowed to speak toone of the women; the mother-in-law of all the six takes care we neverget the chance. One of the children, a dear little girl, follows usoutside sometimes, but she is only seven, and not very courageous; so, though she evidently picks up some of the choruses we sing, she isafraid of being seen listening, and never gets much at a time. 

These are some of the practical difficulties in the way of reaching thewomen. There are others. Suppose you do get in, or, what is moreprobable in pioneer work, suppose you get a verandah, even then it isnot plain sailing by any means. For, first of all, it is dangerouslyhot. The sun beats down on the street or courtyard to within a foot ortwo of the stone ledge you are sitting upon, and strikes up. Reflectedglare means fever, so you try to edge a little farther out of it withoutdisturbing anyone's feelings, explaining minutely why you are doing it, lest they should think your design is to covertly touch them; and then, their confidence won so far, you begin perhaps with the wordless book, or a lyric set to an Indian tune, or a picture of some parable--never ofour Lord--or, oftener still, we find the best way is to open our Bibles, for they all respect a Sacred Book, and read something from it which weknow they will understand. We generally find one or two women about theverandahs, and two or three more come within a few minutes, and seeingthis, two or three more. But getting them and keeping them are twodifferent things. It is not easy to hold people to hear what they haveno special desire to hear. But we are helped; we are not alone. It isalways a strength to remember that. 

Once fairly launched, interruptions begin. You are in the middle of amiracle, perhaps, and by this time a dozen women have gathered, andrejoice your heart by listening well, when a man from the opposite sideof the street saunters over and asks may he put a question, or asks itforthwith. He has heard that our Book says, that if you have faith youcan lift a mountain into the sea. Now, there is a mountain, and hepoints to the pillar out on the plain, standing straight up for fivethousand feet, a column of solid rock. There is sea on the other side, he says; cast it in, and we will believe! And the women laugh. But onemore intelligent turns to you, "Does your Book really say that?" sheasks, "then why can't you do it, and let us see?" And the man strikes inwith another remark, and a woman at the edge moves off, and you wish theman would go. 

Perhaps he does, or perhaps you are able to detach him from the visible, and get him and those women too to listen to some bit of witnessing tothe Power that moves the invisible, and you are in its very heart whenanother objection is started: "You say there is only one true God, butwe have heard that you worship three!" or, "Can your God keep you fromsin?" And you try, God helping you, to answer so as to avoid discussion, and perhaps to your joy succeed, and some are listening intently again, when a woman interrupts with a question about your relations which youanswered before, but she came late, and wants to hear it all over again. You satisfy her as far as you can, and then, feeling how fast theprecious minutes are passing, you try, oh so earnestly, to buy them upand fill them with eternity work, when suddenly the whole communityconcentrates itself upon your Tamil sister. Who is she? You had waivedthe question at the outset, knowing what would sequel it, but they renewthe charge. If she is a "born Christian, " they exclaim, and draw awayfor fear of defilement--"Low-caste, low-caste!" and the word runs roundcontemptuously. If she is a convert, they ask questions about herrelations (they have probably been guessing among themselves about herCaste for the last ten minutes); if she does not answer them, they lettheir imagination run riot; if she does, they break out in indignation, "Left your own mother! Broken your Caste!" and they call her by namesnot sweet to the ear, and perhaps rise up in a body, and refuse to haveanything more to do with such a disgraceful person. 

Or perhaps you are trying to persuade some of them to learn to read, knowing that, if you can succeed, there will be so much more chance ofteaching them, but they assure you it is not the custom for women inthat village to read, which unhappily is true; or it may be you aretelling them, as you tell those you may never see again, of the Lovethat is loving them, and in the middle of the telling a baby howls, andall the attention goes off upon it; or somebody wants to go into thehouse, and a way has to be made for her, with much gathering togetherand confusion; or a dog comes yelping round the corner, with a stone atits heels, and a pack of small boys in full chase after it; or the mencall out it is time to be going; or the women suggest it is time to becooking; or someone says or does something upsetting, and the groupbreaks up in a moment, and each unit makes for its separate hole, andstands in it, looking out; and you look up at those dark littledoorways, and feel you would give anything they could ask, if only theywould let you in, and let you sit down beside them in one of thoserooms, and tell them the end of the story they interrupted; but theywill not do that. Oh, it makes one sorrowful to be so near to anyone, and yet so very far, as one sometimes is from these women. You look atthem, as they stand in their doorways, within reach, but out of reach, as out of reach as if they were thousands of miles away. . . . 

Just as I wrote those words a Brahman woman came to the door and lookedin. Then she walked in and sat down, but did not speak. Can you thinkhow one's heart bounds even at such a little thing as that? Brahmanwomen do not come to see us every day. She pulled out a book ofpalm-leaf slips, and we read it. It told how she was one of a family ofseven, all born deaf and dumb; how hand in hand they had set off to walkto Benares to drown themselves in the Ganges; how a Sepoy had stoppedthem and taken them to an English Collector; how he had provided for theseven for a year, then let them go; how they had scattered and wanderedabout, visiting various holy places, supported by the virtuous whereverthey went; and how the bearer would be glad to receive whatever we wouldgive her. . . . She has gone, a poor deaf and dumb and wholly heathenwoman; we could not persuade her to stay and rest. She is married, shetold us by signs; her husband is deaf and dumb, and she has one blindchild. She sat on the floor beside us for a few minutes and askedquestions--the usual ones, about me, all by signs; but nothing we couldsign could in any way make her understand anything about our God. Andyet she seems to know something at least about her own. She pointed toher mouth, and then up, and then down and round, to show the winding ofa river, and signed clearly enough how she went from holy river to holyriver, and worshipped by each, and she pointed up and clasped her hands. There we were, just as I had been writing, so near to her, yet so farfrom her. 

But the greatest difficulty of all in reaching the women is that theyhave no desire to be reached. Sometimes, as on that afternoon when thechild came and wanted to hear, we find one who has desire, but thegreater number have none; and except in the more advanced towns andvillages, where they are allowed to learn with a Bible-woman, they havehardly a chance to hear enough to make them want to hear more. 

Then, as if to make the case doubly hard (and this law applies to everywoman, of whatever Caste), she is, in the eyes of the law, the propertyof her husband; and though a Christian cannot by law compel his Hinduwife to live with him, a Hindu husband can compel his Christian wife tolive with him; so that no married woman is ever legally free to be aChristian, for if the husband demanded her back, she could not beprotected, but would have to be given up to a life which no Englishwoman could bear to contemplate. She may say she is a Christian; hecares nought for what she says. God help the woman thus forced back!

But, believing a higher Power will step in than the power of this mostunjust law, we would risk any penalty and receive such a wife should shecome. Only, in dealing with the difficulties and barriers which liebetween an Indian woman and life as a free Christian, it is useless toshut one's eyes to this last and least comprehensible of alldifficulties, "an English law, imported into India, and enforced withimprisonment, " an obsolete English law!

We have no Brahman women converts in our Tamil Mission. We hear of afew in Travancore; we know of more in the North, where the Brahmans aremore numerous and less exclusive; but there is not a single _bonâ fide_Brahman convert woman or child in the whole of this District. There wasone, a very old woman; but she died two years ago. We may comfortourselves with the thought that surely some of those who have heard havebecome secret believers. But will a true believer remain secret always?We may trust that many a dear little child died young, loving Jesus, andwent to Him. But what about those who have not died young? I know that abrighter view may be taken, and if the sadder has been emphasised inthese letters, it is only because we feel you know less about it. 

For more has been written about the successes than about the failures, and it seems to us that it is more important that you should know aboutthe reverses than about the successes of the war. We shall have alleternity to celebrate the victories, but we have only the few hoursbefore sunset in which to win them. We are not winning them as weshould, because the fact of the reverses is so little realised, and theneeded reinforcements are not forthcoming, as they would be if theposition were thoroughly understood. Reinforcements of men and women areneeded, but, far above all, reinforcements of prayer. And so we havetried to tell you the truth--the uninteresting, unromantic truth--aboutthe heathen as we find them, the work as it is. More workers are needed. No words can tell how much they are needed, how much they are _wanted_here. But we will never try to allure anyone to think of coming bypainting coloured pictures, when the facts are in black and white. Whatif black and white will never attract like colours? We care not for it;our business is to tell the truth. The work is not a pretty thing, to belooked at and admired. It is a fight. And battlefields are notbeautiful. 

But if one is truly called of God, all the difficulties anddiscouragements only intensify the Call. If things were easier therewould be less need. The greater the need, the clearer the Call ringsthrough one, the deeper the conviction grows: _it was God's Call_. Andas one obeys it, there is the joy of obedience, quite apart from the joyof success. There is joy in being with Jesus in a place where Hisfriends are few; and sometimes, when one would least expect it, cominghome tired out and disheartened after a day in an opposing orindifferent town, suddenly--how, you can hardly tell--such a wave of thejoy of Jesus flows over you and through you, that you are stilled withthe sense of utter joy. Then, when you see Him winning souls, or hear ofyour comrades' victories, oh! all that is within you sings, "I have morethan an overweight of joy!"

CHAPTER XIX

"Attracted by the Influence"

 "It seems to have been a mistake to imagine that the Divine Majesty on high was too exalted to take any notice of our mean affairs. The great minds among us are remarkable for the attention they bestow upon minutiæ . . . 'a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without your Father. '" _David Livingstone, Africa. _

WE have now left Dohnavur, on the West, and returned to our oldbattlefield on the East. The evening after our arrival one of thosespecial things happened, though only a little thing some will say--alittle child was brought. 

[Illustration: This is not Pearl-eyes. Pearl-eyes is tinier, and hasmore sparkle; but the Caste is the same, and as we have not gotPearl-eyes, we put this small girl here. ]

There is a temple in the Hindu village near us. We have often tried toreach the temple women, poor slaves of the Brahmans. We have often seenthe little girls, some of them bought as infants from their mothers, andtrained to the terrible life. In one of the Mission day schools there isa child who was sold by her "Christian" mother to these Servants of thegods; but though this is known it cannot be proved, and the child has nowish to leave the life, and she cannot be taken by force. 

Sometimes we see the little girls playing in the courtyards of thehouses near the temple, gracious little maidens, winsome in their ways, almost always more refined in manner than ordinary children, andoften beautiful. One longs to help the little things, but no hand ofours can stretch over the wall and lift even one child out. 

Among the little temple girls in the Great Lake Village was a tiny girlcalled Pearl-eyes, of whom we knew nothing; but God must have somepurpose for her, for He sent His Angel to the house one afternoon, andthe Angel found little Pearl-eyes, and he took her by the hand and ledher out, across the stream, and through the wood, to a Christian woman'shouse in our village. Next morning she brought her to us. This is whatreally happened, I think; there is no other way to account for it. Noone remembers such a thing happening here before. 

I was sitting reading in the verandah when I saw them come. The womanwas looking surprised. She did not know about the Angel, I expect, andshe could not understand it at all. The little child was chatteringaway, lifting up a bright little face as she talked. When she saw me sheran straight up to me, and climbed on my knee without the least fear, and told me all about herself at once. I took her to the Iyer, and hesent for the Pastor, who sent a messenger to the Village of the Lake, tosay the child was here, and to inquire into the truth of her story. 

"My name is Pearl-eyes, " the child began, "and I want to stay herealways. I have come to stay. " And she told us how her mother had soldher when she was a baby to the Servants of the gods. She was not happywith them. They did not love her. Nobody loved her. She wanted to livewith us. 

But why had she run away now? She hardly seemed to know, and lookedpuzzled at our questions. The only thing she was sure about was that shehad "run and come, " and that she "wanted to stay. " Then the Ammal camein, and she went through exactly the same story with her. 

We felt, if this proved to be fact, that we could surely keep her; theGovernment would be on our side in such a matter. Only the greatdifficulty might be to prove it. 

Meanwhile we gave her a doll, and her little heart was at rest. She didnot seem to have a fear. With the prettiest, most confiding littlegesture, she sat down at our feet and began to play with it. 

We watched her wonderingly. She was perfectly at home with us. She ranout, gathered leaves and flowers, and came back with them. These werecarefully arranged in rows on the floor. Then another expedition, and inagain with three pebbles for hearthstones, a shell for a cooking pot, bits of straw for firewood, a stick for a match, and sand for rice. 

She went through all the minutiæ of Tamil cookery with the greatestseriousness. Then we, together with her doll, were invited to partake. The little thing walked straight into our hearts, and we felt we wouldrisk anything to keep her. 

Our messenger returned. The story was true. The women from whose houseshe had come were certainly temple women. But would they admit it to us, and, above all, would they admit they had obtained her illegally?--afact easy to deny. Almost upon this they came; and to the Iyer'squestion, "Who are you?" one said, "We are Servants of the gods!" Iheard an instructive aside, "Why did you tell them?" "Oh, never mind, "said the one who had answered, "they don't understand!" But we hadunderstood, and we were thankful for the first point gained. 

They stood and stared and called the child, but she would not go, and wewould not force her. Then they went away, and we were left for an hourin that curious quiet which comes before a storm. Our poor little girlwas frightened. "Oh, if they come again, hide me!" she begged. One sawit was almost too much for her, high-spirited child though she is. 

The next was worse. A great crowd gathered on the verandah, and anevil-faced woman, who seemed to have some sort of power over Pearl-eyes, fiercely demanded her back. When we refused to make her go, theevil-faced woman, whose very glance sent a tremble through the littleone, declared that Pearl-eyes must say out loud that she would not gowith her, "Out loud so that all should hear. " But the poor little thingwas dumb with fear. She just stood and looked, and shivered. We couldnot persuade her to say a word. 

Star was hovering near. She had been through it all herself before, andher face was anxious, and our hearts were, I know. It is impossible todescribe such a half-hour's life to you; it has to be lived through tobe understood. The clamour and excitement, and the feeling of how muchhangs on the word of a child who does not properly understand what sheis accepting or refusing. The tension is terrible. 

I dared not go near her lest they should think I was bewitching her. Anymovement on my part towards her would have been the signal for a rushon theirs; but I signed to Star to take her away for a moment. Thebewilderment on the poor little face was frightening me. One more lookup at that woman, one more pull at the strained cord, and to theirquestion, "Will you come?" she might as likely say yes as no. 

Star carried her off. Once out of reach of those eyes, the words camefast enough. Star told me she clung to her and sobbed, "Oh, if I say no, she will catch me and punish me dreadfully afterwards! She will! I knowshe will!" And she showed cuts in the soft brown skin where she had beenpunished before; but Star soothed her and brought her back, and shestood--such a little girl--before them all. "I won't! I won't!" shecried, and she turned and ran back with Star. And the crowd went off, and I was glad to see the last of that fearful face, with its evil, cruel eyes. 

But they said they would write to the mother, who had given her to them. We noted this--the second point we should have to prove if they lodged asuit against us--and any day the mother may come and complicate mattersby working on the child's affections. Also, we have heard of a plot todecoy her away, should we be for a moment off guard; so we are very muchon the watch, and we never let her out of our sight. 

By this time--it is five days since she came--it seems impossible tothink of having ever been without her. Apart from her story, which wouldtouch anyone, there is her little personality, which is veryinteresting. She plays all day long with her precious dolls, talking tothem, telling them everything we tell her. Yesterday it was a Biblestory, to-day a new chorus. She insisted on her best-beloved infantcoming to church with her, and it had to have its collection too. Everything is most realistic. 

Tamil children usually hang their dolls up by their limbs to a nail inthe wall, or stow them away on a shelf, but this mite has imaginationand much sympathy. 

In thinking over it, as, bit by bit, her little story came to light, wehave been struck by the touches that tell how God cares. The time of hercoming told of care. Some months earlier, the temple woman who kept herhad burnt her little fingers across, as a punishment for some childishfault, and Pearl-eyes ran away. She knew what she wanted--her mother;she knew that her mother lived in a town twenty miles to the East. Itwas a long way for a little girl to walk, "but some kind people found meon the road, and they were going to the same town, and they let me gowith them, so I was not afraid, only I was very tired when we got there. It took three days to walk. I did not know where my mother lived in thetown, and it was a very big town, but I described my mother to thepeople in the streets, and at last I found my mother. " For just a littlewhile there was something of the mother-love, "my mother cried. " But thetemple woman had traced her and followed her, and the mother gave herup. 

Then comes a blank in the story; she only remembers she was lonely, andshe "felt a mother-want about the world, " and wandered wearily--

 "As restless as a nest-deserted bird Grown chill through something being away, though what It knows not. "

Then comes a bit of life distinct in every detail, and told withterribly unchildish horror. She heard them whisper together about her;they did not know that she understood. She was to be "married to thegod, " "tied to a stone. " Terrified, she flew to the temple, slipped pastthe Brahmans, crossed the court, stood before the god in the dimhalf-darkness of the shrine, clasped her hands, --she showed ushow, --prayed to it, pleaded, "Let me die! Oh, let me die!" Barely sevenyears old, and she prayed, "Oh, let me die!"

She tried to run away again; if she had come to our village then, shecould not have been saved. We were in Dohnavur, and there was no onehere who could have protected her against the temple people. So God kepther from coming then. 

About that time, one afternoon one of our Tamil Sisters, whom we hadleft behind to hold the fort, passed through the Great Lake Village, andthe temple women called the child, and said, "See! It is she! Thechild-stealing Ammal! Run!" It was only said to frighten her, but it dida different work. One day, _the day after we returned_, the thoughtsuddenly came to her, "I will go and look for that child-stealingAmmal"; and she wandered away in the twilight and came to our village, and stood alone in front of the church, and no one knew. 

There one of our Christian women, Servant of Jesus by name, found hersome time afterwards, a very small and desolate mite, with tumbled hairand troubled eyes, for she could not find the one she sought, thatchild-stealing Ammal she wanted so much, and she was frightened, allalone in the gathering dark by this big, big church; and very big itmust have looked to so tiny a thing as she. 

Servant of Jesus thought at first of taking the little one back to herhome, but mercifully it was late (another touch of the hand of God), andso instead she took her straight to her own little house, whichsatisfied Pearl-eyes perfectly. But she would not touch the curry andrice the kind woman offered her. She drew herself up to her full smallheight and said, with the greatest dignity, "Am I not a Vellala child?May you ask me to break my Caste?"

So Servant of Jesus gave her some sugar, that being ceremonially safe, and Pearl-eyes ate it hungrily, and then went off to sleep. 

Next morning, again the woman's first thought was to take her to her ownpeople. But the child was so insistent that she wanted thechild-catching Ammal, that Servant of Jesus, thinking I was the Ammalshe meant (for this is one of my various names), brought her to me, as Ihave said, and oh, I am glad she did!

Nothing escapes those clear brown eyes. That morning, in the midst ofthe confusion, one of the temple women called out that the child was awicked thief. This is an ordinary charge. They think it will compelsubmission. "We will make out a case, and send the police to drag youoff to gaol!" they yell; and sometimes there is risk of serious trouble, for a case can be made out cheaply in India. But this did not promise tobe serious, so we inquired the stolen sum. It came to fourpencehalfpenny, which we paid for the sake of peace, though she told themwhere the money was, and we found out later that she had told the truth. 

I never thought she would remember it--the excitements of the daycrowded it out of my mind--but weeks afterwards, when I was teaching herthe text, "Not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold, "and explaining how much Jesus had paid for us, she interrupted me withthe remark, "Oh yes, I understand! I know how much you paid forme--fourpence halfpenny!"

And now to turn from small-seeming things to large. Ragland, Tamilmissionary, is writing to a friend in 1847. He is trying to expressastronomically the value of a soul. He asks, "How does the astronomercorrect the knowledge of the stars which simple vision brings him?First, having discovered that the little dot of light is thousands ofmiles distant, and having discerned by the telescope that it subtends atthe eye a sensible angle, and having measured that angle, a simplecalculation shows him the size of the object to be greater perhaps thanthat of the huge ball which he calls his earth. " Then, "Take the soul ofone of the poorest, lowest Pariahs of India, and form it by imaginationinto, or suppose it represented by, a sphere. Place this at theextremity of a line which is to represent time. Extend this line andmove off your sphere, farther and farther _ad infinitum_, and what hasbecome of your sphere? Why, there it is, just as before. . . . It isstill what it was, and this even after thousands of years. In short, thedisc appears undiminished, though viewed from an almost infinitedistance. _Oh, what an angle of the mind ought that poor soul tosubtend!_"

The letter goes on to suggest another parallel between thingsastronomical and things spiritual. He supposes an objector admits thesize as proved, but demurs as to the importance of these heavenlybodies. "They are, perhaps, only unsubstantial froth, mere puffs of air, vapoury nothings. " But the astronomer knows their mass and weight, aswell as their size: "Long observation has taught him that planets in theneighbourhood of one given heavenly body have been turned out of theircourse, how, and by what, he is at first quite at a loss to tell but hehas guessed and reasoned, has found cause for suspecting the planet. Hewatches, observes, and compares; and after a long sifting of evidence, he brings it in guilty of the disturbance. If it be so, it must have apower to disturb, a power to attract; and if so, it is not a mere shell, much less a mere vapour. It has mass and it has weight, and hecalculates and determines from the disturbances what that weight is. Just so with the Pariah's soul. Oh, what a disturbance has it created!What a celestial body has it drawn out from its celestial sphere! Not astar, not the whole visible heavens, not the heaven of heavens itself, but Him Who fills heaven and earth, by Whom all things were created. _Him did that Pariah's soul attract from heaven even to earth to saveit. Oh that we would thence learn, and learning, lay to heart the weightand the value of that one soul. _"

And just as the majesty of the glory of the Lord is shown forth nowheremore majestically than in the chapter which tells us how He feeds Hisflock like a shepherd, and gathers the lambs with His arm, and carriesthem in His bosom, so nowhere, I think, do we see the glory of our Godmore than in chapters of life which show Him bending down from thecircle of the earth, yea rather, coming down all the way to help it, "attracted by the influence" of the need of a little child. 

CHAPTER XX

The Elf

 "You remember what I said once, that you could not, perhaps, put a whole crown on the head of Jesus--that is, bring a whole country to be His--but you might put one little jewel in His crown. " _Bishop French, India and Arabia. _

PEARL-EYES, otherwise the Elf, because it exactly describes her, wasvery good for the first few weeks, after which we began to know her. Sheis not a convert in any sense of the term. She is just a very wilful, truthful, exasperating, fascinating little Oriental. 

When she is, as she expresses it, "moved to sin, " nobody of her owncolour can manage her. "You are only _me_ grown up, " is her attitudetowards them all. She is always ready to repent, but, as Pearlsorrowfully says, "before her tears are dry, she goes and sins again, "and then, quite unabashed, she will trot up to you as if nothing hadhappened and expect to be lavishly petted. 

I never saw anyone except the Elf look interesting when naughty. Shedoes look interesting. She is a rather light brown, and any emotionmakes the brown lighter; her long lashes droop over her eyes in the mostpathetic manner, and when she looks up appealingly she might be aninnocent martyr about to die for her faith. 

We have two other small girls with us; the Imp--but her name is a libel, she reformed some months ago--and Tangles, who ties herself into knotswhenever she makes a remark. These three have many an argument (forIndian children delight in discussion), and sometimes the things thatare brought to me would shock the orthodox. This is the last, broughtyesterday:

"Obedience is not so important as love. Orpah was very obedient. Hermother-in-law said, 'Go, return, ' and she did as she was told. But Ruthwas not obedient at all. Four times her mother-in-law said, 'Go, ' andyet she would not go. But God blessed Ruth much more than Orpah, becauseshe loved her mother-in-law. So obedience is not so important as love. "Only the day before I had been labouring to explain the absolutenecessity for the cultivation of the grace of obedience; but now it wasproved a secondary matter, for Ruth was certainly disobedient, but goodand greatly blessed. 

The Elf's chief delinquencies at present, however, spring from a rootedaversion to her share in the family housework (ten minutes' rubbing upof brass water-vessels); an appetite for slate pencils--she would nibblethem by the inch if we would let her--"they are so nice to eat, " shesays; and, most fruitful of all in sad consequences, a love of beingfirst. 

As regards sin No. 1, I hope it will soon be a thing of the past, forshe has just made a valuable discovery: "Satan doesn't come very closeto me if I sing all the time I'm rubbing the brasses. He runs away whenhe hears me sing, so I sing very loud, and that keeps him away. Satandoesn't like hymns. " And I quite agree, and strongly advise her topersevere. 

Sin No. 2 is likely to pass, as she hates the nasty medicine we give herto correct her depraved proclivities; but No. 3 is more serious. Itopens the door, or, as she once expressed it, it "calls so many othersins to come, "--quarrelling, pride, and several varieties of temper, come at the "call" of this sin No. 3. 

She is a born leader in her very small way, and she has not learned yet, that before we can lead we must be willing to be led. "I will choose thegame, " she remarks "and all of you must do as I tell you. " Sometimesthey do, for her directions, though decisive, are given with a certaingrace that wins obedience; but sometimes they do not, and then the Elfis offended, and walks off. 

But she is the life of the game, and they chase her and propitiate her;and she generally condescends to return, for solitary dignity is dull. If any of the seniors happen to see it, it is checked as much aspossible, but oftener we hear of it in that very informing prayer, whichis to her quite the event of the evening; for she takes to the outwardforms of religion with great avidity, and the evening prayer especiallyis a deep delight to her. She counts up all her numerous shortcomingscarefully and perfectly truthfully, as they appear to her, and withequal accuracy her blessings large and small. She sometimes includes hergood deeds in the list, lest, I suppose, they should be forgotten in therecord of the day. All the self-righteousness latent in human naturecomes out, or used to, in her earlier days, in the evening revelations. Here is a specimen, taken at random from the first month's sheaf. Sheand the Imp had come to my room for their devotions, preternaturallypious, both of them, though quite unregenerate. It was the Elf's turn tobegin. She settled herself circumspectly, sighed deeply, and then began. 

First came the day's sins, counted on the fingers of the right hand, beginning with the fourth finger. "Once, " and down went the littlefinger on the palm, "I was cross with L. " (L. Being the Imp, nine and ahalf to the Elf's seven and a half, but most submissive as a rule. ) "Iwas cross because she did not do as I told her. That was wrong of me;but it was wrong of her too, so it was only half a sin. Twice, " and thethird finger was folded down, "when I did not do my work well. That wasquite all my fault. Three times, " and down went the middle finger, "whenI caught a quarrel with those naughty little children; they were stupidlittle children, and they would not play my game, so I spoiled unity. But they came running after me, and they said, 'Please forgive us, ' so Iforgave them. That was very good of me, and I also forgave L. ; so thatis three bad things and two good things to-day. "

I stopped her, and expatiated on the sin of pride, but her mind was fullof the business in hand. 

"Then there were four blessings--no, five; but I can't remember thefifth. The Ammal gave me a box for my doll, and you gave me some sweets;and I found some nice rags in your waste-paper basket"--grubbing inrag-bags and waste-paper baskets is one of the joys of life; rags are souseful when you have a large family of dolls who are always wearing outtheir clothes--"and I have some cakes in my own box now. There are fourblessings. But I forget the fifth. "

I advised her to leave it, and begin, for the Imp was patiently waitingher turn. She, good child, suggested the missing fifth must be thesoap--the Ammal had given each of them a piece the size of a walnut. Yes, that was it apparently, for the Elf, contented, began--

"O loving Lord Jesus! I have done three wrong things to-day" (thenfollowed the details and prayer for forgiveness). "Lord, give L. Graceto do what I want her to do; and when she does not do it, Lord, give megrace to be patient with her. I thank Thee for causing me to forgivethose little children who would not play the game I liked. Oh make themgood, and make me also good; and next time we play together give megrace to play patiently with them. And oh, forgive all the bad things Ihave done to-day; and I thank Thee very much for all the good things Ihave done, for I did them by Thy grace. " Praise for mercies followed inorder: the cardboard box, the lump of sugar-candy, the spoils from thewaste-paper basket, those sticky honey-cakes--which, to my disquietude, I then understood were secreted in her seeley box--and that precious bitof soap. Then--and this is never omitted--a fervently expressed desirefor safe preservation for herself and her friends from "the bites ofsnakes and scorpions, and all other noxious creatures, through thedarkness of the night, and when I wake may I find myself at Thy holyfeet. Amen. "

No matter how sleepy she is, these last phrases, which are quite of herown devising, are always included in the tail-end of her prayer. Shewould not feel at all safe on her mat, spread on the ground out of doorsin hot weather, unless she had so fortified herself from all attacks ofthe reptile world. And when, one day, we discovered a nest of some fewdozen scorpions within six yards of her mat, not one of which had everdisturbed her or any of her "friends, " we really did feel that funnylittle prayer had power in it after all. 

You cannot interrupt in the middle of those rather confusingconfessions, she is far too much engaged to be disturbed, but when thecommunication is fairly over, and she cuddles on your knee for thekissing and caressing she so much appreciates, you have a chance ofexplaining things a little. 

She listened seriously that evening, I remember, then, slipping down offmy knee, she added as a sort of postscript, very reverently, "O LordJesus, I prayed it wrong. I was naughtier than L. , much naughtier. Butindeed Thou wilt remember that she was naughty first. . . . Oh, that'snot it! It was not L. , it was me! And I was impatient with those littlechildren. But . . . But they caused impatience within me. " Then gettinghopelessly mixed up between self-condemnation and self-justification, she gave it up, adding, however, "Next time we play together, give_them_ more grace to play patiently with me, " which was so farsatisfactory, as at first she had scouted the idea that there could beany need of patience on the other side. 

Sometimes she brings me perplexities not new to most of us. "Thismorning I prayed with great desire, 'Lord, keep me to-day from beingnaughty at all, ' and I was naughty an hour afterwards; I looked at theclock and saw. How was it I was naughty when I wanted to be good? Thenaughtiness jumped up inside me, so"--(illustrating its supposed actionwithin), "and it came running out. So what is the use of praying?"

Once the difficulty was rather opposite. 

"Can you be good without God's grace?"

I told her I certainly could not. 

"Well, I can!" she answered delightedly. "I want to pray now. "

"Now? It is eight o'clock now. Haven't you had prayer long ago?" (We allget up at six o'clock. )

"No. That's just what I meant. I skipped my prayer this morning, and soof course I got no grace; but I have been helping the elder Sisters. Wasn't that right?"

"Yes, quite right. "

"And yet I hadn't got any grace! But I suppose, " she added reflectively, "it was the grace over from yesterday that did it. "

As a rule she is not distinguished for very deep penitence, but at onetime she had what she called "a true sense of sin" which fluctuatedrather, but was always hailed, when it appeared in force, as a sign ofbetter things. After a day of mixed goodness and badness the Elf prayedmost devoutly, "I thank Thee for giving me a sense of sin to-day. O God, keep me from being at all naughty to-morrow. But if I am naughty, Lord, give me a true sense of sin!"

[Illustration: We value this photo exceedingly, it was so hard to get. We were in a big heathen village when we saw this Ugly Duckling, in factshe was one of the most tiresome of the "rabbits" mentioned in ChapterI. She saw us, and darted off and climbed a wall and made faces at us ina truly delightful manner. We thought we would take her, and tried. Aswell try to pick up quicksilver; she would not be caught. The deed wasfinally done when she had not the least idea of it, and the camera gavea triumphant click as it snapped her unawares. "What do they want herfor?" inquired a grown-up bystander, who had observed our little game. "Look at her hair, " said another, "they never saw hair like that inEngland, that's what they want her for!"]

Professor Drummond speaks of our whole life as a long-drawn breath ofmystery, between the two great wonders--the first awakening and the lastsleep. I often think of that as I listen to the little children talkingto each other and to us. They are always wondering about something. Oneday it was, "Do fishes love Jesus?" followed by "What is a soul?" Theconclusion was, "It's the thing we love Jesus with. " When they firstcome to us they invariably think that mountains grow like trees: "Stonesare young mountains, aren't they? and hills are middle-aged mountains. "Later on, every printed thing on a wall is a text. We were in a railwaystation, on our way to the hills: "Look! oh, what numbers and numbers oftexts! But what queer pictures to have on texts!" One was speciallyperplexing; it was a well-known advertisement, and the picture showed amonkey smoking a cigar. What could that depraved animal have to do with_a text_? When we got to the hills the first amazement was the sight ofthe fashionable ladies wearing veils. "Don't they like to look at God'sbeautiful world? Do they like it better _spotty_?"

Tangles has another name; it is the "Ugly Duckling, " and it is extremelydescriptive; but Ugly Duckling or not, she is of an inquiring turn ofmind, and one Saturday afternoon, after standing under a tree for fullyfive minutes lost in thought, she came to me with a question: "What arethe birds saying to each other?" I looked at the Ugly Duckling, and shetwisted herself into a note of interrogation, in the ridiculous way shehas, but her face was full of anxiety for enlightenment about thelanguage of the sparrows. "There, " she said, pointing vigorously to theastonished birds, which instantly flew away, "that little sparrow andthis one are making quite different noises. What are they saying? Ido want to know so much!"

As I imagined the birds in question had just been having supper, I toldher what I thought they were probably saying. Next day, in the sermon, there was something about the praise all creation offers to God, and Isaw Tangles knotting her hands together and going into the queerestcontortions in appreciation of the one bit of the sermon she couldunderstand. 

The Imp's questions were various. "What is that?"--pointing to abusy-bee clock--"is it an English kind of insect? Don't its legs gettired going round? Oh! is it dead now?" (when it stopped). "Who madeSatan?" was an early one. "Why doesn't God kill him immediately, andstamp on him?" One day I was trying to find and touch her heart bytelling her how very sorry Jesus is when we are naughty. She seemedsubdued, then--"Amma, where was the Queen's spirit after she died andbefore they buried her, _and what did they give it to eat_?"

"Did you see Lot's wife?" was a question which tickled the Bishop when, on his last visitation, he gave himself up to an hour's catechising uponhis tour in the Holy Land. They were disappointed that he had to confesshe had not. "Oh, I suppose the salt has melted, " was the Elf's commentupon this. 

Tangles is distinctly inclined to peace. The Elf, I grieve to say, isnot. Yesterday she announced a quarrel: "I feel cross!" Tangles objectedto quarrel. "I do feel cross!" and the Elf apparently showedcorroborative symptoms. Then Tangles looked at her straight: "I'm notgoing to quarrel. The devil has arrived in the middle of the afternoonto interrupt our unity, and I won't let him!" which so touched the Elfthat she embraced her on the spot; and then, in detailing it all in herprayer in the evening, this incorrigible little sinner added, with realemotion, "Lord, I am not good. I spoiled unity with L. " (the Imp), "andThou didst feel obliged to remove her to a boarding-school. Now do helpme not to spoil unity with P. " (who is Tangles), "lest Thou shouldstfeel obliged to remove her also to a boarding-school, "--a view of theImp's promotion which had not struck me before. 

Tangles and she belong to the same Caste, and Tangles has the characterof that Caste as fully developed as the Elf, and can hold her owneffectually. Also she is a little older and taller, and being the Elf's"elder sister, " is, therefore, entitled to a certain measure of respect. All those small things tend to the discipline of the Elf, who is verysmall for her age, and who would have preferred a junior, of a meek andmild disposition, and whose constant prayer is this: "O Lord, bringanother little girl out of the lion's mouth, but, O Lord, please let herbe a _very little girl_!" Shortly after this prayer began, a very littlegirl was brought; but she was a vulgar infant, and greatly tried theElf, and she was, for various reasons, promptly returned to her parents. After this episode the prayer varied somewhat: "Lord, let her be a_suitable_ child, and give me grace to love her from my heart when shecomes. "

The conversation of these young creatures is often very illuminating, and always most miscellaneous. The Elf's mind especially is a sort ofsmall curiosity shop, and displays many assortments. The Elf, Tangles, and little Delight (Delight is a youthful Christian) are curled up onthe warm red sand with their three little heads close together. The Elfis telling a story. I listen, and hear a marvellous muddle of the_Uganda Boys_ and _Cyril of North Africa_. "He was only six years old, and he stood up and said, 'What you are going to do, do quickly! I amnot afraid. I am going to the Golden City!' And they showed him thesword and the fire, and he said, 'Do it quickly!' and they chopped offhis arm, and said, 'Will you deny Jesus?' and he said, 'No!' and theychopped off his other arm, "--and so on through all the various limbs inmost vivid detail, --"and then they threw him on the fire, and burnt himtill he was ashes; and he sang praises to Jesus!"

The Elf leans to the tragic. Tangles' mother had a difference of opinionwith a friend. The friend snatched at her opponent's ear jewels, andtore the ear. Life with a torn ear was intolerable, so Tangles' motherwalked three times round the well, repeated three times, "My blood be onyour head!" and sprang in. She rose three times, each time said the samewords, and then sank. All this Tangles confided to the Elf, whoconcocted a game based upon the incident--which, however, we ruthlesslysquashed. They are tossing pebbles now, according to rules of their own, and talking vigorously. "The Ammal told me all the people in England arewhite, and I asked her what they did without servants, and she said theyhad white servants, _white servants_!!" and the note of exclamation isintense. The others are equally astonished. White people as servants!The two ideas clash. They have never seen a white servant. In all theirextensive acquaintance with white people they have only seenmissionaries (who are truly their servants, though they hardly realiseit yet), and occasionally Government officials, whose mastership is verymuch in evidence. So they are puzzled. They get out of the difficulty, however. "At the beginning of the beginning of England, black peoplemust have gone to be the white people's servants, and they graduallygrew white. " Yes, that's it apparently; they faded. 

The conversation springs higher. "Do you know what lightning is? I'lltell you. I watched it one whole evening, and I think it's just a littlebit of heaven's light coming through and going back again. " This soundsprobable, and great interest is aroused. They are discussing the sheetlightning which plays about the sky in the evening before rain. "Ofcourse it isn't much of heaven's light, only a little tiny bit gettingout and running down here to show us what it is like inside. One night Ishut my eyes, and it ran in and out, in and out, oh so fast! Even if Ishut my eyes I saw it running inside my eyes. "

"Did you get caned in school to-day?"

"No, not exactly caned, " and an explanation follows. "I was standingbeside a very naughty little girl, and the teacher meant to cane her, but the cane fell on me by mistake. I wanted to cry, because it hurt, but I thought it would be silly to cry when it hurt me quite by mistake. So I didn't cry one tear!"

The Elf hit upon a capital expedient for escaping castigation (which isnever very severe). "I found this cane myself. It was lying on theground in the compound, and I am going to take it to the teacher. "Chorus of "Why?" "Because, " and the Elf looked elfish, "if I give it tohim with my own hands, how will he cane my hands with it? His heart willnot be hard enough to cane me with the cane I gave him!" and the littlescamp looks round for applause. Chorus of admiring "Oh!"

Then they begin again, the Elf as usual chief informant. "I knowsomething!" Chorus, "What?" "A beautiful doll is waiting for me in abox, and I'm going to have it at Ki-rismas!" "What sort of a doll?" isthe eager inquiry. "I don't know exactly, but God sent it, of course, soI think it must be something like an angel. " Chorus, delightedly, "Ah!""Yes, if it came from God, then of course it came from heaven, andheaven is the place all the angels come from, and they are white andshining, so I think it will be white and shining like an angel. " Thedoll in question is a negress with a woolly head and a scarlet-stripedpinafore. It had not struck me as angelic. It is an experiment in dolls. Will it "take"? Ki-rismas came at last, and the heavenly doll with it, but it did not "take. " Grievous were the tears and sobs, and thebitterest wail of all was, "I thought God would have sent me a nicerdoll!" We changed it for a "nicer doll, " for the poor Elf was notwicked, only broken-hearted, and Star, who is supposed to be much tooold for dolls, begged for the despised black beauty; because, as the Elfmaliciously remarked as she hugged her white dolly contentedly, "Thatblack thing has a curly head, just like Star's!"

The habit of praying about everything is characteristic of the Elf, andmore than once her uninstructed little soul has grieved over the strangeway our prayers are sometimes answered. One day she came rushing in fullof excitement. "Oh, may I go and be examined? The Government MissieAmmal is going to examine our school! Please let me go!" The GovernmentMissie Ammal, a great celebrity who only comes round once a year, wasstaying with us, and I asked her if the child might have the joy ofbeing examined even though she had not had nearly her year at school. She agreed, for the sake of the little one's delight--for an Indianchild likes nothing better than a fuss of any kind--to let her come intothe examination room, and take her examination informally. We knew shewas sure of a pass. An hour or two afterwards a scout came flying overto tell us the awful news. The Elf had failed, utterly failed, and shewas so ashamed she wouldn't come back, "wouldn't come back any more. " Iwent for her, and found her a little heap of sobs and tears, outside theschoolroom. I gathered her up in my arms and carried her home, and triedto comfort her, but she was crushed. "I asked God so earnestly to let mepass, and I didn't pass! And I thought He had listened, but now I knowHe didn't listen at all!"

I was puzzled too, though for a different reason. I knew she shouldeasily have passed, and I could only conclude her wild excitement hadmade her nervous, for with many tears she told me, "I did not know oneanswer! not even one!" And again she came back to the first and sorest, "Oh, I did think God was listening, and He wasn't listening at all!"

At last I got her quieted, and explained, by means of a rupee and ananna, how sometimes God gives us something better than we ask for; weask for an anna, and He gives us a rupee. A rupee holds sixteen annas. She grew interested: "Then my passing that examination was the anna. Butwhat is the rupee?" Now the Elf, as you may have observed, is notweighted with over much humility, so I told her I thought the rupee mustbe humility. She considered a while, then sliding off my knee, she kneltdown and said, with the utmost gravity and purpose, "O God! I did notwant that kind of answer, but I do want it now. Give me the rupee ofhumility!" Then springing up with eyes dancing with mischief, "Next timeI fall into pride you will say, 'Oh, where is that rupee?'"

When the school examinations were over, and the Missie Ammal came backto rest, I asked her about the Elf. "She really did very badly, seemedto know nothing of her subjects; should not have gone in, poor mite!" Itsuddenly struck me to ask what class she had gone into. "The first, "said the Missie Ammal. "But she is in the infants'!" Then we understood. The Elf had only been at school for a few months, and had just finishedthe infant standard book, and had been moved into the first a day or twobefore, as the teacher felt she was well able to clear the first coursein the next six months and take her examination in the following year, two years' work in one. But it was not intended she should go in forthe Government examination, which requires a certain time to be spent inpreparation; so when, in the confusion of the arrangement of theclasses, she stood with her little class-fellows of two days only, themistake was not noticed. No wonder the poor Elf failed! We never toldher the reason, not desiring to raise fresh questions upon themysterious ways of Providence in her busy little brain; and to this day, when she is betrayed into pride, she shakes her head solemnly atherself, and remembers the rupee. 

She has lately been staying with the Missie Ammals, "my very particularfriends, " as she calls them, at the C. E. Z. House, in Palamcottah. Shereturned to us full of matter, and charged with a new idea. "I am nomore going to spend my pocket money upon vanities. I am going to save itall up, and buy a _Gee-lit Bible_. " This gilt-edged treasure is afruitful source of conversation. It will take about six years at therate of one farthing a week to save enough to buy exactly the kind shedesires. "I don't want a _common_ Bible. It must be _gee-lit_, withshining _gee-lit_ all down the leaves on the outside, and the name onthe back all _gee-lit_ too. That's the kind of Bible I want!" Just as Iwrote that, she trotted in and poured three half-annas in small changeupon the table. "That's all I've got, and it's six weeks' savings. Sixyears is a long, long time!" She confided to me that she found "theflesh wanted to persuade" her to spend these three half-annas on cakes. "It is the flesh, isn't it, that feeling you get inside, that says'sweets and cakes! sweets and cakes!' in a very loud voice? I listenedto it for a little, and then I wanted those sweets and cakes! So I saidto myself, If I buy them they will all be gone in an hour, but if I buythat Gee-lit Bible it will last for years and years. So I would notlisten any more to my flesh. " Then a sudden thought struck her, and sheadded impressively, "But when _you_ give me sweets and cakes, that isdifferent; the feeling that likes them is not 'flesh' then. It is only'flesh' when I'm tempted to spend my Gee-lit Bible money on them. " Thiswas a point I was intended thoroughly to understand. Sweets and cakeswere not to be confused with "flesh" except where a Gee-lit Bible wasconcerned. She seemed relieved when I agreed with her that such thingsmight perhaps sometimes be innocently enjoyed, and with a sudden andrather startling change of subject inquired, "Do they _never_ haveholidays in hell?"

CHAPTER XXI

Deified Devilry

 "Next to the sacrificers, they (the temple women) are the most important persons about the temple. That a temple intended as a place of worship, and attended by hundreds of simple-hearted men and women, should be so polluted, and that in the name of religion, is almost beyond belief; and that Indian boys should grow up to manhood, accustomed to see immorality shielded in these temples with a divine cloak, makes our hearts grow sick and faint. " _Mrs. Fuller, India. _

EXCUSE the title of this chapter. I can write no other. Sometimes thebroad smooth levels of life are crossed by a black-edged jagged crack, rent, as it seems, by an outburst of the fiery force below. We findourselves suddenly close upon it; it opens right at our very feet. 

Two girls came to see us to-day; sisters, but tuned to different keys. One was ordinary enough, a bright girl with plenty of jewels and amerry, contented face. The other was finer grained; you looked at her asyou would look at the covers of a book, wondering what was inside. Bothwere married; neither had children. This was the only sorrow the youngerhad ever had, and it did not seem to weigh heavily. 

The elder looked as if she had forgotten how to smile. Sometimes, whenthe other laughed, her eyes would light for a moment, but the shadow inthem deepened almost before the light had come; great soft brown eyes, full of the dumb look that animals have when they are suffering. 

I knew her story, and understood. She was betrothed as a baby of four toa lad considerably older; a lovable boy, they say he was, generous andfrank. The two of course belonged to the same Caste, the Vellalar, andwere thoroughly well brought up. 

In South India no ceremony of importance is considered complete withoutthe presence of "the Servants of the gods. " These are girls and womenbelonging to the temple (that is, belonging to the priests of thetemple), who, as they are never married, "except to the god who neverdies, " can never become widows. Hence the auspiciousness of theirpresence at betrothals, marriages, feasts of all sorts, and evenfunerals. 

But this set of Vellalars had as a clan risen above the popularsuperstition, and the demoralising presence of these women was notallowed to profane either the betrothal or marriage of any child of thefamily. So the boy and girl grew up as unsullied as Hindus ever are. They knew of what happened in other homes, but their clan was a largeone, and they found their society in it, and did not come across othersmuch. 

Shortly before his marriage the boy went to worship in the great templenear the sea. He had heard of its sanctity all his life, and as a littlelad had often gone with his parents on pilgrimage there, but now he wentto worship. He took his offering and went. He went again and again. Allthat he saw there was religion, all that he did was religious. Couldthere be harm in it?

He was married; his little bride went with him trustfully. She knew moreof him than most Indian brides know of their husbands. She had heard hewas loving, and she thought he would be kind to her. 

A year or two passed, and the child's face had a look in it which eventhe careless saw, but she never spoke about anything to give them theclue to it. She went to stay in her father's house for a few weeks, andthey saw the change, but she would not speak even to them. 

Then things got worse. The girl grew thin, and the neighbours talked, and the father heard and understood; and, to save a scandal, he tookthem away from the town where they lived, and made every effort to givethem another start in a place where they were not known. But the coilsof that snake of deified sin had twisted round the boy, body and soul;he could not escape from it. 

They moved again to another town; it followed him there, for a templewas there, and a temple means _that_. 

Then the devil of cruelty seized upon him; he would drink, a disgracefulthing in his Caste, and then hold his little wife down on the floor, andstuff a bit of cloth into her mouth, and beat her, and kick her, andtrample upon her, and tear the jewels out of her ears. The neighbourssaw it, and told. 

Then he refused to bring money to her, and she slowly starved, quitesilent still, till at last hunger broke down her resolute will, and shebegged the neighbours for rice. And he did more, but it cannot be told. How often one stops in writing home-letters. _The whole truth can neverbe told. _

She is only a girl yet, in years at least; in suffering, oh, how old sheis! Not half is known, for she never speaks; loyal and true to himthrough it all. We only know what the neighbours know, and what hersilent dark eyes tell, and the little thin face and hands. 

She was very weary and ill to-day, but she would not own it, bravelittle soul! I could see that neuralgia was racking her head, and everylimb trembled when she stood up; but what made it so pathetic to me wasthe silence with which she bore it all. I have only seen her oncebefore, and now she is going far away with her husband to another town, and I may not see her again. She was too tired to listen much, and sheknows so little, not nearly enough to rest her soul upon. She cannotread, so it is useless to write to her. She is going away quite out ofour reach; thank God, not out of His. 

We watched them drive off in the bullock cart, a servant walking behind. The little pale face of the elder girl looked out at the open end of thecart; she salaamed as they drove away. Such a sweet face in its silentstrength, so wondrously gentle, yet so strong, strong to endure. 

Do you wonder I call this sort of thing a look deep down into hell? Doyou wonder we burn as we think of such things going on in the Name ofGod? For they think of their god as God. In His Name the temples arebuilt and endowed, and provided with "Servants" to do devil's work. Yes, sin is deified here. 

And the shame of shames is that some Englishmen patronise and in measuresupport the iniquity. They attend entertainments at which these girlsare present to sing and dance, and see nothing disgraceful in so doing. As lately as 1893, when the Indian Social Reformers of this Presidencypetitioned two notable Englishmen to discountenance "this perniciouspractice" (the institution of Slaves of the gods) "by declining toattend any entertainment at which they are invited to be present, " thesetwo distinguished men, representatives of our Queen, refused to takeaction in the matter. Surely this is a strange misuse of our position asrulers of India. [2]

 * * * * *

There are so many needs everywhere that I hardly like to speak of ourown, but we do need someone to work among these temple women and girls. There is practically nothing being done for them; because it isimpossible for any of us to work among them and others at the same time. The nearest Home to which we could send such a one is four hundred milesaway. Someone is needed, old enough to have had experience of this kindof work, and yet young enough to learn the language. 

Many of these Slaves of the gods were bought, or in some other wayobtained, when they were little innocent girls, and they cannot be heldresponsible for the terrible life to which they are doomed by the law ofthe Hindu religion. Many of them have hardened past any desire to beother than they are; but sometimes we see the face of a girl who looksas if she might have desire, if only she had a chance to know there issomething better for her. 

Can it be that, out of the many at home, God has one, or better, two, who can come with Him to this South Indian District to do what mustalways be awful work, along the course of that crack? If she comes, orif they come, let them come in the power of the Holy Ghost, baptisedwith the love that endures!

This, then, is one look into Hinduism, this ghastly whitened sepulchre, within which are dead men's bones. 

FOOTNOTE:

[2] For details, see _The Wrongs of Indian Womanhood_, by Mrs. Fuller. 

CHAPTER XXII

Behind the Door

 "When any person is known to be considering the new Religion, all his relations and acquaintances rise _en masse_; _so that to get a new convert is like pulling out the eye-tooth of a live tiger_. " _Adoniram Judson, Burmah. _

EVERY missionary who has despaired of hitting upon an illustration vividenough to show you what the work is really like among Mohammedans andCaste Hindus will appreciate this simile. After our return from Dohnavurwe found that the long-closed villages of this eastern countryside hadopened again, and the people were willing to allow us to teach the girlsand women. For two months this lasted, and then three boys, belonging tothree different Castes, became known as inquirers. Instantly the newsspread through all the villages. It was in vain we told them we(women-workers) had never once even seen the boys, had in no wayinfluenced them; the people held to it that, personally responsible ornot, the book we taught to the girls was the same those boys had read(an undeniable fact); that its poison entered through the eyes, ascendedto the brain, descended to the heart, and then drew the reader out ofhis Caste and his religion; and that therefore we could not be toleratedin the streets or in the houses any more, and so we were turned out. 

[Illustration: "It took me such a long time to learn to draw nicely, "said Victory when she saw this photo; "I used to go to the Brahmanstreet every morning and practise it there. " A design is drawn with apiece of chalk on the ground in front of every house each morning duringpart of December and January, in memory of a goddess who used to amuseherself by drawing these patterns and planting flowers in them. Allsorts of geometrical designs are drawn by the women and children, andthe regular morning drawing is part of the day's work. ]

In one village where many of the relations of one of these three ladslive, the tiger growled considerably. One furious old dame called us"Child-snatchers and Powder-mongers, " and white snakes of the cobraspecies, and a particular genus of lizard, which when stamped uponmerely wriggles, and cannot be persuaded to die (this applied to ourpersistence in evil), and a great many other things. The women stood outin the street in defiant groups and would not let us near enough toexplain. The men sat on the verandah fronts and smiled, blandly superiorto the childish nonsense the women talked, but they did not interfere. 

Villages like this--and Old India is made up of such villages--are farremoved from the influence of the few enlightened centres which exist. Madras is only a name to them, distant four hundred miles or so, a placewhere Caste notions are very lax and people are mixed up and jumbledtogether in a most unbecoming way. 

Education, or "Learning, " as they call it, they consider an excellentthing for boys who want to come to the front and earn money and growrich. But for girls, what possible use is it? Can they pass examinationsand get into Government employ? If you answered this question you wouldonly disgust them. Then there is a latent feeling common enough in theseold Caste families, that it is rather _infra dig. _ for their women toknow too much. It may be all very well for those who have no pretensionsto greatness, they may need a ladder by which to climb up the socialscale, but we who are already at the top, what do we want with it?"Have not our daughters got their _Caste_?" This feeling is passing awayin the towns, but the villages hold out longer. 

In that particular village we had some dear little girls who weregetting very keen, and it was so hard to move out, and leave the fieldto the devil as undisputed victor thereon, and I sent one of our workersto try again. She is a plucky little soul, but even she had to beat aretreat. They will have none of us. 

We went on that day to a village where they had listened splendidly onlya week before. They had no time, it was the busy season. Then to a town, farther on, but it was quite impracticable. So we went to our friend thedear old Evangelist there, the blind old man. He and his wife are lightsin that dark town. It is so refreshing to spend half an hour with twogenuine good old Christians after a tug of war with the heathen; theyhave no idea they are helping you, but they are, and you return homeever so much the happier for the sight of them. 

As we came home we were almost mobbed. In the old days mobs there wereof common occurrence. It is a rough market town, and the people, afterthe first converts came, used to hoot us through the streets, and throwhandfuls of sand at us, and shower ashes on our hair. In theory I likethis very much, but in practice not at all. The yellings of the crowd, men chiefly, are not polite; the yelpings of the dogs, set on bysympathetic spectators; the sickening blaze of the sun and the reflectedglare from the houses; the blinding dust in your eyes, and the queerfeel of ashes down your neck; above all, the sense that this sort ofthing does no manner of good--for it is not persecution (nothing soheroic), and it will not end in martyrdom (no such honours come ourway)--all this row, and all these feelings, one on the top of the other, combine to make mobbing less interesting than might be expected. Youhold on, and look up for patience and good nature and such like commongraces, and you pray that you may not be down with fever to-morrow--forfever has a way of stopping work--and you get out of it all, as quicklyas you can, without showing undue hurry. And then, though little theyknow it, you go and get a fresh baptism of love for them all. 

But how delighted one would be to go through such unromantic triflesevery hour of every day, if only at the end one could get into thehearts and the homes of the people. As it is, just now, our grief isthat we cannot. We know of several who want us, and we are shut out fromthem. 

One is a young wife, who saw us one day by the waterside, and asked usto come and teach her. For doing this she was publicly beaten thatevening in the open street, by a man, before men; so, for fear of whatthey would do to her, we dare not go near the house. Another is a widowwho has spent all her fortune in building a rest-house for the Brahmans, and who has not found Rest. She listened once, too earnestly; she hasnot been allowed to listen again. Oh, how that tiger bites!

Next door to her is a child we have prayed for for three years. She wasa loving, clinging child when I knew her then, little Gold, with theearnest eyes. That last day I saw her, she put her hands into mine, caring nothing for defilement; "Are we not one Caste?" she said. I didnot know it was the last time I should see her; that the next time whenI spoke to her I should only see her shadow in the dark; and one wishesnow one had known--how much one would have said! But the house was openthen, and all the houses were. Then the first girl convert, afterbravely witnessing at home, took her stand as a Christian. Her Castepeople burned down the little Mission school--a boys' school--andchalked up their sentiments on the charred walls. They burned down theBible-woman's house and a school sixteen miles away; and the countrysideclosed, every town and village in it, as if the whole were a singledoor, with the devil on the other side of it. 

But some of the girls behind the door managed to send us messages. Goldwas one of these. She wanted so much to see us again, she begged us tocome and try. We tried; we met the mother outside, and asked her to letus come. She is a hard old woman, with eyes like bits of black ice, setdeep in her head. She froze us, and refused. 

Afterwards we heard what the child's punishment was. They took her downto the water, and led her in. She stood trembling, waist deep, notknowing what they meant to do. Then they held her head under the watertill she made some sign to show she would give in. They released herthen, rubbed ashes on her brow, sign of recantation, and they led herback sobbing--poor little girl. She is not made of martyr stuff; she wasonly miserable. For some months we saw nothing of her. We used to go tothe next house and persuade the people to let us sing to them. We sangfor Gold; but we never knew if she heard. 

One evening, as two of us came home late from work, a woman passed usand said hurriedly to me, "Come, come quickly, and alone. It is Gold whocalls you! Come!" I followed her to the house. "I am Gold's marriedsister, " she explained. "Sit down outside in the verandah near the doorand wait till the child comes out. " Then she went in, and I sat stilland waited. 

Those minutes were like heart-beats. What was happening inside? Butapparently the mother was away, for soon the door opened softly, and ashadow flitted out, and I knew it must be Gold. She dropped on her kneeson the little narrow verandah on the other side of the door and creptalong to its farther end, and then I could only distinguish a dark shapein the dark. For perhaps five minutes no one came except the sister, whostood at the door and watched. And for those five minutes one was freeto speak as freely as one could speak to a shape which one could barelysee, and which showed no sign, and spoke no word. Five whole minutes!How one valued every moment of them! Then a man came and sat down on theverandah. He must have been a relative, for he did not mean to go. Iwished he would. It was impossible to talk past him to her, withoutletting him know she was there; so one had to talk to him, but for her, and even this could not last long. Dusk here soon is dark; we had to go. As we went, we looked back and saw him still keeping his unconsciousguard over the child in her hiding-place. 

There are no secrets in India. It was known that we had been there, andthat stern old mother punished her child; but how, we never knew. 

If any blame us for going at all, let it be remembered that one ofChrist's little ones was thirsty, and she held out her hand for a cup ofcold water. We could not have left that hand empty, I think. 

After that we heard nothing for a year; then an old man whom we hadhelped, and who hoped we intended to help him more, came one evening totell us he meant to set Gold free. It was all to be secretly done, andit was to be done that night. We told him we could have nothing to dowith his plan, and we explained to him why. "But, " he objected, "whatfolly is this? I thought you Christians helped poor girls, and this onecertainly wants to come. She is of age. This is the time. If you waityou will never get her at all. " We knew this was more than probable; torefuse his help was like turning the key and locking her body and soulinto prison--an awful thought to me, as I remembered Treasure. But therewas nothing else to be done; and afterwards, when we heard who he was, and what his real intentions were, we were thankful we had done it. Helooked at us curiously as he went, as if our view of things struck himas strange; and he begged us never to breathe a word of what he hadsaid. We never did, but it somehow oozed out, and soon after that hesickened and very suddenly died. His body was burnt within two hours. Post-mortems are rare in India. 

Another year passed in silence as to Gold. How often we went down thestreet and looked across at her home, with its door almost always shut, and that icy-eyed mother on guard. We used to see her going about, neverfar from the house. When we saw her we salaamed; then she would glare atus grimly, and turn her back on us. Once the whole family went to afestival; but the girl of course was bundled in and out of a coveredcart, and seen by no one, not even the next-door neighbours. There wastalk of a marriage for her. Most girls of her Caste are married muchyounger; but to our relief this fell through, and once one of us saw herfor a moment, and she still seemed to care to hear, though she was fartoo cowed by this time to show it. 

Then we heard a rumour that a girl from the Lake Village had been seenby some of our Christians in a wood near a village five miles distant. These Christians are very out-and-out and keen about converts, and theymanaged to discover that the girl in the wood had some thought of beinga Christian, and that her being there had some connection with this, sothey told us at once. The description fitted Gold. But we could notaccount for a girl of her Caste being seen in a wood; she was alwayskept in seclusion. At last we found out the truth. She had shown somesign of a lingering love for Christ, and her mother had taken her to afamous Brahman ascetic who lived in that wood; and there together, mother and daughter stayed in a hut near the hermit's hut, and for threedays he had devoted himself to confuse and confound her, and finally hesucceeded, and reported her convinced. 

[Illustration: This is the tangible brass-bossed door outside of whichwe so often stand on the stone step and knock, and hear voices fromwithin call, "Everyone is out. " The hand-marks are the hand-prints ofthe Power that keeps the door shut. Once a year, every door and thelintel of every window, and sometimes the walls, are marked like this. That evening, just before dark, the god comes round, they say, and looksfor his mark on the door, and, seeing it, blesses all in the house. Ifthere is no mark he leaves a curse. This is the devil's South Indianparody on the Passover. ]

We heard all this, and sorrowed, and wondered how it was done. We neverheard all, but we heard one delusion they practised upon her, appealingas they so often do to the Oriental imagination, which finds such solidsatisfaction in the supernatural. Nothing is so convincing as a visionor a dream; so a vision appeared before her, an incarnation, they toldher, of Siva, in the form of Christ. Siva and Christ, then, were one, asthey had so often assured her, one identity under two names. Hinduism iscrammed with incarnations; this presented no difficulty. Like the oldmonk, the bewildered child looked for the print of the nails and thespear. Yes, they were there, marked in hands and foot and side. It mustbe hard to distrust one's own mother. Gold still trusted hers. "Listen!"said the mother, and the vision spoke. "If the speech of the Christiansis true, I will return within twenty-four days; if the speech of theHindus is true, I will not return. " Then hour by hour for thosetwenty-four days they wove their webs about her, webs of wonderfulsophistry which have entangled keener brains than hers. She wasentangled. The twenty-four days did their work. She yielded her will onthe twenty-fifth. So the mother and the Brahman won. 

These letters are written, as you know, with a definite purpose. We tryto show you what goes on behind the door, the very door of thephotograph, type of all the doors, that seeing behind you may understandhow fiercely the tiger bites. 

CHAPTER XXIII

"Pan, Pan is Dead"

 "If there is one thing that refreshes my soul above all others, it is that I shall behold the Redeemer gloriously triumphant at the winding up of all things. " _Henry Martyn, N. India. _

"PARTLY founded upon a well-known tradition, mentioned by Plutarch, according to which, at the hour of the Saviour's Agony, a cry of, 'GreatPan is dead, ' swept across the waves in the hearing of certain mariners, and the oracles ceased. " So reads the head-note to one of ElizabethBarrett Browning's poems. We look up a classical dictionary, and findthe legend there. "This was readily believed by the Emperor, and theastrologers were consulted, but they were unable to explain the meaningof so supernatural a voice. "

Pan, and with him all the false gods of the old world, die in the day ofthe death of our Saviour, --this according to the poem--

 "Gods, we vainly do adjure you, -- Ye return nor voice nor sign! Not a votary could secure you Even a grave for your Divine; Not a grave, to show thereby, Here these grey old gods do lie. Pan, Pan is dead. "

And yet--is he dead? quite dead?

 . . . . . . . 

Night, moonless and hot. Our camp is pitched on the west bank of theriver; we are asleep. Suddenly there is what sounds like an explosionjust outside. Then another and another, --such a bursting bang, --then as-s-swish, and I am out of bed, standing out on the sand; and for amoment I am sure the kitchen tent is on fire. Then it dawns on me, inthe slow way things dawn in the middle of the night: it is onlyfireworks being let off by the festival people--only fireworks!

But I stand and look, and in the darkness everything seems much biggerthan it is and much more awful. There is the gleaming of water, lit bythe fires of the crowd on the eastern bank of the river. There aretorches waving uncertainly in and out of the vast black mass--black evenin the black of night--where the people are. There is the sudden burstand s-s-swish of the rockets as they rush up into the night, and fall inshowers of colours on the black mass and the water; and there is thehoarse roar of many voices, mingled with the bleat of many goats. Istand and look, and know what is going on. They are killing thosegoats--thirty thousand of them--killing them now. 

Is Pan dead? . . . 

Morning, blazing sun, relentless sun, showing up all that is going on. We are crossing the river-bed in our cart. "Don't look!" says mycomrade, and I look the other way. Then we separate. She goes among thecrowds in the river bed, where the sun is hottest and the air mostpolluted and the scenes on every side most sickening, and I go up thebank among the people. We have each a Tamil Sister with us, and fartherdown the stream another little group of three is at work. In all seven, to tens of thousands. But we hope more will come later on. 

We have arranged to meet at the cart at about ten o'clock. The bandy-manis directed to work his way up to a big banyan tree near the temple. Hestruggles up through a tangle of carts, and finds a slantingstanding-ground on the edge of the shade of the tree. 

All the way up the bank they are killing and skinning their goats. Youlook to the right, and put your hands over your eyes. You look to theleft, and do it again. You look straight in front, and see an extendedskinned victim hung from the branch of a tree. Every hanging rootlet ofthe great banyan tree is hung with horrors--all dead, most mercifully, but horrible still. 

We had thought the killing over, or we should hardly have ventured tocome; but these who are busy are late arrivals. One tells oneself overand over again that a headless creature cannot possibly feel, but itlooks as if it felt . . . It goes on moving. We look away, and we go on, trying to get out of it, --but thirty thousand goats! It takes a longtime to get out of it. 

We see groups of little children watching the process delightedly. Thereis no intentional cruelty, for the god will not accept the sacrificeunless the head is severed by a single stroke--a great relief to me. Butit is most disgusting and demoralising. And to think that these childrenare being taught to connect it with religion!

With me is one who used to enjoy it all. She tells me how she twistedthe fowls' heads off with her own hands. I look at the fine little brownhands, such loving little hands, and I can hardly believe it. "You--_you_ do such a thing!" I say. And she says, "Yes; when the daycame round to sacrifice to our family divinity, my little brother heldthe goat's head while my father struck it off, and I twisted thechickens' heads. It was my pleasure!"

We go up along the bank; still those crowds, and those goats killed orbeing killed. We cannot get away from them. 

At last we reach a tree partly unoccupied, but it is leafless, alas! Onone side of it a family party is cheerfully feeding behind a shelter ofmats. A little lower down some Pariahs are haggling over less politeportions of the goat's economy. They wrap up the stringy things inleaves and tuck them into a fold of their seeleys. At our feet a smallboy plays with the head. We sit down in the band of shade cast by thetrunk of the tree, and, grateful for so much shelter, invite thepassers-by to listen while we sing. Some listen. An old hag who ischaperoning a bright young wife draws the girl towards us, and sitsdown. She has never heard a word of our Doctrine before, and neither hasthe girl. Then some boys come, full of mischief and fun, and threaten anupset. So we pick out the rowdiest of them and suggest he should keeporder, which he does with great alacrity, swinging a switch mostvigorously at anyone likely to interfere with the welfare of themeeting. 

My little companion speaks to them, as only one who was once where theyare ever can. I listen to her, and long for the flow at her command. "Doyou not do this and this?" she says, naming the very things they do;"and don't you say so and so?" They stare, and then, "Oh, she was onceone of us! What is her Caste? When did she come? Where are her fatherand mother? What is her village? Is she not married? Why is she not? Andwhere are her jewels?" Above all, everyone asks it at once, "What is herCaste?" And they guess it, and probably guess right. 

You can have no idea, unless you have worked among them, how difficultit is to get a heathen woman to listen with full attention for tenconsecutive minutes. They are easily distracted, and to-day there are somany things to distract them, they don't listen very well. They aretired, too, they say; the wild, rough night has done its work. Yesterdayit was different; we got good listeners. 

Being women, and alone in such a crowd of idolaters, we do not attemptan open-air meeting, but just sit quietly where we can, and talk to anywe can persuade to sit down beside us. Hindus are safer far thanMohammedans; they are very seldom rude; but to-day we know enough ofwhat is going on to make us keep clear of all men, if we can. They wouldnot say anything much to us, but they might say a good deal to eachother which is better left unsaid. 

By the time we have gathered, and held, and then had to let go, three orfour of such little groups, it is breakfast time, and we want ourbreakfast badly. So we press through the crowd, diving under mat shedsand among unspeakable messes, heaps of skins on either side, and onehardly knows what under every foot of innocent-looking sand; for thepeople bury the débris lightly, throwing a handful of sand on theworst, and the sun does the rest of the sanitation. It is ratherhorrible. 

At last we reach the cart, tilted sideways on the bank, and get throughour breakfast somehow, and rest for a few blissful minutes, in mostuncomfortable positions, before plunging again into that sea of sun andsand and animals, human and otherwise; and then we part, arranging tomeet when we cannot go on any more. 

Is Pan dead? . . . 

Noon, and hotter, far hotter, than ever. Oh, how the people throng andpush, and kill and eat, and bury remains! How can they enjoy it so? Whatcan be the pleasure in it?

We find our way back to that ribbon of shade. It is a narrower ribbonnow, because the sun, riding overhead, throws the shadow of a singlebough, instead of the broader trunk. But such as it is, we are glad ofit, and again we gather little groups, and talk to them, and sing. 

Some beautiful girls pass us close, the only girls to be seen anywhere. Only little children and wives come here; no good unmarried girls. Oneof the group is dressed in white, but most are in vivid purples andcrimsons. The girl in white has a weary look, the work of the nightagain. But most of the sisterhood are indoors; in the evening we shallsee more of them, scattered among the people, doing their terriblemaster's work. These pass us without speaking, and mingle in the crowd. 

After an hour in the band of shade, we slowly climb the bank again, andfind ourselves among the potters, hundreds and hundreds of them. Everyfamily buys a pot, and perhaps two or three of different sizes; so thepotters drive a brisk trade to-day, and have no leisure to listen to us. 

It is getting very much hotter now, for the burning sand and thethousands of fires radiate heat-waves up through the air, heated alreadystiflingly. We think of our comrades down in the river bed, reeking withodours of killing and cooking, a combination of abominations unimaginedby me before. 

We look down upon a collection of cart tops. The palm-woven mat coversare massed in brown patches all over the sand, and the moving crowds arebetween. We do not see the others. Have they found it as difficult as wefind it, we wonder, to get any disengaged enough to want to listen? Atlast we reach the long stone aisle leading to the temple. On either sidethere are lines of booths, open to the air but shaded from the sun, andwe persuade a friendly stall-keeper to let us creep into her shelter. She is cooking cakes on the ground. She lets us into an empty corner, facing the passing crowds, and one or two, and then two or three, and soon till we have quite a group, stop as they pass, and squat down in theshade and listen for a little. Then an old lady, with a keen old face, buys a Gospel portion at half price, and folds it carefully in a cornerof her seeley. Two or three others buy Gospels, and all of them wanttracts. The shop-woman gets a bit restive at this rivalry of wares. Wespend our farthings, proceeds of our sales, on her cakes, and she ismollified. But some new attraction in the gallery leading to the templedisperses our little audience, to collect it round itself. The oldwoman explains that the Gospel she has bought is for her grandson, ascholar, she tells us, aged five, and moves off to see the new show, andwe move off with her. 

There, in the first stall, between the double row of pillars, a man isstanding on a form, whirling a sort of crackling rattle high above hishead. In the next, another is yelling to call attention to his clocks. There they are, ranged tier upon tier, regular "English" busy-beeclocks, ticking away, as a small child remarks, as if they were alive. Then come sweet-stalls, clothes-stalls, lamp-stalls, fruit-stalls, book-stalls, stalls of pottery, and brass vessels, and jewellery, andbasket work, and cutlery, and bangles in wheelbarrow loads, andmedicines, and mats, and money boxes, and anything and everything ofevery description obtainable here. In each stall is a stall-keeper. Occasionally one, like the clock-stall man, exerts himself to sell hisgoods; more often he lazes in true Oriental fashion, and sells or not asfortune decides for him, equally satisfied with either decree. HowIndian shopkeepers live at all is always a puzzle to me. They hardlyever seem to do anything but _moon_. 

On and on, in disorderly but perfectly good-natured streams, the peopleare passing up to the temple, or coming down from worship there. All whocome down have their foreheads smeared with white ashes. Even here thereare goats; they are being pulled, poor reluctant beasts, right to thesteps of the shrine, there to be dedicated to the god within. Then theywill be dragged, still reluctant, round the temple walls outside, thendecapitated. 

I watch a baby tug a goat by a rope tied round its neck. The goat hashorns, and I expect every moment to see the baby gored. But it neverseems to enter into the goat's head to do anything so aggressive. Ittugs, however, and the baby tugs, till a grown-up comes to the baby'sassistance, and all three struggle up to the shrine. 

We are standing now in an empty stall, just a little out of the crush. Next door is an assortment of small Tamil booklets in marvellouscolours, orange and green predominating. There is an empty barrel rolledinto the corner, and we sit down on it, and begin to read from our Book. This causes a diversion in the flow of the stream, and we get anotherchance. 

But it grows hotter and hotter, and we get so thirsty, and long for adrink of cocoanut water. It is always safe to drink that. No cocoanutsare available, though, and we have no money. Then a man selling nativebutter-milk comes working his way in and out of the press, and we becomeconscious that of all things in the world the thing we yearn for most isa drink of butter-milk. The man stops in front of our stall, pours out acupful of that precious liquid, and seeing the thirst in our eyes, Isuppose, beseeches us to drink. We explain our penniless plight. "Buyour books, and we'll buy your butter-milk, " but he does not want ourbooks. Then we wish we had not squandered our farthings on thoseimpossible cakes. The butter-milk man proposes he should trust us forthe money; he is sure to come across us again. He is a kind-hearted man;but debt is a sin; it is not likely we shall see him again. Thebutter-milk man considers. He is poor, but we are thirsty. To givedrink to the thirsty is an act of merit. Acts of merit come in useful, both in this world and the next. He pours out a cupful of butter-milk(he had poured the first one back when we showed our empty hands). Wehesitate; he is poor, but we are so very thirsty. The next stall-keeperreads our hearts, throws a halfpenny to the butter-milk man. "There!" hesays, "drink to the limit of your capacity!" and we drink. It is acomical feeling, to be beholden to a seller of small Tamil literature ofquestionable description; but we really are past drawing nicedistinctions. Never was butter-milk so good; we get through three brasstumbler-fuls between us, and feel life worth living again. We give thegood bookseller plenty of books to cover his halfpenny, and to gratifyus he accepts them; but as he does not really require them, doubtlessthe merit he has acquired is counted as undiminished, and we part mostexcellent friends. 

And now the crowd streaming up to the temple gets denser every moment. Every conceivable phase of devotion is represented here, everyconceivable type of worshipper too. Some are reverent, some are rampant, some are earnest, some are careless, awestruck, excited, but moreusually perfectly frivolous; on and on they stream. 

I leave my Tamil Sister safely with two others at the cart. But thecomrade whom I am to meet again at that same cart some time to-day hasnot turned up. So I go off alone for another try, drawn by the sight ofthat stream, and I let myself drift along with it, and am caught in itand carried up--up, till I am within the temple wall, one of a streamof men and women streaming up to the shrine. We reach it at last. It isdark; I can just see an iron grating set in darkness, with a lightsomewhere behind, and there, standing on the very steps of Satan's seat, there is a single minute's chance to witness for Christ. The people areall on their faces in the dust and the crush, and for that single minutethey listen, amazed at hearing any such voice in here; but it would notdo to stay, and, before they have time to make up their minds what tomake of it, I am caught in another stream flowing round to the right, and find myself in a quieter place, a sort of eddy on the outer edge ofthe whirlpool, where the worship is less intense, and very many womenare sitting gossiping. 

There, sitting on the ground beside one of the smaller shrines whichcluster round the greater, I have such a chance as I never expected toget; for the women and children are so astonished to see a white face inhere that they throw all restraint to the winds, and crowd round me, asking questions about how I got in. For Indian temples are sacred toIndians; no alien may pass within the walls to the centre of the shrine;moreover, we never go to the temples to see the parts that are open toview, because we know the stumbling-block such sight-seeing is to theHindus. All this the women know, for everything a missionary does ordoes not do is observed by these observant people, and commented on inprivate. Now, as they gather round me, I tell them why I have come (howI got in I cannot explain, unless it was, as the women declared, that, being in a seeley, one was not conspicuous), and they take me intoconfidence, and tell me the truth about themselves, which is the lastthing they usually tell, and strikes me as strange; and they listensplendidly, and would listen as long as I would stay. But it is not wiseto stay too long, and I get into the stream again, which all this timehas been pouring round the inner block of the temple, and am carriedround with it as it pours back and out. 

And as I pass out, still in that stream, I notice that the temple areais crowded with all kinds of merchandise, stalls of all sorts, just asoutside. Vendors of everything, from mud pots up to jewels, are roamingover the place crying their wares, as if they had been in a market; andright in the middle of them the worship goes on at the different shrinesand before the different idols. There it is, market and temple, as inthe days of our Lord; neither seems to interfere with the other. No oneseems to see anything incongruous in the sight of a man prostratedbefore a stone set at the back of a heap of glass bangles. And whensomeone drops suddenly, and sometimes reverently, in front of a stall ofcoils of oily cakes, no one sees anything extraordinary in it; they knowthere is a god somewhere on the other side of the cakes. 

On and out, through the aisle with its hundred pillars, all stone--stonepaving, pillars, roof; on and out, into the glare and the sight of thegoats again. But one hardly sees them now, for between them and one'seyes seem to come the things one saw inside--those men and women, hundreds of them, worshipping that which is not God. 

Is Pan dead? . . . 

Pan is dead! Oh, Pan is dead! For, clearer than the sight of thatidolatrous crowd, I saw this--I had seen it inside those templewalls:--a pile of old, dead gods. They were bundled away in a corner, behind the central shrine--stone gods, mere headless stumps; wooden godswith limbs lopped off; clay gods, mere lumps of mud; mutilated andneglected, worn-out old gods. Oh, the worship once offered to thosebroken, battered things! No one worships them now! For full five minutesI had sat and looked at them--

 "Gods bereavëd, gods belated, With your purples rent asunder! Gods discrowned and desecrated, Disinherited of thunder!"

There were withered wreaths lying at the feet of some of the idols near;there were fresh wreaths round the necks of others. There were nowreaths in this corner of dead gods. I looked, and looked, and lookedagain. Oh, there was prophecy in it!

And as I came out among the living people, the sight of that graveyardof dead gods was ever with me, and the triumph-song God's prophetesssang, sang itself through and through me--Pan is dead! _Quite dead!_

 "'Twas the hour when One in Sion Hung for love's sake on a cross; When His brow was chill with dying, And His soul was faint with loss; When His priestly blood dropped downward, And His kingly eyes looked throneward-- Then, Pan was dead. 

 "By the love He stood alone in, His sole Godhead rose complete, And the false gods fell down moaning, Each from off his golden seat; All the false gods with a cry Rendered up their deity-- Pan, Pan was dead. "

CHAPTER XXIV

"Married to the God"

 "One thing one notices very much as a 'freshman'--that is, the unconscious influence which Christianity has over a nation. Go to the most depraved wretch you can find in England, and he has probably got a conscience, if only one can get at it. _But here the result of heathenism seems to be to destroy men's consciences. They never feel sin as such. _" _Rev. E. S. Carr, India. _

 "I have heard people say they enjoyed hearing about missions. I often wonder if they would enjoy watching a shipwreck. " _Mrs. Robert Stewart, China. _

LEAVE this chapter if you want "something interesting to read"; holdyour finger in the flame of a candle if you want to know what it is liketo write it. If you do this, then you will know something of the burningat heart every missionary goes through who has to see the sort of thingI have to write about. Such things do not make interesting reading. Fireis an uncompromising thing, its characteristic is that it burns; and onewrites with a hot heart sometimes. There are things like flames of fire. But perhaps one cares too much; it is only about a little girl. 

I was coming home from work a few evenings ago when I met two men and achild. They were Caste men in flowing white scarves--dignified, educatedmen. But the child? She glanced up at me, smiled, and salaamed. Then Iremembered her; I had seen her before in her own home. These menbelonged to her village. What were they doing with her?

Then a sudden fear shot through me, and I looked at the men, and theylaughed. "We are taking her to the temple there, " and they pointedacross through the trees, "to marry her to the god. "

It all passed in a moment. One of them caught her hand, and they wenton. I stood looking after them--just looking. The child turned once andwaved her little hand to me. Then the trees came between. 

The men's faces haunted me all night. I slept, and saw them in mydreams; I woke, and saw them in the dark. And that little girl--oh, poorlittle girl!--always I saw her, one hand in theirs, and the other wavingto me!

And now it is over, the diabolical farce is over, and she is "tied, " astheir idiom has it, "tied to the stone. " Oh, she is tied indeed, tiedwith ropes Satan twisted in his cruellest hour in hell!

We had to drive through the village a night or two later, and it was allablaze. There was a crowd, and it broke to let our bullock carts pass, then it closed round two palanquins. 

There were many men there, and girls. In the palanquins were two idols, god and goddess, out on view. It was their wedding night. We saw it allas we passed: the gorgeous decorations, gaudy tinsels, flowers fading inthe heat and glare; saw, long after we had passed, the gleaming of thecoloured lights, as they moved among the trees; heard for a mile andmore along the road the sound of that heathen revelry; and every thudof the tom-tom was a thud upon one's heart. Our little girl was there, as one "married" to that god. 

I had seen her only once before. She belonged to an interestinghigh-caste village, one of those so lately closed; and because therethey have a story about the magic powder which, say what we will, theyimagine I dust upon children's faces, I had not gone often lest itshould shut the doors. But that last time I went, this child came up tome, and, with all the confidingness of a child, asked me to take herhome with me. "Do let me come!" she said. 

There were eyes upon me in a moment and heads shaken knowingly, andthere were whispers at once among the women. The magic dust had been atwork! I had "drawn" the little girl's heart to myself. Who could doubtit now? And one mother gathered her child in her arms and disappearedinto the house. So I had to answer carefully, so that everyone couldhear. Of course I knew they would not give her to me, and I thought nomore of it. 

I was talking to her grandmother then, a very remarkable old lady. Shecould repeat page after page from their beloved classics, and ratherthan let me sing Christian stanzas to her and explain them, shepreferred to sing Hindu stanzas to me and explain them. "Consider theage of our great Religion, consider its literature--millions of stanzas!What can you have to compare with it? These ignorant people about us donot appreciate things. They know nothing of the classics; as for thelanguage, the depths of Tamil are beyond them--is it not a shorelesssea?" And so she held the conversation. 

[Illustration: This is vile enough to look at, but nothing to thereality. If the outer form is this, what must the soul within it be? Yetthis is a "holy Brahman;" and if we sat down on that stone verandah hewould shuffle past the pillar lest we should defile him. Look at theshadowy shapes behind; they might be spirits of darkness. It is he, andsuch as he, who have power over little temple flowers. ]

It was just at this point the child reappeared, and, standing by theverandah upon which we were sitting, her little head on a level with ourfeet, she joined in the stanza her grandmother was chanting, and, to myastonishment, continued through the next and the next, while I listenedwondering. Then jumping up and down, first on one foot, then on theother, with her little face full of delight at my evident surprise, shetold me she was learning much poetry now; and then, with the merriestlittle laugh, she ran off again to play. 

And _this_ was the child. All that brightness, all that intelligence, "married to a god. "

_Now_ I understood the question she had asked me. She was an orphan, aswe afterwards heard, living in charge of an old aunt, who had someconnection with the temple. She must have heard her future beingdiscussed, and not understanding it, and being frightened, had wonderedif she might come to us. But they had taken their own way of reconcilingher to it; a few sweets, a cake or two, and a promise of more, a visionof the gay time the magic word marriage conjures up, and the child wascontent to go with them, to be led to the temple--and left there. 

But her people were so thoroughly refined and nice, so educatedtoo, --could it be, _can_ it be, possibly true? Yes, it is true; this isHinduism--not in theory of course, but in practice. Think of it; it isdone to-day. 

A moment ago I looked up from my writing and saw the little Elf runningtowards me, charmed to find me all alone, and quite at leisure forher. And now I watch her as she runs, dancing gleefully down the path, turning again--for she knows I am watching--to throw kisses to me. And Ithink of her and her childish ways, naughty ways so often, too, but intheir very naughtiness only childish and small, and I shiver as I thinkof her, and a thousand thousand as small as she, being trained to bedevil's toys. They brought one here a few days ago to act as decoy toget the Elf back. She was a beautiful child of five. Think of the shameof it!

We are told to modify things, not to write too vividly, never to harrowsensitive hearts. Friends, we cannot modify truth, we cannot write halfvividly enough; and as for harrowing hearts, oh that we could do it!That we could tear them up, that they might pour out like water! that wecould see hands lifted up towards God for the life of these youngchildren! Oh, to care, and oh for power to make others care, not lessbut far, far more! care till our eyes do fail with tears for thedestruction of the daughters of our people!

This photo is from death in life; a carcass, moving, breathing, sinning--such a one sits by that child to-day. 

I saw him once. There is a monastery near the temple. He is "the holiestman in it"; the people worship him. The day I saw him they had wreathedhim with fresh-cut flowers; white flowers crowned that hideous head, hung round his neck and down his breast; a servant in front carriedflowers. Was there ever such desecration? That vileness crowned withflowers!

I knew something about the man. His life is simply unthinkable. Talk ofbeasts in human shape! It is slandering the good animals to compare badmen to beasts. Safer far a tiger's den than that man's monastery. 

But he is a temple saint, wise in the wisdom of his creed; earthly, sensual, devilish. Look at him till you feel as if you had seen him. Letthe photo do its work. It is loathsome--yes, _but true_. 

Now, put a flower in his hand--a human flower this time. Now put besidehim, if you can, a little girl--your own little girl--and leave herthere--_yes, leave her there in his hand_. 

CHAPTER XXV

Skirting the Abyss

 "The first thing for us all is to _see_ and _feel_ the great need, and to create a sentiment among Christian people on this subject. One of the characteristics of this great system is its secrecy--its subtlety. So few _know_ of the evils of child-marriage, it is so hidden away in the secluded lives and prison homes of the people. And those of us who enter beyond these veils, and go down into these homes, are so apt to feel that it is a case of the inevitable, and nothing can be done. " _Mrs. Lee, India. _

I HAVE been to the Great Lake Village to-day trying again to find outsomething about our little girl. I went to the Hindu school near thetemple. The schoolmaster is a friend of ours, one of the honourable menof the village from which they took that flower. He was drilling thelittle Brahman boys as they stood in a row chanting the poem they werelearning off by heart; but he made them stop when he saw us coming, andcalled us in. 

I asked him about the child. It was true. She was in the temple, "married to the stone. " Yes, it was true they had taken her there thatday. 

I asked if the family were poor; but he said, "Do not for a moment thinkthat poverty was the cause. Certainly not. Our village is not poor!" Andhe looked quite offended at the thought. I knew the village was richenough, but had thought perhaps that particular family might be poor, and so tempted to sell the little one; but he exclaimed with greatwarmth, Certainly not. The child was a relative of his own; there was noquestion of poverty!

We had left the school, and were talking out in the street facing thetemple house. I looked at it, he looked at it. "From hence a passagebroad, smooth, easy, inoffensive, down to hell"; he knew it well. "Yes, she is a relative of my own, " he continued, and explained minutely thedegree of relationship. "Her grandmother, whom you doubtless remember, is not like the ignorant women of these parts. She has learning. " Andagain he repeated, as if desirous of thoroughly convincing me as to thesatisfactory nature of the transaction, "Certainly she was not sold. Sheis a relative of my own. "

A relative of his own! And he could teach his school outside thosewalls, and know what was going on inside, and never raise a finger tostop it, educated Hindu though he is. I could not understand it. 

He seemed quite concerned at my concern, but explained that forgenerations one of that particular household had always been devoted tothe gods. The practice could not be defended; it was the custom. Thatwas all. "Our custom. "

A stone's-throw from his door is another child who is living a strangelyunnatural life, which strikes no one as unnatural because it is "ourcustom. " She is quite a little girl, and as playful as a kitten. Hersoft round arms and little dimpled hands looked fit for no harder workthan play, but she was pounding rice when I saw her, and looked tired, and as if she wanted her mother. 

While I was with her a very old man hobbled in. He was crippled, andleaned full weight with both hands on his stick. He seemed asthmatictoo, and coughed and panted woefully. A withered, decrepit old ghoul. The child stood up when he came in and touched her neck where themarriage symbol lay. Then I knew he was her husband. 

 "What, No blush at the avowal--you dared to buy A girl of age beseems your grand-daughter, like ox or ass? _Are flesh and blood ware? are heart and soul a chattel?_"

Yes! like chattels they are sold to the highest bidder. In that auctionCaste comes first, then wealth and position. And the chattel is bought, the bit of breathing flesh and blood is converted into property; and theliving, throbbing heart of the child may be trampled and stamped downunder foot in the mire and the mud of that market-place, for all anyonecares. 

It is not long since a young wife came for refuge to our house. Threetimes she had tried to kill herself; at last she fled to us. Her husbandcame. "Get up, slave, " he said, as she crouched on the floor. She wouldnot stir or speak. Then he got her own people to come, and then it wasas if a pent-up torrent was bursting out of an over full heart. "Yougave me to him. You gave me to him. " The words came over and over again;she reminded them in a passion of reproach how, knowing what hischaracter was, they had handed her over to him. But we could hardlyfollow her, the words poured forth with such fierce emotion, as withstreaming eyes, and hands that showed everything in gestures, shebesought them not to force her back. They promised, and believing them, she returned with them. The other day when I passed the house someonesaid, "Beautiful is there. He keeps her locked up in the back room now. "So they had broken their word to her, and given her back, body and soul, to the power of a man whose cruelty is so well known that even theheathen call him a "demon. " What must he be to his wife?

And if that poor wife, nerved by the misery of her life, dared all, andappealed to the Government, the law would do as her people did--forceher back again to him, to fulfil a contract she never made. Is it not ashame? Oh, when will the day come when this merchandise in children'ssouls shall cease? We know that many husbands are kind, and many wivesperfectly content, but sometimes we see those who are not, and there isno redress. 

Another of our children sold by auction in the Village of the Lake isone who used to be such a pretty little thing, with a tangle of curls, and mischievous, merry brown eyes. But that was five years ago. Then afiend in a man's shape saw her, and offered inducements to her parentswhich ended in his marrying her. She was nine years old. 

One year afterwards she was sent to her husband's home. His motives inmarrying her were wholly evil, but the child knew something of right andwrong, and she resisted him. Then he dragged her into an inner room, andhe held her down, and smothered her shrieks, and pressed a plantaininto her mouth. It was poisoned. She knew it, and did not swallow itall. But what she was forced to take made her ill, and she lay for daysso dizzy and sick that when her husband kicked her as she lay she didnot care. At last she escaped, and ran to her mother's house. But thelaw was on her owner's side; what could she prove of all this, poorchild? And she had to go back to him. After that he succeeded in hisdevil's work, and to-day that child is dead to all sense of sin. 

Oh, there are worse things far than seeing a little child die! It isworse to see it change. To see the innocence pass from the eyes, and thechildishness grow into wickedness, and to know, without being able tostop it, just what is going on. 

I am thinking of one such now. She was four years old when I first beganto visit in her grandmother's house. She is six now--only six--but herdemoralisation is almost complete. It is as if you saw a hand pull arosebud on its stem, crumple and crush it, rub the pink loveliness intopulp, drop it then--and you pick it up. But it is not a rosebud now. Oh, these things, the knowledge of them, is as a fire shut up in one'sbones! shut up, for one cannot let it all out--it must stay in and burn. 

 . . . . . . . 

Those who know nothing of the facts will be sure to criticise. "It isnot an unknown thing for persons to act as critics, even thoughsupremely ignorant of the subject criticised. " But those who know thetruth of these things well know that we have understated it, carefullytoned it down perforce, because it cannot be written in full. It couldneither be published nor read. 

It cannot be written or published or read, but oh, it has to be lived!_And what you may not even hear, must be endured by little girls. _ Thereare child-wives in India to-day, of twelve, ten, nine, and even eightyears old. "Oh, you mean betrothed! Another instance of missionaryexaggeration!" We mean married. 

"But of course the law interferes!" Perhaps you have heard of the lawwhich makes wifehood illegal under twelve. With reference to this lawthe Hon. Manomoham Ghose of the High Court of Calcutta writes:--"If theGovernment thinks that the country is not yet prepared for suchlegislation" (by which he means drastic legislation) "as I suggest, Ican only express my regret that by introducing the present Bill it hasindefinitely postponed the introduction of a substantial measure ofreform, which is urgently called for. "

There are men and women in India to whom many a day is a nightmare, andthis fair land an Inferno, because of what they know of the wrong thatis going on. For that is the dreadful part of it. It is not like theburning alive of the widows, it is not a horror passed. It is going onsteadily day and night. Sunlight, moonlight, and darkness pass, the onechanging into the other; but all the time they are passing, this Wrongholds the hours with firm and strong hands, and uses them for itspurpose--the murder of little girls. Meanwhile, what can be done by youand by me to hasten the day of its ending? Those who know can tell whatthey know, or so much as will bear the telling; and those who do notknow can believe it is true, and if they have influence anywhere, useit; and all can care and pray! Praying alone is not enough, but oh formore real praying! We are playing at praying, and caring, and coming;playing at doing--if doing costs--playing at everything but play. We areearnest enough about that. God open our eyes and convict us of ourinsincerity! burn out the superficial in us, make us intensely inearnest! And may God quicken our sympathy, and touch our heart, andnerve our arm for what will prove a desperate fight against "leaguèdfiends" in bad men's shapes, who do the devil's work to-day, branding onlittle innocent souls the very brand of hell. 

I have told of one--that little child who is now as evil-minded as alittle child can be; she is only one of so many. Let a medicalmissionary speak. 

"A few days ago we had a little child-wife here as a patient. She wasten or eleven, I think, just a scrap of a creature, playing with a doll, and yet degraded unmentionably in mind. . . . But oh, to think of thehundreds of little girls! . . . It makes me feel literally sick. We dowhat we can. . . . But what can we do? What a drop in the ocean it is!"

Where the dotted lines come, there was written what cannot be printed. But it had to be lived through, every bit of it, by a "scrap of acreature of ten or eleven. "

Another--these are from a friend who, even in writing a private letter, cannot say one-tenth of the thing she really means. 

"A few days ago the little mother (a child of thirteen) was cryingbitterly in the ward. 'Why are you crying?' 'Because he says I am tooold for him now; he will get another wife, he says. ' 'He' was herhusband, 'quite a lad, ' who had come to the hospital to see her. "

The end of that story which cannot be told is being lived through thisvery day by that little wife of thirteen. And remember that thirteen inIndia means barely eleven at home. 

"She was fourteen years old, " they said, "but such a tiny thing, shelooked about nine years old in size and development. . . . The littlemother was so hurt, she can never be well again all her life. The husbandthen married again . . . As the child was ruined in health. . . . "And, as before, the dots must cover all the long-drawn-out misery ofthat little child who "looked about nine. "

"There is an old, old man living near here, with a little wife of ten oreleven. . . . Our present cook's little girl, nine years old, has latelybeen married to a man who already has had two wives. " In each of thesecases, as in each I have mentioned, marriage means marriage, not justbetrothal, as so many fondly imagine. Only to-day I heard of one whodied in what the nurse who attended her described as "simple agony. " Shehad been married a week before. She was barely twelve years old. 

We do not say this is universal. There are many exceptions; but we dosay the workings of this custom should be exposed and not suppressed. Question our facts; we can prove them. To-day as I write it, to-day asyou read it, hundreds and thousands of little wives are going throughwhat we have described. But "described" is not the word touse--indicated, I should say, with the faintest wash of sepia where thething meant is pitch black. 

Think of it, then--do not try to escape from the thought--English womenknow too little, care too little--too little by far. Think of it. Stopand think of it. If it is "trying" to think of it, and you would preferto turn the page over, and get to something nicer to read, _what must itbe to live through it_? What must it be to those little girls, solittle, so pitifully little, and unequal to it all? What must it be tothese childish things to live on through it day by day, with, in somecases, nothing to hope for till kindly death comes and opens the door, the one dread door of escape they know, and the tortured little bodydies? And someone says, "The girl is dead, take the corpse out to theburning-ground. " Then they take it up, gently perhaps. But oh, therelief of remembering it! It does not matter now. Nothing matters anymore. Little dead wives cannot feel. 

 . . . . . . . 

I wonder whether it touches you? I know I cannot tell it well. But oh, one lives through it all with them!--I have stopped writing again andagain, and felt I could not go on. 

Mother, happy mother! When you tuck up your little girl in her cot, andfeel her arms cling round your neck and her kisses on your cheek, willyou think of these other little girls? Will you try to conceive what youwould feel _if your little girl were here_?

Oh, you clasp her tight, so tight in your arms! The thought is ascorpion's sting in your soul. You would kill her, smother her dead inyour arms, before you would give her to--_that_. 

Turn the light down, and come away. Thank God she is safe in her littlecot, she will wake up to-morrow safe. Now think for a moment steadily ofthose who are somebody's little girls, just as dear to them and sweet, needing as much the tenderest care as this your own little girl. 

Think of them. Try to think of them as if they were your very own. Theyare just like your own, in so many ways--only their future is different. 

Oh, dear mothers, do you care? Do you care very much, I ask?

 . . . . . . . 

We passed the temple on our way home from the Village of the Lake. Thegreat gate was open, and the Brahmans and their friends were lounging inand out, or sitting in the porch talking and laughing together. Theywere talking about us as we passed. They were quite aware of our objectin coming, and were pleased that we had failed. 

Government officials, English-speaking graduates, educated Hindus likeour old friend the schoolmaster, all would admit in private that to takea child to the temple and "marry her" there was wrong. But very few havemuch desire to right the shameful wrong. 

There are thousands of recognised Slaves of the gods in this Presidency. Under other names they exist all over India. There are thousands oflittle child-wives; fewer here than elsewhere, we know, but manyeverywhere. I do not for a moment suggest that all child-wives arecruelly handled, any more than I would have it thought that all littlegirls are available for the service of the gods. Nor would I have itsupposed that we see down this hell-crack every day. We may live foryears in the country and know very little about it. The medicalworkers--God help them!--are those who are most frequently forced tolook down, and I, not being a medical, know infinitely less of itsdepths than they. But this I do know, and do mean, and I mean it with anintensity I know not how to express, _that this custom of infantmarriage and child marriage, whether to gods or men, is an infamouscustom; that it holds possibilities of wrong, such unutterable wrong, that descriptive words concerning it can only "skirt the abyss, " andthat in the name of all that is just and all that is merciful it shouldbe swept out of the land without a day's delay_. 

We look to our Indian brothers. India is so immense that a voice cryingin the North is hardly heard in the South. Thank God for the one or twovoices crying in the wilderness. But many voices are needed, not onlyone or two. Let the many voices cry! Every man with a heart and a voiceto cry, should cry. Then all the cries crying over the land will forcethe deaf ears to hear, and force the dull brains to think and the handsof the law to act, and something at last will be done. 

But "crying" is not nearly enough. We look to you, brothers of India, to=do=. Get convictions upon this subject which will compel you to =do=. Many can talk and many can write, and more will do both, as the yearspass, but the crux is contained in the =doing=. 

God alone can strengthen you for it. He who set His face as a flint, canmake you steadfast and brave enough to set your faces as flints, tillthe bands of wickedness are loosed, and the heavy burdens are undone, and every yoke is broken, and the oppressed go free. 

It will cost. It is bound to cost. Every battle of the warrior is withconfused noise and garments rolled in blood. It is only sham battlesthat cost something less than blood. Everything worth anything _costsblood_. "Reproach hath broken My heart. " A broken heart bleeds. Is itthe reproach of the battle you fear? This fear will conquer you untilyou hear the voice of your God saying, "Fear ye not the reproach of men, neither be afraid of their revilings. . . . Who art thou that thoushouldest be afraid of a man that shall die, and the son of man thatshall be made as grass, and forgettest the Lord thy Maker?"

This book is meant for our comrades at home, but it may come back toIndia, and so we have spoken straight from our hearts to our Indianbrothers here. Oh, brothers, rise, and in God's Name fight; in His powerfight till you win, for these, your own land's little girls, who nevercan fight for themselves!

And now we look to you at home. Will all who pity the little wives prayfor the men of India? Pray for those who are honestly striving to ridthe land of this shameful curse. Pray that they may be nerved for thefight by the power of God's right arm. Pray for all the irresolute. "Asound of battle is in the land, . . . The Lord hath opened His armoury. ""Cursed be he that keepeth back his sword from blood. " Pray forresolution and the courage of conviction. It is needed. 

And to this end pray that the Spirit of Life may come upon our MissionColleges, and mightily energise the Missionary Educational Movement, that Hindu students may be won to out-and-out allegiance to Christ whilethey are students, before they become entangled in the social mesh ofHinduism. And pray, we earnestly plead with you, that the Christianstudents may meet God at college, and come out strong to fight thisfiend which trades in "slaves and souls of men"--and in the souls oflittle girls. 

CHAPTER XXVI

From a Hindu Point of View

 "The Lord preserve us from innovations foreign to the true principles of the Protestant Church, and foreign to the principles of the C. M. S. Pictures, crosses, and banners, with processions, would do great harm. The Mohammedan natives would say, 'Wah! you worship idols as the Hindus do, and have taziyas (processions) as well as the Mohammedans!' And our Christians would mourn over such things. " _Rev. C. B. Leupolt, India. _

I AM sitting in the north-west corner of the verandah of a littlemission bungalow, on the outskirts of a town sixteen miles south of ourEastern headquarters. This is the town where they set fire to theschoolroom when Victory came. So far does Caste feeling fly. As you sitin the corner of this verandah you see a little temple fitted betweentwo whitewashed pillars, roughly built and rudely decorated, but in thisearly morning light it looks like a picture set in a frame. It is justoutside the compound, so near that you see it in all its detail ofcolour; the sun striking across it touches the colours and makes thembeautiful. 

There is the usual striped wall, red and white; the red is a fineterra-cotta, the colour of the sand. The central block, the shrineitself, has inlays of green, red, and blue; there is more terra-cotta inthe roof, some yellow too, and white. Beyond on either side there arehouses, and beyond the houses, trees and sky. 

It is all very pretty and peaceful. Smoke is curling up in the still airfrom some early lighted fire out of doors; there are voices of peoplegoing and coming, softened by distance. There is the musical jingle ofbullock bells here in the compound and out on the road, and there is thetwitter of birds. 

In front of that temple there are three altars, and in front of thealtars a pillar. I can see it from where I am sitting now, rough greystone. Upon it, there is what I thought at first was a sun-dial, and Iwondered what it was doing there. Then I saw it had not a dial plate;only a strong cross-bar of wood, and the index finger, so to speak, waslonger than one would expect, a sharp wooden spike. As I was wonderingwhat it was a passer-by explained it. It is not a sun-dial, it is animpaling instrument. On that spike they used to impale alive goats andkids and fowls as offerings to the god Siva and his two wives, thedeities to whose honour the three altars stand before the little shrine. The pillar on which stands this infernal spike has three circles scoredinto it, sign of the three divinities. 

"The impaling has stopped, " say the people, greatly amused at one'shorror and distress, for at first I thought perhaps they still did it. "Now we do not impale alive; the Government has stopped it. " Thank Godfor that! But oh, let all lovers of God's creatures pray for and hastenthe coming of our Lord Jesus Christ! Government may step in and stop thepublic clubbing to death of buffaloes, and the impaling of goats andfowls in sacrifice, but it cannot stop the private cruelty, and thestill wider-spread indifference on the part of those who are notthemselves cruel; only the coming of Christ the Compassionate can dothat. 

 . . . . . . . 

There was the sound of voices just then, as I wrote, many voices, comingnearer, shrill women's voices, cutting through one's thoughts, and Iwent out to see what was going on. 

On the other side of the road, opposite our gate, there is a huge olddouble tree, the sacred fig tree of India, intertwined with another--areligious symbol to this symbol-loving people. Underneath is a stoneplatform, and on it the hideous elephant-god. On the same side is alittle house. A group of women were gathered under the shade near thehouse, evidently waiting for something or someone. They were delightedto talk. 

We spent half an hour under the tree, and they listened; but we wereinterrupted by some well-dressed Government officials with their coats, sashes, and badges, and one not strictly Governmental got up in amarvellous fashion, and they joined the group and monopolised theconversation. I waited, hoping they would soon go away, and I listenedto what they were saying. 

"Yes! she actually appeared! She was a goddess. " ("A goddess! Oh!" fromthe women. ) "She came forward, moving without walking, and she stood asa tree stands, and she stretched out her arms and blessed the people, and vanished. "

A woman pointed to me. "Like her? Was she like her?"

"Like her!" and the Government official was a little contemptuous. "DidI not say she was a goddess? Is this Missie Ammal a goddess? Is she nota mere woman like yourselves, only white?"

"_She_ also came from the bungalow, " objected the woman rather feebly, feeling public opinion against her. 

"You oyster!" said the official politely, "because a Missie Ammal comesfrom the bungalow, does it prove that the goddess was a Missie Ammal?"The other women agreed with him, and snubbed the ignoramus, who retiredfrom the controversy. 

The story was repeated with variations, such a mixture of the probablewith the improbable, not to say impossible, that one got tangled up init before he had got half through. 

Just then an ancient Christian appeared on the scene and quavered in, inthe middle of the marvel, with words to the effect that our God was thetrue God, and they ought to have faith in Him. It was not exactly _àpropos_ of anything they were discussing, but he seemed to think it theright thing to say, and they accepted it as a customary remark, and wenton with their conversation. I asked the old worthy if he knew anythingabout the story, and at first he denied it indignantly as savouring toomuch of idolatry to be connected with the bungalow, but finally admittedthat once in the dim past he had heard that an Ammal in the bungalow, who was ill and disturbed by the tom-toms at night, got up and went outand tried to speak to the people. And the men, listening now to the oldman, threw in a word which illumined the whole, "It was a greatfestival. " I remembered that impaling stake, and understood it all. Andin a flash I saw it--the poor live beast--and heard its cries. Theywould wring her heart as she heard them in the pauses of the tom-tom. She was ill, but she got up and struggled out, and tried to stop it, Iam sure--tried, and failed. 

Seven thousand miles away these things may seem trivial. Here, with thatgrey stone pillar full in view, they are real. 

I came back to the present. The women were still there, and more peoplewere gathering. Something was going to happen. Then a sudden burst oftom-toms, and a banging and clanging of all manner of noise-producers, and then a bullock coach drove up, a great gilded thing. It stopped infront of the little house; someone got out; the people shouted, "Guru!Great Guru! Lord Guru!" with wild enthusiasm. 

The Guru was not poor. He had two carts laden with luggage--one item, agreen parrot in a cage. Close to the cage a small boy was thunderingaway on a tom-tom, but it did not disturb the parrot. The people seemedto think this display of wealth demanded an apology. "It is not his, itbelongs to his followers; he, being what he is, requires none of thesethings, " they said. 

I had to go then, and we started soon afterwards on our day's round, andI do not know what happened next; but I had never had the chance of atalk with a celebrity of this description, and in the evening, on myhomeward way, I stopped before the little house and asked if I might seehim, the famous Guru of one of the greatest of South Indian Castes. 

The Government officials of the morning were there, but the officialismwas gone. No coats and sashes and badges now, only the simple nationaldress, a scarf of white muslin. The one who in the morning had been anillustration of the possible effect of the mixture of East and West, stood in a dignity he had not then, a fine manly form. 

The door was open, and they were sentry, for their Guru was resting, they said. "Then he is very human, just like yourselves?" But thestrong, sensible faces looked almost frightened at the words. "Hush, "they answered all in a breath, "no such thoughts may be even thoughthere. He is not just like us. " And as if to divert us from theexpression of such sentiments, they moved a little from the door, andsaid, "You may look, if you do not speak, " and knowing such looks arenot often allowed, I looked with interest, and saw all there was to see. 

The Guru was in the far corner resting; a rich purple silk, with goldinterwoven in borders and bands, was flung over his ascetic's dress. Atthe far end, too, was a sort of altar, covered with red cloth, and on itwere numerous brass candlesticks and vessels, and on a little shelfabove, a row of little divinities, some brass ornaments, and flowers. 

To the left of this altar there was a high-backed chair covered by adeer skin; there were pictures of gods and goddesses round the room, especially near the altar, and there were the usual censers, rosaries, and musical instruments, and there was the parrot. 

The Government official pointed in, and said, with an air of pride inthe whole, and a certainty of sympathy too, "There, you see how closelyit resembles your churches; there is not so much difference between youand us after all!"

Not so much difference! There is a very great difference, I told him;and I asked him where he had seen a Christian church like this. Hementioned two. One was a Roman Catholic chapel, the other an Englishchurch. 

What could I say? They bear our name; how could he understand thedivisions that rend us asunder?--Romanists, Ritualists, andProtestants--are we not all called Christians?

I looked again, and I could not help being struck with the resemblance. The altar with its brasses and flowers and candlesticks, and the littleshelf above; the pictures on the walls; the chair, so like a Bishop'schair of state; the whole air of the place heavy with incense, wasredolent of Rome. 

He went on to explain, while I stood there ashamed. "Look, have you notgot that?" and he pointed to the altar-like erection, with the red clothand the flowers. 

"We have nothing of the sort in our church. Come and see; we have only atable, " I said; but he laughed and declared he had seen it in otherchurches, and it was just like ours, "only yours has a cross above it, and ours has images; but you bow to your cross, so it must represent adivinity, " and, without waiting for any reply, he pointed next to thepictures. 

"They are very like yours, I think, " he said, only yours show your Godon a cross, stretched out and dying--so"--And he stretched out hisarms, and dropped his head, and said something which cannot betranslated; and I could not look or listen, but broke in earnestly:

"Indeed, we have no such pictures--at least we here have not; but evenif some show such a picture, do they ever call it a picture of God? Theyonly say it is a picture of"--But he interrupted impatiently:

"Do not I know what they say?" And then, with a touch of scorn at whathe thought was an empty excuse on my part, he added, "We also say thesame" (which is true; no intelligent Hindu admits that he worships idolsor pictures; he worships what these things represent). "Your people showyour symbols, " he continued, in the tone of one who is sure of hisground, "exactly as we show ours. I have seen your God on a great sheetat night; it was shown by means of a magic lamp; and sometimes you makeit of wood or brass, as we make ours of stone. The name may change andthe manner of making, but the thing's essence is the same. "

"The Mohammedans do not show their God's symbol; but we do, and so dothe Christians. Therefore between us and the Christians there is more incommon than between the Mohammedans and us. " This was another Hindu'scontribution to the argument. 

The chair now served as a text. "When your Bishop comes round yourchurches, does he not sit in a chair like that, himself apart from thepeople? And in like manner our Guru sits. There is much similarity. Alsodo not your Christians stand"--and he imitated the peculiarlydeferential attitude adopted on such occasions by some--"just in thefashion that we stand? And do not your people feel themselves blessedby the presence of the Great? Oh, there is much similarity!"

I explained that all this, though foolish, was not intended for morethan respect, and our Bishops did not desire it; at which he smiled. Then he went on to expatiate upon what he had seen in some of ourchurches (probably while on duty as Government servant): the display, asit seemed to him, so like this; the pomp, as he thought it, so fine, like this; the bowing and prostrating, and even on the part of those whodid not do these things, the evident participation in the whole grandshow. And the other men, who apparently had looked in through the openwindows and doors, agreed with him. 

He is not the first who has been stumbled in the same way; and Iremembered, as he talked, what a Mohammedan woman said to a friend ofmine about one of our English churches, seen through her husband's eyes. "You have idols in your church, " she said, "to which you bow inworship. " She referred to the things on or above the Communion table. Myfriend explained the things were not idols. "Then why do your people bowto them?" Was there nothing in the question?

Often we wonder whether the rapid but insidious increase of ritual inIndia is understood at home. In England it is bad enough, but in aheathen and Mohammedan land it is, if possible, worse; and the worst is, the spirit of it, or the spirit of tolerance toward it, which is on theincrease even in missionary circles. Some of our Tamil people attend theEnglish service in these "advanced" churches after their own service isover, and thus become familiarised with and gradually acclimatised toan ecclesiastical atmosphere foreign to them as members of a ProtestantSociety. 

I remember spending a Sunday afternoon with a worthy pastor and hiswife, stationed in the place where the church is in which the "idols areworshipped" according to the Mohammedans. When the bell rang for eveningservice he began to shuffle rather as if he wanted me to go. But he wastoo polite to say so, and the reason never struck me till his son camein with an English Bible and Prayer-Book. The old man put up his hand tohis mouth in the apologetic manner of the Tamils. "We do not notice thefoolish parts of the service. We like to hear the English. For the sakeof the English we go. "

"He did not turn to the East, but he did not keep quite straight; hejust half turned. " This from a pastor's wife, about one whom she hadbeen observing during an ordination ceremony in the English cathedral. "_He just half turned. _" It describes the nebulous attitude of mind ofmany a one to-day. India has not our historical background. It has no_Foxe's Book of Martyrs_ yet. Perhaps that is why its people are soindifferent upon points which seem of importance to us. They have nothad to fight for their freedom, in the sense at least our forefathersfought; there is no Puritan blood in their veins; and so they arewilling to follow the lead of almost anyone, provided that lead is givensteadily and persistently; which surely should make those in authoritycareful as to those in whose hands that lead is placed. 

But the natural instinct of the converted idolater is dead againstcomplexity in worship, and for simplicity. He does not want somethingas like his own old religion as possible, but as different as possiblefrom it; and so we have good building material ready to hand, and afoundation ready laid. "But let every man take heed how he buildeththereupon. "

I hope this does not sound unkind. We give those who hold differentviews full credit for sincerity, and a right to their own opinions; butconvictions are convictions, and, without judging others who differ, these are ours, and we want those at home who are with us in thesethings to unite to help to stem the tide that has already risen in Indiafar higher than perhaps they know. Brave men are needed, men with afuller development of spiritual vertebræ than is common in theseeasy-going days, and we need such men in our Native Church. God createthem; they are not the product of theological colleges. And may God saveHis Missions in India from wasting His time, and money, and men, on thecultivation of what may evolve into something of no more use to creationthan a new genus of jelly-fish. 

The Government official and his friends were still talking amongthemselves: "Do we not know what the Christians do? Have we not ears?Have we not eyes? They do it in their way, we do it in ours. The thingitself is really the same. Yes, their religion is just like ours. "

They could not see the vital difference between even the most vitiatedforms of Christianity and their own Hinduism; there were so manyresemblances, and these filled their mental vision at the moment. Onecould hardly wonder they could not. 

They turned to me again, and with all the vigour of language at mycommand I told them that neither we nor those with us ever went to anychurch where we had reason to think there would be an exhibition ofecclesiastical paraphernalia. We did not believe it was in accordancewith the simplicity of the Gospel; and I told them how simple the Truthreally was, but they would not believe me. Those sights they had seenhad struck them much as they struck the convert who described theConfirmation service thus: "We went up and knelt down before a stick"(the Bishop's pastoral staff). They had observed the immense attentionpaid to all these sacred trifles, and naturally they appeared to them asessential to the whole; part of it, nearly all of it, in fact; and evenwhere the service was in the vernacular, their attention had beenentirely diverted from the thing heard by the things seen. 

Then I thought of the description of a primitive Christianity service asgiven in 1 Corinthians. There the idea evidently was that if an outsidercame in, or looked in, as Hindus and Mohammedans so often look in here, he should understand what was going on; and being convicted of his sinand need, should be "convinced"; "and so, falling down on his face, hewill worship God, and report that God is in you of a truth. " Compare theeffect produced upon the minds of these Hindu men by what they saw ofour services, with the effect intended to be produced by the Holy Ghost. Can we say we have improved upon His pattern?

Oh for a return to the simplicity and power of the Gospel of Christ!Then we should not roll stumbling-blocks like these in our Indianbrother's way. Oh for a return to the days of the beginning of the Actsof the Apostles, to obscurity, and poverty, and suffering, and shame, and the utter absence of all earthly glory, and the winning of souls ofa different make to the type thought sufficiently spiritual now! Oh formore of the signs of Apostleship--scars, and the cross--the realcross--the reproach of Christ the Crucified, --no mitre here, but therethe crown!

CHAPTER XXVII

Though ye know Him not

 "I have known cases of young ministers dissuaded from facing the missionary call by those who posed as friends of Foreign Missions, and yet presumed to argue: 'Your spiritual power and intellectual attainments are needed by the Church at home; they would be wasted in the Foreign Field. ' 'Spiritual power wasted' in a land like India! Where is it so sorely needed as in a continent where Satan has constructed his strongest fortresses and displayed the choicest masterpieces of his skill? 'Intellectual ability wasted' among a people whose scholars smile inwardly at the ignorance of the average Western! Brothers, _if God is calling you_, be not deterred by flimsy subterfuges such as these. You will need the power of God the Holy Ghost to make you an efficient missionary. You will find your reputation for scholarship put to the severest test in India. Here is ample scope alike for men of approved spiritual power and for intellectual giants. And so I repeat, _if God is calling you_, buckle on your sword, come to the fight, and win your spurs among the cultured sons of India. " _Rev. T. Walker, India. _

THE sensation you experience is curious when you rise from the study ofSir Monier William's _Brahmanism and Hinduism_ and go out to your work, and meet in that work someone who seems to be quoting that same book, not in paragraphs only, but in pages. He is talking Tamil, and the bookis written in English; that is all the difference. He was standing bythe wayside when I saw him: we got into conversation. 

At first he reminded me of a sea anemone, with all its tentacles drawninside, but gradually one by one they came out, and I saw what he reallywas; and I think the great Christian scholar, who laboured so hard tounderstand and translate into words the intricacies and mysteries ofIndian thought, would have felt a little repaid had he known how hiswork would help in the practical business of a missionary's life. Partof our business is to meet the mind with which we are dealing half-waywith quick comprehension. It is in this Sir Monier Williams helps. 

When once this man felt himself understood, his whole attitude changed. At first, expecting, I suppose, that he was being mistaken for "anignorant heathen" and worshipper of stocks and stones, he hardly tookthe trouble to do more than answer, as he thought, a fool according tohis folly. The tentacles were all _in_ then. 

But that passed soon, and he pointed to the shed behind him, where twoor three life-size idol horses stood and said how childish he knew itwas, foolish and vain. But then, what else could be done? Idols are notobjects of worship, and never were intended so to be; their only use isto help the uninitiated to worship Something. If nothing were shownthem, they would worship nothing; and a non-worshipping human being isan animal, not a man. 

He went on to answer the objections to this means of quickeningintelligent worship by explaining how, in higher and purer ways, thethinkers of Hinduism had tried to make the unthinking think. "Look atour temples, " he said. "There is a central shrine, with only one lightin it. The darkness of the shrine symbolises the darkness of the world, of life and death and being. For life is a darkness, a whirlpool of darkwaters. We stand on its edge, but we do not understand it. It is dark, but light there must be; one great light. So we show this certainty bythe symbol of the one light in the shrine, in the very heart of ourtemples. "

This led on to quotations from his own books, questioning the validityof such lights, which he finished the moment one began them, and thisagain led to our Lord's words, --how strong they sounded, and howdirect--"_I am the Light of the World_. " But he could not accept them intheir simplicity, and here it was that the book I had been reading camein so helpfully. He spoke rapidly and eagerly, and such a mixture ofSanscrit and Tamil that if I had not had the clue I am not sure I couldhave followed him, and to have misunderstood him then might have drivenall the tentacles in, and made it harder for the next one whom theSpirit may send to win his confidence. 

He told me that, after much study of many religions, he held the eternalexistence of one, Brahma. The human spirit, he said, is not reallydistinct from the Divine Spirit, but identical with it; the apparentdistinction arises from our illusory view of things: there is absolutelyno distinction in spirit. Mind is distinct, he admitted, and body isdistinct, but spirit is identical; so that, "in a definitely definedsense, I am God, God is I. The so-called two are one, in all essentialsof being. " And he touched himself and said, "I am Brahma. I myself, myreal I, am God. "

It sounds terribly irreverent, but he did not for a moment mean it so. Go back to Gen. Ii. 7, and try to define the meaning of the words, "thebreath of life, " and you will, if you think enough, find yourself in aposition to understand how the Hindu, without revelation, ends as hedoes in delusion. 

But, intertwined with this central fibre of his faith, there werestrands of a strange philosophy; he held strongly the doctrine ofIllusion, by which the one impersonal Spirit, "in the illusion whichoverspreads it, is to the external world what yarn is to cloth, whatmilk is to curds, what clay is to a jar, but only in that illusion, "that is, "he is not the actual material cause of the world, as clay of ajar, but the illusory material cause, as a rope might be of a snake";and the spirit of man "is that Spirit, personalised and limited by thepower of illusion; and the life of every living spirit is nothing but aninfinitesimal arc of the one endless circle of infinite existence. "

Of course there are answers to this sort of reasoning which areperfectly convincing to the Western, but they fail to appeal to theEastern mind. You suggest a practical test as to the reality orotherwise of this "Illusion"--touch something, run a pin into yourself, do anything to prove to yourself your own actuality, and he has hisanswer ready. Though theoretically he holds that there is one, and onlyone, Spirit, he "virtually believes in three conditions of being--thereal, the practical, and the illusory; for while he affirms that theone Spirit, Brahma, alone has a real existence, he allows a practicalseparate existence to human spirits, to the world, and to the personalGod or gods, as well as an illusory existence. Hence every object is tobe dealt with practically, as if it were really what it appears to be. "

This is only the end of a long and very confusing argument, which Iexpect I did not half understand, and he concluded it by quoting astanza, thus translated by Dr. Pope, from an ancient Tamil classic--

 "O Being hard to reach, O Splendour infinite, unknown, in sooth I know not what to do!"

"He is far away from me, " he said, "a distant God to reach, " and when Iquoted from St. Augustine, "To Him who is everywhere, men come not bytravelling, but by loving, " and showed him the words, which in Tamil aresplendidly negative, "He is NOT far from every one of us, " he eluded thecomfort and went back to the old question, "What is Truth? How can oneprove what is Truth?"

There is an Indian story of a queen who "proved the truth by tasting thefood. " The story tells how her husband, who dearly loved her, and whomshe dearly loved, lost his kingdom, wandered away with his queen intothe forest, left her there as she slept, hoping she would fare betterwithout him, and followed her long afterwards to her father's court, deformed, disguised, a servant among servants, a _cook_. Then hermaidens came to her, told her of the wonderful cooking, magical inmanner, marvellous in flavour and in fragrance. They are sure it is thelong-lost king come back to her, and they bid her believe and rejoice. But the queen fears it may not be true. She must prove it, she musttaste the food. They bring her some. _She tastes, and knows. _ And thestory ends in joy. "Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good. " "If anyman will do His Will, he shall know. "

We got closer in thought after this. For the Oriental, a story is anilluminating thing. "I have sought for the way of truth, " he said, "andsought for the way of light and life. Behind me, as I look, there isdarkness. Before me there is only the Unknown. " And then, with anearnestness I cannot describe, he said, "I worship Him I know not, _theUnknown God_. " "Whom, therefore, ye worship, though ye know Him not, Himdeclare I unto you. " One could only press home God's own answer to hiswords. 

One other verse held him in its power before I went: "I am the Way, theTruth, and the Life. " With those two verses I left him. 

It was evening, and he stood in the shadow, looking into it. There was atangle of undergrowth, and a heavy grove of palms. It was all dark asyou looked in. Behind was the shrine of the demon steeds, the god andhis wife who ride out at night to chase evil spirits away. Near by wasan old tree, also in shade, with an idol under it. It was all in shadow, and full of shadowy nothings, all dark. 

But just outside, when I went, there was light; the soft light of theafter-glow, which comes soon after the sun has set, as a sign that thereis a sun somewhere, and shining. And I thought of his very last words tome, but I cannot describe the earnestness of them, "_I worship theUnknown God_. "

Friends, who worship a God whom you _know_, whose joy in life is to knowHim, will you remember and pray for that one, who to-day is seeking, Ithink in truth, to find the Unknown God?

CHAPTER XXVIII

How Long?

 "I shivered as if standing in the neighbourhood of hell. " _Henry Martyn, India. _

I HAVE come home from vainly trying to help another child. She had heardof the children's Saviour, and I think she would have come to Him, butthey suffered her not. She was, when I first saw her, sweet andinnocent, with eyes full of light, great glancing, dancing eyes, whichgrew wistful for a moment sometimes, and then filled with a laugh again. She told me her mother lived very near, and asked me to come and seeher; so I went. 

The mother startled me. Such a face, or such a want of a face. One waslooking at what had once been a face, but was now a strange spoiledthing, with strange hard eyes, so unlike the child's. There was no otherfeature fully shaped; it was one dreadful blank. She listened that day, with almost eagerness. She understood so quickly, too, one felt she musthave heard before. But she told us nothing about herself, and we onlyknew that there was something very wrong. Her surroundings told usthat. 

Before we went again we heard who she was; a relative of one of our mosthonoured pastors, himself a convert years ago. Then a great longingpossessed us to try to save her from a life for which she had not beentrained, and especially we longed to save her little girl, and we wentto try. This time the mother welcomed us, and told us how our words hadbrought back things she had heard when she was young. "But now it is alldifferent, for I am different, " and she told us her story. . . . "So Itook poison, but it acted not as I intended. _It only destroyed myface_, " and she touched the poor remnant with her hand, and went on withher terrible tale. There were people listening outside, and she spoke ina hoarse whisper. We could hardly believe she meant what she said, asshe told of the fate proposed for her child. And oh, how we besought herthen and there to give up the life, and let us help her, and that dearlittle one. She seemed moved. Something awoke within her and strove. Tears filled those hard eyes and rolled down her cheeks as we pleadedwith her, in the name of all that was motherly, not to doom her littleinnocent girl, not to push her with her own hands down to hell. At lastshe yielded, promised that if in one week's time we would come again shewould give her up to us, and as for herself, she would think of it, andperhaps she also would give up the life; she hated it, she said. 

There was another girl there, a fair, quiet girl of fifteen. She was illand very suffering, and we tried for her too; but there seemed no hope. "Take the little one; you are not too late for her, " the mother said, and we went with the promise, "One more week and she is yours. "

The week passed, and every day we prayed for that little one. Then whenthe time came, we went. Hope and fear alternated within us. One feltsick with dread lest anything had happened to break the mother's word, and yet one hoped. The house door was open. The people in the streetsmiled as we stopped our bandy, got out, and went in. I remembered theirsmiles afterwards, and understood. The mother was there: in a corner, crouching in pain, was the girl; on the floor asleep, _drugged_, lay thechild with her little arms stretched out. The mother's eyes were hard. 

It was no use. Outside in the street the people sat on their verandahsand laughed. "Offer twenty thousand rupees, and see if her mother willgive her to you!" shouted one. Inside we sat beside that mother, notknowing what to say. 

The child stirred in her sleep, and turned. "Will you go?" said themother very roughly in her ear. She opened listless, senseless eyes. Shehad no wish to go. "She wanted to come last week, " we said. The motherhardened, and pushed the child, and rolled her over with her foot. "_Shewill not go now_, " she said. 

Oh, it did seem pitiful! One of those pitiful, pitiful things whichnever grow less pitiful because they are common everywhere. That_little_ girl, and this!

We took the mother's hands in ours, and pleaded once again. And thenwords failed us. They sometimes do. There are things that stifle words. 

At last they asked us to go. The girl in the corner would notspeak--could not, perhaps she only moaned; we passed her and went out. The mother followed us, half sorry for us, --there is something of thewoman left in her, --half sullen, with a lowering sullenness. "You willnever see her again, " she said, and she named the town, one of theSodoms of this Province, to which the child was soon to be sent; andthen, just a little ashamed of her broken promise, she added, "I wouldhave let her go, but _he_ would not, no, never; and she does not belongto me now, so what could I do?" We did not ask her who "he" was. Weknew. Nor did we ask the price he had paid. We knew; fifty rupees, aboutthree pounds, was the price paid down for a younger child bought for thesame purpose not long ago. This one's price might be a little higher. That is all. 

We stood by the bullock cart ready to get in. The people were watching. The mother had gone back into the house. Then a great wave of longingfor that child swept over us again. We turned and looked at the littleform as it lay on the floor, dead, as it seemed, to all outward things. Oh that it had been dead! And we pleaded once more with all our heart, and once more failed. 

We drove away. We could see them crowding to look after us, and we shutour eyes to shut out the sight of their smiles. The bullock bellsjingled too gladly, it seemed, and we shut our ears to shut out thesound. And then we shut ourselves in with God, who knew all about it, and cared. How long, O God, how long?

And now we have heard that she has gone, and we know, from watchingwhat happened before, just what will happen now. How day by day theywill sear that child's soul with red-hot irons, till it does not feel orcare any more. And a child's seared soul is an awful thing. 

Forgive us for words which may hurt and shock; we are telling the day'slife-story. Hurt or not, shocked or not, should you not know the truth?How can you pray as you ought if you only know fragments of truth? Truthis a loaf; you may cut it up nicely, like thin bread and butter, withall the crusts carefully trimmed. No one objects to it then. Or you cancut it as it comes, crust and all. 

Think of that child to-night as you gather your children about you, andlook in their innocent faces and their clear, frank eyes. Our very lastnews of her was that she had been in some way influenced to spread a lieabout the place, first sign of the searing begun. I think of her as Isaw her that first day, bright as a bird; and then of her as I saw herlast, drugged on the floor; I think of her as she must be now, brightagain, but with a different brightness--not the little girl Iknew--never to be quite that little girl again. 

Oh, comrades, do you wonder that we care? Do you wonder that we pleadwith you to care? Do you wonder that we have no words sometimes, andfall back into silence, or break out into words wrung from one moregifted with expression, who knew what it was to feel!

With such words, then, we close; looking back once more at that child onthe floor, with the hands stretched out and the heavy eyes shut--and weknow what it was they saw when they opened from that sleep--

 "My God! can such things be? Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one, Is even done to Thee?

 . . . . . . . 

 Hoarse, horrible; and strong, Rises to heaven that agonising cry, Filling the arches of the hollow sky, HOW LONG, O GOD, HOW LONG?"

CHAPTER XXIX

What do we count them worth?

 "If we are simply to pray to the extent of a simple and pleasant and enjoyable exercise, and know nothing of watching in prayer, and of weariness in prayer, we shall not draw down the blessing that we may. We shall not sustain our missionaries who are overwhelmed with the appalling darkness of heathenism. . . . We must serve God even to the point of suffering, and each one ask himself, In what degree, in what point am I extending, by personal suffering, by personal self-denial, to the point of pain, the kingdom of Christ? . . . It is ever true that what costs little is worth little. " _Rev. J. Hudson Taylor, China. _

SHE picked up her water-vessel, and stood surveying us somewhatcuriously. The ways of Picture-catching Missie Ammals were beyond her. Afterwards she sat down comfortably and talked. That was a year ago. 

Then in the evening she and all her neighbours gathered in the marketsquare for the open-air meeting. Shining of Life spoke for the firsttime. "I was a Hindu a year ago. I worshipped the gods you worship. Didthey hear me when I prayed? No! They are dead gods. God is the livingGod! Come to the living God!"

One after the other the boys all witnessed that evening. Their clearboyish voices rang out round the ring. And some listened, and somelaughed. 

[Illustration: She picked up her water-vessel, and stood surveying ussomewhat curiously. ]

Behind us there was a little demon temple. It had a verandah barred downwith heavy bars. Within these bars you could see the form of an idol. Beside us there was a shrine. Someone had put our lanterns on the top ofthis pyramid shrine. Before us there was the mass of dark faces. Behindus, then, black walls, black bars, a black shape; before us the blackmeeting, black losing itself in black. Around us light, light shininginto the black. That was as it was a year ago. Now we are back atDohnavur, and almost the first place we went to was this village, wherewe had taken the light and set it up in the heart of the dark. Anearnest young schoolmaster had been sent to keep that light burningthere, and we went expectantly. Had the light spread? We went straightto our old friend's house. She was as friendly as ever in her queer, rough, country way, but her heart had not been set alight. "Tell me whatis the good of your Way? Will it fill the cavity within me?" and shestruck herself a resounding smack in the region where food is supposedto go. "Will it stock my paddy-pots, or nourish my bulls, or cause mypalms to bear good juice? If it will not do all these good things, whatis the use of it?"

"If it is so important, why did you not come before?" The dear old womanwho asked that lived here, and we searched through the labyrinthiccourtyards to find her, but failed. The girl who listened in her pain iswell now, but she says the desire she had has cooled. We found two orthree who seem lighting up; may God's wind blow the flame to a blaze!But we came back feeling that we must learn more of the power of prayerourselves if these cold souls are to catch fire. We remembered how, whenwe were children, we caught the sunlight, and focussed it, and set bitsof paper on fire; and we longed that our prayers might be a lens tofocus the Love-light of our God, and set their souls on fire. 

Just one little bit of encouragement may be told by way of cheer. Blessing went off one day to see if the Village of the Warrior were morefriendlily inclined, and Golden went to the Petra where they vowed theywould never let us in. Before Blessing entered the village she kneltdown under a banyan tree, and, remembering Abraham's servant, prayed fora sign to strengthen her faith that God would work in the place. Whileshe prayed a child came and looked at her; then seeing her pray, shesaid, "Has that Missie Ammal sent you who came here more than a yearago?" Blessing said "Yes. " Then the child repeated the chorus we hadtaught the children that first day. "None of us forget, " she said; andtold Blessing how the parents had agreed to allow us to teach if ever weshould return. The village had been opened. He goeth before. 

Golden's experience was equally strengthening to our faith. In the verystreet where they held a public demonstration to cleanse the roaddefiled by our "low-caste" presence, twenty houses have opened, whereshe is a welcome visitor. But all this is only for Love's sake, theysay. They do not yet want Christ; so let us focus the light!

Then there is need for the fire of God to burn the cords that hold soulsdown. There is one with whom the Spirit strove last year when we werehere. But a cord of sin was twined round her soul. She has a wickedbrother-in-law, and a still more wicked sister, and together theyplotted so evil a plot that, heathen though she is, she recoiled, andindignantly refused. So they quietly drugged her food, and did as theychose with her. And now the knot she did not tie, and which she whollydetested at first, seems doubly knotted by her own will. Oh, to knowbetter how to use the burning-glass of prayer!

There may be a certain amount of sentiment, theoretically at least, inbreaking up new ground. The unknown holds possibilities, and it alluresone on. But in retracing the track there is nothing whatever of this. The broad daylight of bare truth shows you everything just as it is. Will you look once more at things just as they are, though it is not aninteresting look. 

A courtyard where the women have often heard. May we come in? Oh yes, come in! But with us in comes an old fakeer of a specially villainoustype. His body is plastered all over with mud; he has nothing on butmud. His hair is matted and powdered with ashes, his face is daubed withvermilion and yellow, his wicked old eyes squint viciously, and he showsall his teeth, crimson with betel, and snarls his various wants. Thewomen say "Chee!" Then he rolls in the dust, and squirms, and wriggles, and howls; and he pours out such unclean vials of wrath that the women, coerced, give him all he demands, and he rolls off elsewhere. 

Now may we read to the women? No! Many salaams, but they have no time. Last night there was a royal row between two friends in adjoiningcourtyards, and family histories were laid bare, and pedigreesdiscovered. They are discussing these things to-day, and having heard itall before, they have no time to read. 

Another courtyard, more refined; here the fakeer's opposite, a dignifiedascetic, sits in silent meditation. "We know it all! You told usbefore!" But the women are friendly, and we go in; and after a long andearnest talk the white-haired grandmother touches her rosary. "This ismy ladder to heaven. " The berries are fine and set in chased gold, butthey are only solidified tears, tears shed in wrath by their god, theysay, which resolved themselves into these berries. How can tears makeladders to heaven? She does not know. She does not care. And a laughruns round, but one's heart does not laugh. Such ladders are dangerous. 

Another house; here the men are kind, and freely let us in and out. TheWay, they say, is very good; they have heard the Iyer preach. But oneday there is a stir in the house. One of the sons is very ill. He hasbeen suffering for some time; now he is suddenly getting worse, andsuspicions are aroused. Then the women whisper the truth: the father andhe are at daggers drawn, and the father is slowly poisoning him--smalldoses of strychnine are doing the work. The stir is not very violent, but quite sufficient to make an excuse for not wanting to listen well. This sort of thing throws us back upon God. Lord, teach us to pray!Teach us the real secret of fiery fervency in prayer. We know so littleof it. Lord, teach us to pray!

"_Oh, Amma! Amma! do not pray! Your prayers are troubling me!_"

We all looked up in astonishment. We had just had our Band PrayerMeeting, when a woman came rushing into the room, and began to exclaimlike this. She was the mother of one of our girls, of whom I told youonce before. She is still in the Terrible's den. Now the mother was allexcitement, and poured out a curious story. 

"When you went away last year I prayed. I prayed and prayed, and prayedagain to my god to dispel your work. My daughter's heart was impressedwith your words. I cried to my god to wash the words out. Has he washedthem out? Oh no! And I prayed for a bridegroom, and one came; and thecart was ready to take her away, and a hindrance occurred; the marriagefell through. And I wept till my eyes well-nigh dissolved. And againanother bridegroom came, and again an obstacle occurred. And yet againdid a bridegroom come, and yet again an obstacle; and I cannot get mydaughter 'tied, ' and the neighbours mock, and my Caste isdisgraced"--and the poor old mother cried, just sobbed in her shame andconfusion of face. "Then I went to my god again, and said, 'What morecan I offer you? Have I not given you all I have? And you reject myprayer!' Then in a dream my god appeared, and he said, '_Tell theChristians not to pray. I can do nothing against their prayers. Theirprayers are hindering me!_' And so, I beseech you, stop your prayers forfourteen days--only fourteen days--till I get my daughter tied!"

"And after she is tied?" we asked. "Oh, then she may freely follow yourGod! I will hinder her no more!"

Poor old mother! All lies are allowed where such things are concerned. We knew the proposed bridegroom came from a place three hundred milesdistant, and the idea was to carry the poor girl off by force, as soonas she was "tied. " We have been praying night and day to God to hinderthis. And He is hindering! But there is need to go on. That mother is adevotee. She has received the afflatus. Sometimes at night it falls uponher, and she dances the wild, wicked dance, and tries to seize the girl, who shrinks into the farthest corner of the little house; and she dancesround her, and chants the chant which even in daylight has power in it, but which at night appeals unspeakably. Once the girl almost gave way, and then in her desperation, hardly knowing the sin of it, ran to theplace where poison was kept, drank enough to kill two, straight off, then lay down on the floor to die. Better die than do what they wantedher to do, she thought. But they found out what she had done, anddrastic means were immediately used, and the poison only made her ill, and caused her days of violent pain. So there is need for the hinderingprayer. Lord, teach us how to pray!

Is India crammed with the horrible? "Picturesque, " they call it, whohave "done it" in a month or two, and written a book to describe it. Andthe most picturesque part, they agree, is connected with the temples. 

India ends off in a pointed rock; you can stand at the very point of therock, with only ocean before you, and almost all Asia behind. A templeis set at the end of the point, as if claiming the land for its own. Wetook our convert boys and girls to the Cape for the Christmas holidays, and one morning some of us spent an hour under an old wall near thetemple, which wall, being full of hermit crabs, is very interesting. Wewere watching the entertaining ways of these degenerate creatures when, through the soft sea sounds, we heard the sound of a Brahman's voice, and looking up, saw this:

A little group of five, sitting between the rocks and the sea, giving atouch of life to the scene, and making the picture perfect. There weretwo men, a woman, a child, and the priest. They were all marked with theV-shaped Vishnu mark. The priest twined the sacred Kusa grass round thefingers of his right hand, and gave each a handful of grass, and theydid as he had done. Then they strewed the grass on the sand, to purifyit from taint of earth, and then they began. The priest chanted names ofGod, then stopped, and drew signs on the sand. They followed himexactly. Then they bathed, bowing to the East between each dip, andworshipping; then returned and repeated it all. But before repeating it, they carefully painted the marks on their foreheads, using white and redpigment, and consulting a small English hand mirror--the one incongruousbit of West in this East, but symbolical of the times. The childfollowed it all, as a child will, in its pretty way. She was a daintylittle thing in a crimson seeley and many gold jewels. The elder womanwas dressed in dark green; the colouring was a joy to the eye, crimsonand green, and the brown of the rock, against the blue of the sea. 

It was one of those exquisite mornings we often have in the Tropics, when everything everywhere shows you God; shines the word out like aword illumined; sings it out in the Universe Song; and here in thisSouth niche of Nature's cathedral, under the sky's transparency, thesefive, in the only way they knew, acknowledged the Presence of one greatGod, and worshipped Him. There was nothing revolting here, no hint ofrepulsive idolatry. They worshipped the Unseen. Very stately theSanscrit sounded in which they chanted their adoration. "King ofImmensity! King of Eternity! Boundless, Endless, Infinite One!" It mighthave been the echo of some ancient Christian hymn. It might have been, but it was not. 

They are not worshipping God the Lord. _They might be, but they arenot. _ Whose is the responsibility? Is it partly yours and mine? Thebeauty of the scene has passed from us; the blue of the blue sky isblotted out--

 "Only like souls I see the folk thereunder, Bound who should conquer, slaves who should be kings; Hearing their one hope with an empty wonder, Sadly contented with a show of things. 

 Then with a rush the intolerable craving Shivers throughout me like a trumpet call: Oh to save these! To perish for their saving, Die for their life, be offered for them all!"

The picture is made of souls--souls to be saved. "Oh to save these! Toperish for their saving!" That is what the picture says. Picture! Thereis no picture. In the place where it was, there is simply a pain--God'sworld, and God dishonoured in it! Oh to see these people as souls!Refined or vulgar, beautiful or horrible, or just dull, oh to see them"only as souls, " and to yearn over them, and pray for them as souls whomust live eternally somewhere, and for whom each of us, in our measure, is responsible to God. Do you say we are not responsible for thoseparticular souls? Who said that sort of thing first? "Where we disavowbeing keeper to our brother we're his Cain. " If we are not responsible, why do we take the responsibility of appealing to them in impassionedpoetry?

 "Let every kindred, every tribe, On this terrestrial ball, To Him all majesty ascribe, And crown Him Lord of all!"

What is the point of telling people to do a certain thing if we have noconcern in whether they do it or not? The angels and the martyrs and thesaints, to whom we appealed before, have crowned Him long ago. Oursinging to them on the subject will make no difference either way; butwhen we turn to every kindred and tribe, the case alters. How can theycrown Him Lord of all when they do not know about Him? Why do they notknow about Him? Because we have not told them. It is true that many whomwe have told heard "their one hope with an empty wonder"; but, on theother hand, it is true that the everlasting song rises fuller to-daybecause of those who, out in this dark heathendom, heard, and responded, and crowned Him King. 

But singing hymns from a distance will never save souls. By God's grace, coming and giving and praying will. Are we prepared for this? Or wouldwe rather sing? Searcher of hearts, turn Thy search-light upon us! Arewe coming, giving, praying _till it hurts_? Are we praying, yeaagonising in prayer? or is prayer but "a pleasant exercise"--a holyrelief for our feelings?

We have sat together under the wall by the Southern sea. We have lookedat the five as they worshipped Another, and not our God. Now let thislittle South window be like a little clear pane of glass, through whichyou may look up far to the North, over the border countries and themountains to Tibet, over Tibet and away through the vastness of CentralAsia, on to China, Mongolia, Manchuria; and even then you have only seena few of the great dark Northern lands, which wait and wait--for you. 

And this is only Asia, only a part of Asia. God looks down on all theworld; and for every one of the millions who have never crowned HimKing, Christ wore the crown of thorns. What do we count these millionsworth? Do we count them worth the rearrangement of our day, that we mayhave more time to pray? Do we count them worth the laying down of asingle ambition, the loosening of our hold on a single child or friend?Do we count them worth the yielding up of anything we care for verymuch? Let us be still for a moment and think. Christ counted souls worthCalvary. _What do we count them worth?_

CHAPTER XXX

Two Safe

 "God has given me the hunger and thirst for souls; will He leave me unsatisfied? No verily. " _James Gilmour, Mongolia. _

 "That one soul has been brought to Christ in the midst of such hostile influences is so entirely and marvellously the Holy Spirit's work, that I am sometimes overjoyed to have been in any degree instrumental in effecting the emancipation of one. " _Robert Noble, India. _

TWO of our boys are safe. They left us very suddenly. We can hardlyrealise they are gone. The younger one was our special boy, the first ofthe boys to come, a very dear lad. I think of him as I saw him the lastevening we all spent together, standing out on a wave-washed rock, thewind in his hair and his face wet with spray, rejoicing in it all. Notanother boy dare go and stand in the midst of that seething foam, butthe spice of danger drew him. He was such a thorough boy!

The call to leave his home for Christ came to him in an open-air meetingheld in his village two years ago. Then there was bitterest shame toendure. His father and mother, aghast and distressed, did all they couldto prevent the disgrace incurred by his open confession of Christ. Hewas an only son, heir to considerable property, so the matter was mostserious. The father loved him dearly; but he nerved himself to flog theboy, and twice he was tied up and flogged. But they say he neverwavered; only his mother's tears he found hardest to withstand. 

Weeks passed of steadfast confession, and then it came to the place ofchoice between Christ and home. He chose Christ, and early one morningleft all to follow Him. Do you think it was easy? He was a loving boy. Could it have been easy to stab his mother's heart?

When the household woke that morning he was on his way to us. The fathergathered his clansmen, and they came in a crowd to the bungalow. 

They sat on the floor in a circle, with the boy in their midst, and theypleaded. I remember the throb of that moment now. A single pulse seemedto beat in the room, so tense was the tension, until he spoke outbravely. "I will not go back, " he said. 

They promised everything--a house, lands, his inheritance to be given atonce, a wife "with a rich dowry of jewels"--all a Tamil boy most desiresthey offered him. And they promised him freedom to worship God; "onlycome back and save your Caste, and do not break your mother's heart anddisgrace your family. "

Day after day they came, sometimes singly, sometimes in groups, but themother never came. They described her in heart-moving language. Sheneither ate nor slept, they said, but sat with her hair undone, and weptand wailed the death-wail for her son. 

At last they gave up coming, and we were relieved, for thelong-continued strain was severe; and though he never wavered, we knewthe boy felt it. We used to hear him praying for his people, pouring outhis heart when he thought no one was near, sobbing sometimes as he namedtheir names. The entreaty in the tone would make our eyes wet. If onlyhe could have lived at home and been a Christian there! But we knew whathad happened to others, and we dare not send him back. 

Then a year or so afterward we all went to the water together, and heand three others were baptised. The first to go down into the water wasthe elder boy, Shining of Victory. Shining of Life was second. A fewweeks of bright life--those happy days by the sea--and then in the sameorder, and called by the same messenger--the swift Indian messenger, cholera--they both went down into the other water, and crossed over tothe other side. 

Shining of Life was well in the morning, dead in the evening. When firstthe pain seized him he was startled. Then, understanding, he lay down inpeace. The heathen crowded in. They could not be kept out. They tauntedhim as he lay. "This is your reward for breaking your Caste!" they said. The agony of cholera was on him. He could not say much, but he pointedup, "Do not trouble me; this is the way by which I am going to Jesus, "and he tried to sing a line from one of our choruses, "My Strength andmy Redeemer, my Refuge--Jesus!"

His parents had been sent for as soon as it was known that he was ill. They hurried over, the poor despairing mother crying aloud imploringlyto the gods who did not hear. He pointed up again; he was almost pastspeech then, but he tried to say "Jesus" and "Come. "

Then, while the heathen stood and mocked, and the mother beat her breastand wailed, and the father, silent in his grief, just stood and lookedat his son, the boy passed quietly away. They hardly believed him dead. 

Oh, we miss him so much! And our hearts ache for his people, for theymourn as those who have no hope. But God knows why He took him; we knowit is all right. 

Every memory of him is good. When the first sharp strain was over wefound what a thorough boy he was, and in that week by the sea all thelife and fun in him came out, and he revelled in the bathing andboating, and threw his whole heart into the holiday. We had many hopesfor him; he was so full of promise and the energy of life. 

And now it is all over for both. Was it worth the pain it cost? Such ashort time to witness, was it worth while?

It is true it was very short. Most of the little space between theircoming and their going was filled with preparation for a future ofservice here. And yet in that little time each of the two found oneother boy who, perhaps, would never have been found if the cost had beencounted too great. And I think, if you could ask them now, they wouldtell you Jesus' welcome made it far more than worth while. 

CHAPTER XXXI

Three Objections

 "May I have grace to live above every human motive; simply with God and to God, and not swayed, especially in missionary work, by the opinions of people not acquainted with the state of things, whose judgment may be contrary to my own. " _Henry Martyn, India. _

THESE letters have been put together to help our comrades at home torealise something of the nature of the forces ranged against us, thatthey may bring the Superhuman to bear upon the superhuman, and pray withan intelligence and intensity impossible to uninformed faith. We havelong enough under-estimated the might of the Actual. We need more ofAbraham's type of faith, which, without being weakened, considered thefacts, and then, looking unto the promise, wavered not, but waxedstrong. Ignorant faith does not help us much. Some years ago, when thefirst girl-convert came, friends wrote rejoicing that now the wall ofCaste must give way; they expected soon to hear it had. As if a grain ofdust falling from one of the bricks in that wall would in anywise shakethe wall itself! Such faith is kind, but there it ends. It talks of whatit knows not. 

Then, as to the people themselves, there are certain fallacies which diehard. We read, the other day, in a home paper, that it was a well-knownfact that "Indian women never smile. " We were surprised to hear it. Wehad not noticed it. Perhaps, if they were one and all so abnormallydepressed, we should find them less unwilling to welcome the GladTidings. Again, we read that you can distinguish between heathen andChristian by the wonderful light on the Christians' faces, as comparedwith "the sad expression on the faces of the poor benighted heathen. " Itis true that some Christians are really illuminated, but, as a whole, the heathen are so remarkably cheerful that the difference is not sodefined as one might think. Then, again, we read in descriptive articleson India that the weary, hopeless longing of the people is mosttouching. But we find that our chief difficulty is to get them tobelieve that there is anything to long for. Rather we would describethem as those who think they have need of nothing, knowing not that theyhave need of everything. And again and again we read thrillingdescriptions of India's women standing with their hands stretched outtowards God. They may do this in visions; in reality they do not. And itis the utter absence of all this sort of thing which makes your help anecessity to us. 

But none of you can pray in the way we want you to pray, unless the mindis convinced that the thing concerning which such prayer is asked iswholly just and right; and it seems to us that many of those who havefollowed the Story of this War may have doubts about the right ofit--the right, for example, of converts leaving their homes for Christ'ssake and His Gospel's. All will be in sympathy with us when we try tosave little children, but perhaps some are out of sympathy when we dowhat results in sorrow and misunderstanding--"not peace, but a sword. "So we purpose now to gather up into three, some of the many objectionswhich are often urged upon those engaged in this sort of work, becausewe feel that they ought to be faced and answered if possible, lest welose someone's prevailing prayer. 

The first set of objections may be condensed into a question as to theright or otherwise of our "forcing our religion" upon those who do notwant it. We are reminded that the work is most discouraging, conversionsare rare, and when they occur they seem to create the greatestconfusion. It is evident enough that neither we nor our Gospel aredesired; and no wonder, when the conditions of discipleship involve somuch. "_We_ should not like strangers to come and interfere with ourreligion, " write the friends who object, "and draw our children awayfrom us; we should greatly resent it. No wonder the Hindus do!" And onereader of the letters wrote that she wondered how the girls who came outever could be happy for a moment after having done such a wrong andheartless thing as to disobey their parents. "They richly deserve allthey suffer, " she wrote. "It is a perfect shame and disgrace for a girlto desert her own people!"

One turns from the reading of the letter, and looks at the faces ofthose who have done it; and knowing how they need every bit ofprayer-help one can win for them, one feels it will be worth whiletrying to show those who blame them why they do it, and how it is theycannot do otherwise if they would be true to Christ. 

This objection as to the right or wrong of the work as a whole, leads toanother relating to baptism. It is a serious thing to think of familiesdivided upon questions of religion; surely it would be better that aconvert should live a consistent Christian life at home, even withoutbaptism, than that she should break up the peace of the household byleaving her home altogether? Or, having been baptised, should she notreturn home and live there as a Christian?

Lastly--and this comes in letters from those who, more than any, are insympathy with us--why not devote our energies to work of a more fruitfulcharacter? We are reminded of the mass-movement type of work, in which"nations are born in a day"; and often, too, of the nominal Christianswho sorely need more enlightenment. Why not work along the line of leastresistance, where conversion to God does not of necessity mean fire andsword, and where in a week we could win more souls than in years of thisunresultful work?

We frankly admit that these objections and proposals are naturallyreasonable, and that what they state is perfectly true. It is true thatwork among high-caste Hindus all over India (as among Moslems all overthe world) is very difficult. It is true that open confession of Christcreates disastrous division in families. It is true there is other workto be done. 

Especially we feel the force of the second objection raised. We fullyrecognise that the right thing is for the convert to live among her ownpeople, and let her light shine in her own home; and we deplore theterrible wrench involved in what is known as "coming out. " To a peopleso tenacious of custom as the Indians are, to a nature so affectionateas the Indian nature is, this cutting across of all home ties is a verycruel thing. 

And now, only that we may not miss your prayer, we set ourselves to tryto answer you. And, first of all, let us grasp this fact: it is notfair, nor is it wise, to compare work, and success in work, between oneset of people and another, because the conditions under which that workis carried on are different, and the unseen forces brought to bearagainst it differ in character and in power. There is sometimes more"result" written down in a single column of a religious weekly than isto be found in the 646 pages of one of the noblest missionary books ofmodern days, _On the Threshold of Central Africa_. Or take two typicalopposite lives, Moody's and Gilmour's. Moody saw more soul-winning in aday than Gilmour in his twenty-one years. It was not that the _men_differed. Both knew the Baptism of Power, both lived in Christ andloved. But these are extremes in comparison; take two, bothmissionaries, twin brothers in spirit, Brainerd of North America andHenry Martyn of India. Brainerd saw many coming to Jesus; Martyn hardlyone. Each was a pioneer missionary, each was a flame of fire. "Now letme burn out for God, " wrote Henry Martyn, and he did it. But theconditions under which each worked varied as widely spiritually as theyvaried climatically. Can we compare their work, or measure it by itsvisible results? _Did God?_ Let us leave off comparing this withthat--we do not know enough to compare. Let us leave off weighingeternal things and balancing souls in earthly scales. Only God's scalesare sufficiently sensitive for such delicate work as that. 

We take up the objections one by one. First, "_Why do you go where youare not wanted?_"

We go because we believe our Master told us to go. He said, "all theworld, " and "every creature. " Our marching orders are very familiar. "Goye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature. " "All theworld" means everywhere in it, "every creature" means everyone in it. These orders are so explicit that there is no room to question what theymean. 

All missionaries in all ages have so understood these words "all" and"every. " Nearly seven hundred years ago the first missionary to theMoslems found no welcome, only a prison; but he never doubted he wassent to them. "_God wills it_, " he said, and went again. They stoned himthen, and he died--died, but never doubted he was sent. 

Our Master Himself went not only to the common people, who heard Himgladly, but to the priestly and political classes, who had no desire forthe truth. "Ye will not come to Me that ye might have life, " He said, and yet He gave them the chance to come by going to them. The words, "Ifany man thirst, let him come unto Me and drink, " were spoken to anaudience which was not thirsting for the Gospel. 

St. Paul would willingly have spent his strength preaching the Word inAsia, especially in Galatia, where the people loved him well; but he wasunder orders, and he went to Europe, to Philippi, where he was put inprison; to Thessalonica, where the opposition was so strong that he hadto flee away by night; to Athens, where he was the butt of thephilosophers. But God gave souls in each of these places; only a few incomparison to the great indifferent crowd, but he would tell you thosefew were worth going for. You would not have had him miss a Lydia, aDamaris? Above all, you would not have had him disobey his Lord'scommand?

So whether our message is welcomed or not, the fact remains we must goto all; and the worse they are and the harder they are, the more evidentis it that, wanted or not, it is _needed_ by them. 

M. Coillard was robbed by the people he had travelled far to find. "Yousee we made no mistake, " he writes, "in bringing the Gospel to theZambesi. "

The second objection is, "_Why break up families by insisting on baptismas a_ sine quâ non _of discipleship?_"

And again we answer, Because we believe our Master tells us to. He said, "Baptising them in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of theHoly Ghost. " What right have we, His servants, to stop short of fullobedience? Did He not know the conditions of high-caste Hindu life inIndia when He gave this command? Was He ignorant of the breaking up offamilies which obedience to it would involve? "Suppose ye that I am cometo give peace on earth? I tell you nay, but rather division. " And thencome words which we have seen lived out literally in the case of everyhigh-caste convert who has come. "For from henceforth there shall befive in one house divided, three against two, and two against three. The father shall be divided against the son, and the son against thefather; the mother against the daughter, and the daughter against themother; the mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law, and thedaughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. " These are truly _awful_verses; no one knows better than the missionary how awful they are. There are times when we can hardly bear the pain caused by the sight ofthis division. But are we more tender than the Tender One? Is oursympathy truer than His? Can we look up into His eyes and say, "It coststhem too much, Lord; it costs us too much, to fully obey Thee in this"?

But granted the command holds, why should not the baptised convertreturn home and live there? Because he is not wanted there, _as aChristian_. Exceptions to this rule are rare (we are speaking of CasteHindus), and can usually be explained by some extenuating circumstance. 

The high-caste woman who said to us, "I cannot live here and break myCaste; if I break it I must go, " spoke the truth. Keeping Caste includeswithin itself the observance of certain customs which by their verynature are idolatrous. Breaking Caste means breaking through thesecustoms; and one who habitually disregarded and disobeyed rules, considered binding and authoritative by all the rest of the household, would not be tolerated in an orthodox Hindu home. It is not a questionof persecution or death, or of wanting or not wanting to be there; it isa question _of not being wanted there_, unless, indeed, she willcompromise. Compromise is the one open door back into the old home, andGod only knows what it costs when the choice is made and that one dooris shut. 

This ever-recurring reiteration of the power and the bondage of Castemay seem almost wearisome, but the word, and what lies behind it, is theone great answer to a thousand questions, and so it comes again andagain. In Southern India especially, and still more so in this littlefraction of it, and in the adjoining kingdoms of Travancore and Cochin, Caste feeling is so strong that sometimes it is said that Caste is thereligion of South India. But everywhere all over India it is, to everyorthodox Hindu, part of his very self. Get his Caste out of him? Canyou? You would have to drain him of his life-blood first. 

It is the strength of this Caste spirit which in South India causes itto take the form of a determination to get the convert back. Promisesare given that they may live as Christians at home. "We will send you ina bandy to church every Sunday!"--promises given to be broken. If theconvert is a boy, he may possibly reappear. If a girl--I was going tosay _never_; but I remember hearing of one who did reappear, afterseventeen years imprisonment--a wreck. Send them back, do you say? Thinkof the dotted lines in some chapters you have read; ponder the thingsthey cover; then send them back if you can. 

The third objection divides into two halves. The first half is, "_Why doyou not go to the Christians?_" To which we answer, we do, and forexactly the same reason as that which we have given twice before, because our Master told us to do so. Our marching orders are threefold, one order concerning each form of service touched by the threeobjections. The third order touches this, "Teaching them to observe allthings whatsoever I have commanded you. " So we go, and try to teach themthe "all things"; and some of them learn them, and go to teach others, and so the message of a full Gospel spreads, and the Bride gets readyfor the Bridegroom. 

The second half of this last objection is, "_Why not do easier work?_There are so many who are more accessible, why not go to them?" Andthere does seem to be point in the suggestion that if there are opendoors, it might be better to enter into them, rather than keep onknocking at closed ones. 

We do seek to enter the so-called open doors, but we never find they areso very wide open when it is known that we bring nothing tangible withus. Spiritual things are not considered anything by most. Still, workamong such is infinitely easier, and many, comparatively speaking, aredoing it. 

The larger number here are working among the Christians, the next largernumber among the Masses, and the fewest always, everywhere, among theClasses, where conversion involves such terrible conflicts with the EvilOne, that all that is human in one faints and fails as it confronts thecost of every victory. 

But real conversion anywhere costs. By conversion we mean something morethan reformation; _that_ raises fewer storms. The kind of work, however, which more than any other seems to fascinate friends at home is what isknown as the "mass movement, " and though we have touched upon itbefore, perhaps we had better explain more fully what it really is. Thismovement, or rather the visible result thereof, is often dilated uponmost rapturously. I quote from a Winter Visitor: "Christian churchescounted by the thousand, their members by the million; whole districtsare Christian, entire communities are transformed. " And we look at oneanother, and ask each other, "Where?"

But to that question certain would answer joyously, "Here!" There aremissions in India where the avowed policy is to baptise people "at theoutset, not on evidence of what is popularly called conversion. . . . Webaptise them 'unto' the baptism of the Holy Spirit, and not because wehave reason to believe that they have received the Spirit'sbaptism, "--we quote a leader in the movement, and he goes on to say, ifit is insisted "that we should wait until this change (conversion) iseffected before baptising them, we reply that in most cases we wouldhave to wait for a long time, and often see the poor creatures diewithout the change. "

Of course every effort is made by revival services and camp meetings tobring these baptised Christians to a true knowledge of Christ, and it isconsidered that this policy yields more fruit than the other, which putsconversion first and baptism second. It is certainly richer in"results, " for among the depressed classes and certain of the middleCastes, among whom alone the scheme can be carried out, there is nodoubt that many are found ready to embrace Christianity, as the phrasegoes, sometimes genuinely feeling it is the true religion, and desiringto understand it, sometimes for what they can get. 

It must be admitted--for we want to state the case fairly--that a massmovement gives one a splendid chance to preach Christ, and teach HisGospel day by day. And the power in it does lay hold of some; we haveearnest men and women working and winning others to-day, fruit of themass movement of many years ago. 

But on the whole, we fear it, and do not encourage it here. The deadweight of heathenism is heavy enough, but when you pile on the top ofthat the incubus of a dead Christianity--for a nominal thing isdead--then you are terribly weighted down and handicapped, as you try togo forward to break up new ground. 

So, though we sympathise with everything that tends towards life andlight in India, and rejoice with our brothers who bind sheaves, believing that though all is not genuine corn, some is, yet we feelcompelled to give ourselves mainly to work of a character which, by itsvery nature, can never be popular, and possibly never successful from astatistical point of view, never, till the King comes, Whose Coming isour hope. 

CHAPTER XXXII

"Show me Thy Glory!"

 "Yesterday I was called to see a patient, a young woman who had been suffering terribly for three days. It was the saddest case I ever saw in my life. . . . I had to leave her to die. . . . The experience was such a terrible one that, old and accustomed surgeon as I am, I have been quite upset by it ever since. As long as I live the memory of that scene will cling to me. " _A Chinese Missionary. _

 "If we refuse to be corns of wheat falling into the ground and dying; if we will neither sacrifice prospects nor risk character and property and health, nor, when we are called, relinquish home and break family ties, for Christ's sake and His Gospel, then we shall abide alone. " _Thomas Gajetan Ragland, India. _

 "Not mere pity for dead souls, but a passion for the Glory of God, is what we need to hold us on to Victory. " _Miss Lilias Trotter, Africa. _

WE are all familiar with the facts and figures which stand for so muchmore than we realise. We can repeat glibly enough that there are nearlyone thousand, five hundred million people in the world, and that ofthese nearly one thousand million are heathen or Mohammedan. Perhaps wecan divide this unthinkable mass into comprehensible figures. We cantell everyone who is interested in hearing it, that of this one thousandmillion, two hundred million are Mohammedans; two hundred million moreare Hindus; four hundred and thirty million are Buddhists andConfucianists; and more than one hundred and fifty million are Pagans. 

But have we ever stopped and let the awfulness of these statements beardown upon us? Do we take in, that we are talking about immortal souls?

We quote someone's computation that every day ninety-six thousand peopledie without Christ. Have we ever for one hour sat and thought about it?Have we thought of it for half an hour, for a quarter of an hour, forfive unbroken minutes? I go further, and I ask you, have you ever satstill for one whole minute and counted by the ticking of your watch, while soul after soul passes out alone into eternity?

. . . I have done it. It is awful. At the lowest computation, sixty-sixfor whom Christ died have died since I wrote "eternity. "

"Oh my God! my God! Men are perishing, and I take no heed!" . . . 

Sixty-six more have gone. Oh, how can one keep so calm? Death seemsracing with the minute hand of my watch. I feel like stopping thatterrible run of the minute hand. Round and round it goes, and every timeit goes round, sixty-six people die. 

I have just heard of the dying of one of the sixty-six. We knew herwell. She was a widow; she had no protectors, and an unprotected widowin India stands in a dangerous place. We knew it, and tried to persuadeher to take refuge in Jesus. She listened, almost decided, then drewback; afterwards we found out why. You have seen the picture of a mansucked under sea by an octopus; it was like that. You have imagined thedeath-struggle; it was like that. But it all went on under the surfaceof the water, there was nothing seen above, till perhaps a bubble roseslowly and broke; it was like that. One day, in the broad noontide, awoman suddenly fell in the street. Someone carried her into a house, butshe was dead, and those who saw that body saw the marks of the struggleupon it. The village life flowed on as before; only a few who knew herknew she had murdered her body to cover the murder of her soul. We hadcome too late for her. 

Last week I stood in a house where another of those sixty-six hadpassed. Crouching on the floor, with her knees drawn up and her head onher knees, a woman began to tell me about it. "She was my youngersister. My mother gave us to two brothers"--and she stopped. I knew whothe brothers were. I had seen them yesterday--two handsome high-casteHindus. We had visited their wives, little knowing. The woman said nomore; she could not. She just shuddered and hid her face in her hands. Aneighbour finished the story. Something went wrong with the girl. Theycalled in the barber's wife--the only woman's doctor known in theseparts. She did her business ignorantly. The girl died in fearful pain. Hindu women are inured to sickening sights, but this girl's death was soterrible that the elder sister has never recovered from the shock ofseeing it. There she sits, they tell me, all day long, crouching on thefloor, mute. 

All do not pass like that; some pass very quietly, there are no bands intheir death; and some are innocent children--thank God for the comfortof that! But it must never be forgotten that the heathen sin againstthe light they have; their lives witness against them. They know theysin, and they fear death. An Indian Christian doctor, practising in oneof our Hindu towns, told me that he could not speak of what he had seenand heard at the deathbeds of some of his patients. 

A girl came in a moment ago, and I told her what I was doing. Then Ishowed her the diagram of the Wedge; the great black disc forheathendom, and the narrow white slit for the converts won. She lookedat it amazed. Then she slowly traced her finger round the disc, and shepointed to the narrow slit, and her tears came dropping down on it. "Oh, what must Jesus feel!" she said. "_Oh, what must Jesus feel!_" She isonly a common village girl, she has been a Christian only a year; but ittouched her to the quick to see that great black blot. 

I know there are those who care at home, but do all who care, caredeeply enough? Do they feel as Jesus feels? And if they do, are theygiving their own? They are helping to send out others, perhaps; but arethey giving their own?

_Oh, are they truly giving themselves?_ There must be more giving ofourselves if that wedge is to be widened in the disc. Some who care areyoung, and life is all before them, and the question that presses now isthis: Where is that life to be spent? Some are too old to come, but theyhave those whom they might send, if only they would strip themselves forJesus' sake. 

Mothers and fathers, have you sympathy with Jesus? Are you willing to belonely for a few brief years, that all through eternal ages He may havemore over whom to rejoice, and you with Him? He may be coming very soon, and the little interval that remains, holds our last chance certainly tosuffer for His sake, and possibly our last to win jewels for His crown. Oh, the unworked jewel-mines of heathendom! Oh, the joy His own aremissing if they lose this one last chance!

Sometimes we think that if the need were more clearly seen, somethingmore would be done. Means would be devised; two or three like-mindedwould live together, so as to save expenses, and set a child free whomust otherwise stay for the sake of one of the three. Workers abroad canlive together, sinking self and its likes and dislikes for the sake ofthe Cause that stands first. But if such an innovation is impossible athome, something else will be planned, by which more will be spared, whenthose who love our God love Him well enough to put His interests first. "Worthy is the Lamb to receive!" Oh, we say it, and we pray it! Do weact as if we meant it? Fathers and mothers, is He not worthy? Givers, who have given your All, have you not found Him worthy?

"Bare figures overwhelmed me, " said one, as he told how he had been ledto come out; "I was fairly staggered as I read that twenty-eightthousand a day in India alone, go to their death without Christ. And Iquestioned, Do we believe it? Do we really believe it? What narcotic hasSatan injected into our systems that this awful, woeful, tremendous factdoes not startle us out of our lethargy, our frightful neglect of humansouls?"

There is a river flowing through this District. It rises in the WesternGhauts, and flows for the greater part of the year a placid, shallowstream. But when the monsoon rains overflow the watersheds, it fillswith a sudden, magnificent rush; you can hear it a mile away. 

Out in the sandy river bed a number of high stone platforms are built, which are used by travellers as resting-places when the river is low. Some years ago a party of labourers, being belated, decided to sleep onone of these platforms; for though the rainy season was due, the riverwas very low. But in the night the river rose. It swept them on theirhold on the stone. It whirled them down in the dark to the sea. 

Suppose that, knowing, as they did not, that the rain had begun to fallon the hills, and the river was sure to fill, you had chanced to passwhen those labourers were settling down for the night, would you, _could_ you, have passed on content without an effort to tell them so?Would you, _could_ you have gone to bed and slept in perfecttranquillity while those men and women whom you had seen were out in theriver bed?

If you had, the thunder of the river would have wakened you, and forever your very heart would have been cold with a chill chiller thanriver water, cold at the thought of those you dared to leave to drown!

You cannot see them, you say. You can. God has given eyes to the mind. _Think_, and you will see. Then listen. It is God Who speaks. "If thouforbear to deliver them that are drawn unto death, and those that areready to be slain; if thou sayest, 'Behold we knew it not, ' doth not Hethat pondereth the heart consider it, and He that keepeth thy soul, dothnot He know it? and shall not He render to every man according to hisworks?"

Oh, by the thought of the many who are drawn unto death, and the manythat are ready to be slain, by the thought of the sorrow of Jesus Wholoves them, consider these things!

But all are not called to come! We know it. We do not forget it. But isit a fact so forgotten at home that a missionary need press it? What isforgotten surely is that the field is the world. 

You would not denude England! Would England be denuded? Would a singleseat on the Bishop's bench, or a single parish or mission hall, be leftpermanently empty, if the man who fills it now moved out to the placewhich no one fills--that gap on the precipice edge?

But suppose it were left empty, would it be so dreadful after all? Wouldthere not be one true Christian left to point the way to Christ? And ifthe worst came to the worst, would there not still be the Bible, andability to read? Need anyone die unsaved, unless set uponself-destruction? If only Christians in England knew how to drawsupplies direct from God, if only those who cannot come would take upthe responsibility of the unconverted around them, why should not aparish here and there be left empty for awhile? Surely we should notdeliberately leave so very many to starve to death, because those whohave the Bread of Life have a strong desire for sweets. Oh, thespiritual confectionery consumed every year in England! God open oureyes to see if we are doing what He meant, and what He means shouldcontinue! But some men are too valuable to be thrown away on the missionfield; they are such successful workers, pastors, evangelists, leadersof thought. They could not possibly be spared. Think of the waste ofburying brain in unproductive sand! Apparently it is so, but is itreally so? Does God view it like that? Where should we have been to-dayif He had thought Jesus too valuable to be thrown away upon us? Was noteach hour of those thirty-three years worth more than a lifetime ofours?

What is God's definition of that golden word "success"? He looks atRoman Catholic Europe, and Roman and heathen South America, andMohammedan and heathen Africa and Asia, and many a forgotten place inmany a great land. And then He looks at us, and I wonder what He thinks. Ragland, Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, after years ofbrain-burying waste, wrote that He was teaching him that "_of all plansfor securing success the most certain is Christ's own, becoming a cornof wheat, falling into the ground and dying_. " If coming abroad meansthat for anyone, is it too much to ask? It was what our dear Lord did. 

This brings us to another plea. I find it in the verse that carves outwith two strokes the whole result of two lives. "If any man's workabide. . . . If any man's work shall be burned. " The net result of oneman's work is gold, silver, precious stones; the net result of anotherman's work is wood, hay, stubble. Which is worth the spending of alife?

An earnest worker in her special line of work is looking back at it fromthe place where things show truest, and she says, "God help us all! Whatis the good done by any such work as mine? 'If any man build upon thisfoundation . . . Wood, hay, stubble. . . . If any man's work shall beburned he shall suffer loss; but he himself shall be saved, yet so as byfire!' An infinitude of pains and labour, and all to disappear like thestubble and the hay. "

Success--what is it worth?

 "I was flushed with praise, But pausing just a moment to draw breath, I could not choose but murmur to myself, 'Is this all? All that's done? and all that's gained? If this, then, be success, 'tis dismaller Than any failure. '"

So transparent a thing is the glamour of success to clear-seeingpoet-eyes, and should it dazzle the Christian to whom nothing is of anyworth but the thing that endures? Should arguments based uponcomparisons between the apparent success of work at home asdistinguished from work abroad influence us in any way? Is it not verysolemn, this calm, clear setting forth of a truth which touches each ofus? "_Every man's work shall be made manifest, for the Day shall declareit, because it shall be revealed by fire, and the fire shall try everyman's work of what sort it is. _" And as we realise the perishableness ofall work, however apparently successful, except the one work done in theone way God means, oh, does it not stir us up to seek with an intensityof purpose which will not be denied, to find out what that one work is?The same thought comes out in the verse which tells us that the verythings we are to do are prepared before, and we are "created in ChristJesus" to do them. If this is so, then will the doing of anything elseseem worth while, when we look back and see life as God sees it?

It may be that the things prepared are lying close at our hand at home, but it may be they are abroad. If they are at home there will be settledpeace in the doing of them there; but if they are abroad, and we willnot come and do them?--Oh, then our very prayers will fall as fall thewithered leaves, when the wind that stirred them falls, yea more so, forthe withered leaves have a work to do, but the prayers which are stirredup by some passing breeze of emotion do nothing, _nothing_ for eternity. God will not hear our prayers for the heathen if He means us to be outamong them instead of at home praying for them, or if He means us togive up some son or daughter, and we prefer to pray. 

Lord save us from hypocrisy and sham! "Shrivel the falsehood" from us ifwe say we love Thee but obey Thee not! Are we staying at home, andpraying for missions when Thou hast said to us "Go"? Are we holding backsomething of which Thou hast said, "Loose it, and let it go"? Lord, arewe utterly through and through true? Lord God of truthfulness, save usfrom sham! Make us perfectly true!

I turn to you, brothers and sisters at home! Do you know that if God iscalling you, and you refuse to obey you will hardly know how to bearwhat will happen afterwards? Sooner or later you will know, yea burnthrough every part of your being, with the knowledge that youdisobeyed, and lost your chance, lost it for ever. For that is the awfulpart. It is rarely given to one to go back and pick up the chance heknowingly dropped. The express of one's life has shot past the points, and one cannot go back; the lines diverge. 

"Some of us almost shudder now to think how nearly we stayed at home, " amissionary writes. "Do not, I beseech you, let this great matter drift. Do not walk in uncertainty. Do not be turned aside. You will beeternally the poorer if you do. "

It may be you are not clear as to what is God's will for you. You are indoubt, you are honest, but a thousand questions perplex you. Will you goto God about it, and get the answer direct?

If you are puzzled about things which a straightforward missionary canexplain, will you buy a copy of _Do Not Say_, and read it alone withGod? Let me emphasise that word "alone. " "Arise, go forth into theplain, and I will there talk with thee. " "There was a Voice . . . Whenthey stood and had let down their wings. "

Oh, by the thought of the Day that is coming, when the fire shall tryall we are doing, and only the true shall stand, I plead for an honestfacing of the question before it is too late!

But this is not our strongest plea. We could pile them up, plea uponplea, and not exhaust the number which press and urge one to write. Wepass them all, and go to the place where the strongest waits: God'sGlory is being given to another. This is the most solemn plea, thesupreme imperative call. "Not mere pity for dead souls, but a passionfor the Glory of God, is what we need to hold us through to victory. "

"I am the Lord, that is My Name, and My Glory will I not give toanother, neither My praise to graven images. " But the men He made toglorify Him take His Glory from Him, give it to another; _that_, the sinof it, the shame, calls with a low, deep under-call through all theother calls. God's Glory is being given to another. Do we love Himenough to care? Or do we measure our private cost, if these distantsouls are to be won, and, finding it considerable, cease to think orcare? "Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? Behold andsee"--="They took Jesus and led Him away. And He, bearing His cross, went forth into a place called the place of a skull . . . Where theycrucified Him. " . . . "Herein is love. " . . . "God so loved the world. ". . . = Have we petrified past feeling? Can we stand and measure now? "Iknow that only the Spirit, Who counted every drop that fell from thetorn brow of Christ as dearer than all the jewelled gates of Paradise, can lift the Church out of her appreciation of the world, the world asit appeals to her own selfish lusts, into an appreciation of the worldas it appeals to the heart of God. " O Spirit, come and lift us into thislove, inspire us by this love. Let us look at the vision of the Glory ofour God with eyes that have looked at His love!

We would not base a single plea on anything weaker than solid fact. Sentiment will not stand the strain of the real tug of war; but is itfact, or is it not, that Jesus counted you and me, and the other peoplein the world, actually worth dying for? If it is true, then do we loveHim well enough to care with the whole strength of our being, thatto-day, almost all over the world, His Glory is being given to another?If this does not move us, is it because we do not love Him very much, oris it that we have never prayed with honest desire, as Moses prayed, "Ibeseech Thee, show me Thy Glory"? He only saw a little of it. "Beholdthere is a place by Me, and thou shalt stand upon a rock: and it shallcome to pass, while My Glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a cliftof the rock, and will cover thee with My hand while I pass by. " And theGlory of the Lord passed, and Moses was aware of something of it as itpassed, but "My face shall not be seen, " And yet that little was enoughto mark him out as one who lived for one purpose, shone in the light ofit, burned with the fire of it--he was jealous for the Glory of his God. 

And we--"We beheld His Glory, the Glory as of the only begotten of theFather, full of grace and truth"; and we--we have seen "the light of theknowledge of the Glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. "

"While My Glory passeth by I will . . . Cover thee . . . My face shallnot be seen. " "But we all with open face, reflecting, as in a mirror, the Glory of the Lord, are changed"--Are we? Do we? Do we know anythingat all about it? Have we ever apprehended this for which we areapprehended of Christ Jesus? Have we seen the Heavenly Vision thatbreaks us down, and humbles us to hear the Voice of the Lord ask, "Whowill go for Us?" and strengthens us to answer, "Here am I, send me, " andholds us on to obey if we hear Him saying "=Go="?

"I beseech Thee, show me Thy Glory!" Shall we pray it, meaning it now, to the very uttermost? The uttermost may hold hard things, but, easy orhard, there is no other way to reach the place where our lives canreceive an impetus which will make them tell for eternity. The motivepower is the love of Christ. Not our love for Him only, but His verylove itself. It was the mighty, resistless flow of that glorious lovethat made the first missionary pour himself forth on the sacrifice andservice. And the joy of it rings through triumphantly, "Yea, and if I bepoured forth . . . I joy and rejoice with you all!"

Yes, God's Glory is our plea, highest, strongest, most impelling andenduring of all pleas. But oh, by the thought of the myriads who arepassing, by the thought of the Coming of the Lord, by the infiniterealities of life and death, heaven and hell, by our Saviour's cross andPassion, we plead with all those who love Him, but who have notconsidered these things yet, consider them now!

Let Him show us the vision of the Glory, and bring us to the very end ofself, let Him touch our lips with the live coal, and set us on fire toburn for Him, yea, burn with consuming love for Him, and a purpose nonecan turn us from, and a passion like a pure white flame, "a passion forthe Glory of God!"

Oh, may this passion consume us! burn the self out of us, burn the loveinto us--for God's Glory we ask it, Amen. 

"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, andwisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing . . . Blessing, and honour, and glory, and power be unto Him. "

APPENDIX

Some Indian Saints

THERE was one--he has joined the company of Indian saints in glorynow--the poet of the Mission, and our friend, --one so true in all hisways that a Hindu lad observing him with critical schoolboy eyes, saw inhim, as in a mirror, something of the holiness of God, and, won by thatlook, became a Christian and a winner of souls. Some of the noblestconverts of our Mission are the direct result of that Tamil poet's life. There is another; he is old, and all through his many years he has beenknown as the one-word man, the man of changeless truth. He is a villagepastor, whom all the people love. Go into his cottage any time, any day, and you will find one and another with him, and you will see the oldman, with his loving face and almost quite blind eyes, bending patientlyto catch every word of the story they are telling, and then you willhear him advising and comforting, as a father would his child. For milesround that countryside the people know him, and he is honoured by Hindusand by Christians as India honours saints. 

I remember once seeing the poet and the pastor together. They belongedto widely different castes, but that was forgotten now. The two oldwhite heads were bent over the same letter--a letter telling of thedefection of a young convert each had loved as a son, and they wereweeping over him. It was the ancient East living its life before us: "Omy son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, OAbsalom my son, my son!" But what made it a thing to remember in thisland of Caste divisions, even among Christians, was the overflowing ofthe love that made those two men one. 

There are others. Money, the place it holds in a man's affections, issupposed to be a fair test of character. We could tell of a lawyer whois losing money to-day rather than touch unrighteous gains; of a doctorwho gives to his church _till he feels_, and travels any distance tohelp the poor who cannot pay; of a peasant who risks a certain amount ofinjury to his palms rather than climb them on Sunday; and in many anold-world town and village, dotted about on the wide red plain, we havesimple, humble, holy people, of whom the world knows nothing--pastors inlonely out-stations, teachers, and workers, and just ordinaryChristians--who do the day's work, and shine as they do it. We think ofsuch men and women when we hear the critic's cry, and we wish he couldknow them as they are. 

It is these men and women who ask us to tell it out clearly how sorelyour Indian Church needs your prayers. They have no desire to hidethings. They speak straighter than we do, and far more strongly, andthey believe, as we do, that if you know more you will pray more. 

 LONDON: MORGAN AND SCOTT

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 

Page 146 was missing in the 1905 edition. The text was replaced from the1903 edition.