Part 8

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

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

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

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

VIII.

Shining in the Dark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IX.

The Paper Parable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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